No New Land

by M G Vassanji

  And magically, in two days, two hours before the girls came, a pleasant apartment was there to greet them. Some of it had been repainted. Even the windowpanes had been cleaned. Nanji had taken the opportunity to get a new bed, buy bright things for the walls, furnish the kitchen. Everything else was on loan, indefinitely.

  And when they came, what happy faces, what life they brought with them, what exuberance! It was, apparently, a long-awaited reunion, not only for Nanji but also for the girls, who had come from different cities. The squeals of joy they gave on seeing him, the hugging in the open. Nurdin had been with Nanji when the girls arrived, in a taxi, and had witnessed somewhat embarrassedly their easy manner. How you wish you were young again, oh how you’d like to start afresh. Nanji was puffed up like a peacock. And why not. Three girls had come just to be with him in his apartment. They wined and dined – of the wine Nurdin was certain though he did not tell Zera. They went out, they came late and stayed up practically all night consuming samosas and kebabs, chatting and laughing, shouting and squealing. Three days and nights of living free, and then they left on Sunday afternoon. And on that depressing Sunday Nanji came to them, broken.

  Before Yasmin left, she had given the message she had come to give: she was marrying. What do you tell a young man whose heart is broken – there will be others? There is no pleasure without pain? “But you said there was nothing,” Zera had said. “Nothing definite, but she always gave hope.… ” “If there was nothing, she wouldn’t come here to tell him, would she,” explained Nurdin to Zera, a little too wisely.

  Nanji was loath to return to his apartment, to those rooms now empty, echoing already in such a short time, with memories, and sat up late with the Lalanis. They wanted to retire, but they waited patiently, plying him with hot tea to soothe his pain. Finally he went.

  He continued to come, almost every day for a couple of weeks, to talk, be comforted, to be told that she was not worth having, she who had done this to him. “I will find you a nice girl,” Zera told him. She did show him a few, but he simply shook his head, smiling to show he appreciated the gesture.

  Then he stopped coming, embarrassed at having clung to them, having revealed so much to them, such tender spots, and they understood. Once or twice they had had fun at his expense; he had not been amused, they quickly realized. Fatima and Hanif, going their own way with baseball and hockey and their own friends, also had less time for him. Nanji’s worth in their eyes had dipped a little, but they still held him in awe to an extent he was not aware of and were relieved he disappeared so they could think of him as his old self.

  For Nurdin Lalani a new life had begun with his job at the Ontario Addiction Centre. With it he had accepted a station in life – not one he believed he deserved, a son of a prominent elder and businessman, but one which would have to do. At least he could say, in mosque and at Sixty-nine, that he had a job downtown. He didn’t have to say precisely what job. “Say manager,” Zera told him. “You do manage supply rooms.”

  Romesh’s companionship made the work more tolerable, sometimes even enjoyable, although he had had to get used to the man. Romesh had a way of edging into his confidence, assuming a familiarity, that had startled him at first. That, and his different idiom and accent.

  One day they were having their lunch together. Nurdin noticed something on Romesh’s plate and asked, “Is that a hot dog?”

  How could he not have known. Surely that was Satan speaking through him. Romesh cut it in two, neatly, and gave him half. “Like hot dog, but better. Try it.”

  He ate a piece and it was good. Even before he had finished swallowing it, as it was going down his gullet, everything inside him was echoing the aftertaste, crying, “Foreign, foreign.” Yet it did nothing to him.

  When Romesh returned with a second helping, he had finished his half. Romesh nodded approvingly. “That was sausage.”

  “Beef, I hope.”

  “No.”

  He pretended shock, and Romesh comforted him. “See, you’re the same. Nothing’s happened to you. Forget pork, man, I was not supposed to eat meat. Even egg. I’m supposed to think you’re dirty. You think they are dirty. Who is right? Superstitions, all.”

  The pig, they said, was the most beastly of beasts. It ate garbage and faeces, even its babies, it copulated freely, was incestuous. Wallowed in muck. Eat pig and become a beast. Slowly the bestial traits – cruelty and promiscuity, in one word, godlessness – overcame you. And you became, morally, like them. The Canadians.

  There were those, claiming to be scientific, who said it’s the diseases the pig carries and the quality of meat, which has long-term effects, which are the reason for the prohibition: the Book has all knowledge for all time. And there was Nanji – who himself drank wine, Nurdin knew, and probably ate pork – who said it’s the discipline that’s important, you’ve been forbidden to do it for whatever reason, and that’s that.

  In any case, he, Nurdin, had eaten it – he could not make himself name “it” yet – and perhaps that is where the real rot began, inside him.

  It was amusing to Nanji, Nurdin’s concern about the effects of pork-eating. It was so obvious he’d tasted pork and was groping for an argument to absolve himself. Zera of course had supplied the standard line, pseudoscience: “Eat pig and become a pig.” But Nurdin had sought an answer from him, Nanji the educated, and Nanji had told the simple truth: eating pork was forbidden by the faith, by God, reasons did not matter. Nurdin had opened his mouth, almost retorted, Have you had pork? But had shut it again, why? Perhaps afraid, he, Nanji, would have asked him the same thing. Then Nurdin asked, “But can it change you, from inside, you know, your character?” He’d been kind and said simply, “No.”

  Of course, it depends on what you mean by “change you.” Molecules are the same whether they are in beef or pork, or even in yourself. If pork has chemicals that alter your mental state, you could find those chemicals elsewhere too. So why pork? No. It is you who have changed when you attempt, even think about, eating pork the first time. And once you’ve had it, the first time, tasted that taste so distinct you cannot cheat yourself, you are no longer the same man: something has turned inside you, with a definite click. Unless you go into an orgy of remorse and repentance – and who does, these days? – and perhaps even then you cannot regain what you’ve lost.

  So, Nurdin has changed.

  They had come to watch the Canada Day fireworks. Parked the car half a mile away and trudged along with the crowd, to the lakeshore, all at Fatima’s insistence. This was the thing to do, act like Canadians, for chrissakes! All this playing cards and chatting and discussing silly topics while glugging tea by the gallon and eating samosas – is not Canadian. Not realizing that most of the Canadians she knew and met were like her, with parents not too different from hers. So, while others of their building celebrated at the eighteenth floor open house, watching fireworks from a distance and perhaps getting a better view of them – and, yes, with tea and samosas, and gossip, and men teasing the women – the Lalanis with Nanji had come to where the action was. Had eaten those fat, luscious french fries and assiduously avoided – Nanji couldn’t help catching Nurdin’s eye – the hot dogs for sale on the sidewalks.

  He could remember other fireworks, on Fourths of July, in New York. The two of them, he and “she,” with a blanket to sit on, a picnic basket with beer, with books to read, waiting patiently for the fireworks. So “with it.” Even then he’d not been too impressed with such displays. He always saw them beforehand, in his mind, exploding into brilliant colours, and not only that, the sparks forming precise patterns and shapes suspended in the atmosphere before fading away. Flags – the Stars and Stripes, the Maple Leaf – rockets, whatever. Instead, they turned out so ordinary. You oohed and aahed at something slightly less mediocre than the previous. But it wasn’t the fireworks he had gone for, he had gone for her. To be with her, his composite “she,” the nemesis, Yasmin.

  Across the lake now on the island was another
crowd, no less – or more – enthusiastic than they were. The lights were sparser there, as was the crowd, and a large blackness hung behind them. Nanji stared hard at the points of light in the blackness until his eyes watered. Something, not inside, had turned for him, also with a definite click. A phase of life had ended, or would soon end – the warning had been given.

  The girls’ visit had been fun. Yasmin, characteristically, had come with piles of tourist literature, the itinerary planned. More or less. Of course she overdid it, would get tired – the first one to do so – and suggest, having made up her mind in any case: “How about calling it quits here.” That love of life and that weakness. You adored her for that, felt tenderness for her, and she needed that. The day trip to Montreal had failed to materialize simply because the previous night had been too short. And because, so far, there had been too much eating and drinking, a jog through the park was suggested with a sorrowful slap at a belly not quite yet flabby. There followed for Nanji one of his most embarrassing moments, walking through the corridor and then going down in the crowded elevator, a giraffe in bright new shorts in the company of three loud girls in designer track suits. In the pathway he’d looked up to see – just in case – and his fears were confirmed: there were spectators on the balconies.

  A large get-together had always been planned for 1984 – a significant reunion in a significant year, that might yet come but looked difficult to pull off. This small one was her accomplishment – their accomplishment, to give due credit to the other two girls. A kindness, as he later realized, to him.

  They had been, originally, a group of six, of roughly the same age, from roughly the same place. A prominent East African group of emigrés, former students meeting in Boston and New York and Washington, for Thanksgiving and Fourth of July and Christmas, and because of their mobility they were well known to the new groups of immigrants and refugees shakily setting themselves up. They were the Second Original Group, they always pointed out, the first one having come eight years before on extravagant African-American programs, having got married, all of them well settled and gone to ground.

  A fate which had already befallen two of the guys in their own group. It was always understood that the friendships were too close for anything else to come out of them: except for he and “she,” a subject rarely mentioned, and then only among the guys and, for all he knew, the girls. Anyway, Salim and Karim had married two nice and proper girls, from Canada, and had, effectively, disappeared. Which left Nanji and the three girls. There was Shamim, with those classical Indian features, perpetually caught in a soft light, as it were, all curves and not a sharp corner. The small chin, the long eyelashes, and dark black eyes, the beautiful puckered smile. All waiting for Mr. Perfect. And Dilu, with curly hair, a sharp mind, and an equally sharp tongue. Rather attractive, though her dark tones gave a first impression – but only first – that did not do her justice. Also waiting for Mr. Perfect. And Yasmin, with numerous friends and acquaintances from all corners of the world, had not met her idea of perfection either.

  On the last day of the visit they had decided to go to the lakeshore and take a ferry to the islands. After morning coffee at the Hilton, Dilu and Shamim decided to walk to Harbourfront and the antique market, leaving Nanji and Yasmin alone to go to the island, find a spot, and await the two sightseers.

  It was bliss to be together with her after God knows how long. The day was gorgeous. They crossed to Hanlan’s Point in the company of an army of cyclists. From there they took a round trip on a little train to Centre Island. She couldn’t resist, just as she couldn’t resist those horse-drawn carriages in New York at Christmas. Could he ever have so much fun alone, or with anyone else?

  Then they walked, found a quiet place to sit. Small planes were taking off in the distance, another one droned overhead pulling a sign. Men and women playing soccer, a toddler taking his first steps running after a balloon, a single man with book and picnic basket, french bread and all.

  She looked so beautiful – not the beauty of perfection but of life. The ponytail he had known many years ago, in schooldays when he didn’t even talk to her, was gone, of course, the hair was contemporary-short. There were a few freckles on the face. Her eyes when not twinkling were fiery, her mouth was generous and could produce delicious chuckles. She was fairly tall, did not look dwarfed beside him as many Dar girls did. Yet there was this frailty in her. She could be easily broken, as he told himself so many times.…

  You chew on a shoot of grass watching her, then you realize it’s not good for you. You cast it aside and immediately pull out another one.… Your heart is full, you swallow, you know she feels your gaze on her and must look up. She does.

  “You know the first time you came to New York …” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve never gotten over it – insisting on coming up. I thought, Another fresh guy, him I can handle, and then at the door solemnly turning about!”

  “Funny, wasn’t it. But I knew what you were thinking. I wanted to prove you wrong.”

  “You did. That was thoughtful of you, going out of your way. I could have taken a cab – I do that every day.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I can’t help it – feeling concerned.” He paused, a long pause. “I care for you.”

  Had alarm bells rung, had he grabbed the opportunity, sensing this was the last moment.

  “I know,” she said. “You must have wondered why I never wrote or called you back. I must have sounded rather abrupt when you called that time.”

  “You did.”

  She actually sighed.

  “I’ve gone through a lot these past months. It’s almost been a year. You see, when you called, there was someone else.”

  It was done, delivered, as gently as possible. And he was felled.

  “Who?”

  “He’s an Arab – Egyptian.”

  “What does he do? A banker?”

  She laughed. “You always thought I was looking for a banker to marry.”

  “Or an ambassador.”

  “He works at the United Nations. Actually, he’s very gentle – like you.”

  “Then what was wrong with me?”

  “You don’t know how hard it’s been for me. And for him. You see, I told him about you. And his mother – she’s against it.”

  Then they had taken the ferry back. The two others had not arrived. It had all been conveniently arranged, this assassination at a quiet spot. How could you blame her though, we do what we have to do. He was completely recovered, to look at, when finally the two other girls came. Did he only imagine those sidelong glances searching for visible wounds?

  To lose such good friends. Dilu and Shamim – when would he see them again, would it ever be the same again? When they left in a cab, all shouting, “1984!” and yelling at the driver, “Don’t worry, we’ll pay the fine, go, go!” the only place he could go to fill the emptiness inside him was the Lalanis’.

  He was grateful to the Lalanis, even for the dreadful copies of herself that Zera introduced him to. He realized perhaps he had come too close, and kept much to himself after that. Until today, when the kids needed his company at the fireworks. They walked back to the car with the feeling somehow that the excitement was yet to come. He took them to a falafel place on Bloor Street. The kids loved it; he rose once more in their esteem. The parents saw no big deal to it. It was all bhajia and chappati, cooked differently, that’s all.

  11

  Ever since that first act of serious incontinence – tasting a bit of pork sausage and then proceeding to consume a sizeable chunk of it – Nurdin’s sins, it seemed to him, had multiplied. Thinking back on a statement Nanji had made, he could find some explanation for his predicaments and even a little comfort for his inner turmoils. Nanji, he said to himself, had hit the nail right on the head! Well, they didn’t give out degrees for nothing. You’ve got to have something up here. You are already changed when you think about eating pork. Think about that. There must
be something in the Canadian air that changes us, as the old people say. The old people who are shunted between sons and daughters and old peoples’ homes – who would have thought that possible only a few years ago. It’s all in the air: the divorces, crimes you could never have imagined before, children despising their parents. An image of his own arrogant Fatima came to his mind and he pushed it back.

  There was this nice young couple at number Seventy-one: respectable, pious. They had met in mosque doing voluntary service, married, and were expecting their first child. What could be more gratifying to watch and reflect upon: the couple strolling back from mosque, parents of a new generation. Then baby was born, but it had blue eyes. It took some doing by the young man’s family before he would believe what his own eyes told him, and the wife confessed to the truth. The couple were divorced now, and the girl was living with the father of the baby. What is more, it had all been accepted as the way the world is. What was once unthinkable became acceptable. Roshan, Zera’s sister, continued to be battered at home. Already in the last few months twice she had come with puffed-up face to spend the night. Nurdin was all for calling the police: “Let them lock up the pig” (yes, pig, he had said). But the women said no, hush-hush, don’t wash your dirty linen in public. Well, hadn’t they heard, that is precisely what you do, there are laundromats here. This is Canada, he told Roshan, giving back her own. She had returned home the following day, after being nursed by Zera, as for the next round at boxing. Wait till her son grows older, two or three years from now, he’ll beat the shit out of his father.…

  He looked at Zera. No carnal sin from that quarter, he thought, eyeing the ample hips move under her favourite sack dress as she dusted the table. She was in the greatest of spirits because, after long entreaties, several years of pleading, the Master, Missionary himself, had decided to come and settle in Canada. The arrival was several months away, the dusting and vacuuming today was only to make the place look like it should for the Master. Nurdin was pleading earache and resting on his favourite chair. And looking at Zera.