Nostalgia (8 page)

THE SUN WAS COOL BUT BLINDING
, a blustery wind blew eddies of dust on the street, the odd leaf trailing along listlessly as I emerged from the transit station. Yonge and Eglinton Square was jammed with people, throngs holding up car traffic at the crossroads. A sign high over the square flashed an ad for exclusive adventure trips to Mars and our Moon, followed immediately by another one enticing the passerby with virgin beaches inside the Long Border, with the caption, The Great Long Beach. A tower wall-screen showed news from around the world, as it happened, while a moving strip across it listed the various important indices of our collective well-being. The stock markets had taken a turn up, happiness was pink. Back on earth, in one smoky corner of the farmer's market sausages sizzled on the grill,
and in the open-air restaurant next to it customers sat in a heated outdoors oblivious of the blistering cold surrounding them. I reminded myself to take some Quebec cheese home as I protected my face from the blowing dust and began to cross the square towards Lovelys Café. The pavement outside was a scene of commotion and for a moment I hesitated. A sign held up over the crowd shouted,
Die, your time is past!
Yonge and Eglinton always draws the protesters.

It's not only the young, the BabyGens, who want us oldies out of the picture so they can finally inherit the earth. It's also, for completely different reasons, the religious groups who oppose life rejuvenation. Fortunately these pro-deathers, as they call themselves, are fewer in number, though they tend to be dramatic and colourful.

Rejuve, to the monotheists, goes against the wishes of the Almighty God who planned and created the universe just so, arranging a fixed span of life for each soul therein, at the end of which He shall sit in judgment over it. God gives life and takes it away. There is an afterlife, with a heaven and a hell. You have no right dodging His archangel of death to avoid your reckoning. He'll get you anyway. The contradictions in this position are obvious to us nonbelievers. Whether they believe that judgment comes to each soul individually and immediately after death, or there is a collective Judgment Day at the end of all life, the unspoken fear of the God-believers is that with rejuvenation the reckoning gets postponed—in principle, forever. And that won't do for the Almighty. Meanwhile some of His believers show no qualms in doing the archangel's work for him.

For the Hindus and Buddhists, rejuvenation interferes with karma and the cycle of rebirths. Imitating rebirth, constructing new lives at a whim, makes a mockery of karma and the universal law of Vishnu, Brahma, and Shiva. Why prolong life artificially when you will be reborn anyway, continuously, until by your own karma that cycle is finally broken and the self finds bliss? The purpose of life is to terminate the cycle, not prolong it.

I reached the famous display window on Yonge Street occupied by four assorted dissenters in their ongoing protest against, as they saw it, the crude scientism and life-engineering of our terrible modern Age of Kali. For more than two years these self-exhibitionists had threatened to end their lives by publicly going up in flames in this window. Did they expect the world to change then? Technology to take a step back? Human knowledge to obliterate a portion of itself? But graciously they had declared that they would not interfere with the eternal cycle—the dance of Shiva and the repose of Brahma. They would kindle themselves only at their predestined, allotted times, which—here was the catch—would be revealed to each of them privately during their meditations. Meanwhile the suspense had been mounting, the days were counted, and they were a public attraction. Three of them were of Indian origin—two bald men in saffron robes and a woman with long, loose hair in a white sari, seated silently on the floor in elegant yoga postures, beatific smiles on their smooth faces and broad white marks twitching like worms on their foreheads; the fourth one was a tall Japanese-featured man with short cropped hair wearing a
white cotton kurta-shirt and pants, and he was standing, head lifted up and staring far away. His hands were joined in front of him in a pranam. Sanskrit chanting and a sonorous droning made up the soundtrack to this scene. The four had already been arrested once, then released, for obviously they had committed no crime. On the sidewalk outside the window were gathered their noisy supporters, wearing saffron or white, handing out flyers, chanting and beating on tambourines. It all looked jolly but was not a place for me to linger.

At Lovelys a few stores up, as I stepped inside the doorway, in the corner to the right I spied Presley Smith, seated back on a brown armchair, reading, his rust-red Afro prominent as a beacon in the crowded room. The armchair across from him was empty and apparently reserved for me, and having brought my order from the counter, I sank into it.

—Hello, Presley.

He looked up.—So you came, Doc.

—Of course.

We sipped our drinks in silence awhile, my own coffee appropriately fortified for my generation, his, I don't know. I wondered what he was thinking as he looked away from me. The place was fairly full and noisy, customers wandered around searching for seats. Did he know the Department wanted him back—had recalled him? That would explain his elusive behaviour—the coded reply to my message, this anonymous, crowded meeting place in the city. He was afraid.

—Where have you been, Pres? We tried reaching you from the clinic. Did you get our message?

He turned towards me and smiled dimly.—Well, here I am, Doc. What can I do for you?

No longer the patient speaking to his doctor. No warmth or show of appreciation at my concern. Yet he had responded to my message, asked me to meet him. He needed me.

—Yes. How are you?

That sounded lame, and I began again:—I mean, how have you coped, Pres, with your condition?

—I'm coping.

—Good. I received a call from DIS.

He raised his eyebrows, then said drily,—The Department of Internal Security.

—Yes. The Department. Have they been in touch?

—Why would they…

In the ensuing silence while his glance shifted around the room, I imagined his mind working, debating how much to trust me. Finally he turned back to me.

—And what did they want?

We'd been speaking in lowered voices so as not to be overheard. Now I leaned forward and asked,—Listen, Pres, have you known that you are a DIS client? That—

—I didn't before, but now I'm not surprised…

He became thoughtful, then repeated,—What did they want?

—They say they are responsible for you, and they insist that they are the ones to cure your problem, which can get serious. It's nobody else's business, definitely not mine. It's they who gave you your fiction. I am to tell you that, if I see you.

—Do
you
believe it can get serious?

—Very much so. But I've advised you of that before.

A thought leads to others, begins a chain reaction until the mind cannot control that other life surging in from the past. The result is an angry storm of mental activity, a total breakdown. I had once seen such a sufferer in a professional demonstration. The patient was raving, shouting all kinds of nonsense. The condition has been called
possession
, and has been likened to the superstition of possession by a malicious bodyless entity, a spirit.

—And how did DIS know about my problem?

—We registered your data, updated your medical file, and so on. That must have raised a flag. You are their man. But it's also possible…

—Yes?

—I suspect that they always have an eye on their clients.

What a word,
clients.

He nodded slowly.—I carry a dark secret, then, do I? What am I then really—some schoolyard shooter? A sexual predator? A terrorist?

I said nothing, and he too turned silent, drawing a deep breath as he sat up and looked around him. When at length he began to speak, his hardness had melted a little.

—I'll be honest with you. When I left your clinic, I had a feeling I was being watched…I felt nervous, actually…and later that morning when I reached my work I received a message from something called Abdo Clinic asking me to go see them urgently. I checked—Abdo is run
by DIS. I knew I had to hide—don't ask me why. Call it instinct. I decided to move in with a friend…I'm sure the neighbours will look after Oscar. My cat.

We watched as two female supporters of the pro-death group took their teas and cakes and sat down a few tables away. Both had fresh, healthy faces, hair tightly pulled back into thick ponytails. They both wore saris.

Presley asked,—You think I should go to them?

—I think you should.

—Why?

—They know you, they are better able to cure you. And besides, they won't let anyone else touch you.

—They could turn me into someone else—again.

There was nothing to say to that. He was right, of course. If he returned to them they would no doubt toy with his memory. He would be back in the hands of the diabolical X, and there was no saying what that mind would dream up to revise Presley Smith. A new edition. But did it matter if he didn't remember his old self? No, but some people remain attached to who they are, they don't want to leave voluntarily.

I imagined that Presley would choose to remain unavailable.

—Tell me, Doc—he said and smiled, finally.—Why did you get in touch with me the way you did? Rather secretive, wasn't it? Do you usually care about your patients this much?

—I like to think so. I called you, no answer. Naturally I was concerned, knowing your condition. I felt responsible— you
had come to see me first…The manner in which I contacted you? Pure luck…

I smiled, he did likewise.

—How? he asked.

—I was on the Holly Chu site, and while scanning the messages I came across one that I thought could be from you. So I wrote my note and I'm happy it reached you.

—You knew I was on the run.

—I wasn't sure how you would respond to a call from DIS. I wanted to talk to you in private, see what you had to say for yourself.

He smiled again.

—Perhaps not luck after all.

—What, then?

He didn't reply, glanced away.

I asked him,

—Have you had any more of these thoughts—I mean, has the condition worsened? Can you control them? You said last time that you could.

—Yes.

He took a moment to reflect, looking out the window behind me; finally he leaned forward and said softly,

—Listen, Doc:
A
bookstore, every wall covered with old books.
A
bridal veil.
A
cat barking.
These three intruders came knocking on my door recently. I threw them out on their ear! I'll let you know if more of them arrive.

The humour was a poor disguise.

—You should go to DIS, Pres. They can stop it.

—I'm trying some mental exercises. Yoga. If they don't
work, maybe. He got up.—I must rush, Doc. Stay in touch. See you at Chu's, perhaps.

—Contact me if you need help…

I watched the conspicuous fiery-topped figure weaving its way between the tables. How long could he stay in hiding? How long before he was discovered, how long before his condition overwhelmed him?

One of the sari-clad pro-deathers had come over and was looming over me, beaming goodwill and exuding a strong and sweet fragrance. I acknowledged with a gesture that the seat opposite me was now vacant and she sat down.

—Life is a cage, she said cheerfully, moving closer as she put a small stack of pamphlets on the table between us. Changing her metaphors, she continued, in a warm, rich voice,—The cycle of births chains us to the earth, from which we must seek release. I am Radha, by the way. Namaskar. I bow to you.

She joined her hands.

—I'm Frank. I bow to you too.

She giggled. She was a good-looking woman in an unconventional way, full of face, her well-developed figure shifting gracefully in her olive sari. Her neck was white, her arms deliciously plump. The large red dot on her forehead was hypnotic, like a source of her personal magnetism. She sounded quite insane.

—I'm not sure I understand you, I told her.

—Life is an illusion.

And I felt trapped at that moment, in that place. I glanced around; it all looked normal and only too real. Again she
leaned forward, the red dot magnetic. I wondered, quite irrationally, as I caught a whiff of her perfume, if she sang, while she went on with her message.

—Real life is eternal, it is of the soul.

—I'm sorry, I'm not religious—

—Why delude yourself?

At my utter astonishment, she explained,—You're a rejuvie, aren't you, Frank?

—And you are one of those who believe the world would be better off without me in it. What do you want me to do, kill myself?

She laughed again with genuine delight, and I could only join her in return.

—No, that's going against karma. But you can be part of the Live Krishna movement. And you'll never be afraid of death. In fact, you will become truly immortal. No false face or artificial limbs or transplanted organs, and no false memories. The soul is beautiful and immortal, Frank, the body is…ugly and corruptible. It will for sure rot away, whatever you do. I would like to leave this with you—

She handed me a brightly coloured pamphlet with a picture of a chubby blue baby floating in the clouds and said,

—Come to our meetings.

I smiled my demurral and we left the café together. Outside, she beamed at me and squeezed my arm and joined the singing, tambourine-thumping demonstrators, and I kept walking, free at last from the intoxicated clutches of holiness. Why are the deluded so happy? Or is it the other way around?

Back in my office, I gave a curious glance at Radha's pamphlet, and before I knew it, it had drawn me in. It had five channels, three of them showing bright, colourful pictures of gods, one gave information about the Live Krishna movement in Toronto and elsewhere, and the last one displayed these lines, apparently mouthed by the blue god Krishna: