No New Land (18 page)

She seemed to know all the shopkeepers downstairs, for some of them she had worked before. There were similarities in what they would buy, of course, but now and then, with a knowing smile she would pick up something that was a total surprise – and a source of delight – for him, like a vegetable he didn’t know the name of. This pointed to her different upbringing, of course. To be a Hindu you have to know your vegetables. He found on the other hand that she did not like to spend time buying meat, and he had to help her.

Mission accomplished, they sat down at the bakery. It was running late for Nurdin, but today he could make an exception.

She was looking earnestly at him. “Nurdin, I would like to tell you something.”

“Shoot,” he said, using an expression he had learned from Romesh and feeling rather good.

“You know, Nurdin – forgive me – but the time at which you come … it’s a little awkward.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”

His heart sank. Just when his life had received a spark, just when he was feeling the best he had felt in a long, long time.

“Oh, no. Please don’t misunderstand me. I do like you to come. But, you know, I never know when you’re coming.”

“I figured if you were not in, I would go away.”

“That wastes your time, doesn’t it? Makes you late at home for no reason. Why don’t you call before,
and come for a longer time. This way I feel like I’m running a tea shop.”

They both laughed.

“Listen. Why don’t you take the afternoon off, Monday week. It’ll be fun. Hunh?”

He had not made the proposition, she had. By it, his thirty-minute stolen visits had been shorn of all innocence, the pretence of teatime chitchat. He could go forward or step back, there was no neutral ground, had never been one. What to do? Let his life slip by, this golden opportunity escape – for what? He was a mere servant, slaving away for his children, whose lives now all lay before them, full of possibilities – did they really need him any more? And Zera was wedded to God, it seemed. If he procrastinated, he would never do it, never break these chains which bound him to a term of work and service to which no end was in sight. Sushila promised release. She was waiting for him, he only had to give the word … simpler, only had to take the Monday afternoon off and go to her. She needed him, sure. But she was not a whore. A little free, perhaps. But wasn’t it this freedom that was so attractive, that made possible a new world – his own freedom?

He had begun looking more at himself, become aware of his looks, took greater care with them. He used a simple ruse at home to carry this through: “Eti, Zera, do you think I look scruffy? The director of the centre wants me to dress up.… ” So easily it came, this deception. He explained it to himself by
saying that he hated explanations. A simple friend, yet talking about her would raise all kinds of complications. A simple friend? Now the time had come to choose. The simple phase of his friendship had ended.

Lately he was avoiding Zera’s eyes, although he was certain she could never fathom what lay behind his. With the kids it was different: they were always in a hurry, had no time for anyone but themselves. There was that photo on the wall, those eyes that bore into the sides of his head, digging up guilty secrets. And that constant abstract signal in the distance, from the concrete god who didn’t care.

The local chapter of Missionary’s followers, a group of women, had started regular evening meetings at the Lalanis’. They discussed and meditated, but mostly they liked to discuss. Sometimes they sang late into the night, so that he would wake up to humming sounds he wasn’t sure were in his head or outside – until he turned to check if Zera was beside him. And now there were three boys, whom Zera had found. One had volunteered to be the Master’s chauffeur for as long as he was needed. The second one collected and classified all the tapes of the Master’s talks. Nurdin hadn’t figured out the third one yet.

The rubber-tiled floors of the Ontario Addiction Centre are spotless and the walls are plain white, as would suit the look of a medical institution. But the corridors in this square building on the main floor face an open courtyard with windows all along their sides; this, with an abundance of well-situated greenery on both sides of the windows, and the loud, cheerful voices, particularly those of the doctors, make it generally a bright and pleasant place.

The basement level, quiet and windowless, is bright and gleaming in artificial light. It houses the supply rooms. From one of them Nurdin Lalani
emerged at eleven o’clock one morning, a few days after his last visit to Sushila. He was pushing a squeaking trolley heaped with bed linen. The door clicked shut behind him, and he turned a corner and pushed towards the elevators. As he approached the small lobby facing the two elevators, he saw in front of him a girl in blue jeans sitting on the floor, leaning against the side wall. Her legs were drawn up in front of her, her hands hung limp on the raised knees, and her head was lowered. Obviously she had been crying, the blonde hair was dishevelled, the face – what he could see of it – was puffy and red.

Instinctively he hurried towards her, parking the trolley on the way. “Madam – Miss – is anything wrong? Can I be of any help?”

There was no response. He looked up again, turned around, there was no one coming. He tried again. “Miss, shall I call a doctor?”

He was almost squatting beside her now, his hand was on her shoulder. He realized he had never been so close to a white woman before. And he realized he had become aware of her femaleness. He caught, quite strongly, the whiff of creamy makeup. Her blouse was white, embroidered at the neck. A button was open and he could see the curve of a breast. The skin there was pale, almost white, and dull. He was waiting for her to respond to his offer of help.

The response, when it came, was not quite what he expected. His hand was still on her shoulder when suddenly she gave the alarm.

“
RAPE
!” she cried. “He’s trying to rape me!”

Nurdin got up. “Heh-heh-heh,” he laughed. “You had me fooled.” For the first time their eyes met. Hers flashed with anger. He felt nervous as he backed away, the situation looked threatening. He pressed the elevator button and got in, without the trolley, as she was still yelling “
RAPE
! Help, someone!” There was an oppressive empty feeling in the pit of his stomach which was to stay with him for a long time to come.

He went to find Romesh and told him all about it. They concluded that the matter couldn’t be serious, the girl was probably an outpatient drug addict who would calm down.

They always took their lunch late, after one o’clock. In the cafeteria that day, pushing his tray along the counter behind Romesh, he came face to face with the server, short Mrs. Broadbent, hair inside a net, fiery eyes glaring at him behind glasses with open hostility, hands at her waist.

“There he is – you shameless man!”

His heart sank and he became truly fearful.

She had liked him at first, calling him “dear,” until once he had asked – half in jest – for a larger piece of choice meat obviously reserved for a “boss,” one of the male doctors or administrators. From then on, a glaring eye was his lot, his piece flopped on the plate. This had been a source of great amusement to him and Romesh. Now she had her revenge.

“I’m not going to serve this rapist!” she said, turning away.

“I thought in this country a man was innocent until proved guilty,” said Romesh, to no one in particular.

“Where he comes from, both his hands would be chopped off,” announced Mrs. Broadbent. “Yes, and – ”

“And his marbles too,” added Romesh.

The West Indian cook served Nurdin.

As they went to sit down, everyone present, it seemed, turned to look at him. He tried to eat, wondering what would happen next.

“I think I’ll go and explain to the director,” he told Romesh desperately. The incident loomed larger than he had thought was possible. How could a girl make an accusation and have everyone believe her. He should not have walked away. He should have stayed and defended himself, there and then.

They were still drinking their coffee, slowly, there were a few people around. It was not yet two o’clock when two policemen showed their faces at the door, short Mrs. Broadbent dead centre between them.

He was asked to accompany the policemen.

“If I’m not back by five, call my wife,” he said to Romesh.

He had touched her, and he had an indecent thought about her – was that enough to qualify as rape? There was that guilty thought and perhaps … perhaps during that instant of which he could recall
nothing, perhaps then he did do something. But no. If he had touched her breast, he would know, he would feel it on his hand, the place where it had touched her. His hands felt pure, only his mind had deviated. He should not have walked away.

And besides, he had approached her with the purest of intentions, had shown concern. He had heard long ago that in America you did not touch a person even if they were dying and needed help. Why should Canada be different. He should have known better.

In the police car he was vaguely conscious of passing shop signs. When it slowed or stopped at intersections, he would sit well back, hunched, to avoid curious eyes.

He could be dreaming. His mind, outside this one event, felt numb. Nothing from that other world could be remotely connected to his present condition, which should be able to resolve itself, disappear, like a dream when one wakes up.

At the station he protested his innocence. “I only tried to help her.” “I have a daughter her age, would I do such a thing?” He sobbed. He had to wait a long time after the initial questioning. Some people were brought in to look at him, and he realized he had become a suspect for other crimes as well. His face was compared to some drawings that two policemen brought and studied but kept away from him. A plainclothesman watched a videotape and studied him closely at the same time. He was asked to speak into a telephone, and knew that even his voice was
under scrutiny. Finally he was booked for indecent assault on one Maria Viviana Baptista of Kensington Avenue and given a date on which to appear in court.

He had felt crushed when he came home from the police station. To face your wife and have to tell her: “They say I attacked a girl.” Not meet her eyes because there was that other guilt, the guilt of all his little misdemeanours, and the guilt of visiting another woman, planning a tryst.…

Then Hanif had asked, “Did you?” And Zera had asked, “Did you?”

Did they have such little faith in him – did they believe him capable of anything – and could he really blame them now? In bed she once half turned towards him to ask: “You didn’t actually do it, did you?” He remained silent, looking up at the ceiling.
The sound of the television was faintly audible: the kids unable to sleep.… Fatima all charged up thinking of her father’s folly and how it would affect her future. He had by now learned of her own little disaster – Arts and Science instead of Pharmacy. “Weren’t you tempted?” Zera asked.

“I was tempted.… I wasn’t tempted.… I didn’t do it.”

The following days he wasn’t himself, wasn’t there, at all. It was, every time he became conscious of his situation, as if he had taken a tremendous fall, then getting up, not knowing how much of him was still there intact. Most of the time there was this heaviness in the heart, pulling him inside, into himself, making him inattentive, vague, numb, as if what he suffered from was something terribly physical, the aftermath of a deafening explosion, whose echoes drove everything else from his mind, made discussion meaningless. Only his lawyer Jamal could extract some response from him.

Missionary’s arrival, a week after the incident, turned out to be a blessing, although Nurdin had not really looked forward to it. Amidst the comings and goings, the telephone ringing, and a multitude of problems, petitions and requests submitted daily, his own problem receded into the background for him to agonize over in his private moments, to emerge only now and then when attention was drawn to him. And the Master had such a sense of humour, to which Nurdin could readily respond. He found himself very much at ease with the Master. Zera, in a
weepy moment stolen from the hustle and bustle, had indicated to him that her heart was heavy, there was a problem in the family: “No, not the children – Nurdin.” He called Nurdin over, asked him the facts, and then said, “It will be all right,” which pronouncement relieved Zera considerably. In fact, for her, the problem was solved that instant.