by M G Vassanji
The visitor had an angular face with pronounced cheekbones, a straight nose, high forehead, and thinning hair; and he was expensively dressed, in a sports jacket and jeans, and a collarless black and white checkered shirt; his platform shoes suggested vanity — he was not exactly short.
“Michel is from your home town — Dar es Salaam,” Zayd said from his chair.
“Michel?”
“Former name Mehboob.”
“I know you,” said Michel, suddenly sounding animated as he met Ramji’s look. “I used to see you around. My elder brother — Alnoor Somji — was your classmate, wasn’t he?”
“Why yes,” Ramji said, pleasantly surprised. “Isn’t he in Calgary now? How is he?”
Ramji had run into Alnoor, his classmate of many years, once in Toronto, at a Community event, after a period of almost twenty years, and had barely recognized him.
“He’s doing great,” Michel replied, sounding more subdued.
“And you must have been the kid who used to follow him around when we were teenagers,” Ramji said, with a gleam in his eye. “Well, what brings you to L.A., Michel-Mehboob? And do you get Inqalab where you are? Where is that — Calgary?”
“Michel comes from Michigan,” Zayd put in.
There was an uncomfortable silence in the room, and Ramji felt the beginnings of uneasiness. He glanced towards Zayd, who for no apparent reason nodded at him. Michel was sitting with his hands between his knees, fingers intertwined, as if poised to speak his mind but holding back. A bro from Dar, thought Ramji, observing him, brother of good old Alnoor Somji, chartered accountant, about whom I could tell a few stories (just as he could about me).…Was Michel in some sort of trouble? What kind of trouble? … Perhaps the guy is simply broke and wants some money. No, he’s too well-dressed for that. Not an immigration problem either, he looks savvy enough. Then what? Zayd, sitting back in his stuffed chair, contemplated them both thoughtfully. Ramji realized he had an elder-brother status with respect to their young visitor, which Zayd was in the process of exploiting.
“What’s this about?” Ramji asked finally.
“You see …,” Michel began, “you see …,” looking guilty as hell, Ramji thought, and asked him: “What have you done?” And then, more gently: “Have you done something?”
“Nothing criminal, I assure you.” He paused, eyed Ramji a moment, looking rather like a schoolboy, then he blurted out: “But they’ll try to get everyone who made speeches at the gathering in Ashfield, Michigan —”
A long moment’s silence. Zayd played with a pencil on the oped page in front of him.
Ramji said, slowly, “The bookstore bombing …,” thinking angrily, therefore protectively, How did this idiot get involved with that? and turned towards Michel for an answer.
“Yes,” Michel said, leaning forward. “But I was in no way involved in that bombing — I swear.”
I swear. That’s what we would say as kids to give our word. I swear upon God. I swear upon my father, my mother, by my faith. But what does Michel’s oath amount to, a man on the run …
Zayd was saying, “Michel has some information that he thinks should come to light. That’s why he has sought us out — especially Mr. Darcy. It is about the Pork Riots in Dar es Salaam.”
“But what do the Pork Riots have to do with the bookstore bombing?” Ramji asked.
“That’s what I want to explain,” Michel said.
Zayd continued: “He says his information deals with U.S. involvement with fundamentalists abroad. He also has his own ideas about the bombing. He wants to tell us about that and what exactly happened in Ashfield — before they start making the arrests.”
“I’ll wait outside,” Michel said, pausing to eye them both before walking out.
Zayd went on in a lower voice, “He insists he’ll tell the full story only when Mr. Darcy is here. I don’t think it’s a bad idea to wait — Mr. Darcy will be back tomorrow. And then we may well have a whale of a story on our hands.…But meanwhile” — and there came a significant look on Zayd’s face — “meanwhile, Michel must have a place to stay.”
“I can’t keep him,” Ramji put in quickly. “I hope you’re not suggesting that. Get that clean out of your head. Let him stay in some hotel, if you want my advice.”
“Impossible,” Zayd said. “He would have to give his address and a credit card and whatnot for that. I can’t keep him. I’m travelling on Wednesday — besides which, Michel is your countryman, one of your Community —”
“That doesn’t make him my responsibility!” Ramji’s voice rose sharply, desperately.
Zayd was staring at him. “If you want, I can tell him to go,” he said quietly. “Just say so.”
Ramji looked away. To his right, facing Zayd and occupying a good portion of the wall, was the U.S. — a slide of which Zayd had shown with much enthusiasm at the Darcys’ party several weeks before, to illustrate his lecture on the Phantom Author’s movements. Ramji felt a chill in the heart. He couldn’t believe what was happening.
“He is one of you,” Zayd went on. “And he’s probably innocent. He insists he is.”
An appeal from a compatriot, a Community member; we were brought up to believe we are all brothers and sisters, we stand by each other. We come from the same neighbourhood, went to the same school and the same mosque … rows of fidgety boys sitting together on the floor, and a monitor minding you — how can you forget. You could end up losing your faith, but you would never really abandon a brother. Give him a place to stay in an hour of need? Surely this was the right thing to do. And so Ramji drove home with Michel beside him, prey to all manner of thoughts. He was dreadfully afraid. It was as if the blue skies of California had been shadowed by a sinister sepia tone and the world was not the same. Soon he was on Lincoln, caught in the afternoon traffic, heading south. There was no going back.
“You asked for Mr. Darcy when you came,” Ramji said to Michel as they left the office. “You must have been surprised to find me there.”
“I had no idea,” Michel said, “until Zayd told me there was someone else at Inqalab whom I might know … real coincidence, meeting you here like this.”
“It sure is,” Ramji said dryly. After a pause, he added: “There must be something you were up to in Ashfield that made you want to leave town and come all the way to California. Can you tell me, what was it?”
This was perhaps more bluntly put than he intended, but he got a quick response:
“I made a passionate speech at a rally, and then I attended a meeting. That’s all I did. I came here because of the story I have to tell. My version of the events will prove that I am innocent.”
They had said nothing much after that, except for some perfunctory comments on local geography. Then Ramji told Michel that he lived with a Zanzibari woman who would also be Michel’s host. Rumina had not been home when Ramji called from the office to explain about the guest who would be arriving with him.
Reaching Hermosa Beach, Ramji turned into Pier Avenue. He parked the car as close to the beach as he could and they walked out, Michel the embodiment of calm — even when they passed the two parked police cars which were a regular feature of the area at this time of the day (and which had quite slipped from Ramji’s mind).
They arrived at the boardwalk and began strolling casually along it.
“Do you do this every day?” Michel asked. “Come here for a stroll?”
“Yes,” Ramji replied. “I like the feel of the air here, and the sea.…Sometimes Rumina and I come here at night and watch the stars.”
A couple of surfboarders were out riding the waves, a volleyball game was under way. A flock of squawking seagulls flew past.
“Tell me,” Ramji asked quietly, “what exactly happened in Ashfield?”
Michel took his time before answering.
“The bookstore had on an offensive display of that book by K. Ali in its window.”
“And?”
“Well, naturally the Muslims of Ashf
ield protested. The bookstore made the display even bigger and showy with more books about Islam that were offensive. The manager’s a real right-wing jerk. There was a big rally with speeches. I called the book an act of terrorism and said we should defend ourselves from such acts … that the bookstore was aiding an act of terror.” He looked up and said, “That’s what your magazine Inqalab said, didn’t it?”
“Well, I didn’t say it.”
Zayd and Basu had written that opinion, jointly, in an article, arguing that the book attacked what many people held dearest, which was their faith.
“Then what happened — how did you propose to ‘defend’ yourselves?”
“There was a secret meeting, to discuss strategy, what should be done to stop the display and sale of books, which I attended. Nothing came of it, just talk, the usual thing, everyone wanting to be heard. And then a few days later — the bomb. It took the whole town by surprise.”
They stepped off the boardwalk and out onto the sand to avoid the joggers and the more intent walkers.
“Do you believe those books should have been destroyed?” Ramji asked, impulsively, not quite sure what he intended to make of the answer yet feeling a desperate need to know more about this visitor.
“I said so, yes, at the rally. I was angry. I’m not sure I meant it. A lot of people were saying it. Strong feelings were expressed. But I was not involved in that bombing. You must believe me.”
They had stopped, and Michel looked Ramji straight in the eye. “Not in any way,” he said quietly but emphatically.
“You know who is responsible, though …”
“I think so. But I must tell that story from the beginning — it involves Mr. Darcy.”
“In exactly what way does it involve him?”
“It’s a long story.”
“And your family — do they know you are here?”
Michel shook his head.
“Let’s go home,” Ramji said, and they started back to where the car was parked. They passed a florist, and Michel said he wanted to stop.
Rumina was home when they entered the apartment and Michel presented her with a bunch of carnations, saying “Enchanted.” And Rumina was enchanted too. She took the flowers and gave a broad smile, saying to Ramji, “You didn’t tell me we were having a visitor …” and to Michel, “Welcome, I’m afraid we are not prepared —”
“That’s quite all right,” Michel said, “but I must apologize for this unannounced visit —”
“Not at all,” she replied.
Ramji said to Rumina, “I called before we left but you hadn’t arrived yet.” He explained that Michel was the younger brother of an old friend of his and had brought an important story for Inqalab. He needed a place to stay for a couple of days.
“You are our first ever house guest, please make yourself at home,” Rumina said to Michel.
Ramji showed Michel to the spare bedroom. The two of them cleared it of the boxes and the various odd items which had come to be stored there over the past months, and they put fresh sheets on the bed.
That night, after a surprisingly relaxed dinner, they all watched the evening news, Michel wide-eyed and leaning forward with concern, Ramji worried to death and fidgety, ready to switch channels for Rumina’s benefit, and Rumina grumbling: “You guys are always complaining about the media but you can’t stay away from it.” The bookstore bombing came up as a brief item towards the end of the newscast. The FBI officer in charge of the investigation reiterated the commitment of his agency to bring the perpetrators to justice, even if they had to be brought into the country from elsewhere. “Let me put it this way,” said agent John Esposito, “our primary leads so far are to local extremist elements, but foreign agents or even governments have not been ruled out.”
“Fanatics,” Rumina said forcefully as she left the room, and then called out from the kitchen: “They give us all a bad name. I say, boil them all in hot oil …”
Ramji caught Michel’s eye. “Don’t give her even a hint, under any circumstances,” he said, and got the brief answer, “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
Michel seemed to settle in easily, unobtrusively. It was tempting to think of him as a boy. There was a naïveté about him, a certain delicacy. He had the relaxed manner of someone who’d never worked hard, but depended on parents or on girlfriends who didn’t mind giving to such a sensitive soul. How did such a person become a suspect in the bombing of a bookstore? And, Ramji wondered, how did I become the one to protect him, and in my own household?
Here I am again, harbouring someone on the run from the police. The coincidence was laughable, were it not so dangerous. Twenty-five years ago, Lucy-Anne Miller had walked into his room and expected shelter because of the sympathy he had shown for her cause, if not for her methods; and now here was Michel. But Ramji didn’t want to draw any quick lesson from this close analogy between two events so far apart in time; he had all his anxiety to preoccupy him.
And yet, when the three of them talked about the past, the lives they had left behind in East Africa, how the Community had established itself all across North America, and where various acquaintances had ended up, theirs seemed like a natural reunion of compatriots, with enough in common to last till eternity.
“I have a morning shift tomorrow,” Rumina said, standing up. “I can show you around L.A. after that, Michel, if you like.”
“No — that’s not possible.” This from Ramji, too sharply.
“Why not?” she asked.
“I … we have work to do, there isn’t much time. We go to print Thursday and his story has to be in.”
“That’s right,” Michel said. “But thanks.”
There was a short silence while she pondered this. Her eyes found Ramji’s.
“After the work then — you won’t keep him all day — how about that?”
Ramji couldn’t insist.
Later, in bed, she said, “He’s such a gentle person, isn’t he? So well-mannered. I can’t believe he’d get involved in politics. What kind of story does he have, anyway?”
“Read about it in Inqalab,” he murmured, trying to be flippant, then added, “I don’t know the details yet …”
“He’s quite young — I mean, not very old — isn’t he.”
“Yes.”
And closer to you in age, he thought. Isn’t he the type women can’t help falling for? The sensitive helpless kind. Except you don’t know what he’s running from. If I told you now you’d need no convincing that the poor boy was entirely innocent.
From behind the door came the jingle of a TV commercial. A special offer, only on TV, not available in stores … with a free gift … shipping and handling … phone number repeated three, four, infinite times … after all, who can read a number this late at night?
I’m afraid, thought Ramji. I wish I could tell you that, but my dear I don’t want to scare you, cast a dark cloud over your world. Why couldn’t I have said, No, no, no, I don’t want to be involved? If you’re even remotely connected with it I’m not interested, don’t come near me, go elsewhere. But he’d say, I didn’t do it, I swear, and I’m not a fugitive. At least listen to my story. I have been trapped, but there must be a way out of this, it has to be handled calmly like a chess game, all variations considered.
The television’s still on. The weather channel goes on forever … there’s always the weather, it doesn’t go away, merely changes. Strange, how TV sounds never become a murmur even when they are at their lowest. They needle and irk and drill into your bones, through the door, the skull, and simply drive you nuts …
Suddenly, uncontrollably, he gave a shudder. His throat constricted, he could not breathe. It took a moment to compose himself, and he let out a deep sigh. Rumina, beside him, sensed his anguish.
“What is it?” she murmured.
“Nothing,” he said after a moment, his voice betraying all.
She took him in her arms, murmuring, “Tell me, mpenzi, tell me.”
“It�
��s just that I love you so much,” he said.
“Naijua, I know.”
“And … I don’t want to lose you.”
She snuggled closer.
7
The next morning Rumina had to leave early to go to work in Santa Monica. This was not her normal shift at the coffee shop, she had been called in an emergency to fill in for someone who had quit working there — a pattern that Ramji had found increasingly familiar in recent months. He was up with her, at seven, while their guest was still in his room. Do you want to meet for lunch? she asked Ramji as he saw her to the door, since we’ll all be in the area? He made a face: Aw — I don’t know if we’ll be able to get away … sorry? That’s okay, she nodded. They embraced, and she left.
By an arrangement he and Zayd had made at the office, Zayd had undertaken to call Darcy at his San Francisco hotel the previous night and let him know of Michel’s arrival. So there was nothing else for Ramji to do but wait for Darcy to call as soon as he arrived in town.
There was no news on radio or TV regarding the bookstore bombing.
Ramji tried calling Basu, just so he could talk to someone and be reassured about his delicate situation, but Basu was in the shower. Ramji then got Zayd on the phone, and Zayd, who persisted in talking in code about “the package that’s recently arrived from the east,” assured Ramji that Mr. Darcy had been “apprised of the development,” and not to worry. They had something precious in their hands, he told Ramji, it would make “glorious copy.”
Soon after, Michel came out of his room. “Sorry I slept late —”
“Don’t worry, it’s not that late,” Ramji told him.
Michel gave a brief nod. “Rumina’s already gone, I see,” he said, sounding a little disappointed. He volunteered to make fresh coffee and went to the kitchen.
Darcy finally called, at a little after ten. It would be prudent, he said, to meet with Ramji and their visitor at the Promenade in Santa Monica. Only he would come.