“Yes, not as bad as yesterday. At least it hasn’t snowed this week.”
“We haven’t seen the end of it yet.” She pushed a strand of hair off her face and Ismail imagined what her red hair might feel like between his fingers. Was it coarse like Rehana’s or silky like Daphne’s? He allowed her voice to pull him down from his porch and to the sidewalk. She, in turn, stepped onto her lawn.
“It’s true, maybe another month to go.” The widow glanced down the street and Ismail followed her gaze. Fatima was nearly at the end of the block, waiting at the crosswalk.
“Is that your daughter? Pretty girl.” She brushed a stray red lock from her eyes.
“No, she’s not my daughter.” Celia’s eyes narrowed. Ismail wobbled on the edge of the curb, and said, “Uh, well, we’re in a writing class together.” That didn’t seem to alter the widow’s disapproving expression, and he fretted that Celia might have seen Sonia wander out of his house earlier that morning, in her high heels, skimpy outfit, and short winter jacket. “She’s a young person who I am helping out. I’m sort of a family friend.” This explanation seemed closer to the truth, but still inaccurate. “She’s a nice girl, in university, but having some problems with her parents.”
“Oh, that’s good of you. I hope things aren’t too bad for her,” she said, looking genuinely concerned. She now stood at the dividing line between her lawn and the sidewalk.
“Well, we’ll see. I think she may be overreacting in some ways, being extreme about things. You know how young people are these days …”
“Yes, sometimes things can seem more dramatic, so urgent when we are younger. And then we figure out that life is long and we can take our time to do things.” Celia grinned at Ismail in middle-aged commiseration, her eyes twinkling. He beamed back at her, almost sure she was referring to their slow-rising friendship. Suddenly Fatima’s troubles and his decision to lend a hand seemed a mere trifle. Celia and he made more small talk, each mundane sentence a subtext in possibility. The olive skin on her exposed collarbones shone golden under the soft sunshine. The soil smelled of the earth thawing, the promise of the spring to come.
— 25 —
Compromise
“Exactly what is your interest in my daughter?” Hassan’s voice was a muted growl, his anger barely hiding below its surface. He and his wife sat directly opposite Ismail and Fatima in the Khan family’s formal living room, which reminded Ismail of Nabil’s “company-only” parlour, with its cream-coloured sofas, teak side tables, Indian artwork, and delicate statuettes behind glass cabinets.
“We’ve always been protective of our Fatima, so naturally, we’d want to know,” Shelina said evenly, diplomatically. She pronounced her daughter’s name in the traditional way, the “I” bouncing lightly off her tongue. Ismail noted this and followed suit.
“Just as Fatima has said. I am a friend, and she hopes that I can act as an intermediary to help resolve the disagreement between you,” he said, repeating the words Fatima and he had rehearsed in the car. Hassan regarded him skeptically, and Ismail felt himself flush under the scrutiny. “I assure you, Hassan, I am only here to help.”
“How did you two meet? I find it very strange that a man your age — our age — should be making the acquaintance of my daughter.” Hassan glared at him from under impressively bushy eyebrows.
“Dad! We’re both in the same class,” Fatima said, coming to Ismail’s defense. “He’s been really kind to me. You should be thanking him, not giving him such a hard time! He even let Sonia and I stay over the night before last, after the party.” Ismail saw Hassan’s jaw tighten and heard Shelina’s sharp inhalation.
“Perhaps you should clarify, Fatima,” Ismail suggested, and then turning to her parents, he said, “Er … it’s not what it sounds like.”
“We were stranded because Sonia lost her keys again,” Fatima added. Shelina looked at her daughter and sighed, while Hassan continued to direct his unwavering stare at Ismail. Fatima regarded her parents and then turned to Ismail, “You tell them. They don’t believe anything I say anymore.”
“Yes, the girls didn’t have anywhere else to go. I put them up in my guest room, and they both left in the morning. That’s all,” Ismail said tensely. “I’m afraid we aren’t getting off to a good start here.” There was a long pause, followed by another sigh from Shelina.
“I think he comes with good intentions, Hassan,” she said, looking to her husband. “Let’s talk a little at least and see what they have to say.” Ismail found himself shrinking in Hassan’s alpha-male shadow. He was built large, like a shot-putter, and struck an imposing figure with his severe expression and compact, muscular body. Ismail averted his eyes from Hassan’s steady gaze, focusing instead on the hem of Shelina’s lavender shalvaar kameez. She passed a cup of tea to him. He reached for it, telling his hand to remain steady.
“Mom, Dad. Listen, both of you, I understand that you are upset with me.” Fatima bit her bottom lip.
“Yes, I’m sure there is a solution that will ensure that Fatima’s well-being is taken care of while respecting your concerns,” Ismail said, returning to their script. He held tight to his tea cup.
“Oh, Fatima, why did you have to do this? Are you trying to punish us?” Shelina pulled an embroidered hankie from out of her sleeve and wiped her nose.
“It is just more of her senseless, shameless behaviour,” Hassan said. “This is not the daughter we raised. She would have listened to us, been obedient.”
“I’m the same person I always was. I’m not trying to punish anyone. I’m just living my life in the way I have to —”
“— in the way you have to? Going to all-night parties, lying to your parents, doing perverted things —”
“Please, Hassan, this is not constructive. We —” Shelina interrupted her husband.
“— perverted! That’s not fair, Dad! That’s homophobic!” The volume in the room rose as all three Khans talked over one another, Shelina in a wail, Hassan in a roar, and Fatima in high-pitched yell. They went on like this for what felt to Ismail like many minutes.
“Please,” Ismail finally broke in, his voice rising above their cacophony. He put down his teacup. “Please!” He repeated, more loudly. The Khans turned to look at him. “Let’s be reasonable. You obviously don’t agree about Fatima’s lifestyle, er … choices, but perhaps you can find a way to accept her, nonetheless,” he attempted, regurgitating advice from a website he’d consulted the previous week.
“We can’t accept this. It’s just not possible,” Shelina dabbed her eyes.
“She must change herself, live with our conditions, if she is going to live under our roof, eat our food, and receive our money,” Hassan said, his index finger pointing at Ismail, emphasizing each point.
“It’s not possible to change, Dad. This is who I am.” She held her head and stared at the floor.
“She is probably correct, I think. From my reading on the subject, this is not something a person can change. It seems that this might be hard-wired and —”
“What makes you such an expert on the topic, huh? What, are you a homosexual, too?” Hassan spat at Ismail.
“No!” Ismail exclaimed, suddenly more flustered than before. It struck him that this was the second time in one week that he’d been asked the question.
“Fatima, you told us you like boys and girls. What I can’t understand is why you can’t just choose boys if you like them, too,” Shelina whispered, in a side conversation with Fatima. Ismail couldn’t hear what Fatima whispered back.
“What? What are you two talking about? Stop whispering,” Hassan ordered.
“Listen, I think I have a compromise, maybe,” Fatima said. Her legs shook slightly, in betrayal of her calm-sounding voice. She laid out a plan in which she would find her own housing and requested their help with tuition and living expenses. She sugges
ted to them that living away from home might be a way to reduce the family’s conflicts and rebuild trust over time. She sounded articulate and mature and Ismail was impressed with her.
“This is not right. Fatima, you don’t know it yet, but you are too young to know what you want. You come home, start living properly, stop spending time with bad people, and everything will go back to normal,” Shelina pleaded.
“That’s right. Why should we support you living that way? It’s impossible.” Hassan crossed his beefy arms across his chest. “And what’s more, it will cost us more money than if you lived at home. You have no sense!”
“Perhaps there is a middle ground here? Um, what I mean is, perhaps you could offer her support for the things you do approve of, like her education, books … meals? And perhaps she could find a way to pay for some of her other expenses on her own?” Ismail was beginning to feel like it was time to negotiate with lower demands. Fatima nodded and looked to her parents hopefully.
Shelina and Hassan each regarded the other, engaged in silent negotiation while Fatima watched with a worried expression. Finally, Hassan shook his head obstinately. Shelina turned to Fatima and pleaded, “Just come home, just try to change, find some new friends. We’ll be a family again.” Her appeal seemed sincere to Ismail, who felt a measure of sympathy for her. He looked to Fatima, judging that it might be better for her to meet their conditions, if only temporarily.
“For a little while, could you?” Ismail whispered to Fatima. She didn’t respond, and stared off into space. He looked up to see Hassan’s unblinking gaze upon him.
Finally, Fatima spoke. “Mom … maybe Ismail has a good idea. If you could pay for my tuition, and books at least?” she implored.
“It’s our conditions or nothing,” Hassan pronounced, his words like a magistrate’s final judgment. “We don’t know Fatima anymore. We thought she was a good girl. And then we find all this out. Lying to us for years. And she won’t even let us help her fix it and return to normal.”
“I am a good girl. I mean,” Fatima searched for words, “I am a good person … I don’t know what I can say to make you happy,” she said, her eyelashes wet with tears.
“Just do what we are asking. It’s for the best,” Shelina said, leaning across the table and touching her daughter’s arm.
“It’s not rocket science. You go to school, you get yourself a good career. You get married, et cetera, et cetera. It’s not rocket science,” Hassan said, chopping at the air with his hand.
Fatima sat back, pulling away from her mother. “I can do the first two things. That’s why I need your help with tuition,” she pouted. “But the rest … I don’t even believe in state-sanctioned marriage, gay or straight.”
“Stupid girl, what are you talking about?” Hassan shot back and Ismail cringed at his insult. At the same time, he did feel that Fatima was unnecessarily provoking her parents. Why question the institution of marriage at this juncture!
“My God, how have things turned out this way?” Shelina asked, looking off into the distance.
“Listen, everyone, perhaps we should return to the main issue,” Ismail said in a pacifying tone. “Although she is not doing things in a way that you approve, she is still your daughter. She wants to go to medical school.” Fatima looked his way, was about to speak, but Ismail silenced her with a stern look of warning. Don’t talk about the Masters of Fine Arts! he told her telepathically. She remained silent.
“Ismail, we have given this a great deal of thought. We have always been generous and trusting with Fatima. Perhaps we have been too indulgent with her. Anything she has asked for, we have given to her. Maybe it is time for her to live with her own consequences,” Shelina said quietly.
“Yes, she made her own bed. Now sleep in it!” Hassan glowered at his daughter.
“Maybe you will have to learn the hard way,” Shelina whispered. Ismail couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“And we have to live with the consequences, too. So many people know because of that bloody article you wrote. Soon everyone will hear. They will find out that she no longer lives with us. That is our cross to carry,” huffed Hassan.
“Bear. Cross to bear,” Fatima muttered under her breath.
“What!” barked Hassan.
“It’s all about appearances for you,” Fatima pronounced. Ismail glanced at Hassan’s and Shelina’s souring expressions.
“We are not stupid people, Fatima. We are people who have worked hard in this country to make a good life for you and we have worked hard to gain the respect of our friends and community. Our whole life we worked to create a good life for you, and then you had to go and ruin it. Well, you can just live with that.” Hassan stood up and walked out of the room and into the foyer. He gestured to the door and said, “You both can leave now.”
“Wait, Hassan, let’s talk a little longer,” Shelina said in an alarmed voice, following him to the door. She addressed him quietly, her back to Ismail and Fatima.
“Yes, please, she didn’t mean to offend. Let’s try to reason this out,” Ismail stammered.
Fatima crossed her arms over her chest, mimicking her father’s posture.
“Go.” Hassan opened the door wide.
Shelina gave her daughter a perfunctory hug and shook Ismail’s hand. He didn’t know what to make of her mixed signals.
“When you are really ready to talk to us with respect, then come back, but only then. And don’t bring this fool with you.” As Ismail walked through the door, Hassan hissed, “And don’t think I don’t know who you are, Ismail. We’ve all heard about you. My wife told me to give you a chance, but I knew there would be no point.”
Ismail drove south to the QEW highway and then snaked along the Gardiner Expressway. Fatima sat with her head in her hands, sobbing. Intermittently, she sputtered angry words that bounced around the car’s interior.
“Fuck, shit, damn.”
“Hypocritical jerks. Fuck.”
“Can’t believe them.”
Ismail kept quiet, allowing her to vent. And, anyway, his mind was on Hassan’s hostile words: We’ve all heard about you. Of course they knew who he was. How could he have been so stupid to assume that he was safe? Why didn’t he warn Fatima to avoid using his surname? He realized that the whole time they’d sat in the Khan living room, Fatima’s parents had viewed him as the monster who killed his own daughter. His presence had only been a liability.
After some time, Fatima’s crying stopped and she watched the road silently for a while. When they passed the Humber River, she turned to him. “What did my father mean when he said that they’d all heard of you?”
“I’m guessing that you gave your mother my last name when you called her?”
“Yeah. I had your business card, and I told her your name and what kind of work you do, that you’re an engineer, too.”
“They recognized my name.”
“So?”
“I can’t talk about this right now, Fatima. I’m sorry. Where should I drop you?” Ismail pressed down hard on the accelerator.
“Um, well, maybe Sonia’s place.” She gave him the directions, regarding his face warily. They didn’t talk for the rest of the trip and Ismail was relieved for the silence. He kept his eyes forward as they wound their way across the west end. They drove past the arching gates of the CNE, beyond the old lakeshore factories destined to become expensive lofts, and through Queen’s Quay with its boats on grey water. Ismail turned left on Jarvis and right on Dundas Street, across Regent Park where the city had destroyed its own impoverished buildings and was rebuilding itself again. They traversed the Don Valley, and he dropped her off in front of a shabby-looking triplex on Broadview.
“This is it,” Fatima said, gathering up her bag and unlatching her seat belt.
“This place?” Ismail peered at the building�
�s unwelcoming facade. A toppled garbage bin lay in the middle of a brown lawn. The front door was unlatched, swinging open and shut with the wind.
Fatima stepped out of the car and mumbled, “Well, thanks for everything, Ismail.” They exchanged matching gloomy looks.
“No problem,” he said. “See you.” His words felt false for he wished to never again see the troublesome girl. At the same time, he worried that she would never again want to see him.
An hour later, he was numbed by his second double whiskey. The Merry Pint was about one-third full; it was still too early for the drug crowd who would later fill the back booths. Most of the customers sat near to the windows, bathed in the gauzy, late winter sunlight spreading across the front of the bar. Nearly all sat alone, in the company of favourite drinks. Just a few were paired up, speaking quietly, faces close together, as though sharing long-held confessions. Some stared up at the muted TV, tuned to a local news channel. The Merry Pint was one of those places where city-folk arrive on Sunday afternoons when there is no church that can house them, no mosque that can bear their suffering, no family in which to nestle. Ismail’s head grew heavy, clouding over with spirits.
He looked toward the ceiling and asked no one in particular why he had been led to hope that people might have long forgotten his crimes. Why had he foolishly believed he could play the role of knight in shining armour to a hapless girl?
He emptied the glass, whiskey washing down sultry and warm. Hassan, Shelina, and Fatima slowly drifted to the margins of his consciousness. A soft melancholy came to take its place. He ordered a third drink.
— 26 —
Bad Apple
“Ismail,” Nabil’s voice was stern. It was Monday morning, not the usual time for him to be calling. Ismail’s stomach tightened.
“Hi. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes, listen,” Nabil said impatiently, “I’m calling because I heard from a friend that you went to see Shelina and Hassan Khan yesterday.”
Six Metres of Pavement Page 18
