Nostalgia Page 10

  Her North Atlantic accent and her clean features, despite the oversize fatigues, seemed to belie her message but made its threat more real and believable. If this could happen to one of us, if a privileged young woman, known and admired, suddenly joined the terrorists, anything was possible.

  —For the release of these nineteen hostages we demand five hundred million dollars, half in small WCUs, the remainder as gold. Further instructions will be forthcoming when our demands are agreed upon. Failure to agree will result in dire consequences for these Peeping Tom tourists.

  On the set, Bill Goode exploded with derision.

  —Umo—Umo-de-kwango—what kind of name is that?

  He turned to his audience, and the hall filled up with hilarity that, however, quickly abated as Ralph Bloom spoke up to be heard.

  —Umoja wa Kwanza. It means Unity First. The Freedom Warriors is a well-known militia, in fact, that has periodically transformed itself—and re-emerged under different names. It’s died only to revive again.

  —Like those insect species you find there in those hot climes…uuurrrgh!

  Bill Goode gave an exaggerated shudder, moving his hands and fingers in the air in a simulation of a crawling insect, and again the laughter predictably broke out. Ralph Bloom, an expert on there, gave a strained smile.

  Bill straightened up like a naughty boy, put on a serious face, and asked,—D’you think we’ll pay this outrageous ransom?

  —I’m sure that negotiations are taking place. The key to resolving such crises is always secrecy and time bought.

  —Well, we should send the troops in and crush them once again, Bill Goode announced, making a squeezing gesture with his thumb, then placing both hands on the table in front of him and throwing a puppy look at the audience. He was rewarded again with extended applause.

  A sense of disbelief lay heavy upon the media, stunned by the knowledge that the air had suddenly gone out of its headline story: they turned out not to be cannibals, one of us actually turned into them, rejecting our civilization and values, which we justly celebrate. This was the new headline story.

  —

  Holly Chu’s Profile showed a new main image. She appeared in fatigues and a beret, sitting outdoors behind a table with her weapon resting by her hand. The caption underneath said: Umoja wa Kwanza Freedom Warrior. There was no music. A paragraph of biographical information explained Holly’s conversion.

  She was born in Denver, granddaughter of an African woman and a Chinese railway worker sent to Africa on an assistance program in the twentieth century. Ever since her school days in Denver she had been disturbed by the disparity in the lifestyles and wealth on the two sides of the Border. It was obscene and a crime. (I have suppressed the exclamations.) On the other side, people lived in abject conditions, fearful for their lives, without governments to protect them; they were exposed to nuclear radiation, subjected to rape and brutalized by the militias, and dependent on food and water dropped as aid from the sky—the portion that was not stolen; on our side, especially the North Atlantic, people lived in clean and safe cities, ate healthy food, had time for leisure, and were already extending their lives into the third generation. On her travels in Maskinia, Bimaru, and other places as a reporter for XBN, she was shocked by the horror and hopelessness she witnessed. Many a night she had wept in frustration after hearing stories of people’s suffering. When she was in Toronto she had begun sending money to charities. But she had soon realized that this was simply patronizing. What did it take for the rich to throw away loose change to the poor? They felt good about themselves while the poor continued to live in perpetual humiliation. There was needed a complete change in the world order. Revolution. You could not wait for things to change by themselves. You have to grab the initiative, take the first step. So now in Maskinia she had decided to join the Freedom Warriors and do something about it. She exhorted young people in the privileged world to also take action in support of those on the other side of the Border.

  And do what? I muttered to myself. The world is not going to change, you’re smart enough to know that. There will always be the poor. Frustration. Desperation. Then madness if you tempt it. Ralph Bloom was right. Holly’s was a delusion brought on by the shock of her capture.

  In her mailbox, while perusing the messages, most of them filled with hatred and a few, surprisingly, with bravos, I came across an angry diatribe embedded with this one line: And Frenchie, it’s threatening to flood and I am at my wits’ end. Leo the Cat. It was Presley, of course, and the nom de plume brought on a smile that lived but an instant. The message was far from humorous and hidden cleverly enough, though a wary Cyliton could possibly catch it. It was a distress call.

  I did not know what to do. Presley had said he’d moved in with a friend, but how to find him? Using the phone was risky. Could there be a clue in his Sunflower record? But he no longer existed there, as I quickly found out now.

  TOM: Can I assist you, Frank? You appear to be stumped.

  FRANK: I am. Why is my patient Presley Smith not in the records? We registered him at the Sunflower, I know that. Can you find him?

  TOM: If he’s been deliberately removed, Frank, it would not be worthwhile to try and trace him further.

  FRANK: Why? Surely you can help me. It’s urgent that I find him. I have a message for him.

  TOM: Sorry, Frank. I need an authorization, Frank. Then I can help you.

  It was more than likely that my inquiry was flagged the moment I started searching—though I had the ready explanation that I was only attempting to help them find Presley.

  I confirmed that Presley’s Public Profile had also been pulled. It was as though he had never been. They had created him, in some sense, published him, as they themselves put it, and now like some banned or dangerous book they had withdrawn him. If he didn’t receive help soon, I knew that he would suffer terribly.

  No probes into my brain, Doc, he’d said. They could turn him into someone else again.

  Had he chosen collapse and death to that terrible alternative? Did he have any idea of the past that DIS was so desperate to suppress?

  NINETEEN

  THE NEWS WAS EVERYWHERE: the following day at precisely a minute past noon, one of the Karmic Four, on self-display at the store window on Yonge Street at Eglinton Avenue, set himself on fire in full view of supporters and voyeurs. For the moment, for one afternoon and evening to be precise, Holly Chu and the kidnap victims in Maskinia were sidelined, and Virendra Kumar, professor of religion at Trinity College, was splashed upon screens and projected in media rooms as he went ablaze and turned to smoke and ash. The professor had ended his life on earth, confident of return in another and better life or, even better still, of complete liberation from the physical world. His press release said he was a proud G0 and forty-six.

  In the suicide scene that was broadcast, the four protesters are situated inside the brightly lit window just as I had seen them last—two men in saffron robes and a woman in white sari seated serenely around a central image of Shiva (as I’ve learned to recognize the god), perfectly composed in a yoga posture. The fourth, the Japanese man in white pyjamas and long shirt, is standing and staring straight ahead—engaging infinitude, one presumes, or nothing. Droning from an Indian string fills the soundtrack. Grey spirals of incense smoke waft up from one corner. All of a sudden one of the sitting men springs up onto his feet with an incomprehensible throaty utterance, then bounds towards an earthen pot lying on a stool, picks it up, and pours from it a clear fluid upon his head and body. He flashes out a lighter from somewhere within his clothes and with a flick sets himself aflame. The saffron robe is consumed in an instant. The two seated fellow protesters stare passively before them, the standing one keeps staring at infinity. The observers on the sidewalk are dumbfounded, there are screams, as the burning man—the muscle and bone turning red then black, the hair burning up, head ghostly and teeth gleaming—stands still, then collapses in a heap of ashen residue without uttering a soun
d. Fire engines, police vehicles, and two ambulances arrive noisily outside. The scene is not for the queasy.

  The professor left behind a wife, Lata, and two boys. In an interview recorded at the site, Lata, looking wasted, told the reporters in a toneless voice,—No, he has not died. Only his body has died.

  —

  —You watched him die, I said to Radha, my tone accusing. I did not actually see her in the news reports but presumed she had been on the scene.

  Taken aback, she opened her mouth to protest:

  —But I was on the other side of the window, on the street, and there were dozens of people in front of me!—what could I have done? When I found out what had happened, he was already dead…

  Her voice fell, and she looked expectantly at me, for a sign of understanding, perhaps.

  —Would you have stopped him, if you could?

  She took a moment, then shook her head and said, softly,—No.

  Her hands fell together on her lap, and a strand of hair slipped to the edge of her eye. Her face was moist. The room was hot.

  Death—needless death—is an utter waste. There are times when death is unavoidable, of course—when a brain cannot be revived, or a useless, broken body is beyond repair. To me life is contained energy that by its nature and definition resists extinction, has a will to survive. It was my job to help it go on living, to extend the ability for a consciousness to continue to reside within a body and experience itself and the world outside. And so, needless death, a wilful extinction of this energy, such as Professor Kumar’s self-immolation, is like destroying a diamond by pulverizing it.

  I was drawn that morning to come see the scene of the suicide, repelled as I was by the thought of it. Call it research. People had stopped to gawk and protesters were still active and loud next door outside the display window, which though empty was guarded by police. The remaining three Karmic protesters of the shop window were in custody, as was the shop owner. The shop was closed.

  Of course, I had hoped to find Radha at Lovelys—even though this was not the day we had fixed to meet. She was seated on a sofa, had kept the other one reserved.

  —For me? I asked.

  She nodded.—I knew you’d come.

  It was a good thing too, for the café was more crowded than usual. I had also hoped I might find Presley here. A desperate hope, I knew, for would he be in a condition to commute? Was it even safe for him to be seen?

  Radha hadn’t seen him again either.

  —Who is he? A patient of yours? Don’t you have his contact?

  —He’s a patient, yes, but I’ve lost his contact. He’s someone whose past life keeps returning to plague his mind. It can kill him. I must find him.

  She said nothing, looked somewhat discomfited. Something told her that this was privileged information. Then she offered,—Yogis who are advanced in their meditations have been known to recall their past lives. With concentration you can do that.

  —Can you? What were you in your past life?

  —I’m not advanced—and that’s not funny.

  Her lips pursed, she was offended and hurt. So that she wouldn’t get up and go away, I hastened to apologize.

  —I’m sorry—I wasn’t joking—well, not completely…But in our case, what we deal with is a brain thing. We can control these recollections in the clinic. And in any case what’s a previous life nowadays? We can even manufacture a patient’s past.

  She gave me a stiff stare, then said sternly, with a quick shake of her head,—I think people like you have confused our existence, you have lost the point and meaning of life. There is a previous life—it belongs to the soul. The soul is eternal. It goes from body to body in the cycle of births. It transmigrates. It collects the impressions of our actions—that is the basis of morality. Or don’t you believe in morality? Only when the soul becomes clean of this karma does it become free. That freedom is the point of life.

  What could I say to that? She saw disbelief, agnosticism on my face, and said, almost sulkily,—Tell me: what happens when someone really dies—is burnt to death, for example. Or when a baby is born. What then?

  —Nothing, really. All we do—I do—is help people to cope with their unwanted memories. Many people reach a stage when they want simply to quit—families, relationships, disappointments—and start afresh. Especially when they’ve got along in years and there’s a lot of baggage from the past…which they would rather shed off and begin new lives. So we give them new identities, new lives with new memories, and they renew themselves in mind and body. It’s simple, and it’s what people want. They have a right to live as long as they can, to be as happy as possible.

  She looked pleased that I had troubled myself to make my case.

  —And those who can’t afford such procedures, they just die? It’s a luxury for the rich that you’re describing. And what about the young, as the old proliferate and take over the world?

  She looked—beautiful? No, sensual, in that combative state. Instinctively I grabbed her hand across the table. It was soft and warm. Our eyes locked, hers large and black, in between them that red dot. She was in her early forties, I surmised. And there you go again, Frank, lusting after young flesh…

  —Can I see you again? Here?

  She nodded.

  I knew nothing about her; she was just someone I flirted with at the coffee shop, but with whom I felt inordinately happy. I sent her my card, accepted hers.

  —If you see my friend, tell him I was looking for him. His name is Presley.

  She nodded again.

  Just as we stood up, there was a loud shattering of glass and the café was filled with shouts and screams. A brick had come crashing through the front window, and an arctic blast followed in its wake. Outside, Yonge Street was in a turmoil. Radha and I went out together, in the midst of a crush of people, holding hands to stay together. We pushed our way slowly around a tight police cordon, at the same time inquiring as to what was happening. In between heads and shoulders we saw several small fires raging in the middle of the square; with spectators watching from behind the cordon, it was as though a street theatre were in progress. It took a while for us to realize that the fires on the square were effigies set ablaze to imitate the immolation of Dr Kumar.

  How this show of support for the professor was not actually a mockery was not quite clear to me, but it was the young and unemployed out on a rampage once more, demanding jobs and social security. The row of blazing effigies served as a barricade in a faceoff between the rioters and police in protective gear. One of the fires was being put out. Missiles flew but not with conviction; the chanting was vociferous, the flashing signs cruelly unambiguous in their message. LET THEM GO! THE EARTH FOR THE YOUNG! LET THE FOGEYS DIE!

  An angry young woman stepped out from among the rioters to shout her message in the face of the cops, gesturing with one arm raised above her head. It took a moment before her true significance registered. I stared long at her, in utter disbelief, my heart sinking, my throat constricting. A striking blonde, her face glowing in the firelight, her short hair as though itself aflame and fanned by the wind; her shoes red and so painfully familiar. Joanie?

  Radha and I exchanged a look, said goodbye, and I headed off for the transit station, wondering if she too was going to join the protest. As I crossed the street some distance from the rioting, I noticed that my shadow was faithfully with me, the man wearing a baseball cap and not bothered at all to remain anonymous. I was almost comforted.

  But I was glad Presley had not been at Lovelys.

  —

  It was hard to accept, the sight of Joanie in a mob demanding that people like me, and therefore I, should go away and die. But I couldn’t believe either that she would hold that thought, this woman who would lean on my arm, her head on my shoulder, or make love with me, or nuzzle against me as she slept with that gentle musical snore…even though she was unfaithful to me. It was not personal, I told myself, it was a principle she was stating. With such passion?
In her own way she loved me, I knew that. I had faith in our humanity, her decency. Her honesty. Which is not to deny that among the young protesters there would be those who would have no qualms knifing you in the gut or zapping you with those thingies they use to mug and otherwise harass older GNs. The principle is that the old make way for the young and gracefully let go. But that’s not natural anymore, it goes against the face of human development and progress. Should we not do what is possible to stay alive? That’s basic instinct. Didn’t we in previous centuries do everything we could to protect life and prolong it? Didn’t we do everything we could in the past, spend great expense and resources even against the face of reason, to keep alive the most hopeless cases? Should we kill the older folks now because progress allows them to enjoy life and live even longer instead of spending decades on sickbeds?

  —

  When I arrived at the clinic I noticed that I’d lost my shadow. I waited for him awhile, then went up to my office, where Elvis-Warhol, I presumed, duly registered me. More pleasing was the sight of Lamar. He is from the island of Trinidad. In the years I have known him his skin has turned progressively fairer, and his hair is dyed light brown; he looks remarkably different from his brother, and we sometimes joked about it.

  I told him to come to my office, and while giving him instructions about the rest of the day, managed to murmur,

  —Lamar, I’ve lost my shadow. They must have planted something on me.

  He took my jacket to hang and went away.

  My experience of the morning had left me shell-shocked. I couldn’t control my thoughts. I had a headache and a depressed feeling, to alleviate which I took an extra-strength pill. I drank two glasses of water. I would have to confront Joanie. Need I? To what avail? Were we finished together? I didn’t think so. Gradually I became calm, gently pushed aside Joanie in my mind. Presley was urgent…Again I asked myself, why did I care about him? Who was he? It’s an existential question not in vogue these days—you are who you say you are—but it had a certain potency here.