“You really don’t think Kaval will do it. Why?”
My mother paused, as if she didn’t know exactly how to explain this to me. “She wears a lot of makeup.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s the reason?”
“Kaval wears a lot of makeup, Danyal, and it’s Chanel.”
“So?”
“It’s expensive. And the purses she carries? Her newest one, it’s Gucci. More than twenty-seven hundred dollars. Before tax. And don’t get me started on her shoes.”
“Mom, she can care about fashion without having expensive things. I do it. And it’s not like they’re her whole life. She’s fun and smart and really serious about school.”
“People can be more than one thing,” my mother replied carefully. “They always are, in fact. Still, my sense is that she cares about having expensive things. That’s what you’re not getting. Anyway, look, let’s not argue. You ask her if she wants you as you are, and if she says yes, I’ll be happy for you.”
I nodded. “Okay, I’ll ask her. You better get your sales pitch ready for her parents, though.” I started to get up, but Mom grabbed my forearm and held me in place.
“Listen. I can’t believe I never explained this to you before. I should have but I guess I never got around to it.”
“What is it, Mom?”
“You need to know that there are two kinds of beauty in this world. There is beauty that men appreciate, and there is beauty that women appreciate.”
“And Kaval has the kind of beauty that men appreciate.”
“Oodles of it,” Mom said. “It’s a little unfair how much.” When she didn’t say more, I asked, “What’s your point?” “Oh. Just that you should always remember that men,
almost entirely without exception, are complete idiots.” “Not me, though,” I said. “Right?” “Sure, jaan. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mrs. Sabsvari had one of the most amazing home kitchens I’d ever seen, but according to Sohrab and Kaval, she never used it. They said their mother wanted to be known as a terrific cook but had no desire to actually make food.
This was great for me. Whenever it was Mrs. Sabsvari’s turn to host the almost weekly get-togethers that society uncles and aunties held at their homes—get-togethers that their children were forced to attend—Mrs. Sabsvari paid me to cook for her and not tell anyone about it.
Honestly, the kitchen, with its massive gas range and loaded pantry, was so awesome that I would’ve worked there for free, but I liked getting paid just fine.
The fact that Kaval dropped by every once in a while was a bonus. Sohrab came to hang out with me too, but that was a lot less exciting. In fact, it was a little annoying. Any edible ingredients close to him were always in danger of disappearing. The amount of cardamom he’d swallowed over the years had to be toxic.
The menu Mrs. Sabsvari had downloaded from an #auntylife blog for this particular event was pretty standard for a desi party, or dawat. There was a ton of food— because otherwise what would people say—but the level of difficulty was low. I was grinding masalas with a pestle for Bombay biryani, the cheering fragrance of cinnamon and the dark bite of black pepper blossoming in the air, when Kaval bounded in.
She was wearing a pink T-shirt with a Louis Vuitton symbol on it and sweatpants. Her hair and makeup were, as always, perfect.
“Sorry I’m still in my pj’s. I know it’s noon already.” She arched her back and stretched. “I’m having such a lazy day.”
I missed the mortar and stoneware clinked against the countertop. “It’s cool,” I said, perfectly casually, I’m sure.
“Sohrab isn’t down either?”
I shook my head.
“I hope he got some sleep. He’s obsessed.”
“With what?”
“With being Muslim.”
“He’s definitely been getting serious about it. I haven’t seen him much lately.”
“He’s always been serious,” she said. “Now he’s getting... I don’t know...it’s becoming the only thing he does. If he doesn’t stop making comments soon about what I wear or how I don’t pray enough, I’m going to slap him.”
“He’s been irritating Zar too.”
“Yeah, well, Intezar doesn’t have to live with him.”
Kaval stepped toward me, moving a little closer than was necessary to get a look at what was going on with the food. When she saw the chunks of lamb I’d just finished cleaning the fat off of to reduce their gamey smell, she made a face. “I don’t know why you keep letting Mom take credit for your cooking. I’d have told everyone it was my food ages ago. People rave about it, you know?”
“I don’t really mind. Besides, I need the money.”
“Your parents won’t give you some?”
No. I mean, I could ask, but I wouldn’t. I knew things weren’t easy for them—I’d overheard them stressing about bills and stuff—though they’d never admit it. They were probably regretting ever sending me to Aligheri Prep. I think my father had hoped that going to a fancy private school would somehow make me smarter.
“Also”—I decided to step around Kaval’s question—“I love being here.”
“I know. It’s super cute, actually. I like the way you smile when you’re cooking.”
I tried to smile like I was cooking, but she didn’t comment. Maybe I didn’t do it right.
“I’d help but I just got a manicure the other day and I really don’t want to ruin it. Oh, I meant to show you!” She suddenly reached down into the front of her shirt, and my mind exploded with question and exclamation marks until she pulled out a pendant and held it up.
It was a key shaped like a fleur-de-lis, sparkling with what looked like a lot of really intense diamonds and one deep red ruby. “I thought you’d like it because you’re all Frenchy.”
I wouldn’t have called myself “Frenchy,” though the restaurant I worked at, Remarquable, certainly was. It didn’t matter enough for me to bother correcting her.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, because it was true, and also because she was beautiful, and it struck me that that was what I should say right then.
“I’d better go start getting ready.”
What? Oh, the party. I frowned. “People won’t be here for another six hours.”
“What’s your point?” Kaval asked. She gestured up at her face and then down to the rest of her body. “This doesn’t just happen, Danyal Jilani.”
“Yeah?” I pointed to myself. “This does, though.”
She laughed, extended a certain rude finger toward me, and walked away. It had been a chance to talk to her about “us,” I guess, but the moment hadn’t felt right. Hopefully soon an opportunity to speak to Kaval in private would present itself in a setting where dead animals featured less prominently. When that moment came, I promised myself, I would seize it.
I’ve always loved making simple food. I guess that’s weird for someone who wants to be a chef and works at a fancy restaurant, but...I don’t know, there’s like...truth in a beautifully made omelet, and easily recognizable perfection in mousse that sets and feels just right. Sure, complex dishes are fun, and everyone goes nutty bananas for them, but only the basics ever really feel like home. I guess that’s why le pâté en croûte isn’t anyone’s idea of comfort food.