No New Land (6 page)

The phone rang one day.

“Hullo,” said a cautious voice at the other end. “Am I speaking to Mr. La-la-ni?”

“Yes, this is Mr. Lalani.”

“How are you, Mr. Lalani?”

“I am quite well, thank you,” he answered, exactly as he had been taught in childhood.

“Good! My name is John McCormack, Mr. Lalani, and I would like to invite you to a party.”

“A party.… ” He thought it might be some church group up to a new trick.

African immigrants appeared in the limelight for a brief period when the Uganda refugees started arriving. In the basements of churches, welcoming committees got busy. Clothes and food were collected, Bibles ordered. What were expected, after subway posters and newspaper ads showing photos of starving and naked pot-bellied children with runny noses, suffering dreadful diseases like beriberi and kwashiorkor, were hungry pagans. What the church groups saw were healthy-looking people, some thin, no doubt, and bow-legged, but many – especially women – were heavy, and some positively chubby. The refugees took shelter and disappeared into the developments of Don Mills, Willowdale, Brampton, and Mississauga, there to be joined by fellow Asian immigrants from Africa.

At Sixty-nine Rosecliffe Park and its neighbours the new immigrants were beset by hosts of proselytizers. They came from several different sects, singly or in packs, using all manner of approaches, bearing literature and tidings, goodwill and goodies, warnings and mercy. But in the Dar immigrants these missionaries met a litigious lot, for they love to debate, and they debate nothing better than community politics and religion. Zera would be in
unmatched form. She could tell of her master, Missionary’s legendary public debates in Dar against sheikhs, pandits, priests, and scientists. So when the Bibles were produced, they were gratefully accepted. But somewhere in the ensuing discussion, the conversation took a wrong turn and became – pointless. For one party it showed no direction, no purpose. For the other, it was simply – fun. We also have a God. We have a Pope too. Don’t you know that Prophet Muhammad (upon whom be peace) is predicted in your Bible? What you’ve got, we’ve got too, only more modern. We change with the times. So the invitations ceased, dry muffins and cakes stopped arriving: the proselytizers gave up in frustration. All, that is, save three hardy ladies, two black and one white, who came Saturday mornings. Get trapped into a religious argument with that threesome on Saturday, and you practically starve the following week for not having bought your groceries. From apartment to apartment telephone lines buzzed with alarm as soon as these harbingers of hell were sighted getting off the bus, waddling towards the buildings, gravely bearing their packages of books and pamphlets full of warnings.

“A party,” said the friendly voice of John McCormack, a little more forcefully this time, bringing Nurdin back from his thoughts. “A party where new Canadians can meet the old and learn from their experiences. A party to welcome the newcomers. This country was made by immigrants like you, Mr. Lalani.”

He gave directions. “Would you like us to invite anyone else you know, Mr. Lalani? The more the merrier, as we say.”

“My wife’s sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Abdul Ismail.”

“Oh, the Ishmaels. They’ve already been invited. Anyone else you can think of ?”

“No.”

“Well, goodbye. And see you on Thursday!”

“See you on Thursday. Thank you Mr. McCormack!”

“John.”

“.…”

“John. Call me John.”

“See you Thursday, John! Thank you!”

The party was at the Don Mills Inn on Eglinton Avenue, a short brisk walk away, except there are no sidewalks on Eglinton there and you are exposed to cars whizzing past. They were with Roshan and Abdul. They needed Roshan yet, her boisterous confidence, if not entirely convincing, was at least enough to draw attention away from themselves in unfamiliar situations.

They entered through revolving doors into a large lobby brilliantly illuminated by a central chandelier and numerous wall lights. Dazed by the sudden brightness, they stood back, uncertain, bewildered.
And terribly impressed by what they saw. “Wow!” muttered Roshan, a little too loudly. “This is what I call posht.” The carpet under them was a plush red. In the distance was the reception desk, large and busy, impressively modern. People sat and stood, merry pageboys in green and gold sauntered around, the elevators pinged. An attendant came towards them, and instinctively they all drew a little closer together. Nurdin thought nervously of his suit. A bargain, though the checkered design was not to his complete liking. And the sleeves were just noticeably long. If he had come alone or even with Zera only, he would have fled. This was not for him, an atmosphere that made him so conscious of himself, as if he was onstage and those people were the spectators. He had moved a little behind Roshan, who was dressed in a bright olive green bargain and had on her most garish makeup. Also taking refuge behind her was Abdul, while Zera stood a little to one side taking everything in. The man politely but firmly pointed out the escalator: “Up and the last door in the corridor.”

Crossing this first obstacle gave their spirits a boost. Standing clumped together, though breathing easier, they looked down on the lobby as they went up the escalator. Tall ladies in furs, men in tweeds and leathers, fawning attendants. It could have been a scene from a movie or from a magazine ad. Yet from afar it looked easier to feel part of it, and they felt a glowing sense of privilege. The time was not far behind them when they could not even have
imagined being in such a place, so close to those people. Upstairs, following instructions, they pushed through a heavy padded door into another brilliantly lit room. At the door was a small table where they had to check in.

“Obviously no riffraff here,” said Roshan approvingly.

Their names were duly ticked in the guest register, and they were admitted to the party. A tall handsome man in a blue suit and bow tie, somewhere in his forties, started towards them, all smiles and goodwill. It was John McCormack himself. “Welcome, welcome folks. Come and meet your fellow Canadians.” He insisted on pronouncing each of their names correctly, at which they were touched.

There were two long tables at right angles covered with red cloth. A hundred or so people must have been present, of all races it seemed, from every corner of the world, milling around, forming tentative groups, talking of the new experience. The thrill of it all, like the first day at school. “So I told her, ‘What do you need a fridge for, woman? Just leave the food outside the window, it’s cold enough’ ” “Imagine a squirrel eating donuts!” “Man, where I come from, only millionaires could afford donuts!” “To London and back, so fast? What did you take – the Concorde? ‘Ha! Gray Coach,’ I said!”

Suddenly some carts came trundling along, pushed by the gilded attendants, plates were unloaded on a table. Food rolled in next and was unloaded: trays of salad, hors d’oeuvres, cold cuts.

A small circle formed around the table, a group of shy, hesitant guests. But this was the barest beginning, even as they watched, the circle became denser and denser. Roshan soon disappeared and the remaining three of them stood shy and uncertain, not knowing what to do, waiting for the rush to end, gnawed at by hunger and anxious for food. A tall elderly black man, whose height was an obvious asset in such situations, passed by, plate loaded. “Dig in,” he grinned. But the crowd there had already dug in, three deep, jostling and cussing, every man and woman for themselves, coming out mauled and with a plate only partly full.

“The Third World, man,” said the black man, with a wink. He had found himself a seat nearby, and spoke with a full mouth as he took in the scene, mightily amused. Watching him eat with such relish only accentuated their hunger, and they felt rather irritated and without hope of ever eating that night.

And then from somewhere came Roshan, sailing towards them, grinning with her big teeth, saying through purple-painted lips which hardly moved, so no one else could hear: “The other table, quick, the other table at the end, before they all rush there!” As Nurdin stood staring at those purple lips struggling to decipher their message, his wife urgently pulled him by the sleeve, and soon there was food before them.

“Pile up, pile up!” ordered Roshan. “There won’t be another chance.” Sure enough, turning around with heaped plates in their hands, they barely escaped the onslaught.

When the tables were cleared and moved away, civility returned to the hall, as before, with subdued, controlled intercourse. The whole dining interlude that preceded now seemed like a crazy dream.

A red carpet was rolled out and a fashion show was announced, its theme “The Complete Canadian Male or Female.” The guests voiced hearty approval at the change of pace and gathered around to watch. Winterwear from fur (“the ultimate in elegance”) to artificial fur (“affordable elegance, or to have your cake and eat it too”), leather (“warm and cool in the fast lane”) and wool (“elegance and reserve”) were shown. Underwear (“Let’s face it, ladies, we all like to feel
good
inside”) from silk (“for the precious you”) to cotton (“for the sensible”) to blend (“for the practical”).

“Shameless bitches,” Nurdin heard a voice say through clenched teeth as the models traipsed in on high heels, wearing roguishly girlish smiles on their faces, to show the latest in inner comfort. You cannot look too hard, you cannot look away, he thought uncomfortably to himself. One or two audible jolly masculine approvals are voiced, for which diversion you are thankful. He thought he had heard Zera express the intense disapproval, and perhaps Roshan also said something similar. Then, “After this brief session,” a bazaar was announced, where some of the previously exhibited ware was put on sale. Simultaneously a cash bar was opened and a dance began. At this point they decided to leave.

“This is the kind of thing we have to steer our kids from,” Zera said, elaborating on her previous remark.

“Precisely, sister,” said Roshan. “We have something to give too to this country. Morals, I say.” She stabbed a finger at the air, to emphasize.

“The bikini girls are dancing now,” Abdul remarked, looking away a little too reluctantly, as Nurdin noted.

“With clothes on?”

“Yes.”

“How shameless can they get. With the same men who were ogling at them.”

At the door sat the woman who had let them in, cashbox in front of her.

“Ten dollars, please,” she said to Roshan, who was leading the way.

“What ten dollars?” replied Roshan scornfully. Her ire had really been roused.

“Madam, you ate food here and were entertained – ”

“What food? We had to run for crumbs like chickens – you call that food?”

“I am sorry but – ”

“
I
am sorry. And you show a procession of naked women – ”

“That was a fashion show, not a procession of naked women.”

“In knickers, with our husbands watching, showing thighs up to here.” She demonstrated, running a finger over her dress. “That is not naked? You want to show more, you shameless woman?”

At that point Mr. McCormack came genially by.

“I am not a shameless woman and those were not naked women,” said the cashier at the top of her voice, taking strength from this intrusion.

“Excuse me ladies – and gentlemen. Is there a misunderstanding?” said Mr. McCormack, drawing them together around him.

“I think there has been, sir,” said a firm voice. Its owner joined the scene. “My name is Jamal. How are you, sir.” He shook hands with Mr. McCormack.

“Ah, Jamal.” said Nurdin. The name was familiar, as was the face. One of the educated younger generation.

Jamal had fiery black eyes and a droopy black moustache. He was big, fair skinned, and dark haired. In an immaculate striped suit and red tie, he looked impressive.

“I am a lawyer. These are all” – he put his arms around as many of them as he could – “my … potential … clients.”

“Jamal,” Roshan turned on him, speaking in Gujarati, “are you going to let these thieves chisel us out of ten dollars each?”

Jamal acknowledged the gesture of confidence but kept to English.

“They can’t charge you a penny, go home, go home.” He went to join the friend he had abandoned in order to come to their rescue.

Mr. McCormack had meanwhile been talking with the woman at the table. He came up once more and raised his arms to draw them closer around him
again. “There has been a misunderstanding. There is no charge. The lady was following a prior arrangement which had been changed.… ”

So that was how they met Jamal. In Dar they had known him, but vaguely by face and mostly by reputation. In Toronto they would come to know him well.

Sixty-nine Rosecliffe Park. The name still sounds romantic, exotic, out of a storybook or a film. Sometimes it’s hard to believe you are here, at this address, sitting inside, thinking these thoughts, surrounded by luxury: the carpeting, the sofas, the telephone, the fridge, the television – yes, luxuries by Dar standards – things you could not have owned in a lifetime. The CN Tower blinks unfailingly in the distance; the parkway is incredibly beautiful at night: dotted lines of glowing lights curving in the darkness of the valley. And when it’s snowing there in the night, softly, silently, whitely, you wonder if it’s not a childish
Christmas card you are dreaming. But then you step out in the common corridor with its all too real down-to-earth sights, sounds, and smells, and you wonder:
This
, Sixty-nine Rosecliffe? And you realize that you’ve not yet left Dar far behind.