Nostalgia (11 page)

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 sound. 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.

On my office pad idly I wrote,

The lion is out at midnight

The fender of a red car

An airport, people waiting

A baby's wide-eyed face peering through torrential rain. Whose baby?

A bridal veil. White lace. Whose wedding?

A bookstore. Where? London? Why?

And bizarre: a cat barking

A man with red Afro hair, fair skin, who likes yellow socks. Has an interest in the singer Aboubakar Touré and—apparently—in the music of Richard Wagner; and also in military games and in weapons, but actually he is a reserved and gentle person.

The hunter must stalk and kill the lion. A new lion will stalk at midnight…

The last line was mine. I didn't know why I wrote it. I pushed away the pad, got up, and suggested to Lamar that we go down to the cafeteria. As we sat at our table with our lunch, he said,

—I found a device stuck to your jacket. A ladybug.

—You threw it away?

He shook his head slowly and flashed a tricky smile.

—No. I removed it and stuck it on your left sleeve, under the first button. You can remove it when you need to. That okay?

—Smart man.

—It can listen too.

—I know.

—And take pictures.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON
in the midst of my consultations a call arrived from the Department.

—Dr Sina, have you heard from your patient Presley?

It was Joe Green on the line, all business today, the phone lending a pitch to the voice.

—No, Joe, I haven't heard from him—I'm worried.

The concern slipped out because it was real.

—And there's cause to worry, said Joe.—His condition could get dangerous, as we both are aware, and his life may be threatened. So if he contacts you, please, without delay—

—Joe, has it occurred to you folks that he has not contacted you because maybe he doesn't trust you?

—Why wouldn't he trust us, Dr Sina? We are his guardians…all we want is to find him so we can cure him…
Do you know something we don't, Dr Sina?

—Just a thought, Joe. The Department sometimes scares off people, as you know…Could you let me know if
you
find him? I am genuinely concerned.

There followed a significant pause. Right at that moment, I guessed, he was watching me on a screen…or someone else there was…or perhaps a team had gathered, observing intently, gauging my reactions and drawing conclusions.

—Dr Sina…

—Yes?

—Of course we'll inform you if we find him.

—Thank you.

—But I must tell you it is more urgent now than before that we find Presley Smith. If he contacts you,
please
get in touch immediately. You will be saving more lives than just this one.

—I don't understand. Whose lives, besides his?

—Let's leave it at that for now. Just remember what I've said. Goodbye, Doctor.

With that, he hung up.

An eerie thought: whose lives besides Presley's were at stake and why? Presley had now become larger than before, but when he first came to see me he had been only a man with a curable problem.

A patient who'd transgendered wanted to remember a happy suburban childhood as a girl—running in the wheat fields of Iowa, pigtails flying, dog chasing after her. She (as he now was) had even brought a poster with her illustrating this
desire…corduroy overalls, check shirt…Why do people desire a storybook Midwestern idyll in their past? Or one in an English countryside? Why do so many wish to have been Elizabeth Bennet, Mr Darcy, or Anne of Avonlea in their previous lives? Unfortunately for them that's chronologically impossible, you cannot wish away a century and more. This patient was second generation, and there were complications. The feet were still large, so were the knees. The jaw line was too strong, and the voice not perfect, it rarely is. But the physical aspect of personality was not my department. Memories were, and some that need erasure were simply too strong—how do you submerge an inner-city hood's life inside a large, cozy family? That was for me to fix. My client today was not a hood, and hers was in principle an interesting case, but I struggled with a sense of irritation. I saw myself asking, why this vanity, why the lies? And yet I knew they were necessary; in this particular case there was a history of abuse. Psychological wounds need cosmetics too, and some lives need total abandonment. Excision. We discussed procedures, set up appointments.

Lamar came in to remind me that the next morning he would accompany our patient Dr Erikson to set him up in his new life. The doctor would leave the clinic a new immigrant and begin life again. Among his antecedents he counted a motor rally driver who'd raced in Africa. Of his previous origins— But I should not reveal more. Of course he had prepared himself before assuming this new identity, and he would be welcomed and assisted by a new citizens' organization. I would go and see him off, I told Lamar.

Sheila Walktall came in, looking triumphant, I thought. But she was happy to see me. She had made a case for escaping from her present life, which involved unbearable trauma. We discussed schedules and procedures for her transformation. She had already made preparations—deposited funds for the new persona, given that entity a part-time job at the broadcaster where she herself worked now, and had made plans to move to a warm place in a short time. She would remain a tennis player and golfer and become interested in bridge. She had given herself a glorious-sounding name and designed her looks: brown hair in place of black, a more angular face with high cheekbones, elegant ears closer to the skull; and an inch or two more in height.

—Well, Sheila, you have your wish. Good luck.

—Thank you, Doctor. You are the best. In spite of your reservations, you understand and show consideration.

I dared not ask her about her children.

At the Brick Club later I first subjected myself to a squash match. My opponent that day was Salman Khan, one of the club's virtual pros. Our games were matched: even though he was a strapping muscular fellow, my placing and control, despite my joints, compensated for his strength and agility. Perhaps I was being patronized. This time I lost 0–3, my excuse being that I found his sudden mocking appearances on court, out of the glass walls, no fun at all. It didn't help either that while serving the ball he hummed a tune. After a shower I went to the dining room, wobbly but refreshed. As the waiter took me to the table where Joanie awaited,
I wondered if I detected a smirk on his face, for I knew that on other days she brought the mysterious Friend here. On those days I stayed away by our mutual, unstated understanding. But today was mine.

—You played Salman, she said. She could always tell.

—He won by simply irritating me. That's his game strategy.

—A psychological strategy—
you
should know better than to fall for it.

—And he goes after every ball, so you have to be in the right mood to beat him. Today I wasn't.

—We'll see to your mood, she smiled.—You should ask to play with the other Khans. Aamir is more your type, I think.

—Shahrukh isn't bad either.

The three resident virtual pros, VPs, are all called Khan, because apparently in the past an Asian family of Khans had dominated the sport.

—I'll have the last word, I told her.—I think I'll have tandoori salmon today.

She broke out into a wonderfully musical peal of laughter that couldn't but attract envious attention to our table.

—I told you, he's catchy, Salman Khan!

—I guess he is. And the other Khans are not edible.

—I could have the amaretto cake for dessert…no.

She was wearing a lovely yellow shirt, open at her slender neck. I didn't recognize it, or the modest little ruby at the neck.

She put a finger to it.—You gave it to me, when we first met.

—I did?

—Yes.

The room was dimly lit, candles at the tables. From the adjoining lounge came the quick beat of a Latino number, to which couples could be seen dancing. Such a life—a challenging and satisfying job, in which you made your contribution to the good of all, for which you were appreciated and duly rewarded, and a retreat at the club to de-stress with people of your calibre—and a beautiful, sexy partner—why wouldn't one wish to prolong it? Surely the mad mysticism of Professor Kumar and his companions must come from deprivation and envy, so that all this privilege could be dismissed as meaningless ephemera, and a future life must be projected where one was really better off?

—What are you staring at?

—I was thinking how privileged all this—this life is. The food, the wine, the candlelight…all this beauty…you…and the three Khans to play a sport with and cuss. It's only when—

—What? When what, Frank? Tell me.

—When there's a rupture in this neat fabric and another world floods in…

—I'm not sure I understand…

What I was saying, in part, was obvious, that no sense of euphoria lasts forever, a happy moment lasts only that moment. But there is a sense of calmness and equilibrium possible—which I had attained even with the knowledge and ache of Joanie's infidelity—until Presley Smith stepped in. Or was it always coming, this rupture that threatened to destroy that calmness?

She leaned forward and looking straight at me said in a soft voice,—I don't want you to abandon me, Frank.

We didn't say anything more as I mulled over this. I knew she meant it, and an emotion constricted my throat. I glanced away to dry the gleam in my eyes, then turned to her and, struggling to remain composed, I asked the question that had been burning inside me all day.

—Wouldn't you rather I went away? Disappeared? Made space for someone of your generation…?

—How can you say that, Frank?

—I saw you at the protest at Yonge and Eg today.

—You…were there? What were you doing there?

—I was there looking for someone…You were quite forceful, though I didn't hear what you—

—I just went along with a friend…

—And that friend wants someone like me dead and gone?

—It's not that, Frank. You know it's about jobs and security. People of my generation can't find jobs. All those GNs everywhere. And the politicians have just given themselves a raise. Now that's enough to get people to come out and protest!

Not only to themselves, the politicians also gave raises to civil servants, including me, looking out for their own, which is how I could afford to be here at the Brick having wild salmon and excellent wine after a game of squash.

—I want you always to be with me, Frank. I mean it, she said.

—I'm always with you.

—You've been distracted these last few weeks, Frank. You go to your study and into your own world—when you think
I've fallen asleep. I don't know what's in your mind…who you are…

—It's a patient. It'll work out, don't worry.

—Just one patient?

I nodded.—Don't worry, Joanie.

The hostage crisis, eclipsed momentarily by the Karmic Four, was back in the headlines. Politicians continued to blame each other, past incidents were dredged up, the president and the prime minister made threats and the pope made pleas to the kidnappers. Tearful friends and relatives appeared one by one in the media to beg for mercy for their loved ones:
think of your own loved ones, your own children; we should be friends, not enemies
…
We do not represent our government
…
we agree that immigration should increase and there should be more exchanges between us
…Aerial photos were displayed of the Warriors' compound that housed the hostages, apparently in underground quarters. Naval ships had started converging towards the problem area. A rescue mission was briefly discussed, before the idea was dropped, at least in public. Negotiations went on. And time was running out, said Holly Chu from Maskinia, in her latest transmission to the media, sitting behind a table in the open, her automatic comfortably beside her. She repeated the demands: cash in WCUs, equivalent amount in gold, in exchange for the peeping Tom prisoners. Or else. She did not say what, but we were reminded of the savage fates some hostages had met in the past. Would they do the same to the women and few children in their hands?

We watched the news together, Joanie sitting partially on my lap, and when Bill Goode came on she turned around to face me. She slipped out of her pants, and helped me out of mine. She placed a touch of aphrodisiac on my tongue and turned to the tube.

—What d'you think of
that
, Bill?

Bill Goode gave his trademark doughy grin.

In bed she slept on my arm, and soon that gentle, even snoring, that sonorous throb of life inside that beautiful long body began, to which I spent a long time listening. It was music. And then I released myself, padded off to my study.

The day had promised such trauma, and it had ended so blissfully. Still, like a sleepwalker I was drawn to that other life, these other characters who were so different from me, from another world almost. And I called needless risk upon myself. What I wrote was open to scrutiny, in principle, though Tom had promised me privacy. Why didn't I simply go on being a good citizen, keep faith in the authorities entrusted to look out for us, and accept the privilege and prestige I'd been given for my hard work and diligence?

Don't abandon me, she said. Was this abandonment, I sitting there staring at the screen, she in the bed, my place beside her empty and cold? Even with its flaws and fragility, wasn't the warmth of that bed worth more than anything else, wasn't that what humankind has always striven to protect? What kept bringing me here like some zombie in front of this desk, into this solitude of imagination, into this…this…lonely portal to a world…somewhere else?

TOM:
Welcome, Frank.

FRANK:
Thanks.

TOM:
What can I do for you?

FRANK:
Could you give me a lowdown on Maskinia.
A summary, modern times. Please.

TOM:
Will do, Frank.

FRANK:
And Aboubakar Touré.

TOM:
Certainly! I'll even compile an album of songs for you! I'm also a fan!

FRANK:
Thank you.

TOM:
Do you need anything more on the lion? Or the red car, Frank? And Holly Chu is quite the obsession everywhere.

FRANK:
No. Just look away, Tom, as you promised.

TOM:
All right, Frank. Go ahead. Happy indulging!

But far from happy or satisfied, I had become tense and nervous, though I tried to hide this from the inquisitive Tom. Why had he so casually brought up Holly Chu in conjunction with the lion and the red car? Was it to send me a signal—surely he didn't make errors?—that I was more closely observed than I had imagined? My sessions with him; my written imaginings, my free and innermost thoughts; and the jottings I typed in my notepad at the clinic—they were all monitored. I had been naïve and reckless, saying, as most people do, How long do you keep looking over your shoulder? Stop fretting and keep going on, what do you have to hide? My thoughts.