Night of Power, page 14
Ashif turns the key in the ignition and the rental car starts to purr. The dry-cleaning bag stuffed with the gleanings from his father’s car sits slumped on the passenger seat. He roots through it for the black notebooks, bundled together in fours. It surprises him that his father kept a journal. He yanks off an elastic band, eager to see what his father had written.
He opens one with the title A-M-J 1996 on the cover. The first page is divided into four columns: DATE, START, END, KMS. At the bottom, a total for the kilometres driven. On the next page, the total carries forward and the counting starts again. He throws the book down, picks up another, shuffling through the pages for a note, a few words. Then another. And another. Not even one sentence. Only a log of all the kilometres he’d driven to and from the dry cleaners, to and from the gas station. Numbers. Nothing but numbers. Deflated, he tosses them into the back, where they scatter across the seat and the floor.
He reaches again into the dry-cleaning bag and pulls out the suede steering-wheel cover and the police report. He fits the suede cover over the steering wheel, manoeuvring his hands through the wheel to tighten its strings. The wheel now feels soft and strong under his hands. He unfolds the map attached to the police report, traces the distance between the two Xs with a finger. From where the car was found and where his father’s body was found. Not even a kilometre.
What happened in such a short distance, Pappa? Where were you trying to get to?
Ashif had only been a few kilometres away in his airport hotel room. His day had been like the day before. A long day of meetings followed by a quick dinner with Mel. After, he lay in his hotel bed and mindlessly flipped through the TV channels. He emptied the bar fridge, too. He wanted to forget his day, as he always did. Escape his body. His life. Meanwhile, his father was in a farm field, fighting for his. Ashif’s heart suddenly feels hollow, as if it’s pumping air, not blood. He backs the car out of its parking spot and begins his journey.
On McKnight Boulevard, he has a full view of the Rockies, a canvas of snow and rock against the blue sky. He feels a magnetic pull toward the mountains, as if there’s a compass inside his body guiding him. He had intended to drive north to Airdrie, but suddenly the vastness of the prairies makes him feel as though he’s adrift in an ocean. He remembers this feeling even as a child. There was no easy way to locate yourself in such a landscape. No markers, no reference points, just wide-open space, a feeling that you could easily disappear.
The mountains will ground him, he thinks. Root him somehow.
At Deerfoot Trail, he turns south then exits westbound onto the Trans-Canada Highway, a single road laid across the country, connecting the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, like an artery across a massive body. Behind him, the city recedes and ahead, the fields of snow spread themselves open on either side. The mountains are still hundreds of kilometres away, but he feels as though he could reach out and touch them from here.
He keeps his eyes focused on the solid white line that divides the highway in two. Soon, speed turns to stillness. He feels as if he isn’t moving at all, as if he’s suspended in the landscape. He reaches into the dry-cleaning bag and his hand falls on a CD. He lifts it out and glances at the cover. Kenny Rogers & Dolly Parton, Greatest Hits. He rubs the disc on his chest, slips it into the stereo’s socket, and presses play.
Chapter 22
MANSOOR HEARS THE CRACK first. Like a gunshot that ricochets across the open field. The back of his foot plunges down. His body falls backward and then straight down as if the earth opened its jaws and swallowed him whole. He flails his arms frantically, gasping, instinctively trying to hold his briefcase out of the water as if it were filled with valuable documents instead of useless items. Ice crackles and breaks. His clothes balloon with water. When he touches the bottom of the pond, he tries to stand up and steady himself. His feet slide on rocks. He slips and falls several times. When he finally stands up, he is waist-deep in icy water. He pushes through the slush, portaging his briefcase above him like a canoe. He finds his way to the edge of the pond. He crawls out. He beaches himself on the snow and tries to catch his breath.
As he lies there, an airplane arcs across the sky like a firefly across a dark field. For a moment, this shift in perspective gives him immense pleasure. A large machine made so small. But then it occurs to him that he too has been reduced. He is just a dot in this darkness. How easy it would be to disappear. He quickly replaces these thoughts with facts. An airplane is massive. It weighs several tonnes, yet it flies, carries hundreds of passengers, circumnavigates the earth thousands of times. A tireless explorer.
Mansoor stands up. His legs feel heavy. His clothes and mukluks have begun to freeze. He turns back to the road. The car’s hazard lights still blink in the distance. Should he return to the car? Or continue to the farmhouse? They are equidistant apart from here, he thinks, though he cannot be sure. But the chances of someone driving by at this hour, he reminds himself, are slim. He picks up his briefcase and continues toward the farmhouse.
A few minutes later, his breath turns shallow and he begins to shiver. His briefcase slips from his hand into the snow. “Leave it, Visram. You can come back and get it in the morning when it’s light out….No, take it now.” He bends down to pick it up, but stumbles. He falls to his knees. He pushes up and starts again. “Just a little longer,” he tells himself, willing his body to cooperate. He keeps his gaze on the farmhouse and marches forward.
Soon, his clothes become as hard as armour. He laughs. He is a knight! “Faster!” he commands his legs. But they refuse. Each step is slower, more arduous, as if he’s climbing Kilimanjaro. He is exhausted. The weight of his clothes pulls him down. He lies down for a moment to catch his breath. Above him, a roof of twinkling stars, and as he watches them, his thoughts begin to dim. “Stay awake!” he orders himself. But soon, he falls into a frozen slumber.
* * *
Mansoor picked up the fallen piece of paper from the floor and slid it across the dining table to Layla.
“Twenty-four hours?” she asked, examining the sketch for the new sign. VISRAM SPEEDY GAS & CONVENIENCE: OPEN 24 HOURS.
“I’m going to move into the station, but only until I can hire someone for the night shift.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s the only way to improve sales.”
The gas station was one of the only stops on the lonely stretch of highway between Rocky Mountain House and Red Deer, and until last year, it attracted a constant flow of customers. But now, hours went by without a single customer. The economy slipped into a deep recession and interest rates skyrocketed to close to twenty percent. In a matter of months, oil rigs were shut down and construction companies abandoned their sites, leaving behind communities of partially built structures like skeletons throughout the province. For several months now, Mansoor had been unable to make his loan payments on time and the bank had put him on notice.
“No.” Layla shook her head. “I won’t let you leave us. Not again. Sell that business. Please.” She pushed the sheet back to him and crossed her arms. “I won’t raise our children alone.” Layla was three months pregnant.
“And who’s going to buy it in this economy, Layla? Who?” He crumpled the drawing and threw it on the floor.
She turned away.
They sat in silence, then he pulled his chair close to her. “Look, Layla, I’m doing this for us. For the children. This is no way for us to be living.” He tilted his head toward the window overlooking the townhouse parking lot.
“We have to make the sacrifice now. There’s no other way.” He took her hand in his. “How else are we going to make it in this country?”
She turned to him. “We will come with you.”
“But I don’t want you to be in the middle of nowhere. Not now. Not with the baby coming.”
She had no argument to that. He also did not want to disrupt Ashif’s education.
“It’s just a temporary matter,” he said.
“Promise me you’ll be back by the time the baby is here.”
“I promise.”
Later that morning, they packed his things and he gave her a set of post-dated cheques.
Ashif stood on the sidewalk as Mansoor pulled his Chevy out of the driveway.
“Bye, Pappa.” His hands were tucked into his jacket, his voice sheepish.
Mansoor parked the car and stepped out. He knelt down on one knee and held his son by his shoulders. “Remember what we talked about?”
“Yes.” Ashif’s eyes filled with tears.
It was the last thing Mansoor wanted, too. He’d already missed a year of his son’s life and he didn’t want to miss any more. But what choice did he have? He had to do it for the sake of the family. Taking care of the business was taking care of the family. He wiped his thumbs under his son’s eyes. “You’re eleven now, son. You’re practically a man!” He gently punched him on the sides of his torso.
Ashif put his elbows up in feign defence. “I am?”
Mansoor tousled his son’s curls. “Yes, you are. And when I’m not at home, guess who’s the man of the house?”
“Me?” Ashif asked, tentatively.
“Exactly. That means you have to take care of Mummy for me, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And soon, you’ll have a baby brother or sister to help take care of, too.”
Ashif was smiling.
That afternoon, Mansoor turned the office at the back of the gas station into his makeshift home. Other than his desk and filing cabinets, he didn’t need much. A cot, a bar fridge, a small freezer, a microwave, a bar with a few bottles of whisky. He nailed hooks into the bathroom wall to hang his clothes; cardboard boxes served as a dresser. In front of the full-length mirror beside his desk, a set of free weights and a skipping rope.
Mansoor opened the lid of a small cooler. Inside, Layla had neatly stacked Tupperware containers, each one labelled with masking tape. Enough to last until his next visit. He removed two containers. One labelled chicken saag and the other one rice. He dumped the contents into a bowl then into the microwave. He picked up a set of dumbbells for biceps curls. The oven buzzed. He set the weights down. He took the bowl to his desk and sat down to work. It was five o’clock, but the winter sun had long since set. The store lights were on. The office was dark except for his desk lamp. Outside, the twenty-four-hour neon sign pulsed in the night sky.
* * *
A distant voice rolls across the dark fields, nudging Mansoor awake. He lifts his head gingerly and scans the fields. Nothing. Only the car’s hazard lights blinking in the dark. He strains to hear a distant sound. Dolly?
His head drops back to the cushion of snow. He begins shivering again. He turns on his side and pushes himself back up to standing. The farmhouse. He has to get to the farmhouse. He tries to wiggle his toes, but he cannot feel them. The numbness hurts. He wishes he could shake them loose like ice cubes from a tray. He feels as if the signals from his brain to his body are being disconnected, snuffed out one by one. This only makes him want to try harder. He refocuses his mind and pushes the signals from his brain to his extremities. Go! Move! Do it! His legs jerk like an engine sputtering. But almost at once, they stall and buckle under him. He falls down. He tries to lift himself up again. But his limbs are heavy. His eyes are heavy. His brain begins to dim again. He reaches for his briefcase. He wants the SOS placard. But he can’t pull the briefcase to him. He calls for help instead. “Hello,” he mumbles to the fields. “Please help me. I am here. I am Mansoor Visram,” he whispers, his voice trailing into the emptiness.
* * *
“My name means everything to me. I will not spoil it,” Mansoor said to Gordon Ludlum, who sat across from him at the offices of Stanley, Ludlum, and Partners, Accountants & Receivers. The accountant’s desk was awash with files and paper. Photographs of his family pocked the wall behind him.
“I know we’ve negotiated a good deal here, Mr. Visram. Forty percent of the original debt.” Ludlum tapped a set of forms with the blunt edge of his pen. “But it might be easier, don’t you think, to claim bankruptcy? Wipe the debt off the books instead of carrying it forward?”
“I prefer a receivership.”
“It’s very common right now, Mr. Visram. There’s no shame in it at all. Everyone’s doing it given the state of the economy and all.”
Mansoor stood his ground.
Ludlum swivelled his leather chair from side to side like a hyena surveying a savannah. “You’d get your name back in seven years. The time will go by just like this.” He snapped his fingers. “Lickity-split. You can open up another business then.”
“No, I can’t wait,” Mansoor said, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. Nineteen-ninety-three felt like a lifetime away. “My decision is firm. Please, let’s finish the necessary paperwork. I have a lot of other things to still do.”
“Alrighty, Mr. Visram. As you wish.” Ludlum pulled himself back to his desk. He scribbled in the date, August 26, 1986, on the duplicate set of forms, then placed them in front of Mansoor. “Right here, Mr. Visram,” he said, tapping the pen to the signature line. “Your John Hancock, please.”
That afternoon, Ludlum stood guard at the front door as Mansoor packed his car. A box of kitchen items, the fold-away cot, a suitcase. Nothing else. Not one office pen. Not one file. Everything now belonged to the bank. Behind him, the windows of the gas station were dull with brown paper. The gas pumps had been fitted with gunny sacks like morgue bags. The door was chained and locked, a Notice of Receivership nailed to the front. As Mansoor shifted into drive, his mind flashed back to Uganda. The army officers storming into his store with machetes. Mansoor quietly walking out of Visram P. Govindji & Son. “All the best to you, Mr. Visram,” Ludlum called out over the crunch of gravel as Mansoor drove away.
* * *
Mansoor wakes to a fluting sound, a distant melody like a muezzin’s call. He half-opens his eyes. Dark fields extend to the horizon and merge seamlessly with the night sky. A perfect circle. The prairie hills are massive frozen waves. He feels something pecking at his feet. He lifts his head. A small domed shape bobs up and down at his feet, hammering at his icy body. The bird flies up and hovers over his chest. Her body is brilliant blue; her crown golden. Her breast is plump and glazed with rhinestone tassels instead of feathers. Mansoor is amazed that she can fly. He swipes the air and tries to catch her, but she flies up and out of reach. He plants his hands on the snow and struggles to stand, his veins a map of frozen rivers. The bird flies ahead of him and waits, like a siren willing him forward. A few steps and he falls to his knees. His clothes are an armour of ice. In the distance, the city lights are a pale smudge in the sky. He tries to stand again but his body jars, a ship caught in icy waters. “Get up, Visram!” he orders himself. “Move!” Instead he falls, curls in the soft snow, and drifts off again. The bird lands on his shoulder. She nudges her way up to his ear and begins to sing.
* * *
Mansoor sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and the classified section of the Calgary Herald spread in front of him, searching the “Businesses for Sale” columns. With the recession, everyone was afraid to invest. They were at home nursing their wounds. Not him. He’d picked himself up. Reminded himself of what he needed to achieve. He would never give up. So he hatched a new plan. With the high number of bankruptcies and receiverships, many businesses would now sell well under market value. The law of supply and demand was in his favour and he would take advantage of it. In his negotiations with Ludlum, he had secured a line of credit. “For family expenses,” he told Ludlum. “Until I can get back on my feet.” But his plan was to tighten the household budget and use most of the money to start his new business. No bank would give him a loan so soon after his receivership. Now, he just needed to find something that required low capital investment. That was key.
“Anything good today?” Layla asked, setting a jar of jam and a stick of butter on the table before sitting down.
“Only a matter of time.” He circled a video rental store and starred it.
“You want more?” she asked, pouring herself a cup of tea.
He shook his head. He reached for the butter stick and examined the label. On the front: a Dutch girl with blonde pigtails and the words crème de la crème. “Switch to the generic brand,” he said.
“I tried it. It’s no good.” She reached for the butter knife.
“Try it again. We need to be more careful right now.”
She set the knife down. “Okay.”
On TV, the image behind the news anchorman was of the newly elected Prime Minister, Brian Mulroney. Mansoor had been torn on who to vote for in the election. In the end, he decided on Trudeau even as so many blamed him for the downfall of the economy. His loyalty couldn’t be so easily snuffed out. If the baby had been a boy, he would have named him Pierre.
“What about Patterson?” Layla asks.
“What about him?” he asks, his gaze fixed on his newspaper.
“He liked you so much. Why not ask him for a job?”
It was bad enough working for Patterson, but now Patel ran the dealership. He’d seen his name fitted over the old sign. “I’d rather die than work for anyone again. Especially those fools.”
“He would hire you straight away, I’m sure of it,” she said, biting into the toast. “Then we wouldn’t have to worry so much.”
“Who said there was anything to worry about, Layla? I’ve got everything under control.” He tapped his pen on the newspaper, creating a constellation of red dots. Why was she doubting him when what he needed more than ever was her unflinching support?
“I was only saying. A job might be easier than the hassle-bassle of business. You won’t have to work so hard. And for so little.”
