Nostalgia (4 page)

The Notebook

If anything I write here were to raise a flag, during its microsecond of scrutiny, there could be embarrassment. We live in a free society, yes, the best in every way, but we need these random checks on our lives to secure our collective bestness, though we all wish for the curious eye to fall somewhere else. Tom has promised to shield me, but can he be trusted? There's nothing to hide, though, is there. But there is—there's yourself to hide. In this private space, in this quiet moment I come to indulge myself, typing on a keyboard. Would it be safer to use voice? Hardly, but handwriting would be safer, in an old-fashioned paper notebook. Perhaps I should purchase one. (Did you get that, Tom?) But only silence is absolutely safe.

Holly Chu sticks in the mind. Hands grabbing her. The darkness that consumed her…Ramble on, mind, go where you will.

#43

The Barbarians

Of Miriam's five children, two were dead—a baby girl from fever, and the oldest one from a stray bullet during a neighbourhood shootout. She had held the boy's head in her lap as his belly belched out blood, which someone beside her stanched with a green paste. She saw the light go out of his eyes, which she shut with her hand. In their room in the old, ruined three-storey house, vacated long ago by foreign traders who one day packed and vanished when the times got bad, and that she now shared with several other women, she kept the children protected while begging and foraging outside for stray bits of food. The house was one among several, all of them of white limestone with gaping holes where the windows and doors had been, in the paved street of the foreign traders. Long ago these people had lived here with their families, children ran about and played in their innocence, and there was food in the town. Meat and chicken and produce. Vegetables and fruit grew here. There were shops where you could buy clothes and toys and things for the home. Such were the stories told about those good times. Now the street was empty except when the militias came during their predatory raids. They had already used her sexually and cast her aside for younger prey. Now she had no choice but to hand over her second son to them so she could survive. Lately she
had heard from a neighbour how a lost child had been eaten, and she was terrified. Then this foreign woman appeared, looking Chinese, handing out enticing bits of food…tasty food. She had silken fair skin and the tenderest, plumpest flesh surging with pure, clean blood. The militias eyed her; the hungry eyed her. When one afternoon she came by to the street and the militias were not there, and it was not bright, Miriam and Layela had grabbed the woman with all their force and pulled her inside the house and began to prod her flesh and skin. Layela bit her arm to feel the flesh, and the stranger screamed.

The militias came that evening and took away the stranger's backpack and jacket, and they took away Yusufu.

And you, Presley, do you even know whose namesake you are…? Fighting imaginary barbarians…where lies the proclivity for war and vengeance behind your placid mien? I would love to peep into that brain, observe that flurry of synapses that guides this inclination.

#44

The Gentle Warrior

His mini drives him through the gate into Millwood Combat Club and neatly parks. He walks to the clubhouse and identifies himself. The attendants are all wearing monkey masks and long wagging tails. The theme this month is Ramayana 9: Assault on Abbotabad. He takes his gear and goes to the change room. Coming out into the park in his mask and grey monkey suit, vision-aids round his neck, he
joins eleven other combatants. They are in a dark forest with several dirt trails leading out. They take the one rising gently uphill and arrive at the fort of Lanka, which is surrounded by a moat and guarded by bearded warriors with rifles, standing inside towers and behind parapets. A helicopter hovers above, casting peripatetic spotlight beams on the scene, helping them identify the enemy. In the background plays the “Ride of the Valkyries.” As the volume crescendoes, the warriors start firing from their elevated positions and the monkey team takes cover and replies.

This is a game, they know the odds are in their favour, and come what may, bearded enemy and monkey special forces will doff their masks and share drinks. The next time the roles might be reversed.

The task is for the righteous monkey army to cross the moat and fight their way into the castle. Swimming across has failed before, it is slow and they make easy targets; the boats provided are similarly useless, even though camouflaged and the enemy distracted from the air. This is their third and final try, but they've been given the secret: they should form a chain, starting from a tree branch at the shore, one monkey hanging on to the next by the tail, finally swinging an elite vanguard on to the ramparts of the fort and proceed to kill the warriors and decapitate the enemy leader, Ravana 9.

Presley is one of those who leads the triumphant landing across the moat.

He goes home and posts the video of his game exploit on his Profile. His doctor watches it.

WE SHOOK HANDS
. I waited until he was seated in front of me, a shy, friendly smile on his lips.

—Any changes, Presley? Better or worse—the condition you reported?

—Better, definitely better, Doc.

This was surprising.

—You reported a stray thought—it appeared drifting into your mind, you said—
it's midnight, the lion is out.
So the lion slunk away?

He ignored my poor attempt at humour and spoke gravely,—I think I can control it, Doc.

I gave him an eyeful. Deadpan attitude. He could have cancelled his appointment, but he didn't. He wanted reassurance.

He was born in suburban Wisconsin, he'd told me last time, and he'd had a persistent thought about a lion. It bothered him. Now he was saying that it didn't. I didn't believe him. His pulse rate over the past week showed bursts of mild excitement. The fear index had slowly crept upward.

—You're sure?

—Yes.

It was checkered pants today, and those yellow socks. He liked them. Was the pale skin the later acquisition or the Afro hair? I guessed the former. Perhaps both were new. Where was he actually born? Did that question have an answer, now that that past had been blotted? Perhaps, deep inside that brain in some long-term memory box. But we didn't want to go there. All we needed was to fix his leak. He had a new life now, it was what he had to live with.

—Does it take a lot of effort to control?

—A little effort. Just a little effort to ignore it, then it's not there. But I can live with it, Doc, like a wart. That's my decision, I'll live with it.

—If it's a wart, it could be cancerous, Presley. How do you actually manage to ignore it?

—I think of something else—to distract myself—or I turn blank. Counting numbers helps.

—The lion still exists in your mind, Presley, it can appear when it wants to. Unwanted thoughts of that sort don't disappear so easily. And if they are of the growing sort, as we suspect, we have to burn them out. Completely.

There was a long moment's silence.

He uncrossed his legs, crossed them back. Then he stared straight at me and replied, in an even voice,

—I think I'll wait and see, Doc. I don't want to undergo treatment at this time. No probes into my brain, please.

—And if it worsens? You'll call me?

—Definitely, Doc. I'll do that.

It may be too late then, I thought.

—Good. But I'd like to run one simple test first, just for the record. Every case of LMS—that's leaked memory syndrome—has to be completely described, according to regulation.

—I understand. Will it take long?

—No, it won't.

I called out to Lamar, who hurried in with the ring scan. Presley wore it around his crown and Lamar fitted it. Then, with a nod from me, Lamar started the scan.

The results would need careful interpretation, of course. But Presley showed only mild responses to lion pictures, and there was a flurry of activity with cat pictures—he owned a cat. He responded positively to the word
lion
when spoken, mildly when written.

Lamar left with the scan and I returned to my seat. I looked up to Presley's curious gaze.

—Well, Pres—you don't mind me calling you that? You respond to the word
lion
when spoken. It's there in your brain. But we knew that.

—Does that mean anything, Doc?

—I'm sure it does, but I can't say what. We'll wait and see as you said.

He nodded:—Okay.

—But tell me, I continued—what did you mean by,
No probes into my brain
? You don't recall any experience in the past with probes, do you?

—No. I assume that's how they try to fix you, by putting probes into the brain.

—Not always.

—That's good to know. But for now, I'd like to wait. I'll try and manage.

—Agreed. But let me finish with the questions. That down feeling you said you had. Any recurrence?

—It's gone now.

—The smell—the smoke?

—Gone too.

I sat back frustrated and a little annoyed. I knew I should close his file and move on. There were other cases waiting, people ready and excited with new fictions to step into, new lives to wear. I made that happen, I had a reputation. He was just one case of LMS. Like others I'd had, he would return when he was ready to be patched up, or he would go elsewhere. But something made me detain him that afternoon.

—Tell me, how did you choose to come to me in the first place?

He smiled.

—I was struck by the photo in your Profile. I should consult
him
, I told myself. There's something sympathetic in that face.

It's not a face I like to look at. Thin lips, stern smile; broad forehead, hair parted in the middle out of long habit.
Is it the wide eyes? One day, tracing a literary quote, I was startled to find myself looking at a picture of a twentieth-century poet on my screen: how did I get a face like
that
? Joanie says it's distinguished.

Still reluctant to let him go, wart and all, I asked him, finally—desperately, though I knew I was on treacherous ground—did I want to prompt more unwanted thoughts in him?—

—The images that came to you afterwards—you mentioned the fender of a car—a red antique car, you said?

—Yes. Part of it like, as if you're seeing it from the front, at an angle.

—How could you tell it was an antique car?

—I just could. I saw a wheel, a fender, a curved housing.

—Did you notice the make of the car?

—No.

—And it was moving—this car?

He thought for a moment, nodded, made a face to show he was not too sure. He was squirming again. I felt sorry for him. Clearly he was not as sure of himself as he made out to seem.

—Anything else unusual happening to you? You realize, I have to satisfy myself before I let you go.

He changed position so that the yellow socks were in my face, a bright flare. And then he surprised me.

—Old movie.

—Sorry?

—Scene from an old movie, the flat type, people waiting
at an airport, waiting for their numbers to be called. I recall this scene but I don't remember seeing the movie or what it was called.

—How old, the movie? How could you tell it was a movie, not a real scene?

—I just knew, I guess. Maybe I'm mistaken.

—Nothing else?

He shook his head. He could have been holding back, seeing that I was getting too anxious. I could barely hold my excitement. Presley had added to the original scene in his mind. It had grown.

—Let's make an appointment for next week. If the condition remains the same, and you can live with it, we ignore it, as you suggest. For the time being. Though I suggest, strongly suggest going in and simply zapping these intrusions. That way you don't have to worry about them, at least for now.

We decided on the appointment a week later. He got up and we shook hands. I watched him leave through the door, in brisk steps but with a straight and heavy gait that I imagined compensated for the slightly bowed legs below the knees that I hadn't noticed before.

When he had gone, I picked up my pad and slowly typed:

1. Midnight. The lion out stalking.

2. The fender of a red car.

3. An airport from an early twentieth-century movie. Or perhaps a real airport.

And then, somewhat recklessly, I gave myself to free thought. I wrote:

i. Torrential downpour.

ii. A baby's wide-eyed face peering through the rain.

iii. A man with red Afro hair, white skin, and yellow socks.

I stared hard at the screen before me. Where did (i) and (ii) come from? I could not say. They were just there, in the mind. A tingle ran down my spine.

With relief I looked up as my next patient came in, Sheila Walktall. Someone whose needs were mundane. A small woman with curly black hair, fitting jeans. She was a cultural news producer, and this was her second visit. Problems at work, problems in the home. She wanted to escape them all and give herself a new life. I had to deter her.

Are you sure, I'd already told her in our previous consultation, that you wish to terminate all relationships? You won't remember them, of course, but I want you to—for a moment—think about them. You will leave behind a legacy of pain and loss. Your teenage children. And your next life will have its own travails, and it could well be filled with loneliness. There's no guarantee of joy ahead simply because you will now have memories of growing up in an English village. What she was asking for was a form of suicide, she must know that, and an abdication of responsibilities in pursuit of a dream. This was her first life and she'd hardly lived it. She was young.

I thought of my own rootless Joanie. It was her parents who walked away, and she had never recovered from that.

Sheila Walktall didn't completely buy my line then, and I continued my pitch patiently.

—You can't say, at the slightest discomfiture, I've had it, give me a new life, a better fiction. I'll start all over again. In the first place, it's never easy to start again—

—But Dr Sina, I am a sociable person. Not unattractive. I'm bright and I make friends easily. I have a bank account I can take with me. I have skills I can take with me. It's just that sometimes you acquire baggage and…and it's too late to go back—

She had been leaning forward, earnestly making her pitch, and now she sat back, her statement incomplete. I wondered what baggage she wanted to let go. An unfaithful partner or husband? That was hardly sufficient reason.

—Are you sure you'll be able to make new friends if you start again? Be as bright? Have as good a job? Meet all the wonderful personalities that you do in your current position—actors, authors, explorers?

—Why not? You tell me, you are the expert. If I am smart and sociable now, why not again?

—We don't always know for sure.

She stared at me.—What do you mean?

—There are always uncertainties.

We don't know what qualities in a personality are retained, for one thing. And as Presley Smith would tell her, the past can be present in the weirdest of manners. It can come wiggling back.

—I'll take my chances, I don't think I have an alternative. Isn't it my choice when to depart, anyway?

—If we could all take life so easily, there would be chaos, surely…we have responsibilities.

My responsibility now was to say, No, I cannot help you.

She smiled, bent to pick up her bag.—I'll wait, then. She got up and left gracefully, and would probably make an appointment with someone else, who would promise her a new life with six more inches of height, soft brown hair, and a Roman nose. Or perhaps she was merely exploring the option. And hopefully her life would improve, baggage and all.

She had to know that the law has a say in the decision. We need some stability in our society. Some ties. Or everyone will dash off into the future in the hope of greener pastures and there will be no one left.