“Well, maybe,” Ravi says, sighing heavily. “I guess we should get back to work, then. Our break must be over by now.”
“Well, try not to worry too much. Worrying won’t help you.” Ravi nods, and the two men gather up their thermoses, throw away their garbage, and return to work.
The following Monday, Salma wakes her husband from a deep sleep, “Shaffiq, your boss is on the phone. He wants you to go in early and do a shift for Ravi again. You want it? Should I tell him yes?” Shaffiq remembers that last week Ravi mentioned that he might try to take a day off this week. Angie was going to arrange a meeting with his in-laws-to-be. These youngsters, always having to rush-rush into things, he thinks.
“Yes, tell him I’ll do it.” Salma disappears and then returns again, just as Shaffiq is drifting back to sleep.
“Is something wrong with Ravi? He takes a lot of time off work these days.”
“Let’s hope not.” Shaffiq groggily tells his wife Ravi’s plans.
“Maybe we should invite the two of them over again some time, you know, show them some support.”
“Good idea,” he says, remembering Salma’s good mood after Ravi and Angie’s last visit. “Let’s see how tonight goes for him. Who knows, maybe we can throw them an engagement dinner, if he is lucky. Poor fellow. His mother is really against it. She sent his uncle over for a ‘talk’ with him. His mother wants to arrange a match with a Hindu girl.”
“Maybe he’ll be able to weather his mother’s disapproval so far away from home. Things are different here. No one cares if you marry in the same religion or culture, or even if you marry at all. Just look at my two students. Independent women in their thirties. They can do anything they want. That’s how it will be for our girls.”
“He still has to pass Angie’s parents’ examination.” Shaffiq looks up at Salma’s distracted expression, “are your students coming today? You haven’t mentioned them for a couple of weeks.”
“We took a break. They were both very busy. But they are starting up again – they are coming over at six tonight.”
“It’s too bad I have to work today. I could have met them.” Shaffiq pushes himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He watches for something recognizable in Salma’s expression and seeing nothing there his own voice becomes muted. He so badly wants to tell her that he met Nasreen and knows that she is the same Nas as Salma’s student. He yearns to ask her about the earring he found behind the painting. He aches to explain to her that he knows that she knows or thinks he knows what she knows. But as he studies Salma’s closed face, he is afraid and so he remains silent.
Salma fries some pakoras for her students. The chick-pea snacks are a peace offering, a symbol of her desire to get back to normal and to acknowledge her wrong-doing to her students. She submerges a pakora in oil, waits for it to turn brown, expertly turns it over, and then raises it out of the pan and onto a paper towel. Not a drop of oil spatters on her clothing or the countertop. When she is finished, she turns off the stove and surveys the small pile of fried snacks. Will this be enough? she wonders. Will Nas trust her again? She feels so foolish and ridiculous. She brings the pakoras to the table and checks the clock on the stove console. How she admired this clock when she first arrived at this apartment. Never before had she cooked at a stove with an embedded clock. She polishes its already clean face with a wet cloth.
Her students should be here any minute now. She looks at herself in the hallway mirror, frowning at her untidy mess of hair. She pins some loose strands back into place and then, changing her mind, pulls out all the hairpins and shakes her hair loose. She runs her fingers through her mane, smoothing down some unruly waves, trying to achieve a casual look. There, that looks better. Her red shalwaar is a little wrinkled from wearing it all day. Should she change now? The intercom buzzes, startling her and she reaches over to press the white square button that permits her students’ entry to the building.
She watches Asha follow Nas into the living room, and feels herself flush under Asha’s gaze. She wonders what Nas has told Asha. Is Nas a gossip? She hopes not. When she considered this uncomfortable Gujarati class, she had not considered Asha’s reactions. But of course Asha probably knows everything, and Salma realizes she will have to face her shame in front of both students.
To Salma’s relief, Nas, too, is self-conscious and compensates for this by what Salma interprets as good-mannered cordiality. Asha, on the other hand, is uncharacteristically quiet, and this makes Salma nervous.
“Are the kids out at the neighbours again tonight, Salma?” Nasreen asks, trying to make conversation.
“Yes, they are playing again with their friends down the hallway. Here,” she says awkwardly, not knowing what to say or how to conduct herself, “Try these, I fried them just a few minutes ago.” She passes the women the plate of pakoras.
“Mmm, Salma, these pakoras are really yummy. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble, really.” Nasreen says.
“Yes, they are good,” Asha nods.
“Yes, really very good,” Nasreen repeats.
“No trouble at all. They are very easy to make. Shall we get started? Asha, did Nas fill you in on the last class, or do you need a review?” Salma appreciates her poor choice of words when she sees the look of amusement on Asha’s face. Nas intercedes,“Oh, sorry. I forgot to go over it with her. But that’s OK, I could use a review too.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry I missed the last class. A few weeks without Gujarati class has made me rusty. Tell me what you did last time,” Asha says, smiling at Nas. Nasreen glances over at Salma and then shoots her friend a look of warning.
A strange sensation in Shaffiq’s throat tells him that he should go home. Right away. He feels it first at five-fifteen, just a smallish tickle behind his Adam’s apple. It feels a little like how a cold might start out; an infection crawling its way along mucous-lubricated pink flesh. It makes him cough a little, but he continues his work, spraying aquamarine cleaning fluid on a white sink, a rusty toilet, wiping away the day’s dirt. Perhaps it is just the chemical fumes irritating him more than usual, he thinks.
Futilely, he attempts to ignore it. He starts to wonder if he has the flu. Soon, the soreness spreads further north and south in his throat, and then there is a soft whispering in his head that tells him “Go home. Leave here now, you must go home.” He divines that what is paining him is not a bacteria or a virus, but something else. A warning perhaps. Unspoken words, itching at him, spreading down through his esophagus, tightening around his vocal chords.
He has the urge to vomit, and sits down again, holding his stomach, willing the feeling back, downward. A woman walks by. He keeps his eyes averted so that she will pass without noticing his discomfort. He takes a few sips from his water bottle, hoping to soothe the pain, but it just makes him feel more nauseous.
Across the city and deep into the suburbs, a newspaper carrier walks along a sidewalk, speaking angry words to his wife over his cell phone. He doesn’t know why it’s happened, but his relationship has gone to hell over the past few months. He hangs up on her, triumphant to have had the last word in their argument.
He approaches a house on his route. It’s his third visit, this guy hasn’t been home, and that combined with his low wages and recent squabble with his wife make him annoyed with the customer at 638 Meadowgrove Road. The Passat is in the driveway, idleing, and so he bounds up the driveway to demand his overdue payment before the car disappears into the garage.
It’s there that he finds his middle-aged Indian customer lying unconscious on the oil-stained floor of his garage.
By six forty-five, the ache in Shaffiq’s throat, esophagus, and stomach is so terrible he can no longer work. He puts away his cleaning cart and leaves a barely audible, hoarse-voiced message for James, his supervisor. For a moment, he wonders if James will be angry with him for leaving given that he was supposed to be covering
for Ravi. He allows the thought to pass; he doesn’t have the energy for it. He boards the number 27 bus from the subway, flops down, and rests his head against the dirty window, feeling the welcome cool against his forehead. When the bus starts to move his head thunks against the glass but he cannot summon up the energy to sit up straight and steady his wobbling head. Although there is standing room only, no one claims the seat next to his.
The landscape outside soon changes from two-story brick single family dwellings with green front yards, to cramped looking duplexes with adjoining walls and then to turn-of-the-century three-story brownstones. He is still blocks away from his neighbourhood, the old growth forest of tall, grey highrises.
The ride feels interminable to him, each red-light intersection, each passenger stop an excruciating torture that brings with it a new wave of nausea as the bus slows and then lurches forward again. He is grateful when the bus finally nears his street. He pulls the cord, but the bell doesn’t ring. Using all his energy, he yanks it again and again and then realizes that it is broken and that he hasn’t heard it ring once since he boarded. He panics and stumbles toward the back doors.
“Please, driver, stop! I want to get off!” He manages only a barely audible whisper and the bus careens past his building. Further back in the bus, a young Somali woman wearing a red and purple headscarf looks up from her newspaper, and notices Shaffiq’s difficulty. Her reaction is spontaneous and swift and she is moved to shout louder than she has ever shouted in her entire twenty-one year existence. Her booming yell startles the driver, who slams on the brakes. The young woman is slightly embarrassed for the noise she has made, but also glad for its result. Later, she will tell her friends that it was not her own voice that called out to the bus driver, but that of her long-dead grandmother. They will laugh at her other-worldly imaginations and the incident will be forgotten. But in this moment, the young Somali believes in the guidance of her grandmother from beyond the grave.
The bus finally opens its doors and releases Shaffiq to the street. It is almost seven-thirty when he arrives at his apartment door.
The three women sit in the living room, awkwardly speaking rudimentary Gujarati broken with heavy silences and English.
A moment later, Shaffiq turns his key in the lock and opens the door. Salma, Nasreen, and Asha turn their heads and stare at the very sallow looking man standing before them. Shaffiq staggers forward into the apartment without closing the door, and lands limply on the couch, beside Asha.
“Shaffiq, what are you doing home? Are you sick? What’s wrong?” Salma asks him, alarmed at his countenance. She gets up and closes the door. Asha shifts away from him, closer to Nasreen.
“I think I’m coming down with something,” he croaks.
“What did he say?” Asha whispers to Nas.
“Shaffiq, you don’t look well at all,” says Nasreen.
“Shaffiq, I think you’ve met Nas before? And this is Asha. Let me help you to bed.”
“Yes, I’ve met Nasreen before. But then, you knew that. We both did.” Shaffiq rubs his hand over his throat, relieved that he can now speak. His voice feels stronger, his throat less sore. Nevertheless, he allows his wife to escort him to their bedroom. The two students watch, confused.
Just after being tucked into his bed, Shaffiq feels a strengthening in his body, a second wind and soon he jumps out from under the covers, and rushes to the living room, Salma following quickly behind.
“Nasreen, I think I found something of yours, an earring of yours.”
“What? So it is hers!” Salma exclaims, indignant.
“Why did you hide it behind the painting?” Shaffiq jabs his finger in the air towards the raani. Nas follows Shaffiq’s pointing finger, and studies the painting, as though seeing it for the first time.
“Why did you move it from behind her heart?” Salma says, pained, her hand over her chest, resembling a tragic heroine.
“What’s going on here, Nas? I don’t get it,” Asha whispers loudly.
“Shhh, I dunno.” She turns to Shaffiq, “yes, I lost an earring several weeks ago. I’ve missed it. That was a gift from my mother.” The painting attracts her eye again. She thinks she sees movement from behind the glass. “You mean the silver one? A teardrop?”
“Yes, Nas. He found it. I have it here.” Salma lifts the painting from the wall and rests it across Asha’s legs. Asha, still confused, holds it steady for her.
“Yes, there it is. In the little packet. Salma, I don’t understand, why did you put it there? Why did you keep this from me?” Shaffiq asks.
“It seemed safe there. I’m sorry,” she looks at Nasreen, “I don’t know why I didn’t just give it back to you. I know it has sentimental meaning. I just saw it in his pants pocket,” she says, gesturing toward her husband, who looks away, ashamed, “and I felt like I needed to take it away from him, and keep it safe,” she says, handing the earring to Nasreen.
“Keep it safe? From what?” Nasreen asks, looking at the earring in her palm, a confused expression on her face.
“OK, this is really weird,” Asha says, this time not bothering to whisper.
“Yes, I agree with you, Asha, it is very weird. He has been taking things from Nas’s office, I don’t know why and –”
“No, no, it’s not like that! I found the earring. It was in the hallway,” Shaffiq says, emphatically, his throat no longer sore, his head no longer cloudy, “I picked it up while I was cleaning. Near the elevators.”
“But I asked you about it, and you said you hadn’t seen it.”
“Yes, well, by that time, I thought I’d lost it. She –” he says pointing accusingly at Salma, “she had already stolen it. Really, I wouldn’t take something from your office Nasreen –”
“Well, there was the itinerary! Explain that then! That was from her office, wasn’t it?” Salma is almost shouting.
“Salma, don’t bring that into this,” he say, whispering to her, “That was in the recycling bin. I barely knew who she was then.”
“What itinerary?” Asha whispers to Nasreen. “These people are nuts!”
“I’ll tell you what itinerary.” Salma disappears down the hallway. The others watch her scurry away.
“Please, Nasreen, you must not be concerned by this. These are all just coincidences. I’m just like that, you see, I was a little homesick that day and then I was emptying your recycling bin it’s just something silly I like to do and well, the job is so boring that I like to collect interesting things, sentimental things. It wasn’t about you personally, you see –” Shaffiq, says in a pleading tone, his hands outstretched to Nasreen as he nervously watches his wife return from the bedroom.
“Really, Shaffiq. You might as well start being honest. You’ve been strange these last months. Not about her? This is her handwriting. You found it in her office.” She passes the slip of paper to Nasreen, who takes it hesitantly.
“Bombay, Air India Flight 360, December 3, 17:40 (5:40 p.m.),” Asha reads aloud over Nasreen’s shoulder, “Hey, that’s your flight! Geez, Nas, it’s like this guy’s been stalking you or something.”
“No. Please! No need for alarm,” Shaffiq says, his voice rising in pitch, “this is all so silly. I’m not a stalker.” He paces the living room, holding his head. Nasreen watches his distress, and feels some sympathy for him.
“Well, I guess he’s right that he didn’t steal anything from my office. I do remember throwing this away after I transferred the information to my daytimer. And it is possible my earring fell off in the hallway at work. I guess these two things could be a coincidence.” Nasreen bites her bottom lip and frowns at her handwriting.
“Yes, exactly! Just coincidence! I know it might seem strange when you put it together, but when you look at the whole thing sensibly –”
“I’m not sure that I believe in coincidences,” Salma looks at him with stern eyes.
Shaffiq is beside himself. With his voice rising to a contralto’s he says, “Why did you lie to me about meeting Nasreen in the coffee shop? Why did you lie about the green blouse? Maybe you too could be honest for just a moment!” Salma looks guiltily at Nasreen.
“Uh oh,” says Nasreen.
“Uh oh is right,” says Asha.
“How, how did you find out about that?” Salma asks quietly.
“I heard Nasreen talking to you from her office. I was outside in the hallway cleaning.”
“You were spying on her! Listening to our conversation!” Salma is quick to turn the tables on him.
“Shaffiq, you were in the hallway listening to my conversation?”
“I wasn’t spying. I just happened to be there and was about to come empty your garbage when –”
“When you spied on her?” Salma challenges.
“Don’t try to put this back on me. Answer my question. Why did you keep the meeting secret? What exactly are you two up to?” Shaffiq demands.
“Maybe we should go, and let them hash this out,” Asha whispers.
“No, I am a part of this too. Whatever is going on here, I am somehow in this.”
The four sit silently for a moment, looking at each other, cautiously.
“How about this then. How about I try to mediate,” Asha suggests brightly. She passes the painting onto Nasreen’s lap and then, standing up and facing the others, she says, “It seems to me that all three of you have been keeping secrets against each other. Why don’t we go around and let each of you explain yourselves,” she holds her hands up to stop Salma and Shaffiq, both of whom look as though they are about to restart their accusations, “without interrupting anyone. How about that?”
“Ah, what good it that? Look Salma, let’s do this privately, between the two of us. This is a family matter.” Shaffiq’s says this quietly, self-consciously, as though just realizing that they have guests.
Stealing Nasreen Page 24
