THE IMMIGRANT
Page 12
He moved forward to grasp it.
‘Hi.’
She looked troubled. ‘They stopped me at Toronto.’
‘What? Why?’
‘It took ages and ages.’ The mortification, resolutely kept down during the flight, coalesced into a brief sob. ‘They kept asking me questions.’
‘Questions?’
‘How long had I known you? When were we married? Where were we married? How had we met? What did you do? It was like the bloody inquisition.’
‘Calm down, Nina, calm down. This is standard.’
‘They were treating me like a criminal.’
‘Some people get into false marriages in order to gain entry, or to stay on; they were just making sure this was not the case,’ he said lightly. ‘If it never happened, there would be no need for such questioning.’
‘They wouldn’t treat a European or American like that. Why me? Every paper was in order.’
‘Sometimes you get a bad guy, you can’t help it.’
‘They did it because we are third world.’
‘Don’t be silly. These things happen.’
He was coaxing her into accepting and then forgetting what had happened. If they lacked the ability to do this, they would never be able to enjoy their new country. The situation made them vulnerable, one could hardly start fighting in an immigration cell, deportation would be the certain result. Ananda’s way of handling it was expedient. Nina now turned to him and smiled. He took her hand from underneath the shawl.
Outside she caught her breath. The light was slanting and lay gently on the cars in the vast parking lot, touching the trees in the distance so that they shone green. The sky was blue, so blue, and there were puffy white clouds floating in it. The air was kind and temperate.
Pride of ownership gleamed in Ananda’s eyes. ‘See, how clean, how spacious,’ he said performing the introduction. ‘Even the air sparkles. Ah!’ He closed his eyes in rapture.
She squeezed his hand. ‘Yes, it is truly wonderful. Just like the mountains of home.’
Nina did not respond to the Saab. She was still too upset, supposed the husband as they started to drive through the countryside with its many trees, lakes and the odd car or two. Nina remarked on the slim evidence of a Canadian population to be told there were only twenty million people in the whole country.
Then Halifax spread before them, gleaming in the sun, small and sweet. ‘Like it?’ asked Ananda, turning to her and laughing. He knew he was presenting something of value, civilized, ordered and therefore beautiful.
‘It looks wonderful,’ she breathed. ‘Reminds me of Brussels.’
‘Brussels is European. This is North America.’
‘It’s the West.’
‘Well,’ said Ananda, who had never been to Europe, ‘wait till you drive through. It’s like a garden.’
It went on, tidy, neat and pretty. She exclaimed, he was encouraged to point out more Haligonian wonders. Finally they entered a complex of apartment buildings, halting in front of the highest and ugliest.
‘This is the only block with a lift. From the flat you can observe the whole city, even the Arm—the North West Arm—the bit of sea water that comes into Halifax.’
‘My, an ocean view,’ marvelled Nina, the hitherto landlocked one, as they rode the elevator.
‘Your new home,’ announced Ananda as he turned the key in 612, Hollin Court, and ceremoniously ushered Nina in.
She faced a tiny corridor with a little kitchen at the end of it. To the right were two rooms, a drawing-dining with a picture window, behind that a bedroom, and opposite a bathroom, a blinding vision in pink.
Nina would not have thought there was so much to show in one tiny apartment, but there was: the drawer for her clothes, her cupboard space, the peculiarity of the bathroom taps, how the stove operated, where the switches were, where the spices were, where the bathroom cleaners were, how to put on the TV when Ananda wasn’t there. ‘And the rest you will learn by and by.’
Eagerly Nina followed her husband from knob to switch. Her new place looked comfortable, compact and cosy, unlike those terrible rooms in Jangpura that her mother would inhabit alone.
To get rid of her sad feeling, she said, ‘Show me the sea, you said there’s a view from the house.’
‘Arm, I said we could see the North West Arm from the—and it is not a house, it’s an apartment.’
‘Whatever it is, just show me.’
He parted the net curtains in the bedroom, ‘There.’
‘Where? I can’t see.’
‘There.’ He jabbed at a thin black line in the distance.
‘Oh.’
‘I told you it was not the sea, it is more like an outstretched arm.’ He drew her close to him. ‘One weekend I will take you out of the city so you can see the ocean properly. We can drive down the coast, go to Lunenburg.’
She would have to wait before she saw her image of the ocean: vast quantities of yellow sandy beach, grand foamy waves, white gulls circling in the brilliant blue sky and their own wobbly line of footprints as they walked hand in hand next to the water. She threw her arms around his neck, and nuzzled his lips. ‘That’s so sweet of you, I have never seen the sea—and the house is perfect, I shall be very happy here.’
‘Of course you will,’ he said pecking her mouth before disengaging himself. ‘Now I thought we could order pizza for lunch. How about a special combo with pepperoni, anchovies, olives, green peppers and onions. Nothing in India quite compares.’
‘I thought you were vegetarian.’
‘At home they think I am. But here I eat what everybody else does, it is simpler and convenient. You too will get used to it.’
‘I won’t.’
Meat had never crossed Nina’s lips in thirty years, how could she change now? She thought of the recipes her mother had anxiously written down for her, the special pickle she had given her so lovingly, that she had secretly carried these ten thousand miles. Five years old, a delicacy of blackish, salt encrusted pieces of lemon, their pale seeds glowing against dark skins.
‘Well, I can get you a green pepper, mushroom and olive pizza. That should do,’ decided Ananda, reaching for the phone.
In the bedroom, Nina sank to the carpet in front of her suitcases. Though she needed her toilet things, she hesitated before opening them, for all of home lay within, and she was scared of pain. Her mother and she had packed together, trying to cram within the trousseau that had been collected over a lifetime.
Slowly she fit the tiny keys in the locks. She took out her saris and stroked the intricate woven surfaces. Benarasi, Kanjeevaram, Orissa patola, Gujarati patola, Bandhani; she had fancied carrying all parts of India to Canada in her clothes. She spread the brightest one on the bed, and gazed at the magic of the green, yellow and red Gujarati weave.
‘Look, Ananda, look.’
He came, looked, remarked that it would get dirty if used as a bedcover, and would she hurry up, the pizza was coming.
Men didn’t know about saris.
She hung their radiance on hangers, shut them in the cupboard and drew comfort from knowing they were there.
ii
Next morning. Her shoulder was being shaken. ‘I’m going now, I’ll call you,’ said a voice.
An enormous effort and she managed to unglue her eyelashes a fraction. Who was this man? Into her blankness he repeated, ‘I’ll call you.’
Her husband. ‘But—but what about breakfast?’ she asked, heaving under the bedclothes.
‘I’ve already had it. If you need anything, here is my work number, here, see, under the clock.’
The front door banged, and she was left in silence. Alone, she was alone. Luxuriously she welcomed the exhaustion that forced her eyes shut.
When she next opened them it was noon. She lay in bed a long time, looking at the grey sky hovering over her through the large window, gazing at the blue and white stripes of the quilt, noticing the jumping green digital numbers of the clock
radio. She snuggled deeper into the bedding, it was so cosy and she was so comfortable. There was no one to shout, get up, get up, it’s getting late, no task that would suffer by her staying in bed, no person whose loneliness she had to assuage. Only Ananda, who was at this very moment filling the teeth of Canadian children. (She brought to mind he had a family practice.)
Eventually lying in bed became boring. She must explore, she must examine her territory in private. Boldly she strode about in her nightie, the shape of her breasts visible, as was the shadow of her pubic hair. No servant, landlord, landlady, neighbour or mother was there to see. After years of night and day protection against the eyes of the world, it felt strange to abandon the shield that had defended her modesty.
Eat, she must eat. She stares at the pink meat slices, milk, eggs, bread, butter in the fridge. She holds the cold bottle of grape juice in her hands, 1.99 dollars—just 1.99. Welcome to the land of plenty, Nina. Remember how impossible it was to drink grape juice in Delhi? The last time you had it was courtesy Zenobia’s birthday at Dasaprakash, and it cost sixty rupees. Now it seems practically free.
She found a long stemmed glass, and poured the juice. It wasn’t quite the fresh, thick, pulpy taste she remembered from the south Indian restaurant at the Ambassador Hotel, but it was grape juice, and caused a similar puckering in her mouth. She poured herself another glass and continued to drink slowly. If nostalgia came she would fight it.
The phone rang. It was her husband.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘How are you doing? Everything all right?’
‘I have just gotten up.’
‘Jet lag, sleep it off.’
Sleep some more? Oh all right.
‘Have you had lunch?’
‘No.’
‘Make yourself a sandwich.’
‘There is only meat.’
‘Eggs? Boil some eggs. Or try the peanut butter in the cupboard. We’ll go shopping in the evening. I would have come home, but I have to catch up on patients here. Sorry about your lunch.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘See you, bye. Have to run.’ He put the phone down, and silence caught up from where it had left off.
Eggs. He had told her to boil eggs.
She attempted to light the stove but it resisted stubbornly. She rummaged some more in the cupboard and came up with milk and cereal, easier than putting peanut butter down her throat, which seemed a very viscous, unsubtle, peculiar smelling mass.
It was strange to have no sign of any living thing around her. When was Ananda coming home?
She resumed her roaming, opening every drawer, peering into every cupboard. On close scrutiny there did seem to be a thin film of dust in the apartment. She found a damp blue and white cloth lying bunched up next to the sink and started.
For an hour she cleaned, with much examining of each object her duster wiped. There was nothing to disturb her. No landlord, no sound of traffic, no vendors, no part-time help to clean and swab, no mother who chatted while she worked. Chores finished, nightie clad, she stretched on the sofa and flung her legs over the cushions.
She closed her eyes, she was tired, so tired. She would get up just before Ananda came home she told herself as she drifted off.
Five o’clock. There he was, bending over her, shaking her. ‘Are you all right?’
She looked at him. Again the slight shock.
‘Did you eat?’
‘Cereal.’
‘You must be starving. Come on, we better rush, the grocery store closes at six.’
‘I haven’t had a bath.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Just put on your clothes.’
‘Aren’t you going to have tea first?’
‘Tea? I don’t have tea in the evenings. Do you want some?’
‘No, it’s all right.’
‘Hurry then, the supermarket will close.’
After some hesitation Nina put on her plainest salwar kameez. It was silk with embroidery at the neck, sleeves, and borders. She wished she had some ordinary clothes, but what with getting married and travelling to the West, ordinary was out of the question
‘Don’t you have anything else?’ asked Ananda, eyeing her splendour dubiously.
‘I have my saris,’ offered his wife.
‘Oh, never mind, let’s go. We’ll have to see about some clothes for you this weekend.’
In the hallway Ananda took her hand. ‘Are you tired?’ he asked tenderly.
She laughed, ‘After sleeping the whole day? It’s you who must be tired.’
‘Naah. I’m used to coming home and shopping.’
‘Do you have a lot of patients?’
He gave a modest smile, ‘Oh, I’ve been here a long time,’ He hummed and swung her hand down the long corridor to the elevator.
‘What name did you say the car was?’ said Nina, making up for yesterday’s neglect in this area.
‘It’s a Saab.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A Swedish car. Gary thinks European cars are a waste of money, but man, Swedish design makes this one classy car.’
Her husband had a car so exclusive she had never heard of it. In a single stroke she had outpaced the status symbols of home.
Down, down the building, down into the dank, dark, neon-lit basement.
Rows of cars. She should get acquainted with them, they were more plentiful than people.
‘One of the reasons I chose this building was that it has underground parking,’ explained Ananda. ‘Otherwise in winter it’s a real hassle plugging in the car to keep it warm, scraping off the snow, takes much longer to warm the engine too. The people in older apartments are not so lucky.’
Ananda had the air of Santa Claus as he took out the keys and the central locking system clicked open. ‘I thought this was a sophisticated colour. Indians come here and buy such showy things. Red, blue, black. No taste.’
Nina could see before her a car, pale grey, long, sleek, handsome, capable of gliding, smooth and slick over bump-free spacious roads. Her admiration was warm.
They drove around the apartment blocks of Hollin Court, across the road into a shopping complex. The trip had taken thirty seconds. ‘It’s so close!’ Nina exclaimed.
‘Yes, we only drive when we need to stock up—otherwise you can walk to the market.’
Nina stepped out of the car. The morning clouds had abated to reveal patches of clear sky. The slanting mellow light seemed to prolong evening into the hours that belonged to night. Even in a parking lot there was something wondrous about it.
‘Is it always so beautiful?’ she asked.
‘When it’s not raining. This is one of the wettest places in Canada.’
‘Rain? Oh how lovely.’ Rain, always welcome, always a respite from heat, heavy, pounding, lovely, beautiful, grey and white rain.
‘Wait till it rains. It’s not like India.’
‘I know,’ said Nina, neatly jumping over the last sixteen years and landing under the leaden, drizzly skies of Brussels.
They walked into the Dominion Supermarket. The slight chill outside was replaced by warmth. The silk salwar kameez was doing nicely, thank you very much, thought Nina as she folded her pashmina shawl and tucked it inside her handbag.
The couple wheeled a cart down the aisles, past such colour and promise that Nina felt she would go mad with the bounties of infinite choice. Like the airport, only a thousand times better, because here she was not a deprived onlooker but a consumer ready to be consumed. It would take her days to digest the delights of one supermarket, a lifetime before she could be indifferent to its charms.
The adult pleasure of wallowing in a sea of material goods was entirely new to her. Eventually she would experience exhaustion at the claims made on her senses, but for now she was all ardent response and eager reaction.
Ananda was indulgent of Nina’s indiscriminate urges. No, no, not so much grape juice, or so many chips or biscuits, that’s a dip, we don�
�t want so much dip, only sugarless candy and gum, I am a dentist, no, put them back. Amused he led her firmly to the meat, fruit and vegetable section. Where there was no dirt on anything, and a certain quality guaranteed in the purchase.
Gratified by the success of their first grocery shopping, Ananda wheeled the laden grocery cart towards the car. On the way home he elaborated on his sagacity, ‘You run out of something, you just whip down and out—of course in winter you have to wear warm clothes, the wind is a little strong sometimes, but living so nearby, what does it matter?’
Back in the apartment building basement, Ananda took out a small trolley from the trunk. For taking groceries up, no servants.
‘We never had full time servants at home either, and I wish we had trolleys,’ said Nina.
They unpacked together. ‘I’ve never bought so much junk in my life,’ joked Ananda as he flipped open a can of beer. Nina felt the delectation of a pampered child.
Then they cooked in the small kitchen, rice, dal and raita for Nina, with an additional grilled fish for Ananda.
‘Is this how you eat every day?’ asked Nina.
‘Hell, no. I just fry some hamburger patties, whole wheat bun, salad on the side, or I grill some fish with a bit of lemon and butter. On the weekends I may make a steak, sirloin or T bone, with some mashed potatoes and peas.’
‘So you never eat Indian?’
‘Too much trouble, too much time. I only cook Indian when I have guests, they seem to expect it,’ he added gloomily.
‘So, you are doing this for me?’
‘Until you get used to something different. I’ve made enough dal for a week.’
Could his care and consideration be equalled, could she have married a better man—no, thought Nina, no. The institution of the arranged marriage was alive and well so far as she was concerned. Mentally, she sent a message to Zenobia and her mother, I am all right, don’t worry, he cooks most of the food and freezes tons of dal for me, stay well, love Nina.
That night, in bed, Nina was more prepared for the brevity of their sexual encounter. It was easier to not compare Ananda with his predecessor in a different country. ‘Welcome home, darling,’ said Ananda, putting his arm around his wife afterwards. And that was the main point, wasn’t it? Not her orgasms, but the fact that she was home.