by M G Vassanji
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.
TWENTY
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.
Now that I had been alerted, for which silently I thanked Tom, I decided to resort to paper and pencil for anything I considered personal. A cumbersome method, and I could ill afford to be seen using it. I did not know what else to do. Would the Cyliton guess? Probably, but I would feed him tidbits here and there and hope to put him off for a while. It had become imperative too to create an account of the Presley case—what transpired from the moment he walked into my office with that persistent random thought in his mind. That single, enigmatic sentence. Presley’s story needed to be told, I resolved, and in a form that could not in one instant be erased. A man, a mind, a story should not be made to vanish without a trace.
—
Holly Chu’s site hadn’t changed much in appearance. All her recent transmissions to the media were linked, in which she talked to the world, making accusations and demands. The young can be naïve and
too quick to be led, but they are less fettered by the need to self-preserve. The Freedom Warriors’ activities were summarized; the head of the organization was referred to as the Nkosi. No photo was given of him, but there were several of Holly’s new companion—whom I have called Layela—a striking woman, tall and slim with a long, straight nose, curly braided hair, and a bewitching smile. The message section on the site was a tangle of monologues, dialogues, and babble, with diatribes, abuses, and counter-abuses—it’s easy to love and hate at a distance—in the midst of which I found embedded this little fragment:
My man. 4113 Walnut Street is where the party is. Help! Leon.
Had they already seen it, this throbbing link to Presley Smith, man on the run?
There came a shuffle behind me and I turned around and saw Joanie standing at the doorway in her underwear, watching me. She gave a shiver. I went to her and took her in my arms.
—It’s all right, I murmured.—Don’t worry.
—Is it that patient?
—Yes. I’ll have to go see him tomorrow.
—Shouldn’t he come to see you—if he must?
—He can’t. I’ll explain everything later, Joanie. Trust me.
And we went back to bed.
In the morning Presley’s face was on the news, on every interface, personal and public, described as an escapee from a mental ward who could be dangerous. With his features, he could hardly be missed.
TWENTY-ONE
The Notebook
#49
The Journalist
Holly bowed and took the elder’s delicate brown hand and put her lips to it. She noticed the thick gold ring on his finger, carved with the insignia of what she thought was a lion head. A sweetly seductive perfume wafted from him. The cap on his head looked hand-embroidered, brown and blue. Framed by his white beard and curly hair, his face had a lovely dark glow. His deep brown eyes were warm and kindly. He reminded her vaguely of her grandmother. She stepped back and moved to a side.
