by M G Vassanji
Nurdin realized that by now the knowledge of his accusation was public. From his own home, the discussions with the Master, it must have gone out in waves to the remainder of the community – Don Mills, Willowdale, Scarborough, Mississauga, Brampton … perhaps even Kitchener-Waterloo and soon Calgary-Vancouver. He wondered if Missionary himself believed him guilty or innocent. Certainly you could not help feeling that he could see into your innermost thoughts.
Missionary had brought with him Haji Lalani’s old red fez, the one the old man was wearing when he died and which had been forgotten in the English teacher’s back seat until Missionary retrieved it. He pulled quite a surprise on them. Sitting on the sofa in the Lalanis’ apartment Missionary, beaming with pleasure, told the family to close their eyes, which they did, wondering if the joke this time would be funny, because sometimes it wasn’t and they had to humour him. Meanwhile he brought out the fez from a bag and put it on his own head. “Well, Nurdin,” he said, when they opened their eyes, “what punishment do you deserve?”
Nurdin recoiled, flitting his eyes from his father’s hat on the Master’s head to his father’s picture on the wall, back and forth, several times. The very same hat that his father had worn, day in and day out, before him now, more real than the photograph. He could touch it and in a sense touch his father, smell it and catch a whiff of the old man’s head, the hair oil he used. But the Master gave a hearty laugh – bouncing like a gentle spring with only a quiet squeak – which brought tears to his eyes.
“Nurdin,” he said, wiping his eyes, “does it still frighten you so?” He removed the hat from his head, holding it irreverently like the dead object it was, and he laughed some more and they couldn’t help laughing with him. That instant the red fez was exorcized. In one stroke that photograph on the wall had lost all potency, its once accusing eyes were now blank, its expression dumb. Suddenly they were here, in the modern world, laughing at the past.
Jamal had already reassured Nurdin he would not spend the rest of his life in jail, his wife and kids begging in the streets, and so on, as in the Bombay talkies. The most he would get was a reprimand. And a criminal record. “I would stay away from those peep shows, if I were you,” he told him.
“But Jamal, I went there once – only once – I swear to you. And I didn’t even know what it was – who told you?”
Who else knew? The strange thing was that if they knew about Sushila – the real thing – then they would all believe him, his innocence. Jamal had finally gone away convinced, at least partly, and said he would go and talk to the girl and get her to drop charges.
“Well, Nurdin, by the time this thing blows over, you will have become famous as the sex fiend of Don Mills.”
“Jamal, please!”
One afternoon Romesh came to see him, to pay his sympathies. “Don’t worry, Nur,” he said. “I’ve been drumming up support for your case. You can come back, no problem, after the case. That dragonlady Broadbent has shut up her mouth.”
Missionary was sitting there waiting to hold court, and he asked Romesh questions about Guyana. He wanted to know how the Indians got along with the blacks, he offered his opinions of the Indian leadership, finishing with: “You know, once I almost advised some young men in Africa to go forth to South America. But something told me no. Now they are here.” He sat back with a satisfied sigh. Canada to him was a veritable Amarapur, the eternal city, the land of the west in quest of which his community had embarked some four hundred years ago. This was the final stop. He was very happy.
Missionary’s followers started arriving and Romesh got up to leave, throwing a signal to Nurdin, who got up to accompany him. Sushila had come to the centre, he said. To inquire about him, express concern. There was a message from her. Call, she said. Just call. There are other Mondays.
Nurdin was surprised at Romesh’s seriousness, his discretion. His regard for Nurdin seemed to have altered quite perceptibly. The incident, it seemed, had in some way touched him too.
17
At the entrance of Sixty-nine Rosecliffe Park, Nanji and Khati got into Jamal’s car. Jamal looked visibly impressed with the twosome. “Where to?” asked Khati gaily from the back. Nanji sat forward and turned sideways so he could see Khati and Jamal.
“The Kensington Market,” Jamal answered, “where the girl hangs around. The one who’s accused Nurdin. I want you as witnesses so there’s no funny business.” Jamal had started the car but hadn’t accelerated, so that there was an interlude with only the steady murmur of the engine. Finally he turned to them: “Well? How do you like it?”
“Oh – the car,” said Nanji. “Well, I can tell you, I’ve never sat in a Mercedes before. Feels good.”
“That’s how much impressed he is by it. Khati, there’s a lot you’ve got to teach him.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him. My father’s given him a good talking to and he’s only sulking.” She giggled.
Jamal joined in with his loud cackle. “I can’t get over it. Nanji – Missionary’s son-in-law!”
Nanji felt hot around the ears. From now on, he thought, if there is one thing I’ve got to watch carefully, it’s to see I don’t get engulfed in the Master’s shadow. He had told her, warned her of this resolve, in the most solemn terms.
Missionary had summoned him earlier that morning. “What’s this I hear that you’ve been holding my daughter’s hand,” he said. He looked as pleased as punch.
“You know, Nanji,” Jamal was telling him, “this girl’s going to have a lot of fun with you.”
He didn’t tell Jamal that Missionary, for all his jollity, had expected something from him – a commitment, a marriage proposal – and he had obliged. But Missionary was a bargainer of the old school, he had not stopped there. Sherbet was instantly prepared and his former student Zera brought it out, ice-cold and creamy pink with a rich froth of crushed almonds and pistachios, of which all those present partook to seal the engagement. Even that was not enough. Once the engagement was official, the Master, looking around contentedly for a while, then casually turned a little grave and said, “It is our custom not to prolong engagements.” The logic had been impeccable, Nanji could not argue. A tentative date for the wedding had been duly set.
It was from this confrontation with Missionary that he and Khati had emerged only an hour ago, and he was a little apprehensive, though not unconscious that he had won a prize.
Jamal parked the car and they emerged from it onto Baldwin Street. They walked up and down, Jamal bobbing, swinging to the reggae music coming clearly from one of the shops. Even on this autumn weekday, the street was quite busy. Smells of bread, cheese, and fruit mingled with those of European sausages and West Indian patties; mangoes were in season in some part of the world and were selling fast here. After they had done a tour of the market, Jamal stopped and said, “I believe she works at the butcher shop up the street.”
“So why were we walking around if you already knew that?”
“To get a feel for the place, man. Relax.”
Outside the butcher shop a toy monkey on a street vendor’s cart beat relentlessly on a drum, drawing a small crowd.
Jamal went inside. He was in pinstripes and looked impressive. In a minute he came out with the girl; she was not very tall, had short hair, dyed blonde, and wore a lot of makeup.
“Miss Baptista,” he said to her. “These are the friends of Mr. Lalani whom you’ve accused. The girl has come here from England – isn’t that right? – and they are very concerned. Mr. Lalani, as you are aware, has said it’s a mistake. He was only showing concern.”
The girl remained silent, leaning against the glass of the shop window. She was chewing gum. Behind her, through the window you could see meat being packaged for the customers by a team of very efficient salesgirls.
“They’ve come to ask you if you would drop the charges.”
She kept chewing, looked insolently past them at a scene on the street: a car parking carelessly, the one behind it honking
. The monkey continued its droll rhythm on the drum.
“My friends don’t have time, lady,” said Jamal impatiently. “Have you considered what you’re letting yourself in for in court? As a check on your credibility, your whole personal life is open to me to investigate. And make public.”
“Are you threatening me, sir?”
“No, and these are my witnesses. I only want you to understand. It will be unpleasant for both of you; you and the gentleman who stands accused. You both have families.”
The girl started walking, nose in the air, hips swinging, not into the shop but down the street. Jamal followed her, raising a hand behind him to stay his friends. They saw him reasoning with the girl, begging, cajoling, whatever.
“There’s no stopping Jamal,” said Nanji.
“He’s something, isn’t he?”
Then the girl entered a fish shop, and Jamal followed. Nanji and Khati waited five minutes, ten minutes, on the sidewalk within earshot of the monkey-drummer, then decided to sit at the local bakery and have coffee. They did not speak. There was enough on their minds, real things to discuss, plans to make, but it was much too soon to relinquish the fullness of the moment to mundane questions. Only the present mattered, which they would have stretched forever. Khati faced the window, looking out for Jamal.
Across the street was the greengrocer’s, supplied with plenitude and moderately busy. Diagonally opposite was the butcher shop where Maria Baptista worked. Above the greengrocer was an apartment. A woman stood at the window, looking down at them. Seeing her, Khati gave a start, then laughed.
“Strange,” she said.
“What?”
“There was a woman at that window opposite, looking at us … an Indian woman. Do many Indians live in this area?”
“No.”
“Well, she was Indian. On the older side.… ”
After a while Jamal found them. There was a package in his hand. He looked satisfied but remained standing. “Come on, let’s get lunch,” he said, and they all walked out.
“Did she agree, then?” Khati asked impatiently.
He nodded. “Everything’s fine.”
“Well, what happened?” she insisted.
“Let’s go to eat,” said Jamal.
They sat at a place in Chinatown, all three of them thoughtful, until their lunch specials arrived and were clattered in front of them on the table.
I wonder what really happened, Nanji thought. He decided to break the silence. “So the girl will drop the charges.”
“I believe she will.”
“Was she just being kind? Is Nurdin innocent?” Khati asked.
Jamal looked not at her but at Nanji. “That could be the finest porgy in town, my friend.” He gave a nod at the package in front of him.
The remark took a moment to register.
“What?” Khati exclaimed, loud enough to attract attention.
“You don’t have to risk your career!” said Nanji, a little angry. “You simply – ”
“No, no, my friends, it’s not like that, although I’ll admit there was a certain risk involved. That shop she took me to was her brothers’ fish shop. They were just waiting for something like this. I pretended not to know Portuguese, of course, but I heard lots of schemes mentioned to rip me off. I told them my friends from England were rich, and would spare no cost for the defence. And I told them I was opening an office in Lisbon. They asked me if I had come to buy fish, and I said I would be glad to buy their porgy.”
“An office in Lisbon for what?” Nanji asked.
“Many of them are illegal, and those who are legal have families there. Not to mention friends.”
“So we don’t know now if Nurdin is innocent or not.”
“I think he is. These are fisherfolk. If he was guilty, they would have knifed him – or me when I followed the girl. You should see them with their knives.”
That was your quicksilver Jamal, walking on a precipice. What if those Portuguese brothers had trapped him? While he, Nanji, was watching the gum being masticated and wondering what Nurdin saw in the girl, Jamal was probably measuring her up and deciding his next move.
“That’s not a bad idea, opening an office in Lisbon,” Nanji said. “So what are you now, a roving Statue of Liberty?”
“Yeah, give me your tired and oppressed,” Jamal grinned. “I may not open an office in Lisbon, but I have one now in London. And next week I fly to Singapore. There’s a minority Muslim community there that wants to emigrate.”
18
Across the valley, which lay comatose under the weight of a heavily overcast November evening, the CN Tower peeping over the curtain of shadowy trees blinked its cryptic message at Nurdin Lalani. Behind him in the kitchen his wife’s wooden ladle thudded familiarly on her Zanzibari saucepan. The children, Fatima and Hanif, would be back soon for dinner.
Missionary had gone, was visiting the smaller centres around Toronto, and at the Lalanis’ home the quiet, though still a little unfamiliar after four weeks of tumult, was welcome. During this period the phone had rung constantly, visitors it seemed were hanging at their door frame with petitions and ailments spiritual and material. After the announcement of the engagement, it seemed the whirlwind had suddenly stopped; Missionary cancelled all appointments and went on tour, announcing that he would at the same time be looking for his own place to stay in some small Ontario town not far from the city.
The charge against Nurdin had been dropped, and some couldn’t help noticing Missionary, bidding his farewells, basking in this victory, which was not really his but Jamal’s. For Nurdin now there was the job to think of, which he would resume soon. He was not going to let a mere embarrassment rob him of the security the job brought him. There was the several weeks’ lost pay to make up, Fatima’s university fees to save for. The girl had decided that Arts and Science wasn’t so bad after all. She now had her eye on medical school. And Hanif had a sister who was already nagging him about his future prospects.
It seemed to Nurdin that, with the dust settled, some kind of commitment had been wrought from him in the proceedings of the past few weeks. Missionary had exorcized the past, yet how firmly he had also entrenched it in their hearts. Before, the past tried to fix you from a distance, and you looked away; but Missionary had brought it across the chasm, vivid, devoid of mystery. Now it was all over you. And with this past before you, all around you, you take on the future more evenly matched.
That afternoon of opportunity, the tryst he had almost agreed to – and the freedom it would have led him to – now seemed remote and unreal, had receded into the distance, into another and unknowable world.
M.G. Vassanji was born in Kenya and raised in Tanzania. Before coming to Canada in 1978, he attended M.I.T., and later was writer-in-residence at the University of Iowa in their prestigious International Writing Program. Vassanji’s fiction to date comprises five novels and two books of short stories: The Gunny Sack (1989), which won a Regional Commonwealth Writers’ Prize; No New Land (1991); Uhuru Street (short stories, 1992); The Book of Secrets (1994), a national bestseller and the winner of the inaugural Giller Prize; Amriika (1999); The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (2003), which won The Giller Prize; When She Was Queen (short stories, 2005); and, most recently, The Assassin’s Song (2007).
Vassanji was awarded the Harbourfront Festival Prize in 1994, in recognition of his achievement in and contribution to the world of letters, and was in that same year chosen as one of twelve Canadians on Maclean’s Honour Roll.
M.G. Vassanji lives in Toronto.
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