Nostalgia Page 8

  I smiled, he did likewise.

  —How? he asked.

  —I was on the Holly Chu site, and while scanning the messages I came across one that I thought could be from you. So I wrote my note and I’m happy it reached you.

  —You knew I was on the run.

  —I wasn’t sure how you would respond to a call from DIS. I wanted to talk to you in private, see what you had to say for yourself.

  He smiled again.

  —Perhaps not luck after all.

  —What, then?

  He didn’t reply, glanced away.

  I asked him,

  —Have you had any more of these thoughts—I mean, has the condition worsened? Can you control them? You said last time that you could.

  —Yes.

  He took a moment to reflect, looking out the window behind me; finally he leaned forward and said softly,

  —Listen, Doc: A bookstore, every wall covered with old books. A bridal veil. A cat barking. These three intruders came knocking on my door recently. I threw them out on their ear! I’ll let you know if more of them arrive.

  The humour was a poor disguise.

  —You should go to DIS, Pres. They can stop it.

  —I’m trying some mental exercises. Yoga. If they don’t work, maybe. He got up.—I must rush, Doc. Stay in touch. See you at Chu’s, perhaps.

  —Contact me if you need help…

  I watched the conspicuous fiery-topped figure weaving its way between the tables. How long could he stay in hiding? How long before he was discovered, how long before his condition overwhelmed him?

  —

  One of the sari-clad pro-deathers had come over and was looming over me, beaming goodwill and exuding a strong and sweet fragrance. I acknowledged with a gesture that the seat opposite me was now vacant and she sat down.

  —Life is a cage, she said cheerfully, moving closer as she put a small stack of pamphlets on the table between us. Changing her metaphors, she continued, in a warm, rich voice,—The cycle of births chains us to the earth, from which we must seek release. I am Radha, by the way. Namaskar. I bow to you.

  She joined her hands.

  —I’m Frank. I bow to you too.

  She giggled. She was a good-looking woman in an unconventional way, full of face, her well-developed figure shifting gracefully in her olive sari. Her neck was white, her arms deliciously plump. The large red dot on her forehead was hypnotic, like a source of her personal magnetism. She sounded quite insane.

  —I’m not sure I understand you, I told her.

  —Life is an illusion.

  And I felt trapped at that moment, in that place. I glanced around; it all looked normal and only too real. Again she leaned forward, the red dot magnetic. I wondered, quite irrationally, as I caught a whiff of her perfume, if she sang, while she went on with her message.

  —Real life is eternal, it is of the soul.

  —I’m sorry, I’m not religious—

  —Why delude yourself?

  At my utter astonishment, she explained,—You’re a rejuvie, aren’t you, Frank?

  —And you are one of those who believe the world would be better off without me in it. What do you want me to do, kill myself?

  She laughed again with genuine delight, and I could only join her in return.

  —No, that’s going against karma. But you can be part of the Live Krishna movement. And you’ll never be afraid of death. In fact, you will become truly immortal. No false face or artificial limbs or transplanted organs, and no false memories. The soul is beautiful and immortal, Frank, the body is…ugly and corruptible. It will for sure rot away, whatever you do. I would like to leave this with you—

  She handed me a brightly coloured pamphlet with a picture of a chubby blue baby floating in the clouds and said,

  —Come to our meetings.

  I smiled my demurral and we left the café together. Outside, she beamed at me and squeezed my arm and joined the singing, tambourine-thumping demonstrators, and I kept walking, free at last from the intoxicated clutches of holiness. Why are the deluded so happy? Or is it the other way around?

  —

  Back in my office, I gave a curious glance at Radha’s pamphlet, and before I knew it, it had drawn me in. It had five channels, three of them showing bright, colourful pictures of gods, one gave information about the Live Krishna movement in Toronto and elsewhere, and the last one displayed these lines, apparently mouthed by the blue god Krishna:

  As the spirit of our mortal body wanders on in childhood and youth and old age the spirit wanders on to a new body: of this the sage has no doubt

  What sage? I wondered for a moment, then realized that the term in the verse referred to anyone wise enough to its truth; in that case he or she would be the sage and teacher. What a democratic thought! But was the truth of this verse so far from the truth of rejuvenation that I practised? People do wander into new bodies, in a manner of speaking, aided by surgeons and plastics and metals; and surely karmic incarnation—if that’s the term—does not mean the spirit takes the old memories with itself into a new body? I should tell her this!

  I pulled out my notepad and placed it before me. With some trepidation I wrote out what Presley had described for me:

  A bookstore, every wall covered with old books A bridal veil

  Questions flew into my mind—where, this bookstore? I tried to imagine one, with physical books on shelves. And a bridal veil? Whose wedding? I could not recall having been to one myself. These images very evidently were from another time, like the antique car. His third fragment was eerie:

  A cat barking

  FOURTEEN

  THE MAN FROM DIS was dressed in a grey suit, white shirt, and what looked like a school tie. He had a striking, narrow face with a deep forehead and prominent nose. His voice had none of the metal of Dauda and his manner was friendly. His name was Joe Green. He sat down across from me and began his spiel.

  —Dr Sina, I am an admirer of your work—the therapy, of course, as a senior memory specialist. But more so, your academic work on the transmission of personality traits. Or is it their conservation? Your contribution has not waned over the years, and it has been extremely useful to us at the Department.

  —Thank you, Joe. That’s generous of you. Though I’ve never been told how exactly you find my work useful.

  I was merely teasing. He returned my smile.

  —Believe me, it’s used, Doctor. And your work is proudly supported by the Department, as you know.

  —Yes, and I’ve not failed to acknowledge that generous support in my publications and lectures.

  —Of course, Doctor. We wouldn’t think otherwise. And we are always grateful to be acknowledged.

  I put him down for a younger GN. He did not seem in a hurry, and after a pause, during which he quickly looked around the room, he continued in the same chatty manner,

  —Dr Sina. We are well aware that the Department is treated with suspicion—some wariness—by the public. That’s understandable. But it’s the security of the nation and our way of life that we work for, and we do our best. No one cares much for the police, but sometimes they are the only recourse when we’re helpless. The same with the Department. The nation needs it. The world needs it.

  By the public I presumed he meant me. What he was saying was that I was treating them with suspicion and not fully cooperating. He was here to reassure me. I put in my bit.

  —It’s one of our dilemmas, I guess. How to balance the collective and the individual interests.

  —Exactly.

  —The problem is, of course, the deep secrecy surrounding the Department; not knowing exactly what it is, what its functions are…

  Or whether it keeps within our laws, though naturally I didn’t say that. There was another momentary silence before he answered.

  —It’s necessary. Now Dr Sina, about this patient of yours—

  —Presley Smith.

  —He should be in our hands, as you’ve been informed.r />
  —Yes, I was informed by Dauda. Tell me, is Dauda a real person?

  Joe gave a chuckle.—She’s our intelligent interface. They hate to be called virtual, by the way. I’ll add a little secret: she has several personalities, with corresponding voices and names. She can even do Hindi and Arabic!

  —Male and female?

  —Male and female. He grinned.

  —I’m not treating Presley anymore, Joe. He told me he could control his condition—I have no problem with that. But I was made to understand by Dauda that you’d been searching for him—I expect you’ve not found him?

  —No, he’s still at large, evading our attempts to find him. He’s on the run—though why should he be? He’ll be found eventually—but the sooner the better. He is a threat to himself, as you understand.

  —And to the public good—or why would you be interested?

  —He’s our responsibility, Dr Sina. We’re not so unfeeling, we do take care of our own creations.

  —Why not let me treat him, Joe? If he returns to me, I mean. I can take him off your hands, he trusts me. Why is the Department so worked up about the condition of one man? Your interface Dauda spoke to me twice—and she sounded menacing. Now here you are.

  Joe Green replied, gravely,—All right. I’ll be frank—pardon the pun—and this is not to be revealed in any manner whatsoever. We are dealing with a matter of national security here, not just any public good—you will understand, Dr Sina. Presley’s previous life contains details that are too sensitive and should not come out—and they will not do him any good either.

  I opened my mouth to respond but he raised a hand:

  —I know. Records of past lives are supposed to be destroyed. But not in special cases, you understand. Or we can’t do our job effectively.

  —You mean DIS preserves records.

  —In some important cases, yes.

  —What details from Presley’s previous life…

  There was no point in asking further. I had known of DIS’s mandate to take persons who are deemed threats to our national security and render them harmless. It is one of those measures that the public would rather not discuss or acknowledge. The cities are safer, whatever it takes.

  —I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more, Doctor. Has he tried to contact you since his last visit?

  —No, he hasn’t.

  Perhaps spoken too quickly, and Joe’s head jerked up ever so slightly as a result. There came a slight change in his tone.

  —You understand that the law requires you to cooperate fully with the Department.

  —Absolutely. I understand. Of course.

  —Do you think he’s had other intrusions—those random thoughts—Doctor, running around in that brain of his? The lion and the red car, the baby, what next? What have you made of these strands?

  He had accessed my records. Hardly unusual, it is what we expect DIS to do and we don’t want to be reminded of it; it was rather the casual display of power here and now that was suddenly so disconcerting. To be reminded that you are nobody special, just one entity among a faceless public that is the often invoked nation, to whose collective demands you must submit. Any privacy you possess is a privilege that can be casually and briskly withdrawn.

  Joe Green caught my look but didn’t flinch. His entire approach, all the charm and deference, had the strength of authority behind it, and the potential to alter or turn off at any moment. He’d not even told me the purpose of his visit, though the threat it contained was evident. Inside those loose features hid a hard man. Dauda was all voice.

  I told him,—The last time he came here he said that these thoughts which had been plaguing him were under control. The lion, and so on. He could evade them, or push them back. The accompanying depression and racing heartbeat were gone too. He was using some mind exercises—yoga, counting numbers, and so on—to help him. He wasn’t in need of a treatment any longer. He was confident.

  —He’s not the best judge of that, as we both know. What do you think they mean—the lion, etc.? Sorry to pester you, Doctor, but you are the expert. Perhaps you should come work for us! What is the lion, if you were to venture a guess?

  —The lion could symbolize a king—it does in many cultures, including ours. Real, or from a national myth, or a children’s story, who knows—the lion and the unicorn and so on. And if you go back far enough, perhaps the lion represents a primal human fear of the predator. Or it could be a private code. Maybe Presley was a zookeeper in his previous life.

  That last bit was a joke, and I delivered it with a smile, but Joe Green was not impressed. He looked disappointed. He stood up, shook hands.

  —Thank you, Dr Sina. I appreciate your time. Don’t hesitate to call me if you hear from him.

  —You’re welcome. I will.

  —Well. Goodbye. And with a quick nod he hurried on his way out. At the door, however, like a vintage detective he turned around and fired off one final question:

  —Dr Sina, what do you think of these Karmics? I couldn’t help seeing that pamphlet on your desk.

  —They are entitled to their beliefs. As long as they don’t push us older people in front of trains.

  He laughed.—Yes, but they can be dangerous. Beware of them. Well, goodbye and thanks again, Doctor.

  —

  Shortly after Joe Green’s departure, Lamar knocked and beckoned me from the door. There was a wide grin on his face.

  —Come and have a look here, Doc.

  I followed him outside, but there seemed nothing unusual there. The phone rang and the call was answered at the control desk nearby. I turned to Lamar.

  —What’s the matter, Lamar?

  —Look around—see anything unusual, Doc?

  I didn’t, but before I could respond with irritation, he took a step sideways and flung a hand behind, towards the partition.

  I stepped back.—What?

  Lamar gave a chuckle.—I knew you’d say that! Rather mod, wouldn’t you say?

  The calming northern landscape that used to adorn the light grey softboard was gone, and in its place was an equally large abstract reproduction. It was the famous Warhol, with Presley’s namesake, the twentieth-century icon, reproduced several times over in cowboy gear. Hardly mod. I would have noticed it instantly if I had not been staring at a grinning Lamar. What now? The Elvises would point their guns at us all the time as we went about our work; they would point at me as I sat at my desk if the door were left open. And if it was closed, I’d still know that they were there, waiting to ambush me.

  There had been talk of new wall decorations for the clinic, but no decision had been taken that I knew.

  —Who ordered it? I asked Lamar.

  —Dr Otieno. He said you’d like it—he knows about your patient—everybody does, he’s so conspicuous. Anyway, it’s on approval. Don’t you like it? We all do, so far…

  I knew that Otieno wasn’t likely to spare a thought for me. This was no coincidence, or an office joke. He could only have been instructed. There must be a monitor inside the reproduction—an eye, many eyes, watching. And you could not now sneeze on the premises, let alone scratch yourself somewhere private, without being watched by Elvis.

  The rest of my afternoon was free, and I decided to go home.

  —

  As I emerged from our building, a tan and sinewy-looking man of medium height, sportily dressed in jeans, a light blue jacket, and a black baseball cap, and leaning against the concourse railing, seemed to decide suddenly to straighten up and start walking too. He stayed behind me to my right. On my way I paused to meditate upon the river, as I often did. The man was on my left, looking somewhat uncomfortable and hardly engrossed by the river. Soon I continued on, and a few minutes later stopped at the flower vendor, who’d been waiting in anticipation of my custom. When I looked around this time I saw that the guy had disappeared. That I was being monitored was not very surprising; but to be tailed by a physical monitor, as though I were a common criminal in an old det
ective yarn?

  Why did I deserve this close attention? Obviously, despite my friendly exchange with Joe Green—or perhaps because of it—the DIS believed either that I knew where Presley was or that he would soon get in touch with me—and quite rightly they didn’t trust me to inform them. On the other hand, if I thought he was dangerous, I would have told them what I knew, even if that meant admitting to a deception or two. I’d already advised him to seek the Department’s help. But I also believed strongly that he deserved the privacy and dignity to try and solve his problem—or at least to attend to it. He didn’t deserve to be arbitrarily kidnapped and—as he put it—turned into yet someone else without his consent.

  FIFTEEN

  IT WAS A BRIGHT, WARM EVENING, and when I reached home we decided to have a barbecue in the backyard. The setting sun glimmered through the foliage, the river in the distance looked placid and grey. And Joanie looked beautifully composed, clutching a drink after her shower, face aglow, midriff exposed above the light blue cords that are the rage this fall, a black sweater tied around her shoulders. She is practically a carnivore, eats as much meat as she can, despite the health warnings against trace radioactive buildup in the higher levels of the food chain. I prefer what’s good for my digestion, grains and greens, which she always scoffs at, saying I need meat more than she does, and it could do me less harm—meaning, I guess, that I had less at stake. And so, considerate lovers, we compromised: I ate more meat than I wished to, and she a little less. This was our world at its calmest and most blissful.

  But on her tablet we now watched reports of the most recent overseas outrage. The headline banner practically shouted, in garish black letters: HORROR INSIDE THE BORDER! In Maskinia a busload of tourists had been waylaid and kidnapped by a militia. This had happened earlier in the afternoon and the news kept rolling in. There were pictures of the captured men and women, interviews with friends and relatives, recordings of the frightened calls some of them managed to make before their phones were taken away. There were the expected angry condemnations by the president and the prime minister, who promised to use all means possible to retrieve the hostages. Will you go to war? asked a reporter. All options are on the table, replied the president, saying in effect nothing. Their political opponents on the other hand were howling for blood.