by M G Vassanji
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, come.”
And so he spent the night in Rumina’s bed.
He could have taken the first train out next morning to reach New York in the early afternoon; he didn’t. Later in the morning, still unrecovered from the night’s lovemaking, he couldn’t reach Zuli on the phone at the hotel. When, instead, he reached Jamila, she told him to prepare for the worst — and that woke him up. It was best, she said, that he return straight to Glenmore.
She explained that Zuli had called her the previous afternoon to ask what time Ramji was setting off for New York. When she heard the news, that he would be delayed because he had gone off to D.C. with Rumina, she was totally freaked out. And despite Jamila’s covering for Ramji (“I believe Sona went too — practically convinced Ramji to go,” which was an outright lie), Zuli had not been appeased. “You’ll have to make big amends, Ramji,” Jamila told him. “But don’t do anything now. Act innocent — as I hope you are.” If she was waiting for confirmation, Ramji did not provide it.
Ramji finally took an afternoon train out. At the station, as he waited with Rumina for his train, the chattiness of the previous night was no longer there between them; he felt pulled down by anxiety, and neither of them spoke a word for a long while. He had no idea at this point how the future would unfold. They had agreed he would call her frequently, they would try to set up meetings. And they would go on from there. “Ramji, are you sure,” she’d asked this morning. “If you have doubts, tell me right now.” Of course I’m sure, he’d replied. We belong to each other now. But what did he really mean by that, he wondered to himself. It was time to say goodbye, and he took her hand, pressed it in his, then kissed it. She was cold. “I’ll keep in touch,” he said.
He started to walk down the platform, then turned and looked behind him. Rumina had not moved, was staring at him; further along, when he turned again, her eyes were still fixed upon him.
7
If he deceived anyone, it was himself. He should have known he could not cheat successfully; he should have known he could not belong to two worlds at the same time, that he was liable to fall off into the space between.
Finally it was the day of Jamila’s once-famous and now revived midsummer party. She had been in a state of high excitement since the morning, fussing over food and drinks, rearranging furniture, perfecting the decor of the house. Everything had to be right for her official return to the world. The children stayed out of her way, as did everyone else, except when pressed into service. Ramji found all the bustle and tension a welcome diversion from his anxieties.
He had picked up Zuli and the twins that morning from the train station, with apologies and explanations ready. They were not needed. Zuli had arrived with a kind of ominous determination, with the distant manner and curt rejoinders Ramji knew so well at the ready. He found himself at once relegated to the role of outsider to a new clique of three. “We are going back on Monday,” she informed him on the way to Jamila’s; the implication being, he could go with them, or not, as he wished.
“What do you mean, ‘we’? Don’t I count?”
“Since you prefer to make plans independently from us —”
“For God’s sake — why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
“Why don’t you tell us what’s on yours.”
Touché. Still, the quarrel had a feel of familiarity, and Sara and Rahim by their manner — bored annoyance — suggested they’d seen it all before: Get off it, guys, patch it up. And soon he found himself asking them about their time in New York, telling them to stop arguing, putting on the parental cap as it were. So perhaps reconciliation was possible. But then, could he lead a double life? He wasn’t sure anymore. How could he give up Rumina — what of the passion and love which had entered, finally, into his life?
Was a guiltless, painless freedom ever possible? What a question.
Enerico and Fatima, he said to himself, Rumina and Ramji. Forget about it. Just catch yourself: you stumbled. Count your blessings and keep walking.
Which is what Jamila told him when he returned the night before. It’s not worth it, Ramji. The risk is too great. Think of the collateral damage — are you ready for it? And then in a lower voice, I’ve been there, Ramji, and I caught myself in time. She and Nabil seemed to be on better terms in the short time their house guests had been away. Things had happened between them. He wondered what kind of secrets she kept.
Ramji and Nabil were assigned to take all the kids out to the mall for lunch. And later, while the kids scoured the shops, the two men had had a long chat. Ramji found himself warming to Nabil for the first time since they had known each other. Nabil told him more about Jamila’s nephew Abbas, who had married a Puerto Rican woman called Alicia. They’d had a baby boy. Over the last few days he and Jamila had arrived at a bargain. On her part, she had promised to take an interest in Alicia and the boy, which she had thus far failed to do. And Nabil’s part of the bargain? He had agreed to tone down his religious fervour. He smiled with embarrassment, and Ramji’s eyes widened, as Nabil revealed that for a few months he had joined a group of dervishes in New Jersey — the whirling kind. He would give that up for now, for Jamila’s sake. A family is a wonderful thing, isn’t it Ramji? — we should treasure ours. Did that look in his eye signify anything? Yes, it did. Who would have thought Nabil would turn out this way — indulgent husband of the indefatigable Jamila, now busy preparing her party of the decade.
The guests started arriving at three; they came from as far as New York and Washington. Ramji had known some of them a long time ago, Jamila’s posh friends at the UN or the World Bank, with E.F. Hutton or J.P. Morgan, graduates of elite business schools and schools of economics, with manners to match. Nabil had been one of them.
Ramji waved at Iqbal and Susan in the distance; they had stopped over briefly on their way back from Providence to D.C. If Rumina had stayed on, she would have returned with them … but Rumina had wanted nothing more of this middle-aging crowd.…Aren’t you tired of all this suburbia? … Suburbia’s quite nice actually.…I feel like Enerico.…But you’re inside! … Today was not only the “mustardseed” party but also the Fourth of July and the day of the Wimbledon tennis final. Champagne flowed to begin with, strawberries were relished. A small crowd had set themselves up in a corner of the living room to watch the all-American matchup between Sampras and Courier. And true to the spirit of American abundance and overkill, there was laid out in the dining room a lavish spread of cheeses and salads, sandwiches, cakes and trifle, spring rolls, pakodas, and samosas.
Drink in hand, Ramji meandered through the bacchanalia, among people who all seemed very much the same to him, with most of whom he could not muster any fellowship or sustain a conversation.
In a section of the living room, Sona was holding forth in a loud voice. He was reunited with Amy (who had come with their daughter Emna), at least for today. This was Jamila’s doing. Her sense of propriety, of order in the universe, had been wounded by the fact that Sona and Amy, both friends of hers, had managed to avoid each other since their divorce. This time Sona was already here in Glenmore, and Amy, who had always been present at Jamila’s midsummer parties, had very much wanted to come to relaunch the tradition. Well, why shouldn’t she? But Jamila didn’t tell either of them the other would be there.
This hadn’t spoilt anything, for now the exes were sitting next to each other, on the rug in front of the fireplace, and Sona was telling all and sundry who had gathered around how he had met Amy the day he was doing his bit for peace during the Vietnam War.
You’d never have guessed, listening to Sona and Amy, that the two were now divorced. Ramji wandered off into the kitchen, behind Jamila.
“Happy couple there,” he said to her. “Are you planning to bring them together again?”
“The way some of us are going, certain people had better come together.” She saw the look on his face, softened. “I’m worried, Ramji,” she sai
d, in a low voice, “about you. Please — work something out; apologize to her — for not going to New York and taking off on your own. She’ll forgive you. At this age we all need each other …”
“I don’t know what I want,” he said painfully. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Ramji,” she muttered. “Wake up. You’re not young any longer! You don’t know what you’d be getting into! …”
“I’ll try,” he said, with a helpless look at her, and came out from the kitchen into the dining room, though he did not quite know what he was going to do.
Sona and Amy had now drifted away from each other, and Ramji went over to where she was sitting on the couch with Zuli. There had always been a middle-aged look about Amy, he thought, with her soft features, conservative clothes, and her lush brown hair in a French roll or (as now) in a bun at the nape of her neck.
“How nice you came all the way from New Haven for Jamila’s party,” he said to Amy and pulled up a chair to sit with the two women. He met Zuli’s eyes, noticed with relief the ice in them had melted.
“Listen,” Amy replied, “I wouldn’t miss the relaunch of Jamila’s midsummer bash for anything, even if old bozo there,” she looked towards Sona with affection, “were here — which I didn’t know he would be. And hey — besides, with you guys in town —”
They were all distracted by one of Jamila’s banker friends talking nearby in a very German accent.
“I’m glad we haven’t lost touch simply because you and Sona broke up,” Zuli said.
“Hey, I’m glad too. Initially I wondered, is he going to take away all the friends he’s introduced me to?”
“No chance of getting back together, eh?” Zuli asked. “You two looked quite terrific together.”
The remark pleased Amy, and she gave a grateful look, putting her hand on Zuli’s arm. “Listen, when it’s over, it’s over,” she said. “But you can remain friends.”
Neither Ramji nor Zuli replied, but there was the briefest exchange of looks between them. The three of them took a moment to watch Sona, who stood captivated in the middle of the room listening to Aziz. The subject was insurance, and Sona was very much on the defensive by now, sheer arithmetic having convinced him his insurance policy was inadequate. Sona was saying, by way of consolation, “But when she’s finished college.…” To which Aziz countered graduate school and unforeseen illness.
There was a shout from the TV area; the tennis final was apparently over. Sampras had beaten Courier and was grinning and panting at the television camera, trying to come up with the requisite words to explain his triumph.
Amy got up to go and talk to Jamila and Salma, who were standing together, leaving Ramji and Zuli facing each other. Ramji asked how New York had been.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “We did the things we wanted to do.”
“I’m sorry,” Ramji replied, “it was thoughtless of me … abandoning you all.…” He would never be able to tell afterwards how fully sincere he had been at that moment, but she seemed to relent a bit, in the loosening of her features.
“You’ll have to tell me about Washington later,” she said.
“Of course,” he answered.
Jamila announced one last round of champagne, this one to toast the Fourth of July. Her daughter Aisha played the national anthem on the kitchen piano and some of the guests sang along.
The party was over by six. Salma and Aziz, Jamila and Nabil, Ramji and Zuli, and Sona sat around in the living room, adjusting to the sudden lull after the storm of the past few hours.
“All in all, it was a success, don’t you think?” Jamila said, looking very pleased.
They all agreed with her. This was the final day of their reunion, the final scene as it were. Iqbal and Susan were gone, Sona would leave that night, Ramji and Zuli the next morning. What happened next was perhaps inevitable, but no one could have foretold how far things would go. But for someone at the edge it takes only a small push to fall into the awaiting abyss.
“I always like to meet your classy friends, Jamila,” Aziz began to tease. “Once they’ve left, I can’t help but feel good about myself.”
“You bet. They’ll probably all be calling up their insurance agents by now,” said Sona in rueful humour. “I’m going to call mine tonight, you’ve convinced me.”
“Couldn’t you talk of anything else besides insurance policies for once,” scolded Salma.
“Oh, come on, I also talked about other things,” Aziz protested, red-faced.
“Such as?” Sona asked.
“Cheap cemetery plots!” Ramji couldn’t resist. He had heard Aziz going on about that too, much to the discomfort of a few of Jamila’s out-of-town friends.
“Well, what do you expect? Swahili?” Aziz retorted, triumphant, grinning broadly; having stung, he was out of the corner and dancing. Ramji felt a chill in the atmosphere. Perhaps the scent of a kill was just irresistible. For Aziz goaded on, relentlessly: “And I see Rumina didn’t come, Jamila. Zuli, you’ve got to watch this husband of yours and his Swahili interest.”
“Actually,” Sona said, matter-of-factly, attempting to steer away the conversation, “Rumina is a fascinating person. Would you guess that she was an expert on Zanzibari doors?”
To which Aziz said: “Really? And what else besides?”
And Ramji, in all seriousness: “Sona, what exactly is her family background?”
A moment of silence fell.
Disaster, disaster, disaster. A shot in the foot. He only wanted to appear casual, unflustered, innocent. But he gave himself away. Guilt was written on his darkening face, in his pounding heart, if anyone cared to listen to it, and now in this clumsy ruse. Sona looked at him in surprise, and Zuli cried out: “Why, doesn’t everyone know? The girl is the daughter of Zanzibar’s Sheikh Abdala.”
“Wha-at?” his voice almost a shriek, uncontrollable. For a moment he couldn’t see anything, until he pushed through the darkness, met Zuli’s eyes, and he knew she knew. She looked pained, enraged — and in the next instant the silent communication between them was also public.
He looked helplessly, searchingly at Sona, who said, simply, “Yes, that’s right.”
Sheikh Abdala, a populist leader of the 1963 Zanzibar revolution, whose specialty had been his verbal attacks and veiled threats against Arabs and Asians. And as a minister in the Revolutionary Council, he had announced the sinister edict —
“Wow! The guy who announced the forced marriages in Zanzibar,” Aziz said.
“Yes,” Ramji said. “Yes, the same one.” And the teenage girl he picked for himself chose to end her own life rather than stick with him. Her brother had finally knifed the Sheikh to death. Ramji, in his room in Boston, upon hearing of the assassination, had drunk to it in celebration.
“And Rumina? —” Ramji asked no one in particular but with a pleading look towards Sona, his voice small, dry. I’m getting into it even further, but there’s nowhere else to go.
“But how did you know, Zuli?” Salma asked. “None of us did.”
“Amy told me, this afternoon,” Zuli said. “Sona must have known.”
Sona nodded. “It didn’t matter to me whose daughter she was — and it was up to her to tell people if she wanted to.”
“Her mother? —” Ramji asked. But no one answered.
I’m a half-caste, Rumina had said. Now it was all so painfully clear, and also why she was so well known to the African crowd in Washington. She was Sheikh Abdala’s daughter! That is why she was so reticent about her past. She knew it would be hard for him to swallow. He had even gone so far as to explain to her all about the forced-marriage episode and what difficult times those were.
I’ve made an utter fool of myself in front of everybody. He looked pathetically at his wife. Her face was stone. Whatever understanding they had reached over the past few days and the overtures they had made only an hour ago were now shattered.
And Sona — why hadn’t he told him about
Rumina? His idea of surprise?
“You knew it.…” He was looking at Jamila, saying it to whomever it applied.
“I didn’t, I swear —” Jamila said.
“You see, you should have been insured,” Aziz crowed.
“I would have made a bundle, wouldn’t I.”
Salma and Aziz got up to go. Sona edged towards Ramji, as if by imparting closeness he could give comfort. Aziz, as always, having done more damage than he realized, apologized in a good-natured way.
A dreadful quiet oppressed the household that Sunday evening. Jamila convinced Zuli they should go with the kids to the local park to watch the fireworks. They called up Salma first and agreed to meet her there with her kids. After they had gone, Nabil and Ramji contemplated various options open to them. Jamila had got it right; one needed to escape from the house and its remindful echoes of destruction and unbearable hurt. Nabil proposed they go see Alicia, Abbas’s widow, and Ramji agreed.
On their way to West Philadelphia, they stopped at a supermarket and bought some tea and cheese and a six-pack of cola. Nabil had also brought along food left over from the party.
“She had to move to a smaller apartment,” he explained, parking the car outside an old red-brick duplex, which had a small patch of grass in front enclosed by a short wrought-iron fence. Inside, they went up long narrow stairs — unswept, dark, and creaky, and permeated with the strong odour of recent cooking.
Alicia’s apartment was on the second floor. “Hi,” she said to Nabil shyly at the door. “Come in.” She was a woman in her twenties, short and heavy, and was wearing a loose dress and bedroom slippers. Nabil introduced Ramji, who as he went in almost stumbled over a baby on the floor; the child was six months old, he guessed.
