by M G Vassanji
After a couple of whiskies with crackers and cheese and a previous day’s meat samosas, he watched Star Trek on TV. It was one of the few things he shared with his son Shaf. What he liked about the Trekkie stories were the limitless vistas in them, the endless universe, so to speak; anything was possible; there were no traditions to hold you back, no boundaries. Of course, the details in these stories were most likely all wrong or too trivial; but it was the attitude that counted. There’s no limit. Think big; think smart; think new.
He had felt hurt, initially, at his wife’s desertion; he now was angry. How dare anyone try to rein in another against their very nature; try to cage a lion. He had been to a zoo once in his life and hated it. To see lions in cages! When he’d seen them stalking, chasing a herd of zebra on the Serengeti, jumping on the poor helpless one at the back, caught unawares!
The TV was on mute, the house was deathly quiet; the phone refused to ring. Tears fell freely down his cheeks. However much he valued his freedom, he knew that he needed his family, the stable base it provided, from which he could head off in whatever direction he wished. His victories meant nothing without being able to share it with them. That’s why he had given Almas everything he could, toned down his wild habits, turned away from women he could have had on the side, and become a pussycat at home. He loved his family, his children. His wife? In a way, yes.
Because I knew her love for me was not really of the passionate kind, any more than mine was for her, there were some regrets there, on both sides. I always felt that and so I had to have my own personal passion. She was a Nairobi girl thrown together with us Dar guys and girls in the early seventies in Toronto when we lived at Lawrence and Don Mills; everyone was gettingpaired off and there seemed not much choice. We liked each other; and she was smarting from a love back home of which I have only been able to guess so far. We married, but I could always sense her admiration for the easygoing types, the professors and intellectuals who liked to gab; but I was a grocer’s son, and I’m going to conquer the world, I told her cockily. Why don’t you simply enjoy life, she would say. Easy to say that, but she always liked luxury, the nanny and big houses and flashy cars.
The next day he woke up to a cold bed beside him; he choked at the prospect that this would be a permanent state of affairs. He washed, dressed, and went for coffee at a nearby café. He wished to brood over the situation, plan a course of action to woo her back. It would not be easy, but it could be done. Meanwhile there was today’s meeting, claiming urgent attention. A group from out west was in town with a prospect for his group of hoteliers. They were medical people, doctors with flourishing careers, money pouring in, and the itch to invest big time. The proposal was ambitious: to open a full-facility medical hotel for the wealthy and those privately covered. Insurance companies from Hartford were in town and willing to listen. The Ramada chain was sniffing around the edges. This looked big, if it worked out, with global potential.
The guy who had approached him with the idea was currently from Nanaimo, BC, originally from Dar and a year younger than Nazir. And this is just what he couldn’t stress enough to Almas: the money’s for the grabbing out there, people with half the balls are raking it in; do you want me to sit on my butt watching the sun set and feeling my life ebb away with every breath?
Walji—he was the guy who had brought him the multimillion-dollar scheme; his folks used to own a small goods store a couple of blocks away back in Dar. As grocers, Nazir’s parents were marginally better off than Walji’s; Nazir recalled a short, frail-looking boy walking to and from school with his brother and sister. The snivelling sort, no guts. Nazir would tease the three siblings sometimes, occasionally throw stones at them, on the way home, for he was the rough type. Now here was the same Walji running a doctors’ syndicate, just as he Nazir ran a hoteliers’ and property managers’, and they shook hands and let’s take it away from here. What a world. What a country. What d’you mean I think only of making money? I am building this country for you and me, I’m paving the road with velvet for you kids to walk on with ease.
That was the problem, wasn’t it; these kids had everything they needed, everything taken care of, all they lacked was ambition and drive. What a disappointment. Same thing for her. So much at hand, time to fritter away, to learn new things, and all she worries about are the kids, and what other people think, and then she feels lonely with nothing to do. Here, he said once, take this round sum of money, play the stock market, make money, or lose it, make life interesting. She bought some stocks; techs were high. But then every initiative, every decision regarding the portfolio—buy this, wait a while longer for that, buy Dell, dump Eli Lilly—had to be his.
Hi, Shaf… calling his son over the mobile. Hi, Dad. You going to tell me where she is hiding herself? Remember you saying once that what you hated most was your mum and dad fighting? I can’t, Dad. I promised. Jesus, where are your priorities? Please, Dad. All right—are you coming home to visit? Maybe.
Maybe. What did that mean? Were the three of them partners in a conspiracy now—against this big bad guy who thinks only of money and can’t spare a moment for them? God, the distraction of family life … and yet you couldn’t do without it, that part of existence needed to be taken care of… like sex. Yes, that too. It seemed he had rediscovered his vigour in recent months, was reliving his pubescence; as if the body had realized time was short and in desperation was cashing in the reserves. And now she’s gone, what to do.
That morning at the business meeting they came upon a possible stumbling block: a floor or two of an upscale hotel turned into a medical unit, would that keep regular customers away? Who wants to be close to the sick and possibly dying, even if they’re rich? The sites for such units would be crucial. Perhaps have entire hotels dedicated to medical care? More research was needed; meanwhile, the utmost secrecy—from competitors, and from media and the NDP types who hadn’t realized the days of socialized medicine were over. And perhaps Intercontinental or Hilton or the Oberois would have to be brought in for their access to quality clients. Lunch was too heavy, after which a tour of the hotels, then an informal exchange of ideas. A full day, exhausting, just the way he loved it. At night, alone, nobody waiting up for him, except his bottle of Scotch. And Star Trek and the outer edges of an expanding universe.
He dreamt. What’s more, he remembered it when he woke up in the middle of the night, heart thumping, in a cold sweat. God God God…. They were on safari in Africa, they were standing with other people in afield of sorts, he saw Zafira running out of the crowd and in front of a pride of lions under a tree, while the others watched fascinated, and only he, he Nazir, could sense the imminent danger, knew the lions were hungry, and he shouted at her frantically, then dashed after her to pick her up just as a lioness came bounding up to take her away….
He couldn’t sleep after that. Would half his bed be vacant always, right through old age; would this lovely house be empty; was it a condominium for him after all … or another woman, but he didn’t want to start over again, with another shape, another face and smell beside him…. He was too much a creature of habit, especially now. Perhaps there could yet be someone somewhere who would really love him with a passion, perhaps he should give himself that chance … though did he have time for love?
He recalled a reunion among friends, his old pal Haji visiting from the States; Haji the handsome, free, and easygoing academic, and she once calling Haji by her husband’s name, Nazir; and his ears pricked up, and he hurt a little, but only for a moment, there was so much on his mind, and what could you do about such a situation, such a buried feeling anyway. Only he wished she could see what was obvious to everybody else there, how envious Handsome Haji was of what Nazir had made of his life, how hungry these professors were for just a little more money, and at the end of the day what did they have to show for themselves? No Einsteins among them, that was certain.
The first thing next morning, a call from his father. Yes, yes, Dad, I’ll do your sh
opping, can’t you give me even a day, but he knew all his dad wanted was to speak to him … and the more his dad called for no reason at all, which meant just to be able to speak to somebody, the more impatient Nazir got with him.
And so, coffee and croissant at his neighbourhood café; a tour of his properties. On Elm Street at Crescent International Hostel, the Portuguese manager was obviously skimming off some, letting rooms without recording them; which was expected, but there was an Albanian he had earmarked for the job, a former engineer no less, who looked trustworthy. Meanwhile the Portuguese had to be watched. Perhaps a job at the hotel on Don Valley, a promotion of sorts, and as soon as he showed his true colours, as he was certain to do, push him off.
Bad business at the hostel on Danforth. They were converting it into upscale, in an area fast growing fashionable and touristy; which meant the former occupants had to be squeezed out with higher rates and room renovations to go with them. There were three units left to be converted, their occupants a single Indian woman, another woman who was a single mother of two, and a retired Bangladeshi couple. That’s what the manager reminded him of over the mobile. When he arrived at the manager’s office, the tenants were sitting outside to appeal the notice of rate hike. They didn’t have a legal option to speak of, Nazir knew. The single mother was a white woman of thirty or so, and the Indian woman—he glared at her, avoided her eyes, looked away.
But she latched on to him. Mr. Nazir, I know you; in Gujarati. Help me please, we are as one—It’s not in my hands, he told her, throwing glances at the other tenants; then tautly in English: Pay the new rate and you can stay. But how can I, Mr. Nazir….
He felt dirty, he shouldn’t have come. Hadn’t he resolved he was beyond this low-level supervision? But for a business to run successfully you have to be in touch at all levels. Dirt was part of the risk, the cost of business.
That look from her, so piteous. How can you do that, Nazir? But this is the business I entered into; it has to be done right. Someone else in my shoes would do the same, or worse. Give them a month’s notice of the new rates, he told the manager. If they can’t pay they must vacate.
On his way to his car, he paused at a neighbouring building that had begun to interest him recently, a dilapidated structure, but for that very reason full of potential. Preoccupied by its possibilities, he drove off to shop for his father.
Paper flowers; aloe extract; Froot Loops—“good for my digestion”—pure bull; peanut butter, for rubbing into his arthritic knees; paraffin for laxative; vacuum cleaner bags; deboned chicken, which he normally wouldn’t buy, but his son was paying; tortilla wraps to use as rotis.
The apartment was hideous, reflecting his mother’s aesthetic sense when she was alive. Oversized and excessive furniture mostly with artificial veneer, assorted gewgaws to add decor, from plastic flowers to statuettes; the TV was on purely for its noise value. A heady mix of odours always in attendance: milk and perfumed bathroom cleaners.
Nazir put the shopping bags on the dining table, looked around, said, If you’re not watching the TV why don’t you turn it off, which his father dutifully did, saying, Sit and I’ll bring tea. To which Nazir said, still standing, Do you need anything else? Yes, but sit for a while, won’t you—you must be busy, I guess…. Yes, I have still a few things to do. You youngsters do too much, no rest, no time to sit down and chat, always busy…. Well—I’ll give you a call later, Nazir told him; then after the briefest pause for a response, he left, feeling guilty as hell.
There was simply nothing to talk about. When they met, they didn’t shake hands, didn’t exchange hugs. No heart-to-heart between father and son, no opening of a couple of beers and talk of old times, learning family history before it was too late, no long walks together to discuss the kids and their future. He felt awkward before his father. He could not recall when he had last sat down with the old man, laughed with him over something. The truth was that he felt no love whatsoever for his father. That was the truth, naked and brutal. Why brutal?—because it wasn’t right; he knew that. But he couldn’t help it. Of course, this made it easier to forget the old man’s existence between telephone calls. And no one else at home had any love for father-in-law and granddad either. Nazir had thought often about it, his coldness, his lack of tenderness toward his father, mulling over it usually in traffic, while returning from visiting Dad, or having just made his dutiful daily call on the mobile. Had he felt anything for his dad, ever?
Father sat in their grocery shop day in, day out, in striped pyjama pants and white singlet, except when relieved by Mother, when he had his lunch and took a nap afterwards. He liked to pick his crotch, luxuriously, in those pyjamas of his. The shop, and the mosque in the evening, kept him occupied, and the children—four boys and a girl, who was the youngest—did not spend much time in his presence. Once a month he gave them all their school fees, with some ceremony, until they were abolished after independence, and as the boys grew older they went to him for permissions to visit friends or see the occasional movie. One evening he discovered Nazir jerking off, sitting in bed by himself, a magazine in front of him, caught him at just that moment of ecstatic release, and with a crushing sneer upon his face gave his son a resounding slap and picked up the magazine with two fingers and took it away to deposit in the garbage. The humiliation, the sneer. No word exchanged between father and son.
Perhaps it was the humiliation that scarred their relationship forever thereafter. Why Nazir could not draw into himself to feel pity for his father; why he could not sit down and exchange a five-minute banter with the old man and bless his day, his entire week, the short remainder of his life, with a shot of happiness.
The garden care people had come, as had the swimming pool maintenance gang; both had left calling cards and bills. A few telephone messages from Zafira’s friends; a family friend with an invitation to a qawali concert at his home. Nazir was famished, ordered Chinese takeout. Before that he had a quick swim; had to watch his heart. The delivery boy came to the back, to the pool area, where he was drying himself, whisky close by.
No word from her. He was too proud to call her family, though they should know where she was; they hadn’t called at all. So is this what it was going to be: divorce. All that wealth he had accumulated, gone after, now to be divided between them. She had been his partner, and that’s what the law required. Though he had perhaps shortened his life a few years chasing opportunities. And he would go on chasing them with half the capital. She could relax with her portion, no worry, no heartburn, no high blood pressure. But she wouldn’t know how to spend it; she would waste it away on her brothers; and she didn’t know how to have fun. The initiatives in that department too had been his: where to go on holiday, where and what to eat today, which club to join; hell, what decor to put in the house.
Sitting by the pool, he thought about the Indian woman he was evicting on Danforth, who had said to him “we are as one.” Her face was familiar, she must be from Dar; she would be his age, he guessed, but looked much older. Years in the new country had done nothing for her looks, her clothes, her demeanour. Where was her husband? Dead, or more likely he had left her. That woman must have been unhappy from day one, as soon as she reached maturity … at home perhaps looking after younger siblings and cooking while parents struggled with their livelihood; given away in a doubtful marriage in the hope of some stroke of luck somewhere; husband was probably a drunkard or a gambler, visited whores on the side … beat her up…. All that, Nazir thought, he had seen on her face … a frantic unhappiness, grasping at mercies.
He brooded over that face for a while, gazing into the amber in his glass that was so much a solace lately. He decided to call up his manager tomorrow and tell him to move the woman into one of the renovated apartments, her family having paid off a year’s rent in advance. She would be his charge from now on.
The Expected One
The man looked sinister, exotic, as if materialized from some nightmare, some dark reach of the mind. Sh
irtless and grimy, he was sitting cross-legged on the ground, his back straightened against the cement wall of the station behind him. There was a red caste mark on his forehead, under his red turban. And in front of him in a basket lay a thick snake, coiled, motionless. Nagji looked away and quickly back again, a tingle creeping down his neck as he met the thin smile, the gleaming black eyes of the man.
It was hot and dusty that day in May; buses were everywhere, docked in the station, or clogging the streets outside, in various stages of departure to or arrival from destinations in Gujarat and beyond. When Nagji arrived from one of the guest houses nearby, where he had spent the night, a gang of children and a couple of emaciated women had come rushing forward to meet him, begging, pushing past each other to be closest to him. He had turned away from beseeching looks, outstretched hands, with a look of impatience, quite aware that his own eyes had betrayed his guilt and pity, which was why he was their target. At that point, quite against his will he was drawn to the snake man. There was another basket beside the snake’s, in which people had dropped coins. Nagji was revolted by the snake, the worship it suggested, yet he couldn’t keep his eyes averted from the dormant reptile, and the repulsive character behind it; and he couldn’t walk away. The man grinned at him. Give to the deva, give to the god and he will bless, he said. Nagji took out a five-rupee note and went and dropped it into the donation basket. His heart was pounding, he intended to get away as soon as he had dropped the money. He had never been this close to a snake before, ordinarily he would be terrified. Something detained him, however, and the man began to utter a blessing. Nagji crouched in order to hear him out.