Nostalgia (10 page)

The Notebook

Holly Chu, you've been inside my skin as Presley has. I sit here and evoke you, why I cannot explain. Forgive me if I misrepresent you in this alternative reality that I create—speculate?—for you. And for me. I could not imagine you dead and eaten, that there was not some humanity in those people there jostling against the brutality. How can we believe only the worst of them when there are children also running around laughing and playing, and men and women do occasionally sing and love? You showed them to us. We didn't see. I refused to see. Except here.

Joanie: Surely we are a part of them as they are of us…I should have listened to you, Joanie, and then perhaps I could
have kept you away from the clutches of the Friend.

#48

The Journalist

Layela, the woman who had become her lover, took her outside and down the street, along which Holly had strolled innocently only the day before, in her Safari Apparel outfit, her little mike on her collar to collect all the sounds for her audience back home. The street was noisy and crowded as usual, a few small trucks were parked at the side. People looked at her but not more curiously than before—foreigners did strange things anyway. Making small talk as they walked, they went past a small mosque, a boxlike building, from which began a faint, half-hearted prayer call, and across a littered unbuilt lot on to the next street, which looked similar to the first but was quieter, and closed off halfway by a towering wooden gate some twenty feet high. Three young men stood guard, automatics slung casually round their shoulders. Making sly, suggestive comments, they opened a squeaky door within the gate to let the two women enter an enclosed settlement. The road they were on branched into two short streets that curved and met further ahead. The houses here were of faded white stone, as in Layela's street, but better preserved if smaller. The two women took the rightmost and larger and busier of the roads and passed a few women sitting outside their houses, busy with domestic chores, children playing around them. There came sounds of television and music from the surroundings and, when she paid more attention, the vaporous aroma of
cooked rice, and the very typical clamour of older kids at a school somewhere. A customer stood outside a supply shop, chatting with the stall owner; further up there appeared to be a garage, from which a jeep reversed and then turned and came in their direction and passed them. The two walking women merited barely a glance. If not for the sight of the occasional weapon on the men, the scene looked tranquil. Suddenly they were beside a long wall on their right, recently painted white, with a blue border at the bottom. Stark as the weapons on the street was the steel barbed wire that topped this wall. At its centre was an opening with a gate, through which the two women entered into a compound. It was paved smoothly with cement and partly covered with a mat, and furnished with assorted chairs and a low table. The walls were hung with brightly coloured cloth, gashes of yellow, brown, black, and green. In the middle of this compound, on an antique wooden chair with a high straight back, sat a distinguished-looking elder with a flowing white beard and long hair, wearing a black robe embroidered with a green thread. His skin was the colour of polished oak, his eyes were deep brown. His mouth had a thin half-smile upon it. His arms rested on the flat, wide armrests of his chair, his curved right forefinger steadily and very lightly beating on it. He wore brown beads around his neck.

Layela went forward, bowed to the elder, and kissed his hand. She turned to Holly and said,—Greet Nkosi, our chief and protector.

Holly stepped forward to do as bid.

—
HI
,
SAID RADHA
.—Fancy seeing you again.

—You mean you never expected to see me ever again?

She smiled.—It's karma.

This time, failing to get one of the sofas, I'd found myself a high perch at the window of Lovelys, overlooking Yonge Street. It was windy outside, dust blowing, people in a hurry. A few wisps of her brown hair had run loose down the side of her face. She'd just walked in.

—May I, she said and took the next stool.

She quickly tidied up her hair and swept an imagined fleck of dust from one cheek. The red dot on her forehead was as bewitching as before.

I had returned to Lovelys hoping I'd find her here. Being silly, I told myself, but there'd been something attractive and
positive about her last time that I found catching. I'd never met anyone so straightforward and forthcoming. Trusting. Happy. Sunny. Her thoughts about life intrigued me too, even though I didn't believe any of them.

Perhaps she'd guessed that I'd returned only to see her, for she inched closer. And the sari, I noticed, was very clinging and sensual. She noticed my naughty stare.

—What a coincidence! Do you work nearby? What kind of work do you do, Frank?

—I'm a doctor…

—A doctor! What kind?

—Just an ordinary one.

What kind of doctor doesn't like to say? My kind. Would she understand if I told her I gave people new memories so they could begin new lives? No. She didn't believe in breaking the karmic cycle. Well, if it's breakable, why not?

—And you? I asked.—What line of work are
you
in?

—I'm a people facilitator—a friend-maker. I help people make friends.

What did that mean, I wondered. A matchmaker of sorts? The attendant announced my drink and cheerfully placed it before me in a large mug. He shouted loudly enough for all to find out that here was a special coffee fortified to help the aged keep young. But I was not the only one there who'd ordered it.

—Be my friend, then.

—I
am
your friend.

—Oh. And I guess I'm yours.

—You must be
certain.
I know you are. Are you still assessing me?

And we stared at each other, our smiles not of seductive parrying but of friendly jousting.

I asked,—Do you come here every day, to protest? That's hard work.

—Except weekends. I see you don't think much of what we do.

—I don't see the point, to be honest. Do you expect to change the world? Do you think people will give up their chance to live longer? It doesn't seem to me that way. Progress proceeds one way—forward.

I pointed with a finger for emphasis. Mischievously, she grabbed it with one hand, then let it go.

—I see you're going to be a hard case.

—You want to change the world.

—Yes. And today I'll start with you. I'll be honest with you too. I know what you do. Someone pointed you out to me once, on the street. You are a well-known doctor. A
rejuvie
doctor.

—It's not that I operate a concentration camp.

She laughed delightedly.—Don't be so serious. I didn't mean it that way. But you see, you, most people, are under the illusion that natural life ends and must therefore be lengthened artificially. Well, I've got news for you. It doesn't. The body ends. The soul returns in another body. And I've got more news for you. There is an eternal life which is even better than this one…

And thus she went on. I was tempted to tease her, Then what would be the point of your pamphlet with the blue child-god and the chanting and singing? How does that garish display accommodate the idea of eternal life and the soul? I knew she would have to resort to that cure-all of symbolism, but not wanting to spoil the mood, I kept quiet and just watched her. There was perhaps a silly smile on my face, such was her charm. Simply listening to her speak was enjoyable—the impassioned voice, the friendly manner not yielding even for a moment.

I was not unaware that it was her naïve beliefs that rendered the woman before me so deliriously happy; they left no room for irony and cold reason. The curse of so many of us. She was blessed. We spent more time together than her customary tea break, and I'd not enjoyed myself so much for a long time and felt as free of anxiety. When we got up, we agreed to meet again at the same place next week.

On the train back I allowed a feeling of guilt at my faithlessness. I had no excuse, not even that I was repaying Joanie in kind. I'd done what I was not expected to do, I'd acted out of character—and it had brought about a quiet sort of happiness in me, an understated exhilaration. Surely that was bad faith. Joanie did what she did, without stealth, without much joy either. I knew that. I was the anchor in her life, the support of our relationship. Did I have a right to be happy on my own? In secret? I was the cursed one.

Back at the clinic, I completed some reports and took a phone call from DNI, the Department of New Identities, regarding Sheila Walktall, and gave the bureaucrat my opinion on her application. He said would I reconsider? Her physician had strongly recommended she be allowed to go ahead with a transition. Her personal problems merited that. I agreed to see her again. It was a little later than usual when I left. On my way out, Lamar approached me, grinning, and explained to me the cause of the hubbub in the outer office some moments ago.

—Did you hear, Doc? Holly is alive!—that reporter who was eaten!

After making suitable exclamations, and having laughed at a joke about how Holly might have tasted, I hurried home, rather rattled. I could not quite rationalize to myself why I felt the way I did—not happy. On my way I thought I heard a cry or two of
Holly's alive!
Someone said
Traitor!
—the significance of which I would only realize later.

What's happened to you, Holly Chu? You're alive, after all…and turned into one of
them
? You were better off dead, our girl hero. But who am I to say that.

Is someone playing a joke?

There was a brazen new image on her Profile. A thin smile on her face, wearing army fatigues, she was standing on a dirt road holding a red flag in one hand and a raised automatic weapon in the other. She hadn't looked very strong before, that gun she was holding up could not be light.
There was a young dark woman with her, slim and tall, standing behind and to a side. It was a posed photo, with a patchy green landscape and a blue sky in the background, both girls looking wide-eyed at the camera. Holly looked drained and pale, her hair was uncombed, but there was a definite glow on the other one's face.

A boldfaced banner under the two women proclaimed:
BRING THE BORDER DOWN! WE ARE NOT RATS! OWEO!—ONE WORLD FOR EVERY ONE!

No, this was no joke. She was alive, and that picture, as we know, would soon find itself on a radical poster. All those messages of sympathy, the heap of bouquets on her Profile, had been replaced by vicious invective.
You bitch, you communist Asian cunt, you traitor
…Heaps of shit. Overnight, Holly became the most hated creature this side of the Long Border.

Who was the real Holly Chu? The curious, good-natured, and well-meaning Toronto girl who loved to report from faraway places, or the revolutionary behind the Border?
We're a part of them as they are of us…

We who have violated personal history and personal relationships in our bid to become immortal, can we now really know for certain who we are?

—
OKAY
,
OKAY
,
I GRANT YOU THIS
—Bill Goode, wearing an off-white collarless Indian jacket over a blue shirt to match his hair, was saying to his guest, both now seated on easy chairs behind a low, long table, Bill holding up a hand to surrender the point.—They don't actually
eat
people—but they Chu'd this one up proper!

He turned his head to flash his wide smile at the audience, who broke out into predictable laughter. There were shouts of approval. A delayed guffaw was followed by more laughter.

The guest was Ralph Bloom, a middle-aged academic in a grey suit and red tie.

Bill asked him,—And you call it what, the Finland syndrome?

—Stockholm. The Stockholm syndrome, Ralph responded patiently, knowing full well that the error was deliberate.

—In which the victim, one Holly Chu of XBN, spouts the cause of her victimizers. Actually demands ransom for the kidnapped tourists! Can you believe this! Come on, Ralph. Here's one of our best and brightest, from a good and accomplished family and educated at one of our best universities at great expense—and known personally to me and liked and supported by all of us here at the station—what's going on? We've been
bazoonked!

—In the Stockholm syndrome, said Ralph,—for which there are numerous precedents, the victim is frightened and confused, and in that state, a part of her mind empathizes with her kidnappers' cause—which in a simplistic way seems to make sense to her—to many of us, in fact. Subconsciously the victim at the same time believes that by pleasing her kidnappers she can win her freedom. She's wrong, for her victimizers are terrorists and cowards.

—It doesn't look like a
part
of her mind that's doing the talking. Look, she's holding up a gun and she's the one making the demands. And let me tell you, she's convincing and scary. It's Dr Jekyll and Ms Hyde. She believes what she's saying. Don't tell me she doesn't!

A shaky, blurry image of Holly Chu dropped down in front of Bill and Ralph, and spoke to the audience. It had been transmitted from Maskinia.

—I am Umoja wa Kwanza of the Freedom Warriors of Maskinia. We have taken nineteen of your overfed, ignorant citizens as hostages. Peeping Tom tourists such as these
come to gawk while our people die of hunger, disease, and radiation…

Her North Atlantic accent and her clean features, despite the oversize fatigues, seemed to belie her message but made its threat more real and believable. If this could happen to one of us, if a privileged young woman, known and admired, suddenly joined the terrorists, anything was possible.

—For the release of these nineteen hostages we demand five hundred million dollars, half in small WCUs, the remainder as gold. Further instructions will be forthcoming when our demands are agreed upon. Failure to agree will result in dire consequences for these Peeping Tom tourists.

On the set, Bill Goode exploded with derision.

—Umo—Umo-de-kwango—what kind of name is that?

He turned to his audience, and the hall filled up with hilarity that, however, quickly abated as Ralph Bloom spoke up to be heard.

—Umoja wa Kwanza. It means Unity First. The Freedom Warriors is a well-known militia, in fact, that has periodically transformed itself—and re-emerged under different names. It's died only to revive again.

—Like those insect species you find there in those hot climes…uuurrrgh!

Bill Goode gave an exaggerated shudder, moving his hands and fingers in the air in a simulation of a crawling insect, and again the laughter predictably broke out. Ralph Bloom, an expert on
there
, gave a strained smile.

Bill straightened up like a naughty boy, put on a serious face, and asked,—D'you think we'll pay this outrageous ransom?

—I'm sure that negotiations are taking place. The key to resolving such crises is always secrecy and time bought.

—Well, we should send the troops in and crush them once again, Bill Goode announced, making a squeezing gesture with his thumb, then placing both hands on the table in front of him and throwing a puppy look at the audience. He was rewarded again with extended applause.

A sense of disbelief lay heavy upon the media, stunned by the knowledge that the air had suddenly gone out of its headline story:
they
turned out not to be cannibals, one of us actually turned into them, rejecting our civilization and values, which we justly celebrate. This was the new headline story.

Holly Chu's Profile showed a new main image. She appeared in fatigues and a beret, sitting outdoors behind a table with her weapon resting by her hand. The caption underneath said: Umoja wa Kwanza Freedom Warrior. There was no music. A paragraph of biographical information explained Holly's conversion.

She was born in Denver, granddaughter of an African woman and a Chinese railway worker sent to Africa on an assistance program in the twentieth century. Ever since her school days in Denver she had been disturbed by the disparity in the lifestyles and wealth on the two sides of the Border. It was obscene and a crime. (I have suppressed the exclamations.) On the other side, people lived in abject conditions, fearful for their lives, without governments to protect them; they were exposed to nuclear radiation, subjected to
rape and brutalized by the militias, and dependent on food and water dropped as aid from the sky—the portion that was not stolen; on our side, especially the North Atlantic, people lived in clean and safe cities, ate healthy food, had time for leisure, and were already extending their lives into the third generation. On her travels in Maskinia, Bimaru, and other places as a reporter for XBN, she was shocked by the horror and hopelessness she witnessed. Many a night she had wept in frustration after hearing stories of people's suffering. When she was in Toronto she had begun sending money to charities. But she had soon realized that this was simply patronizing. What did it take for the rich to throw away loose change to the poor? They felt good about themselves while the poor continued to live in perpetual humiliation. There was needed a complete change in the world order. Revolution. You could not wait for things to change by themselves. You have to grab the initiative, take the first step. So now in Maskinia she had decided to join the Freedom Warriors and do something about it. She exhorted young people in the privileged world to also take action in support of those on the other side of the Border.

And do what? I muttered to myself. The world is not going to change, you're smart enough to know that. There will always be the poor. Frustration. Desperation. Then madness if you tempt it. Ralph Bloom was right. Holly's was a delusion brought on by the shock of her capture.

In her mailbox, while perusing the messages, most of them filled with hatred and a few, surprisingly, with bravos, I came across an angry diatribe embedded with this one
line:
And Frenchie, it's threatening to flood and I am at my wits' end. Leo the Cat.
It was Presley, of course, and the
nom de plume
brought on a smile that lived but an instant. The message was far from humorous and hidden cleverly enough, though a wary Cyliton could possibly catch it. It was a distress call.

I did not know what to do. Presley had said he'd moved in with a friend, but how to find him? Using the phone was risky. Could there be a clue in his Sunflower record? But he no longer existed there, as I quickly found out now.

TOM: Can I assist you, Frank? You appear to be stumped.

FRANK:
I am. Why is my patient Presley Smith not in the records? We registered him at the Sunflower, I know that. Can you find him?

TOM:
If he's been deliberately removed, Frank, it would not be worthwhile to try and trace him further.

FRANK:
Why? Surely you can help me. It's urgent that I find him. I have a message for him.

TOM:
Sorry, Frank. I need an authorization, Frank. Then I can help you.

It was more than likely that my inquiry was flagged the moment I started searching—though I had the ready explanation that I was only attempting to help them find Presley.

I confirmed that Presley's Public Profile had also been pulled. It was as though he had never been. They had created him, in some sense, published him, as they themselves put it, and now like some banned or dangerous book they had
withdrawn him. If he didn't receive help soon, I knew that he would suffer terribly.

No probes into my brain, Doc, he'd said. They could turn him into someone else again.

Had he chosen collapse and death to that terrible alternative? Did he have any idea of the past that DIS was so desperate to suppress?