English-Language Arts Network

The Enemy Within by Nalini Warriar

1995

Prologue

It was the first Friday after the 1995 Quebec referendum and it dawned just like the other days before. The same sun rose in the left corner of the kitchen window and shone on the weeping willow in the front yard of 1000 St.Lawrence Ave in Quebec City. Dressed in a Blue Jays T-shirt, jeans and sneakers, Sita Verma heaved a cardboard box full of books into her jeep. After a final shove, she stood for a moment breathing heavily, her eyes flickering over the garden she had thought of as hers until some months ago. It looked like it did every fall. There was a row of orange plastic bags full of leaves leaning against the wooden fence and the grass had that wonderful luminous colour it always had in the fall. Nothing marred its green perfection. If there was one thing about Anup that Sita admired, it was his obsession with the lawn. The edges were neatly trimmed because he even used the weed whacker diligently.

Sita's friend, Martha Johnson, from across the lake had once told her Anup and she were as different as night and day: he the night, gloomy and a moody yo-yo, she the day, full of light and sunshine. She didn't know about the sunshine bit. She considered herself an introvert. So any sunshine she had she'd hoard for herself.

And lately, they had been more at odds than ever before. This time, the silence seemed deeper and longer. This time, she hadn't stretched her hand over the widening gap. Nothing would ever be the same again. Not after that night. Was it still rape even if they were husband and wife?

If I could be a tree, I'd choose to be a maple. With leaves turning yellow or maybe russet and brown.

The afternoon light was limpid and in the distance, she saw clouds billowing in, promising rain, hail or sleet. Anything was appropriate at this time of the year. Five more boxes and then she could hitch up the U-haul to her jeep and drive away, never looking back. Sita flicked a strand of hair from her eyes and fumbled in the glove compartment of her jeep for hair clips. She gathered her hair together, gave it a twist and, holding it high on her head, secured it tightly with the metal clips.

The sturdy old maple, the last one to shed leaves, rustled softly in the wind whispering the secrets of survival. Sita's driveway was swept clean of leaves but the yard next door was a carpet of yellow. There was a yellow glow in the atmosphere too, against which the green of the firs and the pines appeared darker than ever.

Over to the other side, her neighbour, Sylvie Chabot, was raking leaves. From the slouch of her body, Sita saw it was a half-hearted attempt.

Ah, my "pure laine" neighbour. Lives in this big beautiful country and has never stepped out of Quebec.

Sita waved her hand to Sylvie.

"Salut," Sylvie replied instead of waving and came towards the fence.

She didn't want to talk to Sylvie. Sita was developing a strong feeling of resentment against people who spoke only one language. Was that because she herself was in danger of losing her mother tongue, Malayalam? Willingly she'd given up her language while others were hanging onto theirs. Even though she loved Quebec with all her heart, some of the insular attitudes were rubbing off on her. Why should she make the effort to speak Sylvie's tongue? Why was it so important that Sylvie understood her?

Sita looked at the ground.

So she wanted to talk.

Sylvie had never used Sita's name when addressing her.

Was it because her name was too difficult? There were only four letters, for goodness sakes! It wasn't Sita's style to indulge in pointless conversations. She certainly wasn't going to be civil to someone who referred to her as la noire.

After more than twenty years in Quebec City as neighbours, she still thought of her as a colour and not as "Sita."

Sita had absolutely nothing to say to her. Nothing at all.

Sita nodded her head and looked past Sylvie's shoulder towards the signs of the coming winter visible everywhere. The bare hawthorn bush spread its thorny limbs through the links in the fence an offering of fat bunches of red berries in its arms. She wondered if she could make tea with the berries and squeezed one between her fingers. It was hard as a pebble. A vine rambled over the walls and down the fence, stretching its red-tipped fingers through the thicket, eager to do some last minute creeping before falling into a long slumber. She had planted it twenty years ago and watched it spread over the smooth walls and inch towards the roof. Each summer, she'd trimmed the tendrils trying to build a bridge cross the window.

Standing in her driveway, Sita glanced at her watch.

Is it my imagination or are the streets quieter than usual?

Where was the four o'clock rush of cars? Why weren't the children shouting and playing tag on the way home? Everything looked the same as always. Yet it felt different.

Was everybody else also feeling the effect of Jacques Parizeau's words? Was it shock or guilt? What an ass he was to blame the loss of the separation vote on money and the ethnic vote! Wasn't she Quebecois? Wasn't she paying taxes too?

Sita shook her head as if to rid her mind of bad memories. She tried to ignore the cold fear in the pit of her stomach and the clenching of her gut, as she carried the boxes to the car. Even though she knew Anup was out of town, she was afraid he'd walk in on her unexpectedly and somehow stop her. One word from his punishing lips and all her defences would crumble.

An hour was all it took to rupture almost a quarter of a century of life together. She stacked the last of the boxes with her CDs and movies and went in the house once more, stepping over Jupiter lying like a golden mat before the front door. He opened one eye lazily and followed her movement to the sink. The sound of his water dish clanking against the tap in the kitchen brought him bounding to her side. He sat on his haunches with his tongue lolling to the side as if to convince her that he was really, really thirsty. She wiped her hands on the towel and strolled through the rooms, her eyes avoiding the empty spaces in the shelves.

And it was all because she didn't want to stay with Anup any more.

With a sigh Sita turned to the small TV on the kitchen counter. As usual, she was tuned in to the sports channel where a Blue Jays game was being broadcast. They were playing the Indians. It was the bottom of the sixth, with two outs and two on board. She didn't even wait for the pitcher to finish his throw. Right in the middle of his pitch, she switched the TV off.

There were other things more important than a game of baseball.

She remembered a time when Anita, her daughter, had just begun to understand the game. Together they'd watch the game, Anita cheering each time Sita yelled, "Hoohoo," when a Blue Jay got a base hit.

"I know what that man is saying," Anita had said.

Sita had looked up from the dough she was pounding. "You mean the third base coach? The one standing there?"

"He's telling him to steal first base," Anita had replied proudly.

And then Sita had spent the next ten minutes explaining the difference between stealing second or third and walking to first to her daughter.

Now her daughter, like her son, was all grown up. Sita watched the games alone and there was no one to ask, "What happened? What happened?" when she yelled "Hoohoo."

The tinkle of the doorbell broke into Sita's thoughts. Her heart began to thump hard. Then she out a shaky laugh. Anup wouldn't ring the bell! Plus, he was away. She peeped through the curtains: two smartly dressed women clutching briefcases.

She sent the Jehovah's followers off to convert other unbelievers, her usual pleasant veneer cracking. She was not interested in saving her soul, she told them sharply. She was a Hindu, she said, thrusting her religion at them.

Sometimes, being different came in handy.

Sita took one last look at the house. The stucco walls were in the palest shade of olive green and the woodwork in a deeper shade. In summer it was a pretty background, setting off the lush green of the grass and jewelled dots of tulips and sweet Williams, daffodils and delphiniums, hollyhocks and irises. In winter, surrounded by dazzling white snowdrifts, it looked like an oasis of warmth. Silently she said goodbye to the honeysuckle and clematis rambling on the sunny side of the house. Funny, she was more attached to the plants than to the man who had lived beside her.

"C'mon, boy," she said to Jupiter.

With a wag of his tail and a deep wuff, he scrambled over the seat to the passenger's side. Slowly, she backed out, and drove off, her eyes dry but with a knot in her throat.