Sitting in the bus, he ached all over. He was shivering too, though he’d felt the usual blast of warm air as he’d stepped on board. With a shock he realised that he probably had some kind of mild viral infection. Despite the change of climate he hadn’t suffered so much as a cold since arriving in Toronto; the immigration authorities had inoculated him against everything in sight. But he hadn’t kept up to date with booster shots, and it looked as if some new strain had finally broken through his defences.
When he entered the apartment, Madhusree’s door was open, but her room was in darkness. Even from a distance, as Prabir’s eyes adjusted he could see that her desk had been tidied, everything cleared away or straightened into neat piles.
There was a note taped to the fridge. She’d never told him exactly when the expedition was leaving, but he’d been half expecting something like this for days.
He read the note several times, compulsively, as if he might have missed something. Madhusree explained that she’d raised part of the money working in a café, and borrowed the rest from friends. She apologised for doing everything behind his back, but pointed out that this had made it easier for both of them. She promised to reveal nothing about their parents’ work until she returned and they’d had a chance to discuss the matter properly; in the meantime, the expedition would have to rely on its own discoveries. She’d be back within three months. She’d be careful.
Prabir sat in the kitchen with tears streaming down his cheeks. He’d never felt happier for her, or more proud of her. She’d overcome everything now. Even him. She’d refused to let him smother her with his paranoia and insecurity.
He suddenly recalled the night they’d resolved to leave Amita. At the start of the week, Madhusree had announced that her class had begun studying the civil rights movement. Then, at dinner on Friday, she’d informed Keith and Amita that she finally understood what their work at the university was all about.
Keith had flashed Prabir a victorious smirk, and Amita had cooed, ‘Aren’t you clever? Why don’t you tell us what you’ve learnt.’
Madhusree had expounded with her usual nine-year-old’s volubility. ‘In the nineteen sixties and seventies, there were people in all the democratic countries who didn’t have any real power, and they started going to the people who did have all the power and saying, “All these principles of equality you’ve been talking about since the French Revolution are very nice, but you don’t seem to be taking them very seriously. You’re all hypocrites, actually. So we’re going to make you take those principles seriously.” And they held demonstrations and bus rides, and occupied buildings, and it was very embarrassing for the people in power, because the other people had such a good argument, and anyone who listened seriously had to agree with them.
‘Feminism was working, and the civil rights movement was working, and all the other social justice movements were getting more and more support. So, in the nineteen eighties, the CIA—’ she turned to Keith and explained cheerfully, ‘this is where X-Files Theory comes into it—hired some really clever linguists to invent a secret weapon: an incredibly complicated way of talking about politics that didn’t actually make any sense, but which spread through all the universities in the world, because it sounded so impressive. And at first, the people who talked like this just hitched their wagon to the social justice movements, and everyone else let them come along for the ride, because they seemed harmless. But then they climbed on board the peace train and threw out the driver.
‘So instead of going to the people in power and saying, “How about upholding the universal principles you claim to believe in?” the people in the social justice movements ended up saying things like “My truth narrative is in competition with your truth narrative!” And the people in power replied, “Woe is me! You’ve thrown me in the briar patch!” And everyone else said, “Who are these idiots? Why should we trust them, when they can’t even speak properly?” And the CIA were happy. And the people in power were happy. And the secret weapon lived on in the universities for years and years, because everyone who’d played a part in the conspiracy was too embarrassed to admit what they’d done.’
After a long silence, Amita had suggested in a strained voice, ‘You might not have understood that lesson properly, Maddy. These are difficult ideas, and you’re still quite young.’
Madhusree had replied confidently, ‘Oh no, Amita. I understood. It was very clear.’
Late that night, she’d snuck into Prabir’s room. When they’d finally stopped laughing—with their faces pressed into pillows and hands to muffle the sound—Madhusree had turned to him and pleaded solemnly, ‘Get me out of here. Or I’ll go mad.’
Prabir had replied, ‘That’s what I do best.’
He’d found a job the following weekend. But after six months working three nights a week filling vending machines—telling Amita he was studying with friends—he’d finally accepted what he’d known all along: part-time work would never be enough. A week before he graduated from high school, he’d smooth-talked his way into an interview at the bank, and demonstrated on his own notepad that he had all the skills required for a software development position they’d advertised. When the personnel manager conceded his technical abilities but started raising other hurdles, Prabir pointed out that his lack of tertiary qualifications would save them a third of the salary.
He’d gone straight from the interview to a real estate agent, and whispered the news to Madhusree that night by the light of the TV.
‘We’re heading south.’
Felix arrived just after eleven. As he entered the apartment he explained warily, ‘I just wondered how you were taking the news.’
‘You knew she was leaving tonight?’
‘Yeah. She thought she had to tell me, because I loaned her some money.’
Felix waited for a response. Prabir recoiled with mock indignation. ‘Traitor!’ He shook his head, smiling abashedly. ‘No, I’m OK. I’m just sorry I screwed you both around so much.’
They sat in the kitchen. Felix said, ‘She’s going to be independent soon. She’ll have money of her own. A place of her own.’
Prabir was wounded. ‘You think that’s what this was all about? You think I get some kick out of holding the purse strings, telling her what she can and can’t do?’
Felix groaned, misunderstood. ‘ No. I just wanted to know what your plans were. Because once she’s supporting herself, you’re going to be free to do anything you want. Quit the bank. Travel, study.’
‘Oh yeah? I’m not that rich.’
Felix shrugged. ‘I’ll help you.’
Prabir was embarrassed. ‘I’m not that poor, either.’ He mused, ‘If I can hang on at the bank until she graduates, that’ll be ten years. I’ll have access to part of my pension fund.’ He shivered, suddenly aware of the fact that he was babbling on about money while Madhusree was flying straight for the one place on Earth he’d sworn to keep her away from. ‘It’s strange. I didn’t think I’d be so calm. But she’s really not in any danger, is she?’
‘None at all.’
‘Ceram, Ambon, Kai Besar… they’re just islands like any other now.’
‘Safer than Mururoa.’
Prabir said, ‘Did I ever tell you about the time she debated the theory of evolution with a Texan creationist minister on the net, and he publicly admitted that she’d changed his mind?’
Felix smiled and shook his head stoically. ‘No. Go on, tell me.’
‘He was a brave man, actually. He got excommunicated, or whatever it is they do to lapsed creationists.’
‘I believe the technical term is “lynching”.’
They sat talking until four a.m. When they staggered into bed, Felix was asleep within seconds. Prabir stared blearily at the open door of his room; even with the apartment to themselves he felt exposed, but he was too cold to get up and close it.