THE IMMIGRANT (34 page)

Yup—he was a man after all, an admirer of beauty. And he really loved her skin, the way she looked, the way she walked, so different from Western women.

They were in the elevator, they were in the corridor, they were at his door, they walked in.

He sat down on the narrow bed and pulled her close. His hands were big and square, the nails broad, she marked the contrast between them and the gentleness of his touch.

Her loneliness welled up and overcame her. You might as well do this, and see what it is like. He started kissing her, drawing her legs up around his body. His hands were under her clothes, pulling, tugging, while her own hands, for the sake of politeness and reciprocity, were making less definite gestures around his shirt buttons.

But he didn’t need her. He reared up, whipped off his shirt, slid off his pants and then back he was on her, caressing, probing, and then—are you on the pill?

No.

Ok.

He pulled a condom from his wallet—
his wallet,
he must have been prepared—but this was to be digested later. For now he was in her, sliding into the wetness that had been increasing all through their walk back.

Little moans began to escape her—were the walls of the hotel thin? Could anyone hear? Anton seemed not to care, then neither did she. The moans grew into soft screams. On he kept—she found herself arching, she found herself offering her breasts to him, she found herself whimpering, she felt wet and hot, she felt driven beyond the point of herself, her legs thrown across his back, eyes glazed, arms around his neck, and then down, down his back, her fingernails digging into the skin.

She came and came, begging him to stop, she could take no more, before he came too.

They collapsed into sleep, his arm around her stomach; she snuggled into him until she woke up to pee.

This was not a good moment. She saw the unfamiliar white body, her large handbag on the floor, her notebook and the pamphlet containing National Library facts beneath the scattered clothes.

What had she done? She hurried to the bathroom and quietly shut the door. If Anton woke up what would they say to each other? Now that we are lovers—were lovers—have been lovers—the most accurate tense escaped her.

As she peed, she felt the soreness of her vagina. That she liked. She had lived. Who can feel guilty about living? Judging from the evidence and the sexual therapy centres, every citizen in North America regarded good sex as their inalienable right. It was her right too.

But she wanted to get out of the room. She did not like being so starkly confronted by the sight of naked Anton expanse. Quietly she put on her clothes, picked up her things. Should she wake him, but then what was the point? This episode was not something that could lead anywhere. Its effects were in her mind, and there they would stay.

In her room she wrapped herself in a shawl, stood next to the window and glanced out. It was not yet dawn, though she fancied the darkness to be lightening. The streetlights were still on. She craned her neck to see little flurries dancing around the lights. Their small frantic movements told her it was windy.

Briefly she relived the night, then thought of her husband’s arrival. They would be staying in a better hotel, they would see more of Ottawa, perhaps try skating on the canal, look at snow sculptures.

For the first time she had a sense of her own self, entirely separate from other people, autonomous, independent. So strange that the sex did not make her feel guilty, not beyond the initial shock. Easy, she was amazed it was that easy. Her first lover had taken her virginity and her hopes, her second lover had been her husband, her third had made her international.

Day arrived. At twelve, Nina took a taxi to the Ambassador Hotel, to wait for Ananda arriving by the evening flight. She left without seeing anyone.

She checked in. Yes, said the receptionist, her husband had said she would be coming in earlier. The room was on the ground floor to the side. It was still snowing, bigger flakes now, covering the branches of the one tree outside with a layer of fluff. She sat at the bay window and watched the snowflakes swirl through the lace curtains. Inside the room was a double bed, a TV, a fridge, a writing desk, a cupboard with an ironing board and iron, and pink satin-covered hangers. Ananda had obviously intended for them to stay in style. It was romantic of him; he was really very sweet.

She enveloped the room in a distant gaze—a woman of the world, a lover of men. There was a strange smell coming from her body. Thick, sweetish, strong, a dimly recalled sex smell. Even her vest smelt of it; she blushed at the odour. At home she and Ananda never had baths, considering it a dirty Western custom. Now she filled the tub and sank into the hot water.

Long she lay, soaking in the lemon-lime fragrance of the hotel bath salts, then she scrubbed herself hard with oatmeal soap. Finally she showered in clean water. She sniffed herself: no trace of that odour now.

She lay on the bed, warm, clean, lotion moist, hair damp. Outside the window it was quite dark, the snowflakes now illuminated by the streetlight visible over the hotel wall.

Three hours later she awoke to the sound of the door opening. Ananda entered.

He was in a foul mood. Where the hell had she been last night? He kept trying the hotel, but they said no one was in the room.

Nina embarked nervously into a flurry of explanations, fellow students, late night, bar, dinner, but Ananda was not interested.

‘I’m here now, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Didn’t you want to come?’

Again he grew irritated. ‘It’s too late to discuss this. Of course I
wanted
to come, otherwise would I have made all these arrangements? Or booked us into the Ambassador, which is costing me, I can tell you.’

They could move out tomorrow if he so wished.

‘No, let it be. Now I’m here.’

He opened the mini bar and looked for something to drink.

‘There is also tea if you like. They have a kettle and some tea bags.’

‘A drink is what I need.’

‘Well, why were you trying to get in touch with me?’

‘Thought I could come tomorrow instead of today. Not feeling well.’

Indeed, he did look rather dreadful. She was sorry she had not been there to look after him.

He also had a cold, did she realise how terrible it was to be a dentist with a cold?

No, but she could imagine.

Was there any problem when she checked in?

‘Not at all. Everything was fine.’

Finally he saw her. ‘You look pretty. Ottawa suits you.’

She smiled deceitfully back at him. ‘I have been waiting for you,’ she said.

And so their time together started. After dinner, by candlelight at the hotel restaurant, they returned to the room. Touched by good food, novelty, wine and adventure, Ananda’s bad mood dissipated. Nina changed into a white silk and polyester lace slip: slinky, low cut, certainly sexy. She wanted to give, she owed him one. Ananda, meanwhile, was looking at the crouched, racing figures in a hockey game, praising Wayne Gretzky. It was a while before he could be persuaded to turn his attention to Nina. After they made love, Nina marvelled that adultery could be so imperceptible to the partner.

It was fortunate the couple’s first experience of the nation’s capital was during winter. There was little temptation to wander around outside, and every incentive to absorb the culture so essential to an aspiring immigrant.

As they walked through the halls of the National Gallery, Nina kept telling herself, here she was, actually looking at
originals,
at Picasso, Pissarro, Monet, Cezanne, Degas, Chagall, Braque, Matisse, Dali, Klee,
themselves.
United, she and Ananda assured each other that such viewing would never ever have been possible at home.

The lesser known names inspired the same awe; they had gone beyond the universals. Now they could talk knowledgeably of Maurice de Vlaminck, Andre Derain, Fernand Léger, Jackson Pollock and Francis Bacon.

In the Canadian section, Ananda led Nina firmly to the Group of Seven—early twentieth century artists, they really are very famous. Nina looked on indifferently at landscapes that were surprisingly small, but she had to admit, very vivid. But then if you lived in Canada, landscape assumed an excitement that might be lacking in more populated countries.

Inuit art, simple, clear lines, strong and interesting, not much colour. Their ivory and whalebone carvings were beautiful, again something she would never see at home.

You are wrong, Anton. You made fun of the Archives—I laughed too—but you forgot that great art can only be seen by people like us as part of a collection. You really are a philistine. But then what can one expect from a descendant of Russian peasants?

She turned to her husband and smiled. ‘Aren’t you glad now that you came?’

He smiled back. It was thanks to her that he had at last seen Ottawa, he acknowledged that.

A little shopping and they returned to the hotel, savouring its fine French cuisine and generally enjoying a sense of luxury. Ananda, by now completely restored to his former self, apologised to his wife for his temper the day before. Travel, ill health and stress had taken their toll.

It was all right, she replied, they had been working hard, the best thing for them would be to enjoy the weekend.

That night was a restless one for both.

‘Can’t you sleep?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Not sure. Too tired, I guess.’

‘Let’s make love.’

‘Yes, let’s.’

It did help some.

They woke late and had to take a taxi to Parliament Hill, instead of going on the city tour which left their hotel at eight am.

Nina had passed the Ottawa River, had seen the Parliament buildings in the distance, but it was only when she drove up the hill with Ananda that their full magnificence hit her. As they alighted from the taxi and walked towards the Centennial Flame, both felt some pride at being associated with this country; they had nothing quite like this in India. The guidebook said the old building was burnt down in 1916, but it had been built again, with a grand gothic tower rising from the centre, symbol of Canadian democracy.

Strolling about, holding hands, they surveyed the Ottawa River below and the city buildings that stood against the cloud-streaked sky. In order to create their own private record, Ananda took Nina’s picture in front of statues of former prime ministers, in front of the Centennial Flame, in front of the Peace Tower. Eventually, chilled but with enlarged minds, they caught a taxi to the Ontario Museum of Culture, highly recommended by their guidebook.

It didn’t quite generate the awe they had felt on Parliament Hill. As they examined the exhibits, Nina wondered whether it was compulsory to be interested in different types of bird houses, quilts, weather vanes, puppets, chests, Easter eggs, violins and rattles. Anton’s comment came to mind, and involuntarily she smiled.

‘What’s the joke?’

‘This country is obsessed with itself—up to a point it’s ok, but fancy keeping Easter eggs.’

‘You are a librarian—you should understand that. It’s an example of folk art.’

‘Still, one can see the funny side.’

He looked wary; funny sides were not for him. She linked her arm in his and said she was tired, she was glad that time did not allow them to visit the Bank of Currency Museum, the Royal Canadian Mint and the Canadian War Museum.

Later that evening they caught the plane back to Halifax, saturated with the history of their adopted country.

We must do this again, they mused to each other, yes, we must.

v

Monday. Library School. Nina enters the Killam uneasily. She will see Anton, what will it be like?

He is as he always is. Talks to her as usual in the coffee break.

For the first time this unsettles her.

What are the rules that govern affairs? In Ottawa she had thought she would take her cue from him, now she wants more contact. Above all she wants to talk, it is the way she will come to grips with what has happened. But Anton, it seems, is going to deny her the pleasure. For days he maintains his distance. Nina suffers from his indifference, though she tells herself she has no right to expect anything.

The sense of autonomy she had had in Ottawa turns out to be illusory. It stemmed from a man finding her desirable and her own sense of adventure as she responded. In her group they teased out meanings from such incidents to raise their consciousnesses. Her consciousness is obviously on the floor, and to see it writhing does not augment her self-esteem. She has the wherewithal to acquire a lover, but not the ability to sustain a life in which her emotions were independent of men.

She walks home slowly in the falling dusk. She can see a few stars in the sky, she can see her breath vaporising as it leaves her body. Ananda will be home, he will be cooking. She will enter the building, take the lift, walk down the drab neon lit corridor to number 602, put her key in the lock, turn it and the first thing she will see is Ananda’s back bending over the stove. She will smell warm, fragrant smells, she will ask what he is cooking and he will tell her in great detail. The Western smells of his meat will mingle with the Indian smells of the tomatoes and onions he is frying in butter with cumin and coriander.

Today he is braising a trout with a lemon parsley sauce. He covers the pan and looks at her. ‘Doesn’t that smell good?’

Yes, she murmurs, it does.

Lemon parsley butter sauce—how often had she smelled this? Cooking trout was one of Ananda’s favourite food activities, combining simplicity, health, taste and freshness. By now she was even used to the way the dead eye glared at her from the pan.

When she first came to Halifax, not eating meat had been a way of remaining true to her upbringing. In Halifax her vegetarianism was treated respectfully, as part of her beliefs, but she felt false every time she concurred with a picture of herself as a traditional, devout Hindu. Really, what did she care about a religion she never practised? After she had had sex with Anton, it seemed especially hypocritical to hang on to vegetables.