Amriika (50 page)
The letters have been sent to me either at the Company offices or at the house in Hermosa Beach, and in the early stages of its investigation the
FBI
duly scrutinized them before handing them over. It has been a while since Will last brought any mail for me and so this letter comes as a surprise.
It is from Lucy-Anne.
It’s easy to say that there is a sense of unreality about it; I don’t quite know what I am thinking as I hold the envelope in my hand, ready to open it. But my hand gives a slight tremble, my face is flushed …
Dear Ramji —
I was so very happy to discover finally where you were. I only wish the circumstances were better. I hope it all turns out all right for you in the end. I cannot imagine you as a part of anything bad. Whenever I have thought about the excesses of my own past, your example of kindness and moderation has always been a model for me. I cannot atone enough for my errors of the past. Our cause was just and real, and it is too easy to say at our age that we were young and in a hurry; but we were rash, certainly, and thoughtless and cruel at times.…Do you know that Ebrahim Abdulwahab is my husband? … I am
a teacher here in Denver, to a bunch of Russian, Mexican, and Hmong kids, among others, and I have a couple of my own in college now.…Any chance of your coming this way?
Love, Lucy-Anne
Two people. One who had believed in the destruction she caused, now free to atone and make good; and another, also destructive, but naive and not quite so sure of himself — and not so well connected either — washed away in the flood.
“Well …,” I say. He’s watching me, curiously, and so I hand him the letter and he reads it. When he gives it back to me, with thanks, I think he knows what’s going on in my mind. Such has become the nature of our relationship.
“We held it for a few weeks,” he says, about the letter. “We were debating whether to read it — there’s still a file on her.” He smiles. “But as you see, we didn’t read it — until now.”
Instead of driving me straight back to Venice or letting me take a cab, he enters through the gate of the Yoga Shrine further along on Sunset Boulevard, saying, “This is one place I bet you haven’t looked for your Rumina.”
He’s wrong, as he well knows it, but it’s a good place to get off and we say our goodbyes. I stroll through this green haven in the midst of the city’s concrete, I walk alongside the lake with its charming windmill, the ducks and swans paddling placidly on the waters, until I reach the spot, the bench I know so well. I sit there for a long time, an hour perhaps. I feel strangely depleted, after having recalled my life for Will over these weeks, and surely also
for myself. There are raw spots now, exposed in the heart. There’s a thrill to their warm throbbing, yet they are not to be pressed too hard. What remains now? what new beginning, what direction? And Will’s remark about this being the one place I haven’t looked for her — a provocative reminder of my, as yet, fruitless inquiries?
And so I pray for a miracle. It’s another half hour before I see a figure approaching round the bend, from the direction of the entrance. Her head is covered with a scarf, and she has on a long dress — and that quick walk is surely familiar? I very much want her to be the woman I’ve lost.
April 28, 1995
This book is a work of fiction. All the characters described here, the institutions called the Tech and the
ISS
, and the towns of Runymede, Glenmore, and Ashfield are fictitious; also fictitious are various organizations, including Inqalab International, the Freedom Action Committee, the Third World Liberation Front, and the Restore Iran Movement. The events described in this novel are all imaginary, except for the obvious and acknowledged historical ones, of which, however, I have given my own renditions. I should add that I have altered the year and some other details of the “forced marriage” episode in Zanzibar.
I should like to thank Umesh and Anita Garg, Shahbanu and Edward Goldberg, Saleem and Yasmin Kassam, Razia Damji and Jalal Ebrahim for their hospitality in Indiana, Pennsylvania, and California, and for their generous responses to my questions; Pankaj and Kishan Singh, of Shimla, and Harish Narang and Neerja Chand, of New Delhi; Fatma Aloo for whispering a story in my ear, in Dar es Salaam; Frances and Robin Davidson-Arnott and Stella Sandahl for providing refuge in Toronto; Laila Visram for the same in Santa Monica; and William and Tekla Deverell for making available a beautiful green spot on Pender Island to disappear into; my agent, Jan Whitford, for her encouragement; Mohamed Alibhai for answering many queries and Amin Malak
for his enthusiasm and for putting some of my fears at rest; John Oliver Perry for a last-minute and timely response regarding Newton (Massachusetts); the
MIT
archives (Cambridge) and the North York Public Library (Toronto) for kindly obtaining or making available much useful historical material; the Canada Council for the Arts, for a generous grant; and also the Indian Institute of Advanced Study and its director, Professor Mrinal Miri, for their hospitality in Shimla, India.
Finally I am grateful to my family, Nurjehan, Anil, and Kabir, for their tolerance; to McClelland & Stewart for keeping faith; to my editor, Ellen Seligman, for her patience and brilliant observations; to my copy editor, Charles Stuart, for his care and for his useful suggestions; and to Anita Chong for her always cheerful and helpful assistance.