by M G Vassanji
He doesn’t buy this, of course.
Am I scared? you might ask, point-blank.
To which my answer: You bet I am.
I tell him so, he responds with a brief nod.
And so back to Ramji mulling over the book.
Ramji recalled the time a few years before, when a death sentence was pronounced on a certain internationally renowned author for his published writing. Ramji and a few others in the Chicago area and even in Detroit and Toronto felt compelled to say something. They were traumatized. Imagine: a judge in a faraway place that means little to you, its culture and way of religious practice alien to yours — a judge from such a distant place could decide that you — yes, you so-and-so — were a sinner and therefore should die!
And so they prepared an anthology of letters of protest against the death sentence and more generally against such grim religious dictates from afar: You cannot do this! You are simply terrorizing ordinary folks who turn off the lights every night on their innocent children, and in their loneliness confront their souls and their consciences and, yes, their faiths — but faiths their own to grapple with, not anyone else’s to judge. Leave us alone.
But just before the collection went to press, they got cold feet. Ramji spent a sleepless night dreaming up all kinds of scenarios in which his children would be orphaned; or killed, leaving him childless. The project was shelved for another day that never came. Cowardice pure and simple, but necessary.
And so Letter 23, whose contents had offended Rumina, and which no doubt were repugnant to Michel, Ramji flipped by. He stopped at another letter, one he’d stopped at before, ruminated on its contents. As on the first occasion he had come across it, but more strongly now, it brought to mind an idea he didn’t care to entertain, something quite outlandish: It reminded him of a scene at the “musical mosque” many years ago one Friday night in Cambridge.
Sona, who had been leader of the mosque, had a couple of detractors then, two new members of more orthodox beliefs who insisted that the congregation should face in the direction of Mecca. And Sona, outraged, had said, “I’ll be damned if I face east.” Everyone had looked aghast — surely this was not quite the way to say it.
Sona … who for the past twenty-five years had single-mindedly taken up a cause against encroaching orthodoxy among his people — tilting at windmills, it had always seemed to Ramji.
And Ramji wondered also, Why the 101 letters in this book? Surely a coincidence, that it was also the number so auspicious to us at home in Tanzania, this prime number …
I pray to God it’s not you, Sona, who’s responsible for this mad campaign, this Phantom.…I have Michel in the other room and I don’t know what he’s been up to. The last thing I need is to believe you responsible for this mischief.
Am I myself going crazy, seeing Phantoms everywhere?
We were a simple people with simple beliefs, unknown to the world. What has happened?
9
The next afternoon the interview continued in Ramji’s apartment. Rumina was at work. Darcy arrived late, pleading phone calls at the office. Naseem dropped him off, and he came bearing a package which he asked to be put in the fridge. It was raining outside and first he went to the bathroom to dry himself with a towel. As on the previous day, he seemed maddeningly blasé about what was to Ramji a nerve-wracking development about which the Company — meaning mainly Darcy — had to reach some resolution. That morning Michel had been quiet and brooding and Ramji had felt sorry for him. Zayd had called from New York, much to Ramji’s surprise, to ask how the interview was proceeding. Ramji hid his disappointment in Darcy. Michel had been delighted to speak with Zayd.
Darcy came into the living room, where the other two were waiting, and said genially: “So Michel, tell us more about your life as a counter-revolutionary!”
He ended his involvement with the Movement after three years, Michel said. He also quit his degree program and went to work in his uncle’s pharmacy in East Lansing. His uncle was his father’s younger brother, married with two children, both girls. Some months later he moved with his uncle’s family to Ashfield, near Detroit. One day while on a visit to Toronto he ran across a former Movement acquaintance in a downtown street who asked him if he had any desire to visit East Africa. A free trip with tourist hotels was promised. It was an easy job, a demonstration in Dar es Salaam. They had to depart almost immediately. He thought this was a good opportunity for a free vacation; he also had some relations left in Dar, so he accepted the offer. The Movement had never sent him on an assignment out of the country before.
He was given barely a couple of days in which to return to Ashfield and prepare for his departure, which would be from New York. He flew with five other young men, first to Amsterdam and from there to Dar. They all had American passports but had been instructed to carry with them whatever former Iranian identification papers or passports they still possessed.
They arrived in Dar at night, were taken to a fancy new hotel away from town and a short stroll from the sea. In the morning some of them went to the beach. It was hot, the tide was coming in, and they decided to go for a swim. They were in the water maybe ten minutes when a Toyota cruiser drove down onto the sand and parked — their local liaison, the bearded Indian called Rehmat who had met them at the airport, stepped out and told them off for leaving the hotel. The driver, who was an American, then joined Rehmat and also started to speak to them. Hi, he said. You can call me Johnson. Consider this a holiday, for a week, except when you are required to be certain places. There’s going to be a demonstration at two in the afternoon against the sale of pork in the city. You will be taken to a site where the demonstration will pass, and from there you should simply walk with the procession — but keep to the background, don’t get involved in scuffles. When you talk to anyone, give the impression that you are from Iran, that should not be hard to do. Even if you are a nonbeliever, give the impression of an Islamic zealot, a fundamentalist. Address people as “Brother” or “Sister,” and so on. Afterwards walk back to the point where you were dropped off.
Michel paused.
“And?” Darcy asked.
For the first time since Michel began his story the day before, there was a look of excitement on Darcy — a gleam in his eyes, his mouth set firm.
“We did as told.”
“Do you recall any of the streets you passed through?”
Michel hesitated.
“Morogoro Road?”
“Yes … and the street behind it, with the big mosque.”
There was a faraway look on Darcy’s face. It occurred to Ramji that Darcy might have actually set eyes on Michel, looking down from his office on the demonstration passing in the street below.
That afternoon Michel spent with his relations in Dar, an uncle and his family, who lived in an apartment over their shop, in a two-storey building. He had told them he was on a holiday with friends, which was partly true. He was convinced to spend the night at their place, and while still there the next morning he read about Mr. Darcy’s claims in the local papers. It seemed that when the demonstration passed by Mr. Darcy’s building, his assistants had lured two of the Movement guys upstairs to his office and obtained the information from them that they had actually come from the U.S. Mr. Darcy went on to claim that the United States was using the Pork Riots in its campaign to discredit the Iranian government. Michel explained to his uncle that he and his friends had seen a demonstration downtown the day before, had asked what it was for, and then joined it.
Very shortly after that he got a phone call from one of his Movement companions telling him to mind what he said and to say his goodbyes that day, as they would be leaving for Mombasa, Kenya, that night or early next morning.
All his relations came to drop him off at the hotel later that afternoon, an occurrence that Rehmat thought was simply a godsend, because it lent an impression of innocence to Michel’s presence in Dar, and by extension to the presence of those who had come with him.
The two men who had allowed themselves to be lured by Mr. Darcy’s assistants had been reprimanded, but nothing could be done about it. Late at night, after a party at Rehmat’s opulent house in Oyster Bay, where a lot of food and drinks were served by servants, Michel and his Movement friends were whisked off to the airport and flown to Mombasa for a two-day holiday on the beach. After that they returned to the States.
Darcy asked with a twinkle in his eyes: “Is that all you did in the name of counter-revolution — a few demonstrations here and there? Just supply your body, and your voice?”
“Yes. There were more dangerous assignments, but I wasn’t picked.”
“Did you volunteer?”
“Yes,” Michel said uneasily, as Ramji got up to answer the doorbell. It was Ramji’s landlord, Svend, the genial Swede, standing at the door with a grin on his face.
“Hullo there. Hi. Hi.” He greeted everyone in turn, giving brief bows. “There was no answer on the telephone, and I was sure I heard sounds from below — what is this, an interview?” Svend had already met Michel a couple of times, once on the stairs outside, and once inside the apartment when he came to pick up misdirected mail, a common occurrence. “I won’t disturb you,” Svend said. “I just brought you some hardware.” He placed a hinge and a few screws in Ramji’s hand.
“Have some coffee before you go,” Ramji offered.
Svend stayed awhile for the coffee, then left.
“Any mementos of your trip — tickets?” Darcy asked.
“Tickets, boarding passes, we had to hand everything over. But I have a few things.”
He went inside to his room, returned with a valise. From it he extracted a few papers and some photographs. He handed the pictures over to Darcy. Ramji got up and went to stand behind Darcy’s couch so he could look at them.
“Photographs!” Darcy exclaimed. “They let you take photographs?”
There were three, all of which had been taken at a beach. In one, a group of twelve in swimming trunks, standing in a huddle with arms around one another; in the next, vacant beach chairs and a thatched shed behind it; and finally —
“They were taken in Mombasa — where we were flown from Dar es Salaam.”
“Who are they?” Ramji asked, indicating the two men walking in front of a coconut palm in the third photo.
“That’s Johnson, with me.”
Not a very good likeness of Michel, the photo was taken from a distance. Beside him was a short, stocky white man in a green tropical shirt and red shorts, the shirt hanging out and partly unbuttoned. Darcy stared long at the photograph, as if trying to recall if he had seen the man while he was in Dar. Michel, watching him, grinned, perhaps having called to mind some quirk of the American.
“He came to Mombasa to see us off,” Michel said.
“And he very obligingly let someone take his picture …”
“He didn’t know.”
“I’ll take these,” Darcy said, gathering the photographs, “if that’s all right.”
Michel seemed to hesitate, eyed Ramji for a fleeting moment, then said sure.
“Anything else? What do you have there?”
A baggage tag and a boarding pass.
“Seems like you were having second thoughts about your friends …”
Michel shrugged.
“Well, young man,” Darcy said, getting up, “at least you’ve corroborated my story. Who could have supposed that. I was made to look like a fool when I broke the story; but I stuck to my guns.” He put a hand on Michel’s shoulder. “But I’m not sure we can do much with it, it’s water under the bridge.”
Ramji drew a quick breath, said: “Except that it’s connected to the events in Ashfield, so Michel says. Surely —” We should hear it out, he wanted to say, but Darcy interrupted, sounding annoyed.
“Yes, yes, of course, and we are getting to that.” He looked sharply at Michel and asked: “And exactly how does it relate to Ashfield?”
In an even, low voice, Michel told him: “I believe the bombing in Ashfield to be the work of two people from the Movement.”
By now Ramji had expected something of the sort; and so, obviously, had Darcy.
Darcy glared at Michel. “All right,” he said. “This is what I suggest. There’s no time for the full story now — all the hows and whys. You two get together and produce that written account, the complete story, from Michel’s schooling in Lausanne to the bombing in Ashfield. Do it tomorrow, and early Friday we’ll have a meeting at Inqalab to decide what’s to be done.”
There was nothing more to say. Michel looked deflated, his revelation having made no great impression. And Ramji wondered why they had proceeded — at Darcy’s insistence — in so leisurely a fashion, as if Michel’s information did not really matter, as if there was a desire to postpone the moment of decision.
There was a sound at the door: Rumina.
She arrived in the living room where the others were, and Darcy quickly went to give her a peck on the cheek before Ramji could quite reach her. Michel gave a small wave and she waved back.
“You’re staying for dinner, I hope?” Rumina said to Darcy.
“Yes, my dear,” he replied, “but the food is courtesy of Santa Monica Caterers today. I asked your man to keep it in the fridge.”
She said, “Oh, wonderful. I bet it’s something special,” and went towards the awaiting Ramji.
Darcy headed off to the drinks cupboard in the kitchen, saying, “Meanwhile I’ll have a little thirst-quencher.”
After dinner Darcy sat on the floor reciting Persian poetry, drinking and telling the story of the love of his life, while Ramji, sitting across from him and also on the floor, found himself not listening but growing tired, and trying to pay attention to Michel helping Rumina with the dishes. Why am I so stupidly jealous of him? Rumina loves me and no one else, I know that, and he is already engaged.…This morning Ramji had watched from the window as Rumina got into her car, and saw that she had wrapped a scarf around her head. It wasn’t until the middle of the day that the thought went searing through his mind: Was she beginning to cover her head again, in the traditional way? Had Shirin’s photo last night struck a chord of guilt in her? The path of the godless is lonely, Ramji, you knew that. But when Rumina had come in the door that afternoon, her head was bare.
Darcy’s demeanour was odd. Usually when he drank he was reflective, digressive, dryly ironical. But this occasion took him to a private, unshared memory, into those corridors he hadn’t visited in a long time, in which resided his one-time love, because of whom he’d apparently suffered scorn and ostracism. As the evening drew on he entered into a long and bitter denunciation of the Community. Finally he said, “Saqi,” speaking to an imaginary cup-bearer, the Persian poets’ beloved bartender, “give this old propagandist his last draught and send him on his way into the moonless night.…” He received baklava and coffee instead.
Naaz and Amir came to pick him up, and seeing his state as he clambered unsteadily to his feet, she scolded, “Bapa, look at yourself, what kind of example are you setting?”
It seemed a most ridiculous statement, but she had just come from a morally uplifting and exorbitantly ticketed lecture-dinner. Her sari was blue-black and glittering.
Darcy responded, “My dear, my time for setting examples is long past.”
The next morning, after Rumina had left, Ramji sat down with Michel and heard the rest of his story. Afterwards Michel kept mostly to himself, going out once for a short walk, and Ramji sat down at the computer and prepared a fair copy of the complete narrative.
Michel first explained why he had stopped working for the Movement (with the exception of that one trip he had taken to Dar). He had become bored with collecting signatures at subway stations and shopping malls; there didn’t seem to be any end in sight to their campaign against Iran. After a while, he was not even sure of the authenticity of some of the photographs of torture victims that he showed. He just did as he was told. Sometimes there would
be other people doing the same, from other organizations, or other countries. Meanwhile his family was very concerned. His brothers and sisters, and his parents, had all settled down where they were, and two of his nieces were grown up. He was thirty. And so he agreed to join his uncle’s pharmacy in East Lansing, and then moved with his uncle to Ashfield, Michigan.
The community of Shamsi Muslims in Ashfield, Michel said, was small and intimate, with seven families, who were originally from India, Pakistan, Uganda, and Tanzania. Three families, including that of Michel’s uncle, had coordinated their move into the town in 1989, and there was at first some resentment among the townspeople against these “Muslems.”
There was a little bit of harassment from town toughs, in the form of silly notes pinned to the mosque door, or hooting of truck horns during prayers. The Community people had to modify their ways, become discreet. During the Gulf War they displayed the usual tokens of patriotism — yellow ribbons on trees, photos in the display window of two local boys serving in the army. Some weeks later three men entered the mosque and quickly mooned the congregation before fleeing. Michel’s uncle — who was rather hot-headed — went to Detroit and bought a Winchester rifle and a pistol. If this is how they want to play it, was the feeling among some of the men, then so be it. The situation improved, however, and the town’s dignitaries came to the Community’s festivities next time around, and all seemed well.
Then the Phantom affair broke.
The Book and Video Haven in Ashfield specialized in war, science fiction, and porn, with a bit of racial bigotry thrown in. One day, the display window of the store, usually filled with Rambo-type images, was laid out with copies of K. Ali’s 101 Letters, with a crude sign saying: THE HIDDEN TRUTH ABOUT ISLAM — AN INSIDER’S VIEW. Apparently Stokes, the bookstore owner, had himself crossed the border into Canada and purchased there a few hundred copies.
