Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Two weeks after Melvin and Monica met on the plane from London, they met again after several exchange of phone calls and text messages. Monica did all in her might to keep herself away from seeing Melvin. It was utterly unnecessary. Besides, all men were the same: the same sweet-talking, the same pretenses, the same selfishness and big egos. Loving a man with all of a woman’s heart is self-destruct, Monica thought. But after a relentless badger from Melvin and some persuasive talk from her mother, whose sincere wish was for her to love again, and of course get married and give her grandchildren, she caved in and agreed to meet with Melvin.

She met with Melvin at Springfield Hotel – one of the finest in town. They sat in the hotel lobby, with Melvin grinning and excited to have finally met with her again. He was wearing a blue suit, and the colour blended with the colour of the iridescent light that flooded the lobby. Monica’s make-up was heavy. Still she was screamingly beautiful in her blonde hair and red dress. She sat calmly, facing him, their eyes piercing into each other. Just as Melvin ran his hand nervously on the crisp, white tablecloth and exhaled.

‘What would you like to have?’ he asked her after some minutes, adjusting his bow-tie.

‘A bottle of red wine and a plate of fried rice and chicken would be nice,’ Monica replied, rubbing her hands together. Melvin beckoned at a waitress and whispered the order to her. He looked at Monica and the nice, glistening piece of jewelry on her neck and rubbed his nose.

‘You’re sure you don’t want anything else?’ he asked her. Monica remained silent. She looked round the lobby, and then fixed a steady gaze at Melvin.

‘Please, don’t be so polite with me,’ she said to him impatiently. ‘Why do you sound like you’re determined to impress me with food and drinks? Get that showiness out of your mind. I can buy the whole hotel if I want to.’ Of course she knew she was uncouth to him. But she wanted him to know she was here because she wanted to, because she obliged him and not because she would eat and drink all the food and wine she had never eaten before and could not afford. Melvin reclined on the chair and clasped his hands. His face flushed with a dark-red hue. He was only being nice, and Monica was so cold to him. Well… it would always be there with the rich – that rudeness and arrogance that came with being well off. He hated it. It really repulsed him.

A brief, tense silence lingered between them as Monica busied herself with her phone, and Melvin continued to look at her. Then there was a blackout in the lobby, and the hoarse voice of the woman sitting close to them cut through the dark and silent air of the lobby.

‘Damn it! Shit! I fucking hate this flipping country. It’s a graveyard and a shithole! How can we stay without power?’ she yelled, as she banged the table with her car keys. ‘Honey, we need to leave this hell of a country soonest. Gibson is sick, and so is Jerry. We must go back to America.’

‘Calm down, honey,’ the man sitting with her, said. ‘Do not forget that this is their country as well. We must teach them that, and make them understand it’s their home.’ The man’s accent was polished and his voice was musical and strangely calm. His civility left Monica pleased and infatuated.

‘You call this shithole a home?’ the woman asked, her speech more visceral than forethought. ‘My children are the citizens of the States.’ She was shifting restively on the chair and fanning herself with the newspaper when the lights came flooding the lobby. Monica and Melvin stared at her, embarrassed at her abysmal behaviour, with the furious stare in Monica’s eyes making her imagine, for the first time, a woman who was not white, who was black, who was African. In fact, coloured, as the Americans would call her, who was racist too. Just because she was wearing a white shoe and a white dress, doesn’t make her white. A Negro is always a Negro, Monica thought. Her silliness and self-depreciation making her stomach rumble with grotty sounds.

However, when the snooty and Americanah woman rose from the chair to use the toilet, Melvin stared intensely at her, and it looked to Monica like a strong leer than a mere stare. The woman may have been uncouth and supercilious, but she was beautiful and voluptuous. She had the kind of backsides that always made Monica feel intimidated and threatened. It filled out her close-fitting pink gown, forming a perfectly rounded shape, as she took the figure of eight steps to the toilet.

The waitress had brought their order some minutes ago. Monica raised the tall glass of red wine to her mouth and sipped slowly from it. She wouldn’t let her mind think of what it shouldn’t think about. It was sad that after Richard called her a ‘paperback’ and left her and married Jane that she still haven’t gotten over that fear and insecurity, and that self-deprecating thought of herself, especially when it came to women with big buttocks. They made her feel less confident, less feminine and unappealing.

‘The woman might be a fishwife, but at least she is beautiful,’ she said finally, hoping that Melvin would disagree and dispel her fear, sentiments and nagging thoughts. But he merely smiled suggestively.

‘Mm-hmm, I agree with you on that one,’ he said afterwards, solidifying Monica’s sentiments and fears; and it made the ill-tempered feeling in her heart, congeal with jealousy and pain. And she wished that Melvin would just say he had been leering at the woman and that she was nothing like her. That she had a flat backside, that she was a ‘paperback.’ Her face was plastered with ire. Still Melvin did not notice he had even hurt her. That he had said the wrong thing and had crushed her self-esteem. Yet Melvin hadn’t really done much to irritate her. Perhaps she was being touchy at the slightest. She really didn’t know what was wrong with her. Maybe it was one of her off days, a really bad hair day.

‘I know it may not sound right, but I have had the whole of two weeks to think about it. I can only say I have been thinking about you. I love you, Monica,’ Melvin said, staring at Monica. Monica looked at him wide-eyed and scoffed, not believing he would say that after his recent misdemeanor and senseless clanger. She stared at him piercingly, and there was an uneasy silence between them.

‘Don’t be so cheeky, Melvin. You do not love me,’ she said to him finally, sipping her wine slowly.

‘Of course, I love you,’ Melvin said politely, shifting in the chair, as he reached out and touched Monica’s hand. ‘Sincerely, I do. All I need is the chance to prove it.’

‘You do not understand, do you?’ Monica asked him impassively. ‘You do not love me. You do not understand what love means and what it is all about. Does love mean meeting a woman in a plane, buying her lunch in two weeks’ time and falling in love with her? You cannot put a price tag on love. Or does love mean walking into a woman’s heart, doing what you wish with her emotions and leaving her whenever you want and when you find a better option? What is love when it’s not guaranteed? What is love if the man just gets up one cold morning and leaves?’ Monica’s voice was shaky, and coated with pain and bitterness.

‘Love means neither of those things you have imagined. Love means sacrifice. It means giving your all. It means selflessness and truth,’ Melvin said; his eyes twinkling with passion and warmth. Monica stared at him steadily, Melvin was merely waxing lyrical as all sugar-coated tongued men do, she said in her heart. He was not different from Richard, as long as he had the same thing dangling between his legs. He would always cheat, always look at another woman with a rounder backside, just as he had done some moments ago with the woman at the lobby.

‘I do not know what experiences you have had in the past. I do not know how hurtful and how harrowing they have been, but another man, and of course your heart too, deserves another chance,’ Melvin said, holding Monica’s hand.

‘What makes you think you are the right man for me to give that chance?’ Monica asked him coolly.

‘The perfect love stories and relationships are not rocket science. They do not happen overnight. So I am not saying I am the perfect man. Nobody has ever been; but with all my imperfections, you can never know if I am the right man unless you give me a chance,’ Melvin said, caressing her hand.

Monica withdrew her hand from his tenuous hold and reclined on the chair. She stared steadily at Melvin and his goatee, and the heart-wrenching memories of Richard came flooding back. She rose sharply from the chair and picked up her handbag.

‘I must leave now. It’s getting late,’ she said, her voice speckled with gloom.

‘That’s okay. I understand,’ Melvin said, rising from the chair. ‘You need some time and conviction to give me a chance.’

Melvin walked Monica to her car, and as she climbed into it and shut the door, he watched her as tears seeped from her eyes. Monica buried her face in her hands, sobbing silently all the way home in the backseat of her car, just as the soulful music from the stereo of her car floated in the quiet and strong-smelling lavender air of the snazzy car.