Nostalgia (13 page)

The Notebook

#51

The Journalist

Holly lay on her mattress in her corner. She had strung up a rag of a bedsheet as a makeshift curtain to demarcate her space, an indulgence allowed her by her new friends. She could sleep only lightly at night. The space was utterly dark; immersed in it, at first she felt nervous and frightened. This was the price of her privacy. But gradually she was getting accustomed to her space, to the intermittent scratches and sighs that relieved the brief loneliness of the night. She would think of the comfortable world she had left behind, rejected and spurned. Had she made the right decision? Yes!
At some point you have to stop talking and do something, take that first step. And she had done that. If more people did likewise, the world might change. Hadn't that fellow Gandhi inspired millions?

A squeal came from behind the curtain, a slight one, and it brought her suddenly fully awake. She sat up and listened. There were growls. Men. Shuffling. Then three men stepped in, lifting the curtain; the space now lighter, she saw shadows and recognized the men, she had seen them around. One of them came over and pointed a rifle at her and she was terrified. Another swiftly approached her, bent down, and grunting tore off her pyjamas—which were recently stitched, a gift from Layela. When he'd had his way, not one word escaping her lips, her eyes locked into his, her heart bursting with pain, the two others followed. They left, summarily zipping up themselves. As she whimpered in pain and filth, Layela took her into her arms and comforted her; took her outside and hosed her, and she cried out.

—Shall I complain to Nkosi? she asked her friend.

—You should, replied Layela.

—You should, said Miriam.—Perhaps then he'll listen.

In the morning they went marching with determination to the Nkosi's compound. The soldiers teased them on the way, and at the gate they were met with hostility: Nkosi was busy, Nkosi was tired, there was a big meeting today. But the women persisted, Miriam speaking loudly to be let in, until suddenly the gate opened for them.

Nkosi was seated in his chair as usual, having at that moment finished with a tall glass of juice. The three women
sat down on the ground before him, and after a preamble Holly told her story.

—I've treated these men as brothers in arms, as fellow warriors, and they have shown no respect for me and violated me. They don't respect women—

—Haali, Haali—began the old man,—they should not have touched you. I am sorry. They will be punished.

He paused, then went on.—We are fighting a war, Haali. We need young, healthy warriors. Men. They need to eat…You go, I will punish them.

Holly didn't know if and how the men were punished. She never saw them again. But Layela and Miriam told her this was the way of their world. The women had to yield, the young men had to eat, most of them would soon go to die.

#52

The Gentle Warrior

And you, Presley, you almost fooled me—but not quite. We both know, no Chinese medicine, no Christian piety, no Indian exercises will save you. I wish I could have helped you, my friend. My young friend. The moment I laid eyes on your incongruity, some nerve in the visual cortex rang a bell. Some memory circuit responded, albeit weakly, I admit. We are connected, you and I…and for sure Holly.

MASKINIA
.

A vaguely defined area of Region 6 troubled by poverty, disease, civil wars, and corruption. Formerly it was occupied by sovereign nations that had achieved independence from European dominance in the twentieth century. The name of Maskinia is believed by some scholars to be derived from
masikini
or
miskin
(South Asian and African languages, through Arabic) meaning a beggar, or someone deserving charity. Other, less demeaning and exotic etymologies have been suggested. The languages spoken are numerous: they include variants of English and French, Swahili, Arabic, Hausa, Lingala, Bambara, and others of indigenous origin. An evolved Hindi is spoken by a small minority.

To the southeast of the region lies EAF, the East African Federation; the other boundaries are more fluid, and the region, described loosely, overlaps with the former Congo, which has been torn by strife for well over a century. Maskinia is rich in minerals, predominantly uranium and gold, and agricultural land that for reasons explained below cannot be fully exploited. Despite its natural wealth, Maskinia by all measures of development remains one of the poorest areas in the world, the majority of the population earning less than five dollars a day and lacking basic amenities such as electricity, running water, and sewage disposal. It has progressively lost any semblance of government, having long fragmented into warring factions and chiefdoms. This condition has been exacerbated by the imposition of the Long Border to stop the tides of desperate migrants sweeping upon European and American shores.

The current misery of Maskinia has its genesis in the year 2032. Before then the region was at the height of its so-called Southern Resurgence, a period of economic prosperity and relative peace. In 2032, however, for reasons yet to be clarified, two of the region's nations, Garibu and Tajiri, declared war on each other. In the midst of hostilities, two 1000-megawatt nuclear reactors of Canadian design, operating in tandem, mysteriously exploded. This catastrophe, known as the Great Explosion, brought an end to the war, but the region never recovered. The incident caused considerable damage, which went uncontrolled; faulty Canadian design was blamed, and the angered populace turned on the experts that were sent to assist. Secondary explosions were
not prevented. Endangered populations were not removed in time. Since then, unexpected weather patterns with large-scale flooding have extended the contamination areas. The food and water consumed, unless donated by aid agencies or grown in artificial soil, is largely unsafe.

The biological effects of the nuclear catastrophe include low birth rates, male impotency, deformities at birth, high rates of cancer, and the emergence of new species, including a large version of the domestic cat. Life expectancy has dropped from a high of sixty-seven to fifty-five.

Shortage of cultivable land has led to large-scale internal migrations, resulting in ethnic and religious strife and the emergence of three regional militias, the Freedom Warriors, the Army of the Hungry Christ, and the animist New Mau Mau. Tighter clampdown and casualties at the Long Border are a cause of bitter resentment, used to advantage by the militias to rally for recruitment into their ranks.

The Freedom Warriors in one form or another has controlled the central portion of Maskinia for over thirty years, with its headquarters in a suburb of Sinhapora. It is considered by most world governments to be a terrorist organization, though it fulfills its social mandate by providing limited health services and education. Its strength has varied over the years. Its activities have included abductions; attacks on development and aid networks; attacks on industrial activities such as mining; smuggling people to the north; and drug trafficking. From time to time it leaks out personnel through the Long Border to carry out acts of
terror. In two instances precision attacks on the headquarters almost destroyed the organization, but it re-emerged after a period underground. Diplomacy and gifts (bribery) have not been effective because the FW leaders rarely keep their word for long. A hands-off approach combined with Border vigilance, sanctions, and selective punishment (military action) is the current policy in place and known as the Macmanus Containment Doctrine.

The FW has always been led by a charismatic dictator, called Nkosi, the Leader, under whom is an unelected council, called a Baraza, of seven people. The Nkosi is elected by the Baraza from its members. The present Nkosi is Eddy Noor, a much-loved elder of benign visage and saintly aura who is yet responsible for initiating many recent acts of terror and sabotage. A crafty politician, his ability as negotiator and intermediary has found use by the Northern Alliance and enabled him to survive and forestall punitive attacks.

The Warriors grew out of an Islamic fundamentalist organization militantly opposed to the Western way of life. In recent times, however, while adhering to a few previous prohibitions such as those against drinking, and promoting austere lifestyles, it has stayed away from overt Islam, allowing instead for the syncretistic cultures and modes of worship that have emerged from the large-scale upheavals, migrations, and admixtures of populations following the Great Explosion.

The Warriors run rudimentary primary schools in Maskinia and one high school near their headquarters in Sinhapora. The last punitive bombing of the headquarters resulted in the death of over a hundred boys and girls, a major public-relations setback for the North Atlantic Alliance. High school graduates have been known to attend universities in neighbouring countries, and due to the extreme conditions there has been a steady migration out of Maskinia.

The FW runs a basic hospital two miles away from its headquarters, with an estimated sixty beds. There are also at least four mobile medical units that tour the region.

The Warriors receive support from a small number of left-wing intellectuals in neighbouring countries. Volunteer doctors and teachers make their way in small numbers into Maskinia. There is also support from some radical groups of the Alliance countries who provide propaganda and channel funds in secret. Humanitarian agencies are also active in the region, most notably the World Development Network.

Maskinia's neighbours are believed to pay discreet protection fees to the Warriors. Abductions are a source of income, though they are rarely publicized.

The FW remains adequately armed with an arsenal of second-grade weapons purchased on the market. There is in place a simple, partially effective missile shield, purchased from the EAF. There also exists under the hills outside Sinhapora a system of deep, naturally formed tunnels that were extended and used for protection in the aftermath of
the Great Explosion. The full extent of this maze is unknown. Several attacks by special forces to destroy the organization at its root have been foiled by the successful use of this tunnel system.

FRANK:
Thanks, Tom. That's quite comprehensive.

TOM:
There's more.

FRANK:
How much more?

TOM:
Everything.

FRANK:
Not everything now, but could I know more about the Nkosi—Eddy—bio, photos? Family? And the Baraza?

TOM:
That information is protected, Frank. I will need a clearance.

FRANK:
Okay.

…

TOM:
Frank, you've disappointed me.

FRANK:
Oh? How so?

TOM:
Your creative musings. You are hand writing them now.

FRANK:
Yes.

TOM:
Rather a primitive method.

FRANK:
But safe from prying eyes.

WE SUPPOSE OUR DNA
to predispose us in certain ways—gift us with an artistic or scientific temperament, for example, or an exceptional ability in a sport. Yet the connection is not clear or precise. Nurture, training, plays a large role. A child of a medical doctor can go on to become a popular musician; the child of a trader becomes a scientist; and the child of a warrior a pacifist. The point of my lecture was, which of these proclivities or special traits in us can be suppressed or manipulated in the brain? Can the artistic temperament be switched off, for example, and a mathematical proclivity be turned on in its place? And further, can a certain genius survive a change of past history—as in the case of rejuvenation? If the deaf Beethoven, now cured of this and other ailments, wants to carry on in a new life, with a
new memory of a happier childhood and love life as a youth, the symphonies he composes, were he able to do so, will be different, but will they be great? Is genius mutable?

The Henri-Persi College of Advanced Arts and Science had invited me to give its annual Raymond Lecture. The subject is of great interest at that distinguished college, and also to all with special gifts. It's understandable for an artist, a mathematician, or a chess grandmaster to want to carry their gifts with them into the next generation; for a Beethoven to carry his bag of tricks with him, so to speak. Some of them would rather die of age than risk losing their particular gift.

The hall was near full and the audience looked absorbed, which is always gratifying. Joanie was present too, seated in the second row. Even if I say so myself, I have a way with my audiences. Joanie says it's that special lilt and crackle in my voice that mesmerizes, by which I assume she means it possesses an aged, old-wine quality. I give more credit to my subject. We all age. As I began to wind up, I noticed Radha slip into the hall and find a seat in a middle row. Why come at all, if this late, was the thought that entered my head as I proceeded.

There are many questions, I told them, some of which have answers, others not yet. I can install in you a memory of a young Einstein—not the real one: he lived too long ago—but that will not turn you into an adult Einstein. Why? The memory of a lived life is different—it's real, it's
experienced
; detailed and nuanced and in important ways tangible. The
nature of genius is still a mystery—which is a good thing, some might say; we cannot have more than one Einstein living among us at the same time. (Laughter.) There's the gender issue. Can a change of gender, with a new autobiography, preserve a predisposition? Can Marie, already a prominent chemist in Paris, become François and go on to discover radium? Then (I looked up) there's always someone who asks, Can you give me the memory of Child Jesus? Yes, but he would be in modern North America riding a bus instead of a donkey, and even then we can't guarantee that God will make you His son. Which is just as well. (Laughter.)

How far was this audience, how far their world from the one I had visited the other day, Walnut Street, cloaked in the dark aura of deprivation and danger. Concern for the indigent among us was brought up, not surprisingly by a young person. A woman in this case.—Since rejuvenation is available to the rich, what about the poor? What is their place in this Brave New World of yours? Is your science a method to cull the poor from our midst?

The answer is obvious and the same I give every time, that progress moves forward, not backward. We cannot unknow scientific knowledge, or undo technological advance—it is not in human nature, we are a competitive, speculative species. We should, however, be cautious in how we apply these advances—as we have been in the past with nuclear energy and animal cloning, when the dangers were always clear, but we could not do without their uses in the production of energy, food, and medicine. In the instance
of rejuvenation, the answer to the questions raised is that it be available to all. We should not close our eyes to progress, but our attitudes should change. We should address poverty.

A professorial man, soft-featured and round-faced, wearing a blue blazer and topped with a white halo of hair on his otherwise bald head, half raised a hand next and asked, in a gently quavering voice,—Genius and ability are one thing, Doctor, but what about
a subject's beliefs
? Is there a proclivity towards fanaticism, for instance, an innate attraction for it, and can it be passed on, or indeed suppressed—have you identified such cases?

His air of confidence, the aura of authority, had become apparent to the audience, which had suddenly turned quiet. Beside him, I noticed, sat Joe Green.

To the question raised, I had this answer:—I've not identified fanaticism in itself as a trait to follow. I would say it's too vague a concept—you are a fanatic about
something.
However, the cases that come to us are what you might call cosmetic or vanity cases. All that our clients require are different—better or more romantic—pasts that they wish to remember as their own. A very mundane and understandable desire.

—You don't—excuse me for going on, Doctor—you don't get men or women with very strong beliefs—in Marx, or Allah, or Hanuman for example? In Jesus? Or with particular hatreds—those who hate with a passion—and who wish to carry on with…the passion? How do you deal with them?

There was much unsaid in that question, and I proceeded cautiously.

—I've not had clients who declared such beliefs—religious or political or any other—and wished to take them along into another life. If they harboured such passionate beliefs they would run the risk of losing them through their identity change. Of course, it's possible these specific passions would return into their new lives as intrusions or arbitrary thoughts in what we call the Nostalgia syndrome. The truly religious cases, in any event, would not come to us, already believing in an afterlife.

He nodded and mouthed, silently,
Of course.
But who was he? He seemed an important man. And now he began to look vaguely familiar. I must have run into him somewhere. It was my turn to question him:

—And you are, sir? You appear knowledgeable on the subject. Would you mind introducing yourself to the audience?

Somewhat startled, he looked around, then said,—I'm sorry, I should have done that earlier. My name is Axe—A-X-E. Dr Arthur Axe. From the Department of Labour.

He sat back, the exchange over, and the auditorium regained its background hum. Someone else had a question:

—Can you speak about Nostalgia?

This was easy, I proceeded to explain.

—The leaked memory syndrome, LMS, or the Nostalgia syndrome is the case in which stray thoughts that we believe are from a former life move into the head—leak in. Usually
they are harmless and sometimes impossible to tell apart from other thoughts. Sometimes, though, they can multiply into a deluge, and immediate recourse is necessary.

Dr Axe was staring at me. He was smiling, his eyes twinkling, his look friendly, avuncular, and I took a moment to return a smile. At this same instance realization dawned upon my entire being, and a nervous frisson shot through me. He must have seen it on my face, my smile unfolding, my shoulders stiffening, and I could see the beam in his eye switch off. And I was as certain as Newton was when the apple fell on his head (let's suppose it did) that I was looking at the mysterious Author X, not from Labour but from Internal Security. The master ironist of the Publications Bureau. The one who wrote Presley's script, gave him his life. A great man, in a manner of speaking, to whom Joe Green, now sitting beside him, was merely an adjutant. Joe too took time to throw me a look of significance. They stood up and left in one abrupt coordinated motion, followed by a third person behind them.

He could have watched me on video, with a drink in his hand, in all his terrifying anonymity; in the leisure of his private club or at home. Why would this powerful man, whose mystery works to enhance his reputation and influence, this anonymous author make himself known to me? Was it simple miscalculation in an instance of an all-too-human weakness, arrogance? An author who wanted to be known this once?

I watched them depart through the side door, Joe Green turning to look back at me one last time. He seemed curious.
They must know that I'd tried to shake off their surveillance more than once (how successfully, I don't know), and therefore I could not be trusted. Did they know I'd met Presley? Had they found him?

I seemed to have been swallowed into a time hole, and emerged once more to face the audience.

It was now that my other set of monitors, the raucous ones, went on the offensive and finished ruining the event.

Just as the convenor rose to thank me, a young man jumped up and insisted on having his say. There was something of the eternal student in him, a swarthy and underfed man of small stature who'd not bothered to remove his coat. He sounded shrill.

—My name is Musa. My point is that while you, the elderly elite, find ways to prolong your existence with new organs and new lives and monopolize the world's resources, what about us young people? When do we get a chance? Youth unemployment is approaching thirty percent! I don't mind telling you that I cannot find a job—and the woman I love—a young woman, not a reconstituted senior citizen—lives with an elderly man—sells her services just to be able to survive! What gives people like you the right to more life than others? Why can't you just say,
I've had enough! Let others live!

At this cue more of them sprang up in different parts of the hall, shouting
You've had enough! Get out! Blasphemy!
And Radha was one of them, but she was shouting about karma and flashed a somewhat guilty smile when our eyes met.

The young and the religious; if Dr Arthur Axe had stayed on to observe this scene, he would have been tempted to speak out,—You see? I mean
them.
Can the tendency for this behaviour be passed on? Would you let it happen? Would you want such people around forever?

A distressing conclusion, then. I'd never before been attacked so personally and in public for my beliefs and my practice. I keep a low profile, and speak publicly only when invited by special groups. Such meetings tend to be serious affairs. People come up and shake hands with me, others ask for references to my work. Admittedly, they are usually from the
elderly elite
—I'd not heard this description before, but to be perfectly candid, it seemed apt enough. But
reconstituted senior citizen
?

This night I had been ambushed by the G0s and the Karmics. The public lecture had been truly turned public.

As I stepped down from the stage, shocked and embarrassed, Joanie approached me with a reassuring smile and took my arm, just as I caught the angry young man Musa's hostile eye in the distance.

I gave her hand a squeeze.—Thanks for coming, darling.

—You did well. You had all the answers. Let's get out of here and celebrate.

—Let's.

While we were sharing this precious moment, Radha came gliding over, the face beaming as always.

—That was very interesting, Dr Sina. She turned to a curious and surprised Joanie, and continued,—Dr Sina's been visiting our protest site on Yonge Street, and I've been trying
to convince him about why interfering with the karmic cycle is not such a good thing. It gives him bad karma.

—By
our
, you mean that group in which that man burnt himself to death?

—Yes.

—Ugh. Well, I hope you haven't succeeded in convincing Frank of your beliefs.

—I'm afraid not.

—Thank heavens.

The one trim and shapely, the lines clean as though drawn by an artist, with not an ounce of extra flesh, not an expression or move wasted, no fuzziness except on the rare occasions when she yielded to me. And the other, with a fleshiness that became popular briefly some years ago; all fuzzy, even her beliefs. Despite her karmic protests, she had looked decidedly shaken at Professor Kumar's self-immolation. She walked away, unperturbed.

As I turned towards Joanie, I caught Musa's somewhat furtive eye upon her. He looked away.

—Have you met that young man—Musa—before? He seems straight out of some anarchists' colony. He was staring at you very strangely.

—The one who skewered you—yes, I think so, somewhere.

Too quick, and a necessary half-lie, perhaps there lay
her
fuzziness. They had exchanged glances and her face had reddened. Musa, I was convinced, was the mysterious Friend she saw on the side. There was no point in asking what she saw in that scruffy man.
I love a young woman
…Which made me…what? The reconstituted senior citizen to whom
she had sold herself. That was painful, that barb. Joanie, partly turned away, was looking blandly around the room with a baby's blameless face, and I was talking to an admirer while thinking, She can't see me that way…selling herself to…

Radha waved from a distance, sailing across the hall in her colourful sari.

It was not merely distressing that day, it was devastating.

Later that evening it was I who was cold, the aphrodisiac useless. I refused to rise.