THE IMMIGRANT (39 page)

So Nina went through her assignments, the Friday evening meetings, her job in the department library, through the shortening days.

The winter was long, cold and hard. Snow fell and fell and fell. The wind blew. By four it was dark, and the whole of December the sun didn’t appear. Nina’s DNA, programmed by years in India to love cloudy skies and drizzling rainy days, began to wilt under this onslaught. When people around her groaned about the weather she did too.

‘What a winter,’ said Ananda admiringly. ‘They say it’s the worst snowfall since 1928.’

‘Why won’t the sun ever shine?’ demanded Nina. ‘Day after day, nothing but grey. It is so depressing.’

‘It’s called seasonal affective disorder.’

‘What?’

‘Feeling depressed by lack of sunshine. SAD for short.’

‘Do you feel this way?’

He laughed while she looked drearily out of the window.

ix

A field trip to New York was planned for March. They would leave on a Sunday, spend Monday to Wednesday touring the library and cataloguing systems of the city, Thursday would be devoted to individual areas of special interest, then the weekend was theirs to do as they liked. Just like Ottawa.

‘I thought you were learning to be a librarian in Canada,’ remarked Ananda, patriot and critic.

‘The school follows the system recognised by the American Library Association. It makes it easier to get jobs. Why don’t you join me later for a holiday like you did last year? If you come out on Friday we could have the weekend together.’

Ananda grunted. He was bent over a cookbook, there was a glass of beer at his side. His lips were faintly pursed, his Mandy encouraged moustache stuck out a little.

‘I don’t want to go to New York,’ he now said.

‘Why? Please.’

Too much money, too unsafe, too many rumours about mugging, the prices too high and not quite the Canadian notion of an ideal destination.

She was disappointed. He was ignoring the opportunity to be together, away from daily preoccupations. The class was buzzing with the excitement of going to New York, many spouses were coming. Again she longed for somebody to share her life with, to be interested in her. How could she build a bridge between Ananda and herself if she had to provide all the materials? The construction would collapse at the first footfall.

In school they were given detailed briefs of what they were to see. They were going to visit the New York Public Library, the UN Library, of interest particularly to international students, they were going to tour HW Wilson, the leading indexing company in the Bronx, they were going to the JP Morgan Library, specialising in rare books and early publications. Here they would witness the care that went into the preservation of old books, the humidity control, the temperature control, the specially built display cases.

Nina spent Saturday packing. Something momentous had happened to her on the trip to Ottawa, maybe something would happen again, though she couldn’t imagine what.

She had heard there would be some parties. Opening her cupboard she stared at her beautiful, unworn saris, for which conditions were never right. The ground was mostly wet, the wind mostly high, the sari too liable to embarrass her by flying up to reveal petticoat and legs. No, leave the sari. She would take Western clothes, all the black stuff that had served over the year for both formal and informal.

Ananda drove her to the airport. The trees undulating on either side of the road appeared almost black in the dull winter light. The sky was a blotchy grey. Patches of dark earth showed amongst the piles of snow in the fields beyond. It was all as dismal as her heart. Flurries began to drift against the windshield. They clung for a moment and then slid down against the onslaught of the wiper. They were just flurries, damp, soggy and ill formed, without the staying power of snowflakes. She felt like one herself.

As Ananda drove into the airport portico Nina could see the massed vehicles to her left in the car park sea. The flurries were getting larger, coating the roofs with a faint film of white. Ananda jumped out, opened the trunk, took out her small suitcase. He didn’t say anything about parking and joining her, neither did she. The wind was tossing the flakes about, clearly the weather was going to get worse. It was important Ananda hurry back.

‘Ok, bye,’ said Ananda, getting into the car and strapping on his seat belt.

‘Ananda?’

‘What?’

‘I’ll miss you.’

‘Me too.’

A wave and he was gone. She dragged herself and her suitcase into the building, and stood in the line snaking between ropes. There were her classmates, chatting, looking at ease.

‘Hey Nina,’ from Andrea.

‘Hi Nina,’ from Tim.

‘Hi, hi,’ and then to Anton, ‘Oh hi,’ for wasn’t he like one of the others?

‘How’re you doing?’

‘Fine, fine, and you?’

‘Me too.’

They found themselves next to each other in the plane. Her skin prickled slightly at this proximity, but otherwise everything was under control.

‘Are you pleased to be going home?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ve never seen New York.’

‘I hope you like it, some people don’t.’

‘Does your wife?

‘Loves it. She tells me all Indians do.’

‘Will she be at the airport?’

‘Nah. She is on night shift at the hospital. That’s why I’ll be staying with everybody else at the Y, instead of at home.’

It was time to mention her husband. ‘Ananda doesn’t like the idea of New York. Maybe he is more Canadian than Indian.’

‘Let’s see what you think.’

Nina loved New York from the moment she arrived. Everything was to her taste: its variety, size, parks, multi ethnic people, first and second hand book shops, little eating places, its assurance that it was the only place in the world.

They were booked at the International Student House, an old red brick building, somewhat rundown. The fourth floor had been reserved for all of them. Nina put away her things, inhaled the slight odour of the room and gazed meditatively at the wall that formed her view. It was a bit depressing inside, obviously the place to be was the streets. Their cheap flight meant they had arrived late at night, their education would start on the morrow.

At breakfast the next morning there were loud complaints about cockroaches. They hadn’t had to put up with this in Ottawa. Andrea said she had never seen a cockroach before, just read about them; she had almost taken the next flight home. Anton said in New York cockroaches were part of the wallpaper, especially in an old building like the ISH. Nina said in India cockroaches were everywhere, one waged a constant and losing battle with them; there were mating and birthing seasons, plus seasons of baby cockroaches. Andrea shuddered and said she would never go to India.

The dining room was on a lower level than the lobby. From where she sat Nina could see people’s feet going up and down on the sidewalk outside, a purposeful New Yorker walk. They too were going to join the march of purpose as they got into the bus organised for them. Their first stop: the New York Public Library on 5th Avenue and 42nd Street.

As Nina climbed the steps of the library she marvelled at its magnificence. Was this the entrance to a hall of books or some exquisite palace? Mammoth, magnificent, colonnaded, its entrance flanked by majestic stone lions, the respect given to print by this building reflected all the glory of the city. Inside, its pillars, halls, arches, imposing staircases, beautiful chandeliers, high ceilings, marble floors and walls, rotunda, main reading room with its painted ceiling, vaulted roof, long windows, wooden tables with brass lamps, the balcony running around the mezzanine—all this made the building a temple to the written word.

Unlike other libraries the NYPL was run by funds from both the city and patrons of culture. An early exemplar of money made and well spent was John Jacob Astor, immigrant, fur trader, America’s first millionaire and founder of this institution.

Only four other libraries in the US could compete with the NYPL: the public library in Boston, the Library of Congress, the university libraries of Yale and Harvard. The NYPL was among the largest research as well as circulating libraries in the US; its magnificence drew ten million visitors a year, while its telephone reference section attracted up to a thousand questions a day from all over the world. Detail after detail their guide piled on as they toured the great building and glimpsed the stacks that were not open to the public, as they saw the rows of card catalogues, examined the system of reference code and number that the readers used.

Plans had been sanctioned to extend the library westwards under Bryant Park. When it was finished, one hundred and twenty five thousand square feet and miles more shelf space would be added.

Surely to work in this building was to know the high point of being a librarian. As they emerged, past the lions that they now knew had been nicknamed Patience and Fortitude by New York mayor Fiorello LaGuardia during the Depression, Nina turned to Anton and said, ‘Wow, your city is so extraordinary.’

‘I didn’t know some of these facts myself.’

‘Even though you worked here?’

‘Just one of hundreds. You saw the reading room and stacks? I was among those scurrying around to fill requests.’

‘Must have been so interesting.’

‘Not particularly. Didn’t require special skill.’

‘Are you going to come back here and work?’

‘In a way it would be ideal, but I want to see other parts of North America. Its Lakie who refuses to move—she needs to be near her family. I love Halifax, but she couldn’t wait to get back the one time she came.’

So, his wife was difficult in some ways. She was glad. Other people should be unhappy, it added to her pleasure.

‘I told her other immigrants are not so set in their ways, but how many do you know, she asked. I had initially told her about an Indian girl in my class, but later I stopped mentioning you.’

Treacherously her heart read significance into this statement. She turned away, confused.

They were going to eat at a McDonald’s. Everyone groaned, is this what they had come to New York for, but, can’t help it, folks, the place has a parking lot. You are on your own for dinner, do what you like then.

‘Do you like Japanese food?’ asked Anton.

‘Never had it.’

‘Would you like to try? We could have dinner together, I know of a nice restaurant within walking distance of the ISH.’

There was a familiarity about Anton that made the suggestion a gesture of friendship rather than romance. In the city of his marital happiness, any thought that indicated otherwise was indecent. They knew how they stood with each other. She would be neither prudish nor expectant.

That evening at seven thirty they walked the six streets down to Meri-can. The evening was cold but not freezing. They walked down 7th Avenue, past 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th streets, talking of Nova Scotian versus New York winters, the Canadian dollar versus the American, dreary office jobs, the value of a Library Science degree. The easiness she felt with him had both to do with the distance she had established during the year and the fact that once they had been lovers. There was no need to create an interest; it had been there and now it was dead.

On the corner between 19th and 20th streets was the small restaurant. Red lanterns hung over the tables, large stick fans curved archly against the walls, huge curly bamboos guarded the cash. In the centre was a raised dais with tables. Nina and Anton sat there, next to the large windows, looking out.

The menus came, and Anton gazed at his with the eyes of a lover. Nina imitated Anton’s order: sushi, salad.

‘Sushi is the one thing I really miss in Halifax,’ said Anton dreamily. ‘The cuisine there is so boring.’

Next to New York the whole world was bound to be boring. Perhaps it was not fair to compare a Canadian small town with this megalopolis.

The conversation broke, then Anton amused himself by asking whether Nina knew sushi was raw fish.

No, she didn’t.

Dread filled her.

A carafe of house wine would help with the coming ordeal. Life was all about pushing yourself and doing new things.

The sushi arrived. The rolls looked pretty—black, white, with a dot of colour in the middle. She slathered one in soy sauce and red chilli paste. Gingerly she ate, quickly she gulped the wine. It was not so bad. Now let’s talk about the wife.

‘Where does Lakshmi work?’ she asked.

‘At the Union Memorial Hospital. Not far from here.’

‘It’s a pity she had to work nights this week of all weeks.’

‘Don’t worry about her.’

She lapsed into silence. They finished their sushi. ‘Another glass of wine? It’s quite good.’

They drank slowly, talking of the day. Outside Nina could see the yellow-orange street light fall on the many passersby and the changing traffic light. Next to the restaurant entrance was an old man, sunk against the lamppost. At his feet was a dog and an open guitar case.

‘Why is he sitting like that?’ she asked.

‘One of the homeless,’ said Anton briefly.

‘Homeless? You mean no home?’

That was what he meant. Yes, in the world’s richest country, in its richest city, there were people on the streets. Such was the heart of the administration.

Nina thought of the Indian government’s heart. So far as its millions of poor were concerned, it too was weak and feeble. Ananda claimed Canada had heart, thus it was the best country in the world.

Anton paid and they walked out into the cold night. It was nine, and a light rain was falling. The homeless man did not move.

‘Should we give him something?’

‘Nah, he’s probably on drugs.’

She could see the brown spots on the man’s balding scalp. His clothes were a greasy, dark colour. The dog also looked as though it were on drugs, as immobile as its master. In India Nina knew what to do when confronted with misery. Here she was less certain.

‘Are you sure he’s on drugs?’

‘Of course. Can’t you see? Let’s go now.’

‘Well, thanks for dinner. Let me treat you to a taxi.’