by M G Vassanji
“I had it all planned out, you know,” she said.
“I am glad you did.”
He was trying to be in command, pushing her down on the bed and mounting her, murmuring endearments.
“I don’t do this all the time with any guest, you should know that,” she said firmly but tenderly, and pushed him away to sit up.
“I know, I know … but I love you.”
Suddenly she shrank back from him and he gaped at her as he beheld before him a stark-bald Ginnie! Her face looked puffed up, the makeup had smudged; and she was holding her blonde hair, a wig, in her hand. She could have been a clown.
“Ta-raaa!”
“What … what —” he said in utter confusion.
“Do you love me now?”
“Yes I do.” Forcefully. How could he not? But what was the meaning of this?
“Aw,” she cried, wiping her eyes. “Even if you don’t mean it, thank you.”
“But I do mean it,” he said, staring at her baldness, then her face, still glorious. “Put it back.”
“Better?” she asked, putting the wig back on her head. He didn’t reply. “It’s from my chemotherapy treatment — I’ve got cancer in my abdomen.”
Stunned, all of a sudden his heart in his stomach, he choked back the words in his mouth, then recovered and said, “It’s not bad? This chemotherapy — it works?”
She nodded.
“They say it does, but who knows. I lost my hair and my face is pudgy.”
“It doesn’t look pudgy.”
What a time for her family to abandon her.
They lay side by side and she talked. “I want to tell you about myself.”
“Please do, that would be lovely. I’ve often wondered.…I’m very curious.”
He imagined, with her dreamy prompting, a modest American family in Florida. She was one of three sisters and a brother, Chris, who had been killed in the war. It took a moment to realize she meant World War II. Where, he asked. I don’t know, she replied. He meant: against the Japanese or the Germans, in Asia or in Europe. (The war evoked images of heroism in him, he had known it only from the movies.) But he didn’t persist. Her father had worked at an ice cream factory and would bring home buckets of the stuff (“that’s why we’re all so creamy and soft”); weekends he moonlighted at the Post Office. She herself finished high school and went to work at Woolworths. “Never was good at school,” she said. “Not like you — I bet you topped everything.” He turned to look at her: “But that’s not everything, is it.” “No,” she said, showing surprise at his comment, “I guess it isn’t.” One summer in ’49, she and her two sisters took off for Baltimore and Washington. With no intention of returning. “Why? Oh, Dad was sick and had retired, Mother never recovered from Chris’s death, she drank. It had become a miserable house and we wanted fun.” Fun they had, three beautiful blondes. Her sister Pat, who was the youngest of them, found a boy on the train up and married him in September — “she pretty much had to the way they went on. Never thought my shy sister capable of so much reckless passion. She’s a widow now, in Annapolis, but with a brilliant son in the navy — like his father — did I tell you he was in the navy?”
“And you — how did you —”
“I stayed with Pat and learned to type, and then one day Frank — Pat’s husband — brought home this serious specimen on a blind date and I gasped. What’s that? I asked Frank. So that’s how I met John. He was at Johns Hopkins on a veteran’s scholarship. He took me to meet his mother, who took one look at me and said to him: Are you sure? You’ll have to put a leash on her. Oh, we got along from day one, his mom and I.”
And her older sister Sharon became a nurse and married — or just cohabited with — a rich old man. She knew how to take care of herself. She was a professional golfer now. “You should meet her — she’ll sweep you off your feet.”
She left him with a kiss. Yes, she loved him, she said. Would there be other moments like this, he was afraid to ask her.
“Call me,” he begged.
“Of course I will,” she said. “We’ll meet again, silly. Remember what I said, you come whenever you feel like it, and call collect.”
And the sin he’d just committed, the guilty secret.…He didn’t think about it, not then, this was one glorious night without darkness, and he slept hugging his pillow.
“Nice little bourgeois retreat you’ve got yourself here,” Gudrun said, as he opened the front door for her. She had on a striking new-looking red angora sweater over the patched worn-out blue jeans he recognized from the trip down. “I bet these people vote Nixon.” She walked past him, asked to use a bathroom.
“There’s a powder room just there,” he indicated.
She ran in, and when she came out she insisted on a tour of the house, at least the main floor.
“So this is how the rich live,” she said later, archly eyeing him from John’s wingback chair, a can of Fresca in one hand.
“Didn’t Sam come?” he asked as they drove out of Runymede.
“No, the jerk. You know what? He says he has to go home to visit, and guess what he’ll bring back with him when he returns — a nice little Pakistani wife. Are you also like that — like to screw white women but end up marrying a nice little obedient Indian wife?”
He ignored the question. And she went on and on about Sam. “The asshole, didn’t let on he was a Muslim — a fucking Muslim — and he came with me to meet Guru Maharaj-ji —”
“Who?”
“Guru Maharaj-ji —”
“Oh … oh, the —”
“Yes, the fourteen-year-old, but don’t be fooled by that, it’s only his physical age in this birth. We’re all thousands of years old, don’t you know — you’re an Indian. You should come to Guru Maharaj-ji Center — it’s on Boylston Street. Nothing will matter about this … this … material world any more …”
She was not a bad sort, just angry, mostly at Sam, whose real name she told him was Shamsul. The sweater, she admitted, was a present from her folks.
It was not an unpleasant drive. As they approached Boston that night, she asked him if he wanted to come home with her, she could take him to the Center the next morning. He said no, he’d rather be back in his room. She dropped him off at the front steps of the Tech, on Mass Ave, and drove away.
5
Spring brings forth protests on campus — loud reckless rebellion against that war in Vietnam, daredevil bone-risking defiance of authority and its policemen — as stereos blare out rock ’n’ roll’s homages to the sun; and for the new student, with a nagging conscience and in search of a cause, there is no more effective and poignant a call to the plight of the world’s wretched than the movie The Battle of Algiers.
For many, their first viewing of the gripping tale (pitting coloured natives against a powerful European army) in a heady political climate is a first step towards radicalism, before they too come out shrieking slogans against colonialism and imperialism, chanting “Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh, Viet Cong is gonna win!” in the streets against their own government’s policies.
Algiers a decade ago: on one side the native quarter, the casbah, the jumble of dusty, narrow, close-packed streets and mud houses and barefoot Arabs; on the other side, the spick-and-span whites-only European quarter where even children come out wearing socks and shoes, women shop in supermarkets, and teenagers dance gaily in cafés. It does not take much more to remind you where you came from, your Kariakoo in Dar es Salaam was the casbah. In the movie, a colonel of the French paratroopers, fresh from the campaign in Indo-China — tall, handsome, commanding, wearing crisp army camouflage, shades, and a beret — gives the order, and a guerilla hideout in the casbah, including women and children, is blown up. As the colonel says to the newspaper reporters, today an insurgency in Algeria, tomorrow where? And you realize the answer is probably: Vietnam.
And you, Ramji, are coming to realize that there is a different way to view the world than the one you were used to.
The big issue this spring was military research on campus. Could a university maintain its freedom and yet remain tied to directed research for the military? Did it befit a university’s free spirit to be involved in the design of weapons, in methods of destruction of human life and habitats, as was going on even now in Vietnam?
On a Tuesday in April a large, noisy rally set off at noontime on Mass Ave to seek entry to and otherwise confront the Tech’s Lorentz Labs, which were actively involved in the development of weapons systems — MIRV missiles, helicopter gunships, and much else that maimed and killed. The rally was given a rousing send-off on the front steps of the Tech by none other than the resident genius, Peter Bowra, speaking from his wheelchair in his trademark hoarse voice, appearing fresh from another awe-inspiring lecture to the freshmen on the wonders of the universe that were matched only by the wonders of the human mind. And so, encouraged by this voice, the freshmen, radicals or not, tagged along behind the rally. The procession was met at the door by the director of the lab — the “Doc,” reputedly once a colleague of Bowra at Los Alamos, now an arch-enemy — flanked by an array of stout policemen. From there the demonstrators, chanting their slogans, went on to confront President Ronald McDonald and presented their demands for an end to military research on campus.
This concern for humanity and peace, Ramji thought as he stood at the back of the crowd watching demonstrators haranguing the Doc, can it be real, is it sincere? Back in Dar we thought only of our small community; sometimes we prayed for peace in the world, but not convincingly. What did we know of the world? We could not think of all of humanity as these Americans do, with such immediacy, such urgent concern. But then we did not have the power to destroy the world, did we? Nevertheless, how liberating, how exhilarating, to think that one belonged to a larger world, cared about it, could make a difference to it!
The Tech’s President McDonald finally yielded to protests, announcing a temporary moratorium on defence-related research. And the faculty, with Peter Bowra as their spokesman, voted overwhelmingly in support of a moratorium on MIRV.
There was a different way to look at the world, and you didn’t have to be a kook or some screaming wild-haired freak to be a part of this new thinking.
The year was drawing to a close, and to top it off on a high note before exams, Janis Joplin gave a scintillating concert in the armoury, ending with “Me and Bobby McGee” in that throaty voice that reverberated right up to Central Square. And as you emerged into the warm Saturday night stirred to the core you couldn’t help thinking of yourself as a student, a passionate species apart that would not compromise its values as the adults had done.
Ginnie come lately …, the words of an old American song would come ridiculously to mind at odd moments. He was obsessed with her, dreaming of clandestine meetings in hotels, passionate encounters, steamy love scenes in back seats of cars; but nothing developed. As the weeks passed, she did not swoop in upon him, putting up at the Inn on Harvard Square or the Sonesta, as he imagined. At times he would be gripped by a wild fear — suppose she died suddenly, suppose the chemotherapy didn’t work? But on the phone she was lively, it was difficult to imagine her being sick. And, as always, she was solicitous of him. John would be with her then. One day he told her quickly, “You know, sometimes I think that whole Christmas week — that New Year’s — was imaginary.” He thought he detected a brief pause, before she laughed and blithely replied, “My dear, count on it — it was all real!” And his heart sank. Because together with the passion and desire, there was, simultaneously, a small wish in him to be done with it, this cowardly sin of adultery and hypocrisy. But he was trapped, by memory, and by sweet anticipation.
Meanwhile, something had arisen, and he reported it in the form of a riddle to Sona: a naked fat ass has landed with a cat and taken over the room.
On the Sunday morning following the Joplin concert Ramji had been shaken awake by the bed heaving suddenly. Startled, he watched a pair of legs, thighs, and naked buttocks descend from the upper bunk and land with a thud on the floor. He gawked at the chubby girl who had jumped down — she wore a short dress and had a short crop of straggly black hair — unable to believe what he was seeing. Hi! she said cheerily to him, after which she proceeded in haste to put on her panties followed by jeans under the dress, and he was staring, thinking, Doesn’t she wear knickers in bed? And suddenly there was Shawn’s red head smiling triumphantly above him: Nice? he crowed.
Jeans on, the girl removed her dress by pulling it over her head, revealing naked breasts, and put on a T-shirt.
There came a blood-curdling animal shriek, frightening the already bewildered Ramji out of his skin, as a small creature bounded from the bed above down to his desk.
“Meet Husserl,” the girl said and hurried out, presumably for the bathroom. Husserl was a dark grey cat.
“And the girl’s Kate,” added Shawn from above.
Ramji watched the door close behind her — chubby and unkempt, he observed to himself, and looks slept-in; he was ashamed at the thought. But how long am I going to last in this menagerie — aren’t there any rules? — with a couple making open love, and a cat named shamelessly after a philosopher. He’d come late last night and plopped straight into bed in the darkness. They must have been in bed then.
Shawn had met Kate at the student takeover of the Harvard president’s office earlier in April. Their hitching together was consecrated by a night spent in jail following that event, to which the cops had turned out in large numbers and a combative mood. Kate was a Radcliffe freshman and she became a regular visitor, coming Friday night and leaving Monday morning. Saturday was protest day for the two of them, and they would set off to demonstrate against the war, the draft board, or some injustice perpetrated against workers in Boston or Cambridge. On Sunday afternoons they went about distributing and posting leaflets around the campus, and for added effect they wrote graffiti on walls and notice boards. “Ali Akbar Khan, Emmanuel Kant,” Shawn would write as his signature line, following which, “Bring the War Home,” or “U.S. Out of Southeast Asia,” and so on. They had a regular shadow in the Tech’s corridors, a chunky YAP — Young American Patriot — with crewcut who would pull down the flyers and deface the graffiti, writing some of his own: “Love it or Leave it,” “Communist Propaganda,” “Bowra’s an Ass.” Kate’s role was to trail the YAP, cross out or appropriately edit his words, and add some of her choicest.
Ramji came to dislike Kate. She was wilfully dirty, and she crowded the room, leaving her things all over, deliberately, he thought, to needle him. Nights, the two thrashed about shamelessly on the upper bunk. They offered to take the lower bunk, but Ramji declined, opting to keep the easy access to his bed. But he began to come in late and leave early.
“You want to try her?” Shawn asked him one day. “She’s wild, man. She won’t mind —”
“No!” emphatically, clenched mouth.
Why did he hate her so? She wanted to be friends, even though she called him Domino — apparently Shawn had told her about their first meeting, in which Ramji had confidently and innocently reported his theory about containing Vietnam. (No doubt they had had a good laugh at his expense.)
She frightens me, he thought, being candid with himself. She frightens me because I am so far behind them, in how far I can go. With sex, for example. The showdown came when he found her used underwear on his chair. This is it: What do they think of me? A Third World perso
n they think they can walk over, and they talk of exploitation?
“You go,” he told her. “I don’t want you using this room.” With his slide rule he picked up the panties and threw them towards her.
Shawn and Kate apologized, pleaded, and begged, but agreed finally: she wouldn’t come to the room. But of course she did, only she kept out of his way.
The three of them were walking on a cold windy April night across Harvard Bridge, a thin drizzle raining cold needles on their faces. The river lay dark and miasmic below. April lets you down, he thought. Funny how you begin to think of weather, in this climate. You form expectations and then judge reality against them. Why would the universe know or care that come March 21 it should begin to smile upon you ceaselessly? …
“This meeting — I hope it’s worth it. What a time to set a meeting —”
“Relax.”
“Hm.” He sniffed.
Kate was humming. She’s from New York, she’s used to this bone-chill. And he’s from Boston, positively relishes the cold.
“It’s Saturday night, no one else’ll be around the house,” Shawn explained.
“So the meeting’s private. How do you know it’s for me.”
Kate stopped, he and Shawn stopped. “Look, buddy. If you don’t want to come, fuck off.”
They stood there, halfway across the bridge, faces wet, shoulders hunched against the wind, hands in their pockets.
“Take it easy,” said Shawn to Kate. To Ramji: “You were invited and agreed to come. There’s no point in going back now.”
It was Shawn who had brought the invitation, saying, There’s going to be a meeting of people who’re interested in doing something for the Third World. I’ve spoken to the guys involved and they would like to meet you. A radical meeting? Ramji asked, intrigued. Sort of, Shawn had replied, Why don’t you try it? Ramji nodded, all right. And so here he was, on his way with Kate and Shawn and wondering if he had not said yes too hastily.
