THE IMMIGRANT (24 page)

For years and years Nina had masturbated, hoping the day would come when a loving partner would circumvent the furtive, dissatisfied feeling this left her with. Thrice a day on average, and this restraint only due to the fact that she was working. Guilt ridden, she would promise herself, this is the last time, but her restlessness made this impossible.

Though married, the last time was nowhere in sight. After dinner, when she tried to get cosy with Ananda he would often say later, I’m tired. And Nina would feel humiliated at what seemed a reversal of gender roles; she the monstrous cornucopia of appetite. He never noticed, never asked what she had been doing for so long, when she marched determinedly towards the bathroom, sat on the toilet, opened her legs, jammed her fingers in, leaned back and closed her eyes.

In the beginning she had construed their problems to lie in their unfamiliarity to each other; even her body told her this in an itching which subsequently disappeared. His needs were obviously different, and she didn’t want to impose, hesitant about putting him off. If only she were in India, with more difficulties in her daily life, with more heat to sap her energy, with more obligations.

At night when her discontent reached epic proportions, weary of books, she would creep from her bed to turn on the TV with the volume low. She flicked the remote and was greeted with variety, the spice of life. Occasionally she got up to fetch something to keep her company: grape juice, taco chips, salsa, chocolate, cherry burgundy ice cream.

Hours later, when she had watched enough TV to put her in a calmer, more insensible state of mind, she could brave Ananda’s recumbent, sleeping, snoring form again. But often, once in bed, she became wide awake. Maybe if she did it one more time, sleep would come. With a strong sense of duty her hand slid between her legs. In the library, in the supermarket, every magazine Nina picked up showcased sexual fulfilment. Articles leapt to the eye, demandingly, accusingly, tauntingly: how to please your man, how to get your man to please you; quizzes about performance, seduction, techniques, adventure, libido, fantasy, daring, communication skills, verbal and physical etc, etc. She read them with fascination, hating every word. She wished to live a quiet contemplative life, she didn’t take kindly to this invasion into her private domain, these ratings on scales from A to D. That D = F was clear and where she ranked was also clear.

Above all, the magazines emphasised mutuality. Desires, fantasies, feelings, all were to be shared. Togetherness was the essence of a successful relationship, and in sex it was particularly important. Women, do not feel shy, your man needs to know how you feel, he is not a mind reader, come on, tell him.

It was all very well to tell Western men. Judging from her reading they were more aware of communicative lacunae than their Indian counterparts. Though Ananda was always making out he wasn’t quite Indian. This would be the acid test, surely.

That evening after dinner, with a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, Nina broached the topic she hoped would be taken in the spirit it was intended.

‘Ananda, are you satisfied with our sex life?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I feel—I just feel—there is room for improvement.’

‘There always is.’

Now she had taken the plunge, she had to swim. ‘It’s too short, not even five–ten seconds. Surely that can’t be normal. I love you, but when it is over so quickly I get frustrated. Maybe this is why I have not conceived. Dr Abbot did ask whether we enjoyed a normal sex life and I didn’t know what to say. When we go together, we can discuss it in greater detail.’

‘What good will that do?’

‘Knowing where one stands is important, surely.’

‘I do my best,’ he said coldly. She was like the others, judging him all along. Even this Indian girl, his wife whom he had travelled so far to get.

Nina sensed his withdrawal and was horrified. ‘Ananda, that’s not fair. Don’t condemn me for what I feel.’

No response.

She put her head on her arms in hopelessness.

He looked at the locks of black hair spread on the table. Left to herself she tended to exaggerate things. He pushed his chair back and held out his arms. Nina responded; who else was there for her in this whole country?

‘I feel so lonely,’ she confessed, playing with his tie, stroking the faint bristle on his chin and cheeks, caressing his little rotund belly.

‘You have me,’ he replied, husband-like, hauling her securely onto his lap. This was a subject he was more comfortable with. ‘And maybe it was a bad idea not looking for work immediately.’

‘But there is nothing I can do.’

‘There are always things if you don’t mind a basic wage. That’s how I started.’

Whenever there was a problem he suggested work, distracted her by its possibilities, then nothing came of it. Ignoring the issue of basic wages, she slid onto the floor between his legs, unbuttoned his shirt and pressed her cheek against the soft hair of his stomach. ‘I want us to be happy,’ she whispered. ‘That is what I want to work at. We should tell each other all our feelings. I don’t want any shadows in our married life.’

Ananda gripped Nina’s hair so hard, she had to suggest they move to the bedroom. They had sex, and Ananda did his best to compensate by lingering long over her body. As Nina washed up she felt much lighter. Fluctuating emotions were part of the adjustment process, it was important to recognise that. For now, they were going across the street to buy groceries. In marriage, the power of shopping together cannot be underestimated. Planning the week’s menu suggests a stronger future than sex ever can.

A damp wind started up as they emerged from Dominion’s, and Nina gratefully got into the car. She could cope with the light drizzle that passed for rain, but it was the wind that drove her mad. It reddened her ears, made her nose drip, her eyes water, turned her hands into frozen blocks.

That night it was Ananda who lay awake instead of Nina. Why was he like this? If his wife felt there was something wrong, despite fooling him initially, what hope was there? In the porn he read, men could go on forever, ejaculate, then go back to it for a few more hours. Was this pleasure never to be his?

He tossed and turned. The green numbers on the clock changed steadily. The arranged marriage had not, after all, been the perfect solution. The canker of failure had entered the house and forced his back to the wall. He thought of the Masters and Johnson he had read, when seeking some clarity into his condition.

They had been very clear that the older definition of premature ejaculation, defined by less than two minutes inside the woman, was now passé. Sexual experience was too complex to be judged by such crude criteria. A diagnosis of sexual dysfunction depended on the partner, the situation, the length of arousal, the mutual satisfaction. Above all, it was a behavioural problem rather than a psychological one, and there were simple technical solutions to it.

Maybe he should get in touch with them. There were others like him, he was not alone. The tragedy was that he was only exploring the possibility of sexual therapy now, when marriage restricted his choices. For a brief moment he looked at Nina’s sleeping form with hatred.

x

Distance grew between them. Nina felt imprisoned by the stress and assured him there were other things besides sex in marriage. Relationships had to develop, feelings had to be shared, surely he understood that? It was only her tension about a child and her age that drove her to find solutions, otherwise she knew things took time, of course she did.

Everything she said made it worse. The single assurance that would have made it better was not forthcoming; that whatever he did, however he was, she was happy with him.

The silence continued. To break it she suggested going in for couple therapy. Had he heard of Masters and Johnson? In the library there were magazines—
respectable
magazines like
MacLeans
and
Redbook
—that mentioned their work. The Halifax Memorial Library did not carry their books, but she could order them through inter-library loan. She was sure there was a lot they could learn from them.

So now her academic eye was trained on premature ejaculation. First his wife was the expert in infertility, then in sexuality.

‘I don’t need you to tell me about Masters and Johnson. They have been around for a decade, you know.’

‘Then you are aware they treat couples in their clinic in St Louis. And claim an eighty percent success rate. Why can’t we go?’

‘For how long have you been researching this?’

‘I have not been researching this. I just read about it in some magazine.’

Nina looked worried. She didn’t understand why he had suddenly turned hostile—surely he was aware he had a problem. Sex was a form of communication, and if they couldn’t communicate on this most basic level, what about everything else?

If it was a behavioural problem, there was a behavioural remedy. In the West people relentlessly scrutinised the quality of their lives; they demanded solutions for everything. Why had he never explored those options? Suddenly the unpleasant thought came that this might be why he had come home to look for a bride. Was this the kind of man he was?Passing off shoddy goods to the innocent East? She did want to know this answer.

‘Are you telling me you
want
to go to Masters and Johnson?’ he demanded.

‘If it will help us, why not? They are doctors, they specialise in couple therapy.’

‘How is it that you know so much about this?’

‘From reading. That’s how I know anything.’

Just as he thought. She had studied the subject.

She put her arms around him, slid her hands inside his pants and caressed his faulty, furtive organ. ‘Please, darling, it will make such a difference to our marriage. Don’t you want to have better sex?’

He shuddered. The one word yes would mean acknowledging his inadequacy. And that hurt too much.

The penis she was cradling got smaller as it tried to escape her searching hands. She got the message. She had never heard that penises did very well on their own, but if this one wanted to try, it was welcome.

She wished she were home. Home was the place to be if something was wrong. Private issues were not public knowledge, suffering and deprivation were taken for granted, and you learned to accept your lot. No doubt the fatalism of the East had much to do with this attitude, but when you looked at the bottom line it read, yes, you can live.

A few weeks later Ananda emerged from his absorption in an affable mood. This mood demanded that he take Nina to the Taj Mahal, drink red wine and tell her that he was going away for two weeks. One week would be spent at a dental conference in San Francisco, the other at San Diego with an old school friend.

Nina was glad Ananda was taking a holiday. Honesty had led to a platonic relationship in bed. Neither of them wanted this, but it was what they had gotten over the past few weeks.

‘I wish I could come,’ she said wistfully. ‘I believe California is beautiful, with the sea and the mountains. A college friend of mine is doing her PhD at Berkeley. Maybe I could stay with her while you are at your conference, then we could visit San Diego together?’

‘I’ll take you another time.’

‘Why not now? We can take a holiday, distract ourselves from all this. Come on, Ananda.’

He got irritated. Why was she always wanting him to do things differently? ‘The conference is paying for my ticket, which is really expensive. I don’t think we can afford it.’

The temperature had dropped to zero. The trees waved stark black branches against an unremitting pallid sky. The wind was icy. Occasionally the sun shone, but that meant nothing. It would have been nice to be able to step out without tons of clothing, to see blue skies, to experience a warm sun rather than a cold one, thought Nina self-pityingly as Ananda prepared to leave for San Francisco.

She had wanted to spend a special evening with him before he left. A candlelit dinner in a nice restaurant; home had been the scene of too many quarrels lately.

But Ananda said they were going to eat at uncle’s, uncle had been complaining of neglect. And so another evening of politics, of here versus there. Talk of rival parties trying to unseat Morarji Desai, who was eighty two years old, who drank his own urine, whose son was corrupt. Madam was bound to come back to power as soon as this government fell, she was just waiting in the wings. Meanwhile Trudeau would not be able to delay elections beyond next year.

Eventually the uncle turned to Nina—how was she getting on? Didn’t she get bored staying at home all day?

‘Yes,’ said Ananda, Nina did get bored. She went to the library of course, but she needed employment of some kind.

In a recession finding jobs was difficult, remarked the uncle. Trudeau had created a deficit and unemployment was growing.

‘Any job,’ said Nina, she was not particular.

But, said the uncle, it should be in keeping with her education. There was no point in doing menial labour and being paid the minimum wage.

No, they agreed, no point.

If they planned to have a family, said Nancy, it was better to start soon.

Nephew and niece-in-law smiled politely. Ananda remarked that Nina was still getting used to the country, after all they had just gotten married.

Uncle grunted. That was not an occupation. Maybe she should study further, Dalhousie had an excellent reputation. Get a B Ed, then she could teach in the school system. Sooner or later the recession would recede.

They would think about it, said Nina, when Ananda didn’t respond.

On the way home Ananda was strangely abstracted. All Nina’s attempts at conversation failed. Perhaps it was just as well they had been at uncle’s house instead of their own; at least he had shown animation when they discussed Morarji Desai.

This abstraction continued till Ananda’s departure. Nina could see he was making an effort to appear normal, which increased her dismay. He was hiding something and she had no idea what it was.

With Ananda gone Nina had even less to do. Alone, her thoughts grew darker. The hollowness of the landscape reverberated inside her, with no people, no conversation to even glaze the surfaces. Hour after hour, day after day could pass without a single word uttered.