by Farah Heron
“Who’d she rent to, anyway?”
“I don’t know. I was out last night when they moved in, and I worked early today. It’s someone Nanima knows through her cooking committee. Did you hear she’s been made chairperson? She’s at Jamatkhana cooking with those women every day, it feels like.”
“Who are they doing all that cooking for?”
“Catering for events in the community. Weddings, funerals, that sort of thing. And they make food for the less fortunate. It’s admirable service, but all of them together so much . . . I’m sure they gossip more than they stuff samosas. Anyway, it’ll be fine, honey. You can work on your paper in your room.”
Amira didn’t see how this could possibly be fine.
“Okay, Mum, I’ll figure something out. I think I’ll get some work in at the library instead of coming home now. Unless you want me watch Zahra tonight. Are you still at work?”
“No. I’m home for the rest of the day. Try and get here before bedtime, though. Your sister will be happy to see you.”
Amira’s shoulders slumped forward as she rubbed the back of her neck. This was just her luck. Strangers. Living in her basement. Getting in the way of her school work. She slowly returned her phone to her bag. Maybe it would be okay? These were people Nanima knew from Jamatkhana, not some frat boys from the beer hall. They probably wouldn’t even be home during the day, and Amira could just eat dinner upstairs and spend her evenings there with her mum and sister if they were around at night. At least she had her own bathroom. And a door that locked.
There was no point stressing about it now, so she grabbed her bags and headed to the subway to go to the library. The massive central reference library was the perfect place to lose a couple of hours in research, and if there were strangers in her home, she imagined she would be spending a lot of her waking hours in the Toronto library system. May as well get used to it now.
After a few productive hours of work, Amira made her way home a little after nine o’clock. Her grandmother’s house wasn’t big: a raised bungalow with three bedrooms upstairs and three downstairs. On the lower level, where she lived, there was a small kitchen and a combination family room/dining room with a bathroom and two bedrooms off it. Her bedroom was at the back, set apart from the other rooms and with its own bathroom, but the common areas would be shared with whoever rented those two rooms. To avoid meeting those strangers right away, and to catch her sister before she went to bed, Amira went in the front door to the upper level of the house.
The heady aroma of Indian spices and strong chai wafted out the moment she unlocked the door. Ah . . . the smell of home. Amira relaxed immediately as she entered the comfortable clutter of her grandmother’s house.
“Amira, beta, you’re here!” Nanima said from her usual seat on the sofa where she was watching a Gujarati soap opera. “Your mum told me you were coming today. Did you eat dinner? What can I heat up for you?”
Although quite healthy and vivacious, Amira’s grandmother wasn’t all that different than the majority of seventy-something Indian women—short, wide hipped, and always looking to feed everyone in her immediate vicinity. Amira leaned down to kiss her cheek and smiled. “I’m fine. I had a sandwich in the library. I’m surprised to see you. No Jamatkhana tonight?”
“Nah, it was a long day. I had a meeting with my committee in the morning but was late because I had to take Zahra to school. There was a mix-up with your mother and her shift. Then the committee meeting ran long because Shirin insisted we all taste this new recipe for nankhatai she made. Tasted the same as her old recipe. I mean, it’s just a cookie—not spaceship science.”
“Rocket science.”
Nanima waved her hand in a whatever motion. “Will you come to Jamatkhana with me on Friday? You have old friends there who would love to see you.”
Amira held back a scoff. Maybe rubberneckers there who’d love to see her. Although her grandmother was religious, Amira herself wasn’t all that observant and rarely went to prayers. The last time she agreed to go to the prayer hall with Nanima, three people she barely knew asked her about the articles in the paper surrounding her “incident.” Since then, she’d made peace with the fact that she only attended on Eid and special occasions. Still, it didn’t stop Nanima from asking Amira to come along whenever she was in town. But Nanima never insisted and never made Amira feel guilty about skipping the rituals associated with her religion.
“I’ll probably be busy with my final project. Where’s Mum?”
“Reading that wizard book with Zahra. Putter?”
Amira smiled as she made her way to her sister’s room and peeked in. Zahra was in the bottom bunk of her bed, her face illuminated by the phone in her hand. She looked up.
“Amira! You’re home!” Zahra launched herself at her sister. Amira laughed, hugging her close and burying her nose in her baby sister’s curls.
“Hey, Squish, glad I got you before bedtime.” She manoeuvred Zahra back to her bed and sat next to her, grinning. “Where’s Mum?”
Zahra leaned close, speaking quietly. “On her phone. I think Mum has a boyfriend.”
Amira laughed. She had suspected her mother was seeing someone based on the cagey answers she had been giving recently whenever Amira asked what she was up to. She wasn’t surprised Zahra had figured it out, too.
“Speaking of phones,” Amira said, “you’re not supposed to have yours in bed.” She held out her hand and Zahra dutifully handed the smartphone over. It was Amira’s old phone—she gave it to her sister when she bought a new one last year. There was no phone plan attached to it, but Zahra used it to send selfies to her friends over Wi-Fi nonstop. Eleven-year-old Zahra was a better millennial than Amira was.
Amira turned the phone off and put it in her pocket. “How’re things here?”
“Good. I finally convinced Mum to read Harry Potter, so we’re taking turns reading chapters to each other.”
Amira glanced at her mother’s closed bedroom door. “It’s getting pretty late. Maybe you should leave it for tomorrow?” She spent a few minutes catching up before kissing her sister good night. Her mother still hadn’t emerged from her bedroom. Must be serious. She made a mental note to grill her on this “boyfriend” later.
“Nanima, what’s this about you renting out the extra basement bedrooms?” she asked her grandmother as she made her way back to the living room to grab her bags.
“Sameer and his friends. They have a competition in Toronto. Do you want some chai? It’s fresh.”
Crap. Men moved in? “I’d love some. Who’s Sameer?”
“You know Sameer, beta? He used to live here.” Nanima got up and went towards the kitchen. “There’s a picture somewhere of you holding him when he was a baby. Neelam’s son? From Ottawa?”
Amira had no idea who Nanima was talking about. Her blank stare must have betrayed her as her grandmother let out an exasperated tsk. She handed Amira a mug of hot chai and headed towards the basement door.
“Come, I’ll take you down to meet him. Neelam is Shirin’s daughter. Her son, Sameer, and some of his friends have a competition and they needed a place to practise in Toronto. I volunteer with Shirin on the food committee. You know her, beta.”
Amira followed her grandmother as they made their way down the narrow stairs to the basement.
“Competition?” she asked.
“I think a haircutting thing? He said something about barbers, but then he said it was a singing contest. Do barbers sing?”
She froze on the stairs. Was this really happening? Had her Indian, Muslim grandmother just rented out her basement to a barbershop quartet?
“Three of them moved in yesterday,” Nanima continued, “but they said the fourth was coming today on a train.”
As she continued to the bottom of the stairs and stood in the small basement kitchen, Amira had a sudden thought. No. It was impossible. There was no way the slimy, creepy Mr. Silver Pants from the train was the fourth guy in the quartet. This couldn’t b
e his Bollywood singing group. Voices around the corner came towards her. She tensed, dropping her bags.
“I’ll get the rest of my bags out of the car, Sam,” a deep voice said.
A sound escaped Amira’s lips. She didn’t need to see the man; she knew that voice. It wasn’t the creep from the train; although to her, he was a close second on the list of men she had hoped never to see again.
Duncan Galahad had moved into her house.
Chapter Four
DUNCAN GALAHAD AND those striking eyes were in Amira’s kitchen. Her mouth went slack. No.
“Good lord, it’s Princess Jasmine.” He took two steps backwards, almost crashing into the slight man behind him.
Amira shut her mouth and willed her racing heart to return to normal. What had she done to deserve this?
“Jasmine?” Nanima questioned. “This is Amira, my granddaughter.”
Recovering, the garden gnome’s smirk returned. “So, you have a name.”
“You two know each other?” the other man asked. Amira eyed the stranger in the room. He was younger than Duncan, probably early twenties, with hair that had been teased straight up as if escaping his clean-shaven brown face. He also wore plaid flannel, but on him, it looked decidedly more hipster chic and less mountain man. This was Sameer, she assumed.
Amira folded her arms over her chest. “We were on the train together.”
“Why’d you call her Princess Jasmine, because she’s brown?” Sameer asked. It was kind of an accusing question, but Sameer didn’t sound annoyed or angry. Was it possible someone got along well with the garden gnome?
Duncan lowered his eyebrows. “No. Long story. It’s because the princess here is no one’s property.” He turned and smiled tightly at her. “Glad to meet you, Amira. Looks like we’re going to be roomies for the next few weeks. We’re here for a barbershop quartet competition. I gather you’re in the far room at the end of the hallway?”
She had been right. They were a barbershop quartet. This was easily the most ridiculous moment of her life.
“Amira is just back from university,” Nanima gushed. “She’s doing her master’s in engineering. She has school work, so you boys don’t disturb her. You’re okay, right, beta?”
Amira nodded, heart still pounding and face straining hard to convey that this living arrangement was no big deal. “Yeah, Nanima, I’m fine. You go back upstairs, I’ll just unpack.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow. Good night.” Nanima left with a warm smile.
“I’m just going to—” Amira stopped. She didn’t have to explain herself to these two. She didn’t even have to talk to them. They were invading her home, not the other way around. She picked up her things and walked silently to her thankfully empty bedroom.
She paced the room a bit, seething about the mess she found herself in. Amira wasn’t usually one to give any weight to new-age, superstitious drivel, but she couldn’t think of any reason why this could be happening to her other than she had angered the universe somehow. Hell, maybe there was a pissed-off Sufi saint out to get her. Wouldn’t be a surprise, really. Pissing people off was Amira’s talent; surely she could do it with saints, too.
How was she going to get her project done with the garden gnome and his barbershop quartet living and rehearsing here? She grabbed her phone and texted Reena.
Amira
Sir Lumberjack and his merry barbershop quartet are living in my grandmother’s basement.
Reena
Hang on, I’m going to throw my phone in the Don River. Pretty sure I’ll never get a better text than that. May as well give it up.
Amira
I’m serious. They’re here.
Reena
What the hell? Should I still come over?
Amira
No. Meet me at the Sparrow in 15.
The Sparrow was a local haunt about a ten-minute walk from both Amira’s house and Reena’s apartment. They’d been hanging out there for years whenever both were in town. It was the kind of place with brewed coffee at all hours and decent beer on tap. And a killer Sunday brunch. Amira rushed out of the house after changing into jeans, afraid to run into the garden gnome again. How was she going to survive two weeks of avoiding him and his ridiculous quartet?
She was sitting at a table in the back, nursing a bourbon on the rocks when she saw Reena approach. Amira stood and gave her friend a tight hug before sinking back in her seat. Seeing her best friend in the whole world warmed her core more than the amber whiskey ever could. She’d missed Reena. So much.
Reena Manji was a little thing, barely five feet tall, with dark, shoulder-length curls and darker eyes. Despite recently turning thirty like Amira, she was routinely carded when buying drinks and could probably get away with paying the high-school student fare on the subway. Even though they had been living over two hours away from each other for the last few years, they talked or texted almost daily, so Amira knew Reena needed this bit of best-friend therapy, too. Reena’s life was a wreck lately, with parents who managed to be both distant and way too involved in her life. Plus, a younger sister living with her whom Reena had no choice but to support and who had always treated her terribly. If any other person was going through the crap that Reena was dealing with, Amira would feel bad about meeting with her to complain about her own problems. But this was Reena. Reena’s support was always unconditional.
After ordering a hard cider, Reena skipped any small talk and got to the point. “What in god’s name was that text about, Amira? What lumberjack is in your home?”
“Nanima has rented the two extra basement bedrooms to some barbershop quartet she knows. And because my life is an exercise in cosmic torment, the annoying guy from the train is in the group. The garden gnome.”
“A barbershop quartet.”
“Yes.”
Reena blinked repeatedly. “How does your nanima know a barbershop quartet?”
“Believe it or not, from Jamatkhana. One of the guys is the son or grandson of a friend of hers, I think. Sameer something. Really tall hair.”
“Sameer from Ottawa?”
“You know him?”
Reena smiled. “No, but I know of him. He’s a friend of a friend on Facebook. You know, it’s high time you rejoined the twenty-first century and waded back into social media.”
Amira had deleted all her social media accounts almost a year ago after burning out from dealing with people who confused opinions with facts. She didn’t miss the inane updates from people she cared little about and was glad not to be up to speed on gossip these days. She frowned. “He doesn’t seem very friendly. Didn’t say a word to me when Nanima introduced us.”
“Saira told me a rumour about him, but I can’t be sure it’s true. Neelam’s son, right?”
Saira was Reena’s sister. “I think so. I still haven’t figured out who Neelam is.”
“Shirin’s daughter.”
Amira shrugged. “Honestly, Reena? I find myself unable to care who these people are right now.” She swirled her drink in her hand, letting the melting ice cubes crash against each other. She took a small sip before shaking her head. “How am I going to get any work done with four surly guys living down there? And there’re only two empty bedrooms. It’s going to be a tight squeeze.” She rubbed her hand over her face. This day was so surreal. She considered pinching herself to see if it was a dream, but there was no way even her subconscious could come up with this insanity.
“You’re sure there’s four of them?”
“I’m assuming. It’s a quartet. I’ve only seen Duncan and Sameer, though.”
Reena giggled.
“What’s so funny?”
“I think you may have misjudged your lumberjack. Don’t think he’s a garden gnome at all. I think he’s a garden . . . bear.”
“What?”
“The rumour I heard about Sameer is that he recently came out to his mother, and he’s coming to Toronto with his boyfriend.”
Amira blinked. She had
n’t seen that one coming. Her own parents weren’t particularly traditional, or devout, for that matter, enjoying Jamatkhana on Fridays and wine bars on Saturdays. But Amira knew what was outside her little bubble of secularity. Their sect was a comparatively forward-thinking branch of Islam, and many within their community were socially accepting, but not all. And gossip in the community was rampant. She could count the number of gay people who had come out drama-free on one finger. And even though her friend Sofie was out and proud, Amira hated the way members of the community continued to lower their voices and whisper when talking about her or her girlfriend, Jackie.
But Duncan Galahad was gay, too? She remembered his reaction to the man on the train—he did say he was the furthest thing from a homophobe; and she supposed a gay man would fit that bill, but really? Amira wasn’t one to generalize with stereotypes, so it wasn’t his masculine gait or his manly arms that made her think he was straight, but rather the possessive way he had held on to her shoulder at the train station, the way he seemed to look right into her when they spoke. Amira shivered. Gay?
She drained her glass of bourbon.
Reena grinned. “He could be bisexual. Or pan, or—”
“Who, Sameer? Or the garden gnome?”
“The garden gnome. Sameer is gay, at least that’s what I heard he told his mother. But the other one may be into women, too?”
“Reena, what’s your point?”
Amira was very familiar with the knowing smile on Reena’s face. “No point, really,” she said.
“If you’re implying I have any interest in the bearded wonder, drop it. First of all, you just told me he’s in a relationship, so why would I go there? And second, he’s a white-knighting asshat and not my type, remember? And third, probably the most important point: I am working on my project and not looking for a man right now!”
“Yeah, but I’m sure you weren’t expecting your knight in shining armour to be a musician. Or to be living in your house.” Reena laughed.
God. Amira needed new friends. People who didn’t know her deepest secrets and storied history. Best to change the subject now, before Reena went deeper down that grungy back alley of memory. “I can’t believe my grandmother rented her basement to a gay couple,” Amira said.
