THE IMMIGRANT (17 page)

Ananda looked pleased.

‘But it was very different from the book. In fact,’ she said, warming to her theme, ‘I much prefer
The Rainbow.
’

‘Do you?’

‘Oh yes. I read everything Lawrence wrote, but his blood thing is overrated. What do you think?’

‘As a medical student, I did not get much time to read.’

Perhaps that was just as well. Only a fool would be influenced by the whole Lawrentian sexual mystique. If one applied books to life one had to distinguish between the prescriptive, descriptive, metaphoric and realistic.

She grabbed her husband’s hand. He pressed it momentarily before releasing it. He did not encourage affection on the road; too unsafe, too reckless, one should focus on what one was doing.

‘Did you know insurance rates are the highest for young unmarried men below twenty five?’

‘Really?’ How much the man knew!

‘They are considered very reckless.’

Nina twiddled with the knobs of the car radio, and was rewarded by a Beatles song:
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, it’s all right.
She hummed and tapped her feet while her husband drove in silence.

That night Ananda couldn’t wait to get inside her. No foreplay, no kissing, just jam it in. Nina tried to take his head in her hands to suggest some preparation, but he was too impatient. The green glow of the digital clock cum radio sitting on the bedside table illuminated the seconds for one minute, and it was over. She didn’t even have time to speculate on the whiff of hospital odour, similar to the one she had smelt at the Oberoi. As she reached for his hand, he sighed,

‘That was better, wasn’t it?’

She murmured an assent. What this said about his standards, she did not care to consider. Besides, her body had decided to object to his emissions again. She rose to pee in the pink bathroom. Washing herself liberally, she wondered how long it would take her to conceive.

She woke up late next morning. From the stillness in the apartment she could tell Ananda had gone. He insisted she not get up for him, insisted beyond politeness, and she wondered whether he saw her as an intrusion. On his own for almost ten years, he must value his space. It couldn’t be easy to share everything with a still unfamiliar wife.

Rubbing her feet together, she lay in bed, eyes shut, enjoying the pleasure of perfect idleness. It was beautiful outside and the mild sun, clear blue sky and stringy white clouds called to her. She decided to surprise Ananda by planning and cooking dinner on her own. That meant she would have to touch meat, but such a moment was inevitable; it was not really fair that, because of her sensibilities, her husband had to cook his carnivore dish after the stress of work.

Tea in hand, she settled down with
Canadian Cooking at its Finest,
a book her husband loved. When I called so and so, I cooked such and such out of this, and boy, they couldn’t believe it had been made by me. Sue even said she was reminded of her mother’s cooking.

A glossy picture of a pork chop caught her eye. The recipe sounded easy with paprika, sour cream, peppercorns and bay leaves. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too bland. She got up, had a bath, put on her uniform and wended her way to the nest of shops across Hollin Court, that semi-circle of magic and desire. There was the Dominion Food Store, her old friend, the Shoppers Drug Mart, Canadian Tire, Scotia Bank, Nell’s Green Thumb, Flo’s Bakery, Canadian Post.

Each shop felt like a treasure trove. These very things Indians yearned for at home, here hers to possess. Alone she could exhibit her third world immigrant self, no witness to the depths to which a former academic had fallen.

Today she started with the Shoppers Drug Mart, really a shopper’s wonder mart. The drugs were confined to a small counter at the back, scarcely noticeable. The real drug was to her senses.

Starting down the corner aisle she passed sunglasses, mittens, gloves, in various sizes, colours, prices, textures.

Turn a corner stacked with special discount shampoos, then down another aisle to meet shaving creams, hair dyes, shampoos for every conceivable hair type, fragrance, different brands, marked down ones, bargain ones, store brand ones.

Turn the corner stacked with discounted bags of sweets. Colours of the rainbow glowed from bags of gums, jellies, boiled candy, chocolates, peppermints, caramels, toffees, mouth fresheners: the deep reds of cinnamon and cherry, the greens of mint, the blacks of liquorice.

Slowly around another corner, skirting the pyramid of two for one toothpastes.

To move on, down the aisle to body lotions, to meditate on her skin type, to compare prices and brands, to wonder how long it would take for one bottle to finish before another could be bought.

Around the corner to bath salts, bubble baths, bath creams, bottles and cubes all promising beautiful, glowing skin in a miasma of perfume, if one could bring oneself to lie in a tub and be surrounded by one’s dirt.

And then the counters where the agents of beauty were displayed: nail polish, lipsticks, mascara, eye shadow, foundations, with brushes to put these things on. And creams, thousands of creams to defeat age, blemishes, wrinkles, sun, water, dryness, oiliness—a cream for every second of the day and night.

A girl advances towards her. Would she like a free demonstration?

She is startled. It is more important to look than do. She rushes on to the savouries: potato chips in myriad flavours, barbeque, sour cream and onion, plain salted, garlic, cheese, then past the corn chips, the onion rings, the Cheetos, the tins of Pringle.

Turn the corner, past the stationery, the greeting cards, pencils, pens, office and kitchen equipment.

Down another aisle, past toilet paper, tissues, sanitary towels.

Endlessly picking up and putting down, staring, staring. So much variety takes away her power to choose because everything beckons.

She comes away with full eyes and empty hands. This was not about need, it was about plenty, and she feels sick from gorging.

Dissatisfied, and out of tune with herself, she angrily walked to Dominion’s. Why had she wasted so much time gazing at things? Firmly she walked past the aisles in a straight line; pork chop, sour cream, paprika, bay leaf, tinned peaches, cake mix, bought purposefully, without looking right or left. To do this was a test of character.

Her character tested, she lapsed into dreaminess before the window of Nell’s Green Thumb, visualising a home full of flowers, imagining suspended pots flowing over with myriad shaped leaves.

And then to reward herself for her steadfast behaviour in Dominion’s she visited the bakery to buy a cupcake, eat and feel sick. It was too rich for her, too full of white flour, which settled like a stone in her stomach, making her feel dull and full for hours afterwards. Still the sticky sweet taste soothed her.

One day she would have looked her fill, satisfied enough longing to feel replete. On that day she would float through the semi-circle of shops, going straight towards the things she needed, above the blandishments of the material West. That day she would have clarity of mind and heart. She thought these things as she trudged up the little hill to 612 Hollin Court, bearing her produce in a backpack.

Ananda was going to be offered peaches in cream. Both of them liked tinned peaches, so big, yellow and syrupy. And he was going to get a crisp fresh salad with blue cheese dressing, the one he loved, that was evidence of his sophisticated preferences. And chocolate cake with cherry burgundy icecream.

She ate this same ice cream for lunch, rested, then put on an old shirt of Ananda’s over her salwar kameez to start the cooking.

Rub garlic on the pan, braise (explained by the glossary) the chop, stab it gingerly with fork, mix sour cream, paprika, five peppercorns, salt, throw in pork chop, shove in oven, reflect on how lonely it looks, hope the husband will like it. Now cut up the salad, boil peas, mash potatoes, make cake from the stuff in the box, open peaches, lay table. Set wine glasses, unearth candle stand, insert three red candles. Use Indian table mats, part of trousseau. Rest aching legs, ignore counter covered with peel and packages.

A key turned in the lock.

‘Surprise!’

‘My goodness. What is this, a party?’

‘A party for
you.
’

‘My,’ he repeated, coming to kiss her. She lifted her face eagerly.

He poured himself a drink while she briefly described her expedition to the Hollin Court shops. I went, I bought. Then they sat down to eat.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked, surveying him from behind the egg shaped glow of the non-dripping candles. ‘I couldn’t taste the meat, but I know you are fond of pork chops. I hope it is all right?’

Ananda looked up, mouth full. ‘Very good,’ he said appreciatively. ‘How did you manage to cook like this?’

‘Canadian Cooking at its Finest.
’

‘Wonderful book. Sue said her mother couldn’t prepare better spareribs.’

‘You mentioned.’

‘These people are very particular about home food.’

‘I know.’

‘And you are fitting in nicely.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you haven’t finished your wine.’

Nina gingerly sipped the sour tasting liquid.

Ananda beamed, ‘Californian. Three dollars a bottle. Tastes the same as French, so why pay good money for a name? Now—what’s for dessert?’

The wine made Nina feel high and melancholy, like looking at the sky from the apartment window and feeling her solitude. She shook herself. ‘Cherry burgundy ice cream, chocolate cake which I baked, peaches with cream.’

‘
Three
deserts Wow.’

‘Well, I couldn’t decide—so I thought why not allow you the choice.’

‘At the clinic today I never thought I’d be getting such a spread. A real change from bachelor days, I can tell you.’

Nina bustled about with many dishes, while Ananda cleared the plates.

Much was eaten.

Then Ananda said, ‘You sit, and let me do the washing up.’

‘I will do it. You have had a hard day at the clinic.’

‘But you bought the stuff. If you had waited we could have done this together.’

‘I have nothing much to do.’

‘Well, relax.’ He solicitously poured some more wine into her glass.

‘I don’t think I can drink so much,’ offered Nina.

‘Nonsense. Just a light Zinfandel.’

Nina sat and sipped. Ananda washed; she could hear the splash and clatter of dish against water. He came out of the kitchen, rolling down his sleeves.

‘There, that’s done.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Hey, no need to thank me. Here we share everything. You cooked, I wash, it’s perfectly fair.’

‘Yes, well.’

In the silence that followed this, sadness flowed over Nina. She had fed on his appreciation all evening and still it wasn’t enough. What can one do with a hungry heart?

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, looking at the face that mirrored these thoughts.

She shook her head.

‘Has anyone said anything to you? Today at the store?’

‘No, no—the store was fine.’

‘Everybody is very nice here.’

‘I’m sure.’

He pulled her onto his lap and caressed her. His shirt smelt of Tide and fabric softener, of cigarettes and the faint odour of sweat. Maybe the wine was making her feel like this.

Her mother: things take time. In the end patience and love achieve their own rewards. A woman’s duty is to understand this.

She wondered if this had been the philosophy that lay behind her parents’ perfect marriage. There was no way she would ever know.

That Sunday they were going to the uncle’s for lunch. About time, thought Nina. It had already been a month, and she was keen to set down roots that would make her feel more at home. In India these relatives had seemed peripheral, more tourist than family. Now her perception had changed. She wanted to be close to them.

‘Which sari should I wear?’

‘Sari? Won’t that be too formal?’

‘Of course not. They’ve been to India, they understand the way we dress.’

‘Well, people are casual, keep that in mind.’

‘I wish I had got to know Aunty better at the wedding. And Lara and Lenny.’

‘She’s not really an aunty like that. It’s pointless to think of them as we do of relatives back home.’

‘Why? He’s your uncle. Lara and Lenny are like Ishan and Ila for me.’

Ananda snorted.

‘Is there nobody here you are close to?’

‘There’s Gary. And if Sue weren’t so awfully busy with her two children, she would be the one to help you.’

Nina had noticed the absence of Gary and Sue. Was it always going to be like this, just her and Ananda?

All set for social contact they drive to Young Avenue, the wife in a gorgeous patola sari, the husband informal in blue jeans and a sweatshirt. With his wife by his side, he feels he can venture briefly into his past.

‘I lived in that house for a year when I came.’

‘Why did you leave? Much better to stay with relatives than be a paying guest.’

‘Naw. It was time to move on. Be independent.’

‘I suppose it’s easier here. They would be so hurt at home if one ever tried to do such a thing. Imagine if I had left Mama. All the extra money, all the pain, then the safety, the difficulty of renting, no, it would have been inconceivable,’ she ruminated. With only Ananda to talk to, she talked considerably.

‘Parents are different.’

‘True.’

‘He helped me a lot in the beginning, but that didn’t mean I had to go on being dependent. He is very family minded; he came all the way for the wedding though four tickets cost him two thousand dollars.’

‘That’s not cheap.’

‘Well, he is a doctor.’

They turned into Young Avenue, ‘the best street in Halifax’, promised Ananda as he manoeuvred the car into a parallel parking situation against the curb. Despite Ananda’s caveat, Nina fantasised a Nancy who would take to her, invite her for tea, make efforts to alleviate her homesickness because she was a new addition to the family.

The door opened, and there was their pant-suited, welcoming aunt. How marvellous you look, great to see you again, welcome to Canada. At the head of the stairs was Dr Sharma, beaming, welcome to Canada, what a pleasure to see a woman in a sari, so that Nina for a moment could stop feeling overdressed.