THE IMMIGRANT (40 page)

Anton stepped out onto the road with an outstretched arm. Within seconds a taxi drew up.

‘Thank you for a wonderful evening,’ she repeated as they reached the ISH.

‘Thank you for agreeing to come.’

They opened the heavy old doors and walked towards the ancient elevator. Nina waited till they were inside before she said, ‘Why shouldn’t I agree to come? We are friends after all.’

‘You haven’t behaved in a very friendly manner to me all this term.’

‘Good heavens! How can you say that? You made no attempt to communicate all summer, I can’t be on again, off again…’

‘You were the one who was so afraid of your husband knowing anything.’

‘What about honest to goodness friendship?’

‘We are both married. How much friendship is possible?’

‘One wants to be thought of as more than a sex machine.’

‘You didn’t seem to mind.’

He was insulting her. Anton, the patient, good-tempered, uninvolved, where was he? Her head felt heavy. She needed to go to her room and think.

The elevator arrived at the fourth floor, clanking and shuddering. She got out, he followed her down the dingy corridor. She pushed the key into her room lock and struggled fruitlessly. He took the key, unlocked the door, followed her inside and before she could put on the light, took her in his arms.

‘Baby, let’s make it a romantic evening.’

Nina stiffened. Too late it was obvious that the dinner’s hidden agenda had been sex. The fact that a bigger fool than herself did not breathe in the universe presented itself forcefully.

‘I am very tired,’ she now said.

‘This won’t take long.’ He edged her towards the bed.

‘Anton, please, too much time has passed. I don’t feel close to you anymore.’

‘We must rectify that, mustn’t we?’

‘I don’t feel like it, Anton, please.’

‘But why—when you used to feel like it all the time? I’ve missed you, baby, I’m lonely without you. I thought in New York, we could recreate our Ottawa night.’

‘Yes, with your wife in the same city.’

‘That’s why I chose to stay here with you, rather than at home.’

What on earth was he getting at? He didn’t care beyond a point—he couldn’t—he had made that very clear. She tried to disentangle herself from him, his grip tightened, her suffocation increased.

‘Come on, Neen, it was wonderful what we had going between us…’ His hoarse voice made her long ago desire seem sluttish and despicable.

‘Well, for me it’s over.’ She tried to get up, but his weight pinned her down, while his hands simultaneously worked his zipper and her waistband.

Was he trying to have sex forcibly? The idea of it was so startling and then so revolting, it collected her wits. With all her might she shoved at him, trying to get her leg under his so she could use her body as a lever.

‘Come on now, baby,’ grunted Anton, more and more beast-like.

‘Anton, get off me, get off me this second, you bastard,’ she screamed in a low voice, mindful of the place, as he put his mouth on hers, bruising her lips.

Her legs were wide apart now, his pants off, he was pushing himself into her. Her tightness and reluctance increased her pain, but could not keep him out. His arms were heavy weights against hers, her breath was caught inside her chest, she was panting and gasping.

What was once so pleasurable was now agonising.

‘Come on, baby, don’t say you’re not enjoying it,’ the beast grunted some more.

At last he shuddered and groaned, grew limp, slipped outside and sank to the side of her bed. She got up and held the door open, ‘Get out, get out, or I’ll tell Dr Hartley. Just get out,’ she hissed, violent, but controlled.

‘Alright, alright, don’t lose your shirt.’

His pants were up and he was ready to face the world, having raped a woman he had slept with for six months.

She shut the door behind him. The lights were still off, but she didn’t want to see anything. She collapsed onto the bed, one of many defenceless creatures in an uncaring city.

The next morning she did not go down for breakfast. Andrea came knocking at the door. Dr Hartley wanted to know if she was all right. The bus had arrived; they were going to leave in another minute.

So, morning had come without her noticing the lifting dark. But she could go nowhere, she was not feeling well.

Andrea had to agree with this assessment. Nina looked terrible, should she call a doctor?

No, no, she would be fine, she only needed some rest, but thanks, Andrea.

The door shut, the footsteps receded, the clank of the elevator also receded. She fell back into bed, and covered her head with the musty smelling blanket.

Hours passed. Her helpless feeling spread to every pore, reducing her to a baby. If she exposed him, that would mean exposing herself as well. He would use their liaison to defend himself. The whole affair would be out, and her integrity questioned. She shrank from any gaze, so inevitable once she opened her mouth.

Around noon she got up. The smell on her body, the grey dreary room, made her feel sicker. At the end of the corridor were the bathrooms. Numbly she stood under the shower. As the hot water ran over her, her mind grew quieter.

She got dressed and went outside. It was cloudy, a billboard announced it was forty degrees Fahrenheit. Slowly, slowly she walked. The streets of New York must be the most fascinating streets in the world, the most commercial, the most busy. How much she had enjoyed them yesterday.

A few steps lead into a park. Benches, trees, the slanting sun and a sign that said Union Square. She entered and sat, as still, as resigned as the old man across from her, as the young girl with a homeless card near the steps, sat like them as the sun stepped slowly across the sky.

When she got up, her limbs were stiff. She was cold, thirsty and hungry. At a little magazine shop she bought a packet of tortilla chips and a coconut filled chocolate bar. Her mouth closed over the excessive salt and sweet and she crunched mindlessly. At Broadway and 21st, she noticed a bookshop with rows of bookcases outside. The sign above said ‘The Strand, eight miles of books’. Their pull was strong. She entered. She would be among friends.

Only to feel that if this was yesterday, she would have been able to revel in paradise. Books, books, every one of them half the cover price, many of them less. She wandered past the display tables, between the racks, examined the many review copies, picking, flipping, picking, flipping. Eventually everything was put down, nothing was desirable enough to buy.

By now it was dark outside. From an early age fear had been fostered in her, the empty road, the increasing night, all to be avoided. She had been grossly misled. It hadn’t happened like that, not like that at all.

The streets were still crowded. Through big windows she could look into small eating places like the Meri-can, feeding the multitudes. No one cooked in New York. She turned into one shop on 7th Avenue, Murray’s Bagels it said. Bagel, another thing she had just heard of—like rape.

She stood in a long line and ordered something that turned out to be massive, doughy and unpleasant, the thick bland cream cheese adding nothing to the flavour. At three dollars fifty cents, this was an experience dearly bought.

The heavy food did this much, it pulled her towards considering strategies. Tomorrow she would get up and go on the tour. She would eat breakfast with the others. She was not going to let Anton ruin her life. If this was not much of a strategy, she was not much of a confrontationist.

It was late when she crept back into the ISH. There was a note from Andrea under her door: how was she, she had come to visit, hoped to see her tomorrow. Yes, Andrea, you will see me tomorrow. No message from the rapist, no apology, no concern.

She could not sleep. Her stomach responded with anger to the bagel, capturing it as hostage, refusing to release it. Shifting uncomfortably in bed, Nina for a moment did not register the significance of the door knob moving. He was on the other side.

Mesmerised she gazed at that rotating movement. Her room was on the corner, she could hear cars from the street, a pallid light filtered through the net curtains.

Then a soft knock. Once, twice. A long wait, and once again. Finally footsteps getting fainter, down the corridor and out of her life. She knew Anton would not try again.

Next morning he approached her. He smiled, his eyes crinkled; he didn’t know what had gotten into him that night, he had heard she was ill, he hoped it wasn’t on his account, that would be too stupid for words, after all they had been lovers, hadn’t they?

Nina turned, incapable of addressing such effrontery, and after some hesitation Anton moved away. The rest of the day in the library of
The New York Times
passed in a daze.

That evening Professor Hartley told them, beaming at the pleasure they were about to receive, that they had been invited to a party. It was at a penthouse on 99th and Broadway owned by John Berry, publisher of the
Library Journal.
How many of them remembered what he had said about the
Library Journal?

In Nina’s mind flashed that it had started in 1876, and such had been her school training, that despite all that had happened, she vouchsafed the answer.

Professor Hartley looked pleased. Nina could always be counted on to produce dates.

They took the subway to 99th. As they emerged into the open, Professor Hartley said, ‘John has the most wonderful swing in his loft. It’s bolted into the ceiling, and you can swing right to the windows and see all of New York.’

‘In India, Gujarati homes have swings too,’ said Nina pedantically.

‘Yes?’ said the professor absently.

The apartment was big, beautiful, minimalist, modern, with glass walls on two sides. It bespoke of fine and expensive cosmopolitan living. They would probably never in their lives find themselves in such a place again, face to face with an aerial view of this overwhelming city.

Nina sat in the swing, flew over the lights of New York, infinitely more alluring than the stars which could barely be seen. The earth, instead, was covered with moving stars, thick and bright. Something to tell her mother in her next letter.

Trip over. Journey home. Nina sat at the back of the plane, next to Andrea and Sam. Anton had stayed behind, presumably to repeat his sexual acts on unsuspecting women friends in New York. He would be back in time for class on Monday.

She would take the airport bus to the Lord Nelson Hotel. From there a taxi to her hearth and husband. Three more months to the end of term, the end of Anton, the end of being a student. She would be a qualified librarian, one who had the promise of a job anywhere in North America. She would believe in that promise, believe in new opportunities. Certainly those seemed more within her reach than her companionate marriage plus children dream.

And she made another vow. She would be happy. How was less clear than it had ever been. But to not be meant she had fallen victim to circumstances, and that was even more terrible.

Her father, fond of eternal verities, used to quote lines from Lin Yutang, one of his favourite authors, ‘The art of being happy, though poor, consists in one phrase, to think, “it could be worse…”’ Simple truths sometimes console the heart.

Back in Library School, assaulted by Anton’s tentative smile, Anton’s efforts at apology. She ignored him, but it was hard to put the incident behind her when she saw him all the time.

Had she invited this on herself in any way? The aggressor in him connecting to the weakness in her? She, who had been trained to be careful around men from the moment she could walk, she would not have let down her guard unless she were with someone she trusted. And she had felt safe with a man who was once her lover.

How could she have been so deceived in another’s character? Been foolish enough to be unaware of the links between former desires and present danger?

This was her female conclusion, and she knew it had flaws.

She contemplated going to her group, discussing the incident, putting it in a larger context, drawing sustenance. They would be supportive, more than supportive. They would discuss options—go to the police, expose him, tell Dr Cunningham, get him expelled, lodge a complaint. Violence required counterattack. Now was the time to break that mindset that made women victims. Now, now, now.

Her thoughts made her very tired. They kept needling her to do something when she didn’t want to. She had been through enough. Perhaps one day, in the distant future, with another set of women, she might be able to discuss the rape and its aftermath, the self-flagellation, the helplessness, the confusion, the lack of action. Perhaps one day, but not now.

Sex with her husband became difficult. After a few days she gave him a bowdlerized version of what had happened during the trip. It hadn’t been so late, around ten, she had decided to take a walk to clear two glasses of wine from her head, when a man attacked her from behind. He had snatched her gold chain, then dragged her into an alley leading off from the street. She had screamed, but he put a knife against her neck. From somewhere a shape appeared, the attacker’s hand momentarily slackened, she had run like the wind. Though she had escaped, she was still in a state of shock.

As a story it was full of holes, but he didn’t notice them.

‘Why didn’t you let me know at once?’

‘For what reason? To upset you?’

‘We are husband and wife.’

‘It hurt to talk about it.’

She started crying, tears coming down her face, followed by great ghastly gulps. He patted her, long awkward strokes, up and down her back, rumpling her clothes. She did not like the feel of his heavy hand, everything furthered her irritation.

‘Did you tell them? Your Library Science people? They were responsible for you.’

‘I was afraid, I didn’t know what would happen. Suppose they had insisted on an inquiry, a police report, a medical examination—maybe having to stay longer, lots of talk, the whole trip ruined for everybody—I didn’t think I could do it.’

Yes, she couldn’t ruin the trip for everybody. As Indians, they were together on this. ‘Remember I told you New York was a dangerous place.’