by M G Vassanji
And what was I? But I didn’t ask him that.
—Yes. He was captured while on a mission, interrogated, then went on to become a useful citizen, assimilated into our society, with a new past and bearing no harm to anybody. He could have gone back to that.
—A benign nobody. A laughable, variegated man…a lonely man.
Spoken perhaps too forcefully. I could have said more: Did you have to turn him into a parody, a joke, merely for your own pleasure?
—Better than execution, he replied.—Or a long prison sentence on an island somewhere. What kind of a man is he then? Don’t let your liberal sympathies get the better of you, Frank. There are necessities.
What kind of choice had Amirul been given, I couldn’t help thinking. Did he himself ask for another life? What state was he in, after the advanced interrogation, as the jargon has it? Why had they wanted him back so desperately?
—A penny for your thoughts, Frank.
I shook my head.—I’m not convinced the man Amirul would have asked for a new, benign life. He would have been the sort of personality that would want to hold on to his beliefs—to die for them.
—A fanatic, Joe Green said knowingly, with a look at Axe.
—They exist.
Radha had told me there were people who could recall and dwell into their previous existences. Her sort of past avatars are different from ours, the mind doctors’, but when the other day I saw on television the rescue operation at the compound in Maskinia, I knew I had seen the place, I could recognize those hills where I would go for walks. And I saw my little brother’s face blown off. Then I fainted, and Joanie revived me.
Author X was saying,—At the last stage, we also needed information from him, about the location of the hostages. All we wanted initially was to stitch up his memory. We were his guardians, for sure. The parents of his personality, if you will. His warranty was with us. But when the hostage crisis happened, the security forces needed details about the tunnels. The location of those exits was vital to the rescue. They had not been opened in decades, few people could know about them, let alone their exact location. But our patient did. Lives were saved.
—Didn’t he reveal that information during his first interrogation—when he was captured? It would have been in the records, surely.
—That was a long time ago. What the interrogators extracted was partial—a case of negligence, we can say now. The sin of hubris. The tunnels were not deemed important at the time. They must have thought bombing would expose them anyway. It didn’t. Those tunnels are deep and complicated.
I turned to Joe, who’d been quiet all this while.—You asked me to come here.
—Yes. We thought we should talk here this time. And Dr Axe wished to meet you in person.
—Here I am!
—Here you are. Dr Sina, how did Presley’s intruder thoughts affect you? What did you make of them?
—I sympathized with him. And of course I found these stray thoughts intriguing…I was curious.
Arthur Axe jumped in:
—How so, Frank?
—I wondered what the lion meant; and there was the car with the red fender…and a little girl in the rain.
—And more?
—I think so, a couple, but I can’t recall them now.
I’d said too much and for a moment he became thoughtful. Then he continued,—Would you mind recording them for us, Frank? In your words, how you remember them, in the order in which he revealed them to you?
—I’ll do that.
—Thank you. What we would like to know is whether these thoughts caught on in you, started a process in you.
I had to lie.—Not much of a process, I’m afraid. They were a patient’s thoughts and I found them intriguing. I puzzled over them for some time. But nothing more. They were like other curious thoughts that find a place in the mind temporarily but eventually fade away and are forgotten.
—Forgotten.
—Yes.
He didn’t believe me. And I realized I’d just given him two of Presley’s thoughts with one of mine.
—That’s good. But I would like to see you in a month, Frank, and chat with you. Sooner if you so decide.
I could have asked why, but there was no sense going through a rigmarole. We all knew where we stood.
—I’ll do that. Can I ask you something, though?
—Go ahead, Frank.
—Why did you give him the name Presley?
Joe smiled, but the older man’s look only softened and he spoke slowly,—In the interrogation process at that time, they liked to play Elvis Presley songs…among others. He could have been called Ringo Smith.
As I got up to go, Arthur Axe asked,—And Frank, what did you make of that reporter Holly Chu’s defection in Maskinia? Quite a coincidence, eh? You followed the case?
The look he gave me said, We know a lot more than you think.
—Yes, I’ve followed it. A strange case—and sad. Misguided youth, surely. Stockholm syndrome, they say. A life wasted.
—Yes.
THIRTY-TWO
NEITHER OF US MENTIONED JOANIE.
Musa Abbas is an unemployed young physicist, like me a graduate of the Parallax. That came as a large surprise. There was even more in common between us—he’d worked with brains, he said. His last job was at a space colony studying the effects of weightlessness on the quantum circuits inside small animal brains. He even arrived at a theoretical model to explain the results.
—And? I asked, impressed.
—Nothing. The project was considered of minor importance and shelved. For the time being. Someone else will probably be given it and take it forward. The progress of science. But I wanted to return anyway.
He looked away; he’d rather have talked of something else. His hostility had not gone away, it was simply on hold for the moment. Our meeting at the Brick was at my request. I wanted to find out what he was like. I was the inquisitive elder. And he was not the anarchist I had taken him for, just an angry young man without a job. A bright one. On his subject he could go on forever, as I could on mine.
Our food arrived.
—The good thing about the fish here is that it is bred on the premises—the water is free of pollution.
—Not everybody can afford it, though.
—Yes. But for those of us who can, why not?
I sounded exactly like Joe Green. Was it so long ago in another life when I would have thought like Musa? I knew the arguments by heart. But that life was beyond me, even in memory.
The young man before me had few prospects. He had even less money. Jobs for the professional young are scarce, and in his case the science market happens to be in its saturated cycle. He didn’t want to talk about prospects. Both parents are from West Asia, mother a beautician, father a man’s stylist. They’re real, and immigrants. He didn’t expect much from them. He has siblings. He didn’t want to talk about any of them either.
What could he offer Joanie to make her happy? What do the young need anyway, who are in love? And what do I know of such love, you might ask, and you would be right. But she’s used to more, she wouldn’t last with him the way he is. I’ve spoilt her. Would she eventually abandon me for him if he found better prospects? Now that I had seen and met him, the Friend, that question nagged.
—Dr Sina—I’m not sure why you wanted to meet me. I mean…
—Frank. Call me that. I hope I’ve not wasted your time. I thought I would like to see you again. The last time you had very strong views on what I should do with my life. Perhaps if you saw me as a fellow human and not a Frankenstein…
It never fails to surprise how personal contact can change preconceptions. At my lecture he’d been the rabble-rouser, calling me names and shouting at me. Now here he was, timid as could be.
—I…I didn’t quite mean it like that. It was only a…a philosophical argument.
—Passionately stated.
—Yes. I’m sorry.
—No need. You believe it
—maybe not in its passionate version. I smiled broadly.—And you gave me something to think about.
—If you say so.
We became quiet. He had ordered pomegranate juice and I, after a moment’s hesitation, a Chablis.
—Tell me, what do you do for recreation—how do you pass time?
He looked up surprised.—I jog and play chess. I have enough time. I’m learning to play squash…
He broke off in embarrassment, and I didn’t ask him who was teaching him the sport, what facilities he used, which of the three resident pros at the Brick trained him. Don’t go with Salman, I would surely have advised. He’s rough. But then you’re young.
I’d already noticed that some of the waiters recognized the young man sitting in the booth across from me. He looked nervous. He must have known by now that I knew about Joanie and him. But we would not mention her, it was him and me.
—But my passion is poetry, he said.
—Really? My mother wrote poetry.
That didn’t impress him. She was ancient.
—I write the poems first, and then I transmute them into different forms—video, multilingual, and musical—electronically. It’s all abstract at the end…of interest to nobody but me…and a few friends.
I didn’t know that Joanie was into that sort of thing.
—Could you send me something to listen to?
—Yes, I’d be delighted to!
That broke some ice, didn’t it. I must have heard some of his music, I thought, probably the abstract stuff that she called modern. I had not liked it, but perhaps now with a context I might appreciate it.
—If you’re looking for work, I can put in a word for you at the Sunflower. With your experience, they could use you.
—Dr Sina…Frank, I don’t believe in the kind of work you do.
—You could do something technical. It’s a tough market out there, as you’ve found out. A word in the right ear helped even Einstein.
—Let me think about it. Thank you.
We exchanged information.
I dropped him off at Yonge and Eglinton—no, he assured me, there was no protest scheduled today. I watched him lift his hood against the wind, square his shoulders, and stride off jauntily across the street. Watching him, the prospects of an entire life ahead of him, predicting the excitement of success to come despite the present uncertainty, could one blame oneself for envy, wanting to keep on, have as long a life as possible? But at what price—losing awareness of the very life you want to prolong. But Joanie—wasn’t she worth the price?
Lovelys Café looked somewhat desolate this afternoon. There was only a silent, ragtag remnant of the religious protesters left. The display window had become a shrine, with a raised framed photograph of the martyr surrounded by heaps of flowers. Dr Kumar had become a god. There’s no law against worship, I told myself, and I told the taxi to move on.
Lamar greeted me as I reached work.
—Look, Frank.
The Warhol Elvis was gone from its place on the partition. Instead there was a painting with three broad swaths of colour, white, black, and red. Such were the kinds of mind games they played, the overcultured folk at the Department. What was watching me now, in place of Elvis with the gun? With my knowledge, I was as dangerous as Presley had been and as much a risk to myself—but not as useful, now that the compound in Maskinia had been successfully raided. Dr Axe knew that. He’d given me time.
—What should I do with our Presley file, Frank? Shall I destroy it?
That’s what we must do with discarded lives as clients move on. Shred them into electronic smithereens. But Presley died as Presley.
—We still have it?
—Why, yes!
—Let me look at it.
I entered my office and brought up the file. Presley Smith of Toronto, Ontario. Transcripts of our interviews, the lab results, my prescription. Consultations terminated at client’s request. There was even included my chat with Joe Green. As my final entry, I now wrote, Died as Presley Smith from Leaking Memory (Nostalgia) Syndrome, overstimulation of the nervous system. Former life: Amirul, of Maskinia. Military commander, The Freedom Warriors, captured by Alliance agents. Interrogated, transformed.
That was it, complete. But we could not preserve it, and what was the point, anyway? DIS, of course, would already have its version.
—Okay, dump it, I told Lamar.
Goodbye, Amirul. I remember the books you brought for me.
—
Joanie handed me my drink and came to sit down on my armrest, put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a peck.
—Not watching the news today, Frank?
—No. It’s broken enough for me, and it’s broken all around me.
I gave her a grin that did not come out funny at all.
—You’re in a strange mood. That’s not like you at all. You’ve watched the news since as long as I’ve known you.
—But now I’m here all for you.
She wasn’t convinced. She cozied up closer and we sat there like that, our bodies touching, almost breathing together, for a long while. I thought of my meeting with Musa, my interview at DIS, the life choice I had now determined to make. Through the wide window the night looked quietly mysterious, shaded yellow by the external lights, snow falling rapidly in globs, wrapping the tree branches coarsely in white. On the speakers, Beethoven’s Ninth. Joy.
—Tell me, Joanie. If you had a choice to have anything you wanted, any lifestyle, anywhere, what would you have?
—That’s not a real question.
—Would you pick a life with me, forever? The life we’re leading now?
—That’s too hypothetical. What’s on your mind?
I thought about this, then said,—I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I’m feeling insecure today, that’s all.
She leaned forward, gently took my head in her hands, and looked into my eyes—ah, that scent of La Divina—and she said,—We are what we are, you and I. And I like you as you are. Isn’t that enough?
—Of course it is.
—Anyway, what did you have in mind?
—I’m not sure anymore.
But a lie from you would have felt good.
—
—You planning to move on, Frank? Ali asked.—To what? You’re doing all right with your life. It’s I who should be moving on. Look at this—He made a sweeping gesture at the array of displays on his table.—Well?
—To better prospects.
Ali is my lawyer, with a trademark egg-shaped head he has refused to have remodelled, a few strands of hair freely scattered across the bald pate.
—And you want to leave her everything you’ve got? Is that wise, Frank? No, it’s not. You can decide to take enough with you. You’ll need it, for a soft, cushioned landing.
—I don’t think I’ll need it, Ali. Let her have the security to live as she wishes.
Ali didn’t speak for some time, as he read from his pad. Finally he looked up.
—Here’s what I suggest. I insist, Frank, or I’m not doing this. In the emotion of the moment people make decisions they often regret. We know that. I’m here to protect you. We’ll stipulate that the transfer of assets be finalized only after the four-week grace period. If during that period in your new youthful life you apply for a review, which I’m sure you will when you try to buy a house and find a woman or something, then I as your trustee will adjust the transfer as per written instructions that I will help you draw up now.
By law a person who’s moved on can be represented by a trustee for four weeks, in order to make the transition smoother. After that there are no adjustments. All records are destroyed.
—All right. But one week, Ali. Not four.
THIRTY-THREE
The Notebook
#56
The Doctor and Teacher
My name is Elim Angaza. I was a teacher and doctor in Maskinia. My father, the chief, of whom I was very fond, was a tall and sturdy man, an imposing figure with a
high forehead and a small goatee. As chief, he was addressed as Nkosi. He was a wise man. He had three wives, one of whom was my mother, Selma, from Boston, and several children. He told me once that there were different approaches in the struggle for human dignity, and that mine was the path of the intellect, or education. I would not be asked to fight because he knew I was repelled by violence of any kind. He sent me to college in Boston. There I studied mathematics, which I loved very much, but later I decided to attend medical school. By this time my mother had also returned to Boston with my little sister. I was devoted to her and we spent a lot of time together. I remember in particular going to concerts with her. I returned to Maskinia because there were no doctors left there and my father called. I was to run the local hospital and was also put in charge of a school. The school building consisted of two rooms with writing boards and desks and chairs. It was some distance away from the compound, which could be attacked by air. With the aid of two young assistants I taught the young ones language and mathematics, and everything else about the world. It was not easy, because our mission was to fight, and all our rhetoric was about justice and vengeance. All the boys wanted to become fighters. My half-brother, Eduardo, was younger than me; he was the dark one and was my father’s political adviser. It was acknowledged that he would be the next Nkosi. We had a cousin, Amirul, a military commander much admired and worshipped by the youth. Women adored him. He was also volatile in nature and easily picked a fight. My father gave him a command in the militia, and he strutted about with a pistol at his belt. But he loved and respected me. He often went on missions abroad and brought back presents. Mine were always books and music. One title I can recall was Tolstoy’s War and Peace. He also brought back medicines. One day, news came that Amirul had been captured in Rome. It was received with shock and grief in the compound; for many months nothing was heard from or about him and it was presumed that he was dead. And then about a year after his capture, my father and my brother Eduardo called me one morning from school and advised me that there was news of Amirul. He was alive. Our fighters had captured some diplomat in Libya, and it was proposed we exchange him for Amirul. This had been agreed in principle. My father asked me, since I had been educated in the north, and specifically in Boston, where I had a sister and cousins on my mother’s side, to go with a small team to negotiate the exchange. I flew to Tripoli from Nairobi. The same morning as I arrived, as I came out of the hotel and was waiting for a taxi, a van drew up and I was shoved by three men into it.
