Night of Power, page 7
“Very well, Mr. Executive Sir,” Mansoor says, grasping the limp-fish fingers of his son’s hand. Was it always this weak? A strong handshake—that’s a man’s business card. A man’s power is in his body, everyone knows that.
Chapter 9
IN THE BACK OF the limousine, Ashif struggles to breathe. His father’s loan is going to wipe out his savings. He’ll have to start again. Stay at his job longer. At least another decade. He gasps for air. He tries to open his window. It’s locked. He bangs on the glass separating him from the driver. The partition rolls down. He yells at the driver to stop. The driver pulls onto the shoulder, screeches to a halt. Ashif throws open the door. Stumbles down the embankment into a field of snow. He sucks in the cold air. In and out. He can’t get enough. In and out. He’s desperate. As if he’s dying.
* * *
When Ashif was a child, he didn’t like crowds or too much noise. Not even excessive light. He found it overwhelming. And exhausting. Like an overloaded machine that shuts down. Instead, he preferred to stay in his room and read fairy tales or make up little stories. He could do it for hours on end, without ever getting bored, as if he was lost in a wonderous world that he never wanted to leave.
One day his father found his notebooks. The boxfuls of stories he kept under his bed. Ashif was sure he’d love them. But he didn’t. He wasn’t mad, he told him, but disappointed that he was wasting his time. He was old enough to know better. He was now eight. Ashif tried to explain. These were his science journals. His observations. That’s what his teacher, Ms. Clarke, called them. But his father said she was wrong. This was not science. It was fiction and it had no value.
“It’ll only distract you from important subjects like math and science. The ones that really count.” His father then told him he had no choice but to take his notebooks away.
“Please, Pappa. Don’t,” he begged, his voice cracking.
“No crying, okay?”
“But I love them, Pappa….” Ashif said, unable to stop his tears.
“This is not the kind of thing to love!” His voice was firm and strong.
A new thought pelted him like a hailstone. There must be something wrong with him. Why else did he love something he wasn’t supposed to? He was ashamed of himself.
“Trust me, son,” his father said as he pulled out the other boxes from under his bed. “One day, you’ll thank me.”
Ashif stood at his bedroom window, frozen in place. In the street below, his father piled the boxes into his Chevy. His father never told him what he did with his notebooks and he never asked. That night, he wet his bed. When his mother found the soiled sheets crumpled under his bed, he begged her not to tell his father. She didn’t. On that day or the many times after. He couldn’t bear the idea of his father finding out there was yet something else wrong with him. Then his father would stop loving him for sure.
* * *
“Sir! Are you alright?” the driver calls out to him from the road.
Ashif comes back. “Yes, fine. Just a bout of asthma.”
Back inside the limousine, Ashif calls his broker and arranges to cash out his investments. Then he calls his mother. He asks her to tell his father to meet him for breakfast in the Air Canada business lounge tomorrow. He doesn’t want his father to come to his hotel, even if it’s right there. When she asks if everything is okay, he says he’s taking care of everything, just as he promised. “Don’t worry. Pappa’s going to be fine. We all are.”
“Thank you, bheta,” she says. “You are the best son.”
At the airport, the limousine pulls into the U-shaped driveway of his hotel. The driver jumps out and holds the door open for him. Ashif steps out with his briefcase. A doorman wearing a red uniform adorned with gold buttons opens the hotel doors.
“Welcome, sir,” he says.
Ashif hands him the bag of food from his mother. “Can you throw this out for me, please?”
“Of course, sir.”
Ashif straightens his suit jacket, then marches into the lobby full of businessmen.
Chapter 10
WHEN LAYLA TELLS MANSOOR that Ashif wants to meet him for breakfast, he’s confused. His son never wants to see him without his mother. Then it becomes clear: his son’s loyalties are shifting back to him. What else could it be? He asked Ashif to come back and now he has. Mansoor has waited for such a long time for this moment. He laughs. He has been right all along. That’s all his son needed. The proper guidance to do the right thing. That’s all every child needs.
When Ashif was a child, he noticed the boy’s oddities. He spent much of his time alone instead of playing with other children. He was always so quiet, too, as if he was lost inside himself. He could lie on the grass and stare at the clouds for hours. He’d even seen him with his ear pressed against a tree, as if listening for a heartbeat. This wasn’t normal behaviour! He worried his son would be bullied at school—odd children always are, especially boys.
He didn’t want Ashif to stick out. Like so many who came to this country. People who preferred their old ways, glued together like a herd of sheep. Wasn’t that the reason Amin threw them out to begin with? Mansoor was clear. He would not repeat the mistakes of Uganda. You have to get along with the people you live amongst. Assimilate! He would never return to Uganda, either, like those who galloped back the second Indians were invited back. Fine. Go. Who wants people like them, anyway? As if Canada was just a stopover. Not for Mansoor. He was committed to this country and this country alone. It was the only way to have deep roots and build a real home. There was nothing he wanted more for his family. His son would have to learn how to stand out for the right reasons (talent and accomplishment) but blend in otherwise. It was crucial for his success here.
Mansoor had always assumed Ashif would outgrow his odd behaviour, but when he hadn’t by age eight, he knew he would have to take things into his own hands. He decided to cut the problem out at its root. Like amputating an extra pinky finger. The hand might feel strange for a little while, but in good time, the body forgets. It always does. Just like the time he found all those boxes of Ashif’s diaries. He didn’t beat him like his father would have. Instead, he calmly explained why writing and reading fiction were an utter waste of time. His son was upset at first, but in due course, he complied with the right behaviour.
Mansoor naturally helped matters along by removing all bad influences from his son’s life. First and foremost, his teacher, Ms. Clarke. What kind of teacher can’t differentiate between facts and fiction? He removed him from that school immediately and enrolled him in one with a solid track record in winning math and science awards. He also encouraged him to join the debate club and sports teams. He taught him about how to joke with people, put him in elocution classes. He also rewarded every success. An ice cream for a goal, a nickel for the right answer. Pavlov knew what he was doing. Eventually, Ashif came to him with his own ideas. Attending a hockey game together, joining Toastmasters. He excelled at his new pursuits and brought home top marks. Trophies, too! He shudders to think what would have happened if he hadn’t intervened. Thankfully he did. His son is who he is today because of him.
Yet Ashif is off track again. It was only a matter of time until he was laid off, maybe even fired. He’d always assumed that his company, with its deep pockets, would have trained him properly. It was the only reason he let him stay in Toronto after business school. He had expected him to come back home, armed with a strong set of business skills and a solid Rolodex, to take over the family business. Yet all his company has managed to do is to give him a big head. He seems to think he’s better than everyone else—his father included. As if. Mansoor could do his job with his eyes closed, and for half the money to boot.
Mansoor would have to take things into his own hands if he wanted to fix his son again. The solution was clear. He’d take Ashif under his wing at the business. Train him from the ground up. M.G. Visram & Sons Dry Cleaners, Unlimited. That’s what he had once envisioned. A big family, working together like a well-oiled machine. They’d keep their resources—talent, labour, money—within the family. That’s how empires are built. He had wanted more children—boys or girls, it didn’t matter. Women were capable of anything these days. Look at Margaret Thatcher, Oprah Winfrey, Benazir Bhutto. They didn’t stop until they reached the top. Good for them. Instead, they hired other women to help them with their duties at home. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of children—low-paying positions that could easily be covered by their high-powered salaries. It made complete sense. A division of labour. Exactly how Ford revolutionized the automobile industry. Now that was progress! He would have gladly welcomed a daughter into the business. Let her stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him. But he never had the chance. There were no daughters, no other sons. Only Ashif, and he would have to do.
If only he had taken Ashif under his wing sooner. Maybe it would have been easier. Children are more pliable. His own apprenticeship started at the age of four, when he was required to accompany his father to the store each morning before school, where his father sat him on the counter next to the cash register. He was not allowed to ask any questions or make any requests, and at the end of each visit, he was quizzed to test his understanding. Short, clear answers in English—the language he was required to master before mastering five others. Any wrong answers, any misbehaviour, was punished immediately.
His father’s laugh booms behind him. “Fool idiot! It’s too late. Your son is almost thirty. Thirty! And you are sixty.”
“No, Pappa!” he says defiantly. “I’m going to do it. Train my son. Get the money for my plant. You just watch me!”
His father jams his cane into his back. “Don’t be smart with me!”
Mansoor folds over in pain.
“You better do it, boy! Everything depends on it.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Chapter 11
ASHIF AND MEL, THE VP of human resources, meet briefly before the first layoff candidate arrives in a conference room at the hotel. Their protocol was simple. Ashif would lead at the start. His job was to make the candidate feel comfortable. Then Mel would take over.
Most of the candidates are surprised by the news, some devastated, a few are thrilled. Ashif tries his best to be present, to be empathetic. Most of them have a family, children, mortgages. Most of them are over forty. But as the candidates discuss their futures, Ashif’s mind returns to a time he thought he’d have a very different life.
* * *
He met Shafina each Thursday in the same room at the Forrest Lawn Library from four to six p.m. for their Beauty Salons. The room had a wooden table, four rickety chairs, a TV-VCR, and a boom box with a double cassette player. Each week they devoured poetry, plays, films, novels, music, art catalogues. From Flashdance to That Obscure Object of Desire, Annie Lennox to Bach, Shakespeare to Lorca. Everything at the library and anything they could get their hands on with the help of the librarian, Mrs. Sims, who could access libraries across the city and the country, too.
Some of the books they wanted to read posed a problem. Lolita, Delta of Venus, Giovanni’s Room, Shame, The Unicorn and the Dancing Girl, Wifey, Rumi’s The Book of Love: Poems on Ecstasy and Longing. They couldn’t take them home without eliciting parental scrutiny. From her parents, anyway. His mother assumed any book he was reading was a school book. She also left him to handle anything to do with school. She didn’t know the Canadian system, but she trusted it implicitly. She rarely checked to see if he’d finished his homework, never asked which classes he liked, or what his teachers were like. He didn’t mind. In fact, he liked it. He could do whatever he wanted. He even signed his own parental permission forms, even his absentee notes when he and Shafina skipped school. His mother knew he could forge her signature, but she had agreed only so he could deposit the cheques his father left them on his Sunday visits.
They decided to cover their books—controversial or not—just in case. It became a Beauty Salon ritual. They only used paper from a Japanese shop on Stephen Avenue, cutting it to fit the book jacket. They’d stencil the same two letters on the spine with their calligraphy set. B.S.
“That’s what you call a perfect cover,” Ashif said, holding up their first book.
“Maybe we should use B.B. instead? Burqa Books,” she said, and they laughed even though Ismaili women didn’t wear burqas. They’d read about a concept called taqiyya, which Ismailis used to practise along with other Muslim communities who were persecuted for their differing interpretations of Islam. They would dissimulate, pretend to be anything but Ismaili in an effort to protect themselves. “But that’s a kind of burqa, isn’t it? Because you have to hide who you really are,” she said and he agreed. She was so smart.
Into each book jacket they tucked their favourite poem, “Speak” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz. A poetic “fuck you” to potential censors, especially their parents.
At one salon, without warning, Shafina threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He kept his eyes open, his heart thumping with terror and excitement.
“Is it your first time?” she asked when they came up for air.
“Yeah,” Ashif said, embarrassed.
“You’re a natural,” she said and pulled him back in.
After that day, their Beauty Salons turned into make-out salons. That’s all they wanted to do. Kiss and touch each other. They hid themselves in the library stairwell or behind the study room door until eventually they found a solution. They papered the glass wall and on it, they drew a few lines and some dots, a guise for an art project.
“What’s this?” Mrs. Sims asked, pointing to the wall when she walked in on them without knocking.
They scrambled to sit up, pulling down their T-shirts.
“It’s against library rules,” Mrs. Sims said. “You need to take it down.”
“But we’re mapping the world,” Shafina said. “See those lines…”
“Yes,” she said.
“They’re outlines of the continents. And those dots—they’re all the cities we want to visit.”
“Doesn’t look much like a map to me,” she said.
Ashif piped in. “That’s because it’s impressionistic. You know, like Van Gogh. A map of the world like a constellation of stars.”
Mrs. Sims examined the wall again. “Oh, yes! How very lovely. Good work, you two.”
When she left, they burst out laughing. “We’re a good team,” she said and he pulled her in for another make-out session.
Each evening and on weekends, they spoke on the phone for endless hours. Sometimes they were on the phone all night, falling in and out of sleep between their conversations. Other times, they’d say nothing, just listen to each other breathe. That’s when he knew he loved her. He felt with her what he’d never felt with anyone else. That he was at home. He could relax and be himself. When he finally found the courage to tell her, she said she loved him, too. “Forever and ever, chéri.”
Now, all they wanted was to make love. But where? He wasn’t allowed at her house—her father was too strict. She was welcome at his house, but his mother was always home and expected them to sit and have tea with her. She was ecstatic that he had an Ismaili girlfriend and even happier to have her company. “It’s just so nice to have a girl around,” she told Shafina. They tried to escape to his room, but his mother insisted they keep the door open.
His father was moving back from Rocky Mountain House soon. Ashif missed him even if he was used to his absence. It had been four years since he left. But there were other reasons he was looking forward to having him back home. Without him, Ashif had to run errands for his mom, take her grocery shopping, do the family banking, accompany her to community events, or just keep her company. Finally, he’d be able to shuck these duties and be a normal teenager. Best of all, he’d finally have more time alone with Shafina.
They started researching universities away from home. Columbia, the Sorbonne, the American University in Cairo, and McGill were at the top of their lists. They sent away for course calendars and eagerly checked the mail for their arrival. When the packages arrived, they spent hours mocking up class schedules for their first year, like mapping out a travel itinerary. “The scenic route,” she joked. Art history, film and photography, architecture, urban planning, linguistics, French, Arabic, international politics, the modern novel, natural science, macroeconomics.
Neither one of them was sure what they wanted to do yet, but she was leaning toward something in the visual arts, maybe film or photography. He was leaning toward the letters, maybe journalism or else poetry. “That makes sense, chéri. You have a poetic heart,” she said and he was elated. That day, he bought a stack of notebooks and started writing again. As if he was resurrecting a part of himself. He papered his notebooks like their B.S. books. He didn’t want his father to ever find out.
“What if we don’t get accepted to the same university?” he asked when the terrible thought first occurred to him. He could no longer imagine life without her.
“No one can separate our hearts, mon chéri,” she said. “We’ll always be under the same sky. Just like Rumi and Shams.”
* * *
After their meetings, Mel and Ashif debrief and have a quick dinner together. He likes her and he senses she likes him, too. But he knows he’ll never confide in her. They need to maintain a professional distance. So many rules, so many lines, like wands of light in a security system. You can’t cross one without an alarm being set off and showing up as a black mark on your next performance review. Merit is important, but how well you get along with people is just as important if you want to move up at the company. You have to attend endless client dinners and events. You have to participate in employee activities outside of work hours—golf tournaments, the company baseball team, weekly drinks at the local bar or during high season, every weeknight. You have to speak about sports, and, in the company of only men, women’s bodies. You have to follow the rules. He finds it exhausting. But he does it anyway. He has to if he wants to fit in. He’s always wearing a mask. A constant impostor. Not just at work, but in every part of his life. So that no one knows him. He has no one to confide in. Not Caity, not his friends from business school that he meets with once or twice a year. He doesn’t feel at home anywhere. He feels untethered, even to his own body. As if he might float away at any second.
