Amriika

by M G Vassanji

  “That was a different time and place.”

  Though what do I mean by that, Ramji thought. There was a time, in their student days, when Ramji felt not only annoyance but also … a little contempt … at his friend’s lack of commitment to the political issues of the day. And yet all the while Sona had been as political as anybody could be; only his politics were of a different sort.

  “They are rewriting history — my history, our history. They are hiding books and manuscripts, burying them away, either out of ignorance or fear of the orthodox, mainstream reaction. Someone has got to speak out —”

  There was a madness in his single-mindedness; but was it something noble or simply pigheaded? In the matters of the world, what did this religious argument among a small people signify? But to Sona, it was everything, it was his life. Amy had presumably tired of this obsession, to which she obviously came second place … and now this girl he’d brought along?

  “And your companion — Rumina.…” Ramji pictured the mysterious girl in the hijab-headcover, surely a symbol of Middle Eastern orthodoxy if anything, and a far cry from Amy, with whom Sona had lived in sin for a year before they got married. “What does she think of your mad obsession?”

  Sona laughed. “She’s a former student of mine, from back home, Tanzania. There’s nothing between us. Actually, I’ve brought her here for you.”

  A sly look, gleaming eyes.

  “Well, thank you, the wife will appreciate this —”

  “No, seriously. She’s interested in your work in Swahili philology. I always wished you had carried on with it — instead of dropping out and getting into that useless business of yours.”

  Hardly useless, Ramji wanted to say; very useful, someone had to do it, and we have achieved a lot …

  “After the press I’ve given you,” Sona was saying, “she’s determined to talk to you. In all of America there must be not more than three people she can talk to about her work, and one of them happens to be you! And don’t let her innocent looks fool you. She’s very bright — and charming. You’ll have to be careful!”

  4

  “Mitumba,” Rumina said, to Iqbal, and turned to Ramji and caught his gaze on her.

  It sounded like a musical note, the way she said it — “Mi–tumm-ba” — a string plucked, then released, her voice rich and very lovely.

  The hijab-headscarf gives such beauty and shape to a female face, Ramji had been thinking. And a certain delicacy, softness, an innocence — or does that simply come from an imagination tantalized by a partial view? The scarf is not a veil, yet it’s also a veil, for with the face framed like that, by the white cloth, you never know what it’s really like. She’s a mystery.

  “Yes?” she said to at him with wide eyes and dimpled cheeks.

  Is it the hijab that makes the eyes look so big?

  “What is “mitumba”?” he asked her. “I don’t believe I know the word.”

  “I’m surprised, knowing your specialty in Swahili and all that. Mitumba,” she explained quite sweetly, “are the used clothes — shirts, jeans, skirts — that are bought cheaply, in bulk, by weight, from America and Canada, by the wholesalers of Dar es Salaam. They then sell them to dealers, who sell them to ordinary people throughout the country.”

  “Wait a minute — you mean people are wearing foreign hand-me-downs in Dar?”

  “Many of them, yes. Of course, there are some who believe mitumba are dead people’s clothes and don’t touch them!”

  “There must not be many tailors left in Dar now …”

  “I suppose not.”

  Rumina and Iqbal had been talking about Jamila’s nephew, Abbas, whose line of work was mitumba.

  They were sitting on the deck at the back of Aziz and Salma’s house, on their third evening: Ramji and Nabil, Iqbal and his wife Susan, and Rumina, on deck chairs strewn around a table, while their hosts were in the kitchen, on the other side of the glass-door partition, busy with preparations for a late barbecue dinner. Lights from neighbouring houses filtered faintly through the shrubbery, but Aziz and Salma’s deck was still clothed in the hue of twilight. Iqbal the restaurateur had brought some wines to taste; Rumina and Nabil were having coffee. Sona was meeting other friends tonight. Jamila and Zuli and the children had dashed off to the Philadelphia mosque for services and would join them soon.

  The ghost of Jamila’s nephew seemed to hover over the proceedings of this evening. Now it appeared that he had been Rumina’s classmate in Dar. Then who exactly was she? He asked her, “What’s your family background — I mean —” and she answered abruptly but nicely, “Is that important?” He felt rather slighted and turned away to catch a wry look from Nabil.

  Abbas had been murdered in West Philadelphia. He had been mugged and then quite pointlessly shot in the head. The whole thing had been witnessed by two undercover cops. The killers had escaped, and the cops’ identities had not yet been revealed.

  “Where exactly did he live?” Ramji asked Nabil.

  “Close to where he was killed, they had an apartment there.”

  “They? Did he live with someone?”

  “He was married. You should ask Jamila about it,” Nabil said, excusing himself as he ambled away inside.

  Where was Abbas’s wife, then? That obviously was what Nabil didn’t want to talk about.

  Ramji looked at Nabil. He was — had been — everything that Ramji wasn’t but, as he had sometimes thought, would have liked to be. Suave, handsome; intelligent without sounding academic; liberal, but not anxious, committed, or guilty. He was a gentleman in the European fashion, as Jamila delighted in pointing out — kissing hands, yet in a self-mocking way that achieved two impressions at once, knowing when and how to hold doors open for ladies, how to help them with their coats; he knew about good food and wine, was conversant with art and music. Ramji had been jealous, yes, he admitted this to himself. He’s the one, Ramji.…To add salt to his wounds, Jamila had said — yes, he remembered this also — “Do you like him, Ramji, you have to give me your approval: what do you think?” And Ramji had replied, “Of course I approve, he’s a great guy!”

  And now here was Nabil in middle age, with a pained expression on his face, looking shrunken, a little bald, less confident. Fatherly, avuncular, definitely not threatening. Metamorphosed from a butterfly into a pupa. (Now that was being cruel.) Had all that former sophistication been simply a mask that refused to grow with him into middle age, and crumbled and fell away to reveal the original boy from a Cairo tenement, some Midaq Alley, only much older?

  Is there any hope for us? Ramji thought gloomily. No there isn’t, we are all doomed.…His thoughts took flight, alighting momentarily on that other butterfly, who had stung like a bee, the boxer Muhammad Ali; grounded and wobbly, shaking from Parkinson’s and drawing out all our gut-wrenched pity. Even our childhood heroes mock us.…What irks me is my own middle age and feeling of uselessness … and this mysterious girl in hijab telling this old-timer, Is that important?

  Aziz and Nabil came out, heading for the barbecue with trays of meat and vegetables, and Aziz was saying, “Let’s face it, if I want my wife and children to have the standard of living they’re used to after I’m gone, the minimum coverage I need is for a million.”

  Nabil said, “I agree — what is a million in this day and age?”

  And what’s a million to me? Ramji wondered, smiling inanely at the two. When you’re crossing your forties and the fifties loom over the horizon, you inevitably ask yourself, What have I accomplished? And with everyone he knew, it was the bottom line that counted, acquisitions, net worth. And yet I refuse to believe I took a wrong turn somewhere …

  Iqbal, who had stood up to refill glasses, was holding forth on how he developed his menu at his Georgetown restaurant, the Kilimanjaro.

  “Ndizi Tamu, for instance, Sweet Banana — but that doesn’t sound authentic enough. The way we are used to it is with coconut cream — fresh — and grated coconut, and sugar. Now do you think
these Americans will go for it? And where would you find fresh coconut in Washington, D.C.? So you substitute a little rum, and you call it the dessert of Swahili kings — the Sultan’s Banana —”

  He roared with laughter, delighted with himself, and Susan cried sharply, “Iqbal!” though the others were also quite amused.

  “So you change and invent as you go along. Is that authentic?” asked Rumina.

  “Of course it is, my dear; recipes develop, they don’t remain constant. Have you had my Chicken Zabibu for instance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice any zabibu in it — grapes?”

  “No … don’t remember.”

  “Then take my word for it, there was no zabibu. Now, didn’t that taste to you like authentic Swahili food? Nouvelle, if you like …”

  “Sounds nouvelle all right, but I have to come visit your restaurant again.”

  Salma had brought out candles in colourful tinted holders and placed them on small tables, and the night seemed quite romantic.

  Soon the others returned and the deck was crowded to capacity and fermenting with predinner excitement. The children were reporting to all who would listen a blooper made earlier during the evening prayers. Aziz called out, “I’ve just put the meat on — won’t be too long now!”

  Salma said, “Jamila was supposed to call before leaving the mosque, so he could start.”

  Jamila replied, “You know, I clean forgot!” With a sigh she plonked herself down on a chair beside the trolley of wine bottles, saying, “Oh good, you saved the wine for me,” creating a ripple of amusement which surprised her. “Did I say something wrong?” She looked around unperturbed and picked a bottle of the new Napa Valley chardonnay, only to meet her husband’s disapproving eye.

  “Surely — immediately after prayers … this indulgence is a little inappropriate,” Nabil said, looking peeved.

  “Dear, why be hypocritical about it? Those who drink wine, do so. As Omar Khayyam says —”

  “I’m sure he didn’t say that after prayers, and —”

  “Oh, all right,” she relented, muttering, “you’re turning into an ayatollah,” and again everyone laughed, including Nabil.

  “At least wait a little while,” he said, to appease her.

  Amid smells of smoky meat and cooking spices and the voices of her hungry guests, amplified duly by too much wine on empty stomachs, Salma’s voice rang out: “Listen — listen …Jamila —” She had climbed on a chair at the centre of the deck, and there was finally a hush around her.

  “Listen, before dinner gets served there’s going to be a strip … tease.” She paused just long enough between the last two words. “The tease is, someone’s going to remove a piece of clothing — just one. Can you guess who the person is? And it’s not me, let me tell you!”

  “Really, Salma,” Zuli said, “surely we’re not into this sort of thing.”

  “Aren’t we?” Aziz wisecracked from the grill.

  Jamila giggled, looking around, saying, “And it’s definitely not me.”

  The children, who had been served their dinner inside, had all now come to watch the scene through the wide-open doorway. Nabil went over to induce them to go in, his elder daughter stamped her foot and mouthed a silent “no.” Ramji tried to glare down one of his twins, Sara, also to no avail. He shrugged and looked at Susan, who had taken a step in the direction of her children, as if ready to act. But to do what? Suddenly shield them from indecent exposure, lascivious adult mischief? Rumina was smiling rather broadly, and he thought that rather perverse. But what was the matter with Salma? She and Aziz indulging in perversions of their own?

  Salma, on the chair, called out: “Rumina, come here.”

  There was a collective intake of breath; Ramji looked first at Zuli, then at Jamila, then at Rumina, who had gone to stand close to Salma.

  “Earlier this evening, Rumina gave me permission,” Salma said, “to do this —”

  In one clean motion, she drew away Rumina’s head scarf. There was an audible gasp, at the face, the new look, the person revealed: the face appeared fuller, the neck long, and the curly hair was knotted into pigtails that fell to the back and sides.

  There were shouts of approval and laughter: Bravo, now that’s more like it.…You’re a beautiful girl, why were you hiding under that scarf? … And Rumina, face blushing, lowered her eyes. She had on a halter-top dress and a lot more of her was revealed than she had perhaps anticipated.

  “So, now having had the tease and the strip — how about meat!” called out Aziz, and everyone groaned.

  After dinner, Napoleon brandy was offered, and Iqbal and Susan, glasses in hand, danced dreamily together, outside on the deck, to a romantic jazz number put on by Aziz. They were joined, much to everyone’s surprise, by a neighbouring couple out for a stroll. Nabil stood up, and Jamila pulled him along past the open doorway, and they too began to dance. Salma and Aziz were quickly clearing up inside. For a while, Ramji watched the three couples dancing outside, then turned and caught Zuli’s eye; in the moment he took to hesitate, she looked away and went to help their hosts in the kitchen. In the living room behind them, partly visible, the six children also danced. But their dance was not like the adults’, body to body, close and yearning; instead, they danced every which way and individually.

  Later, back at the Henawis’, with Nabil gone to bed, Zuli, Jamila, and Ramji sat in the living room over cups of mint tea. The husband and wife had taken the sofa, and Jamila had pulled a chair across the low seering table from them. Jamila was elated with the evening’s development and needed to wind down. Zuli had a serene look on her face.

  “These reunions are always a revelation, aren’t they,” Zuli mused.

  “As for tonight’s revelation,” Jamila said, obviously speaking of Rumina, “if she was such a believer, why did she let the hijab come off so easily?”

  “She’s still young,” Ramji said, earning a stare from the women.

  “Anyway,” Jamila said. “Let’s talk about me. I’m so glad all you guys came. It’s made a difference. To him.” She looked towards her bedroom. “He actually stayed up late — something he’s not done in months! And he danced! Oh, thank you for coming, I do hope this is going to work — I so much want him back!”

  She was leaning forward and there was a plea in her voice, so that Ramji and Zuli were both touched.

  “But what happened to him?” Zuli asked. “Why did he become so religious, all of a sudden?”

  “Ever since the Gulf War …,” Jamila began. “And it’s not just religion, it’s some Sufi sect in New Jersey. Oh why can’t he take it with a grain of salt the way the rest of us do?”

  “It’ll be all right,” Zuli assured her, “see if it’s not. He cares about you — he’s got to make it work.”

  Jamila went to bed, and Ramji apologized to his wife about the debacle earlier on.

  “I meant to ask you to dance …”

  “Sure you did.”

  “As it is, you know I’m a lousy dancer —”

  “Then why do you say you meant to ask?”

  She leaned over and put her head lightly on his shoulder. He put a gentle hand on her head, caressed her hair.

  He would have liked to squeeze her, draw her closer, kiss her on the eyes and mouth, but he was afraid; he wasn’t sure how she would respond to a rush of tender passion from him. This fear in him, and her withholding from him, had come up over the past few years to stand as a barrier between them.

  They had thought, as on previous occasions, that this family trip away from the bustle and tensions of daily life would bring them together, rekindle love and care; if not that, at least help each of them accept the inevitability of compromise for the sake of continuity, familiarity, companionship, at the onset of middle age. But a few hours out of Chicago and they were at each other again. This time the quarrel was about the presents they had bought or failed to buy. It was not a pleasant trip, but they had kept up a pretense for the
twins’ sake, with the McDonald’s stops, the pop and potato chips for the road, songs even, and an amusement park on the way.

  Her eyes were closed, her hands rested on her lap; he watched the long lines of her body, inhaled her sweet perfume. She’s a beautiful woman, Ramji, that lovely face with the high cheeks and the pointy chin … laughed easily once; strands of grey showing up, but just a handful. They worry her, speak to her of a wasted life. That is the crux of the problem, you didn’t amount to anything for her.

  It was twelve years ago that he had gone from Chicago to Toronto to visit some of his friends who had arrived recently from Dar. There was an Eid festival on that weekend, a few thousand people had gathered at an immense hall near the airport for a fun fair. There he saw, in charge of a blood-donation booth, a tall and beautiful girl. She had short hair, wore high heels, and had just finished speaking rather crisply to a passerby. Ramji was feeling exhausted and obviously looked it, having walked a few times through the noisy proceedings, and when she caught his appreciative stare she shouted: You look like you could use a blood transfusion yourself! He had laughed and they introduced themselves. That evening he called her up and asked her out for lunch the next day. She was an executive secretary at a law firm downtown. They met as arranged and soon realized that they got along fabulously. The lunch lasted a couple of hours, and they agreed to meet again.

  He liked Zuli’s forthrightness, and her back-home interests — she was not embarrassed by her passion for Indian films and songs and by the food they went to eat the next couple of days in India Town. She had had a disappointing romance; he didn’t ask her for details, and he didn’t give her any about his own past relationships. She seemed to like it that he was not just another “Paki” — Toronto’s deprecation for Indians; he was different, with a past in the U.S., he had dropped out of graduate school to join a business that was not a doughnut store or a hardware store or a motel. Her parents were also in Toronto, though they lived with her sister, and he got to meet them all that first time.