Amriika (41 page)

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.

T
he 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.

Ramji and Michel drove to Santa Monica, parked the car at the office, and then walked up to the Promenade. The meeting had been set for one. As arranged, Darcy was waiting for them at the corner patio table of a self-serve sidewalk café. He stood up, and, with a surprised look at Michel, as though he had expected someone different, said, “Well, well,” and shook him warmly by the hand.

“And how are you?” Darcy asked. “You’ve come on urgent business, it seems.”

“I’ve come for your advice and help, Mr. Darcy,” Michel said with deference.

“Inqalab will do its best,” Darcy replied, immediately putting a formal distance between himself and the visitor, as Ramji observed.

They picked up their coffees and returned to their table, and after a while Darcy turned to Michel and said, “So, tell us now what you have come to tell us.”

Michel began straight off with a plain but loaded statement. For several years, he said, he had been involved in the activities of the Restore Iran Movement. By this revelation, he succeeded in quite stunning his audience of two, who had not the remotest idea of any such connection. Having made his impact, Michel had paused.

“And this pertains to the bombing in Ashfield?” Darcy inquired quietly.

Michel nodded.

“And, from what I’ve been told, also to the Pork Riots in Dar es Salaam. You were not there at that time, were you?”

“I was. I’ll come to that.”

“Hm.” Darcy seemed lost in thought, but after a moment he nodded and said, “Go on, then.”

The politics of Iran’s Islamic revolution, and the Pork Riots in Dar es Salaam — Darcy had had a story to tell, linking the two, as Ramji recalled with excitement. That story had been Darcy’s last journalistic coup in Dar before he left for the States. Darcy had boasted about it. And here was Michel making the same connection. It was now obvious why Michel had wanted to talk to Darcy in particular: Michel had been in Dar during the riots and he had known about Darcy’s revelation in the newspapers there. A bit of Darcy’s past, it seemed, had come stalking him. Incredibly, though, Darcy, sitting back in his chair, legs crossed, showed not a twinge of excitement as he let Michel proceed.

Michel’s story began in 1969, when he was sent to school in Lausanne, Switzerland. There he met several Iranian boys and girls and immediately took a strong liking to them and their ways. He was intrigued by their country, and one summer he even paid a visit there. He spoke as if he felt that his roots lay there, which was highly unlikely given his surname, but neither Ramji nor Darcy challenged him. Michel returned to Iran a few years later to attend university in Shiraz. He loved the country, and during the five years he spent there, he learned the Farsi language. He also became close to a local girl, the daughter of a politician.

Later he went to study pharmacy in the States. Two years into his course the tragic (as he described it) revolution happened in Iran. He spoke of his grief at the loss of that beautiful country to religious fundamentalists. In Michigan, where he was at that time, Michel was introduced to the Movement.

And the girl? — Ramji asked. Michel said he had not kept regular contact with her, but after the revolution he lost touch altogether. Recently he had learned that she was married and living in the San Francisco area.

His manner was composed as he told his story, his voice remained flat and neutral despite interruptions from his two listeners. He wore denim jeans and a rugby shirt, shades in his shirt pocket, Gucci sandals. He could be in Geneva, Ramji thought. He doesn’t look the least bit worried that at this very moment the
FBI
could be out looking for him.

Darcy, beginning to look more relaxed, would set off on the odd tangent, to discuss at length some aspect of the history of Iran (for one thing), before returning to Michel’s story. There would be the trace of a smile on him, and the look of an indulgent father. He wore his trademark beige suit and red tie.

It was beautiful outside, sunny; not many people were about. Pigeons loitered between the tables looking for crumbs. Once, the sound of laughter a few tables away startled them, as if they’d been caught in a foolish, or guilty, moment. This had come, coincidentally, just after Darcy, inspired by mention of Iran and the ancient romantic city of Shiraz, all of a sudden broke wistfully into a few lines of poetry by a Persian poet.

“Why don’t you tell us about the recent events in Ashfield,” Ramji said to Michel, impatiently. “You can fill in the background later.” He turned to Darcy. “We may not have much time —
those
events may soon catch up with us.”

“There will be time,” Darcy said. “Let him tell it the way he wants to. This way, too, he won’t forget the details. And pardon my poetic digression — that seems to have irked you.”

“Not at all,” Ramji said, and lied.

Michel continued. He had obtained his nickname in school, in Switzerland; and he adopted it as his
nom de guerre
. They all had one, in the Movement — Michel, Pierre; Irma, Françoise, Debbie. It gave them a sense of professionalism, though most of them were hardly professionals. They were divided into cells. At the top — according to rumour — were some members of the Iranian royal family; but the man whose name was whispered as the real guy in charge was someone called Robin. He was believed to have been a general in the former Iranian air force.

Michel’s involvement with the Movement was casual, during weekends only. But his Iranian friends devoted most of their time to it, and he joined them when he could.

In those first months in the Movement, he simply attended demonstrations in several cities. The Tehran hostage crisis was on, and there was an expectation that the Americans would attack the
new regime. It was a godsend, this crisis, a strong ray of hope — and a weakness that the revolutionary government, out of sheer obstinacy, had exposed itself to. Those in the Movement wished fervently that at least one of the hostages in the American embassy in Tehran would die or be killed, to provoke a response from the U.S.; there was talk of sending someone, a suicide killer, to shoot a hostage and put the blame on one of the Ayatollah’s followers, even of sending poisoned food parcels. Then the Carter fiasco happened, with the botched attempt to rescue the hostages, and a mullah was shown in the news exhibiting a dead U.S. marine — and even then there was no landing of troops.