Six Metres of Pavement

by Farzana Doctor

  Meanwhile, the evening bore out changes Ismail couldn’t deny. Something inside him had shifted, lightened just a little. When he took out the garbage a few days later, he remembered what was weighing down the bag, recalled the articles he’d relinquished that night. He had no urge to salvage them and was glad when the garbage truck drove away.

  Still, when something long held is released — even a hardship — a void remains, nameless, shapeless, aching to be filled. Ismail didn’t yet have anything to replace his file folder of suffering.

  —

  The Easter weekend approached, and he declined an invitation to stay over at his brother’s family, opting instead to join them just for Sunday dinner. What the suburbs had to offer were too paltry after all he’d been through that week; he needed something fresh and new in his midst.

  On Friday, he chose a restaurant in Little Italy for an early supper, a place he’d been meaning to try for years. He started with a glass of shiraz from a winery near Chatham. He scanned the menu, discovering that he didn’t know what risotto was and for that reason, and that reason only, he chose the fourth item down the menu’s list: Seafood with Porcini Mushrooms, Fennel and Onion, and Red Wine Risotto. He ate slowly, allowing the waiter to fill his water glass three times.

  He paid the bill and tried to decide what to do next; it was still early. Despite his best intentions, he found himself dropping into the Merry Pint on his way home. The place was empty, the usual crowd likely corralled indoors by loved ones for obligatory family gatherings. He’d heard the regulars speak of holidays with a sort of dread he’d associate with visits to the dentist or tax auditor. Still, Ismail envied his bar buddies their spouses, children, their peopled lives.

  He left after one drink. A few blocks away from the bar, police had blocked off a side street, and a small crowd was forming. He rubbernecked with the rest, expecting an accident or emergency of some kind. Instead, off in the distance, a procession sluggishly approached. He stood amongst the others and waited.

  — * —

  As Celia shuffled along, she felt the melting wax drip onto her bare hand. She adjusted the candle’s crude wind-breaker, an upside-down Dixie cup, but still the wax slid down, coating her fingers like a warm, waxy glove. The walk was nearly over, and as they neared the church, the procession grew fuller as onlookers joined in for the final quarter mile. Their bodies crowded the street, hemming her in, neat lines of the faithful melding into one solemn wave along Dundas Street.

  Beside her was a man carrying a child on his shoulders. The little girl scanned the crowd, taking in this not-so-festive parade with wide eyes. Celia noticed that there were few young people amongst the group; mostly older folks participated these days. What would this procession look like in a decade or two, when the elders passed on? Would the little girl bring her own daughter, and carry her on her shoulders?

  Even though Celia wasn’t very religious, and attended church irregularly, she found the annual ritual comforting; she liked being one of the faithful millions around the world participating in the same ceremony on the very same day. In previous years, her mother and Lydia accompanied her on the walk and it dismayed her that Lydia had refused this year, saying that the wooden Jesus, carried high above the crowd, made Marco cry. It was a far too macabre a display for a child, she said. That’s the word Lydia used. Macabre.

  The child riding on her father’s shoulders was now a few feet ahead of Celia, and when she looked to her left, she saw Sylvia Silva, one of the grandmothers she talked to in the schoolyard where she went to gather Marco. Sylvia was over a decade older than Celia, and a widow for over eight years already. Celia vaguely recalled Sylvia’s husband, a tall insurance broker who died of prostate cancer a couple of years after Celia’s father. Sylvia walked stiffly, with a stoop, and looked much older than her sixty years. Celia had seen it many times before, this accelerated aging among widows.

  Celia veered slightly to her left to draw nearer to Sylvia. Tears streamed down Sylvia’s wrinkled face, making it glisten in the candlelight. She walked as though in a stupor, her gaze faraway. This speaks to us, this walk of sorrow. This speaks to us. Celia averted her eyes, not wanting to be too infected by Sylvia’s grief.

  But grief is contagious, and despite Celia’s efforts, she found her own eyes leaking tears, warming her face like the dripping wax on her hand. As the heaviness passed through her, she walked and cried for what was lost in her own life. At Gladstone Avenue, she mourned her mother. Nearing Dufferin, she longed for her husband. As the procession passed Sheridan, she wept for her lost house. By the time they were at Brock, Celia began to feel guilty for mourning her own small life instead of Senhôr Bom Jesus, but there was no use in trying to stop it. Celia felt Sylvia’s arm linking in hers.

  Through her tears, she spotted Ismail across the street, watching the crowd pass. She hoped he didn’t find the procession strange; so many non-Portuguese people gawked and pointed, as though they were exotic animals on parade. But Ismail didn’t seem to be watching in that way. Rather, there was a look of solemnity on his face, the corners of his mouth turned down, his arms hanging limp by his sides. Just like us. She watched him a while longer, straining to see if he noticed her, too. He’d been on her mind since that night at his place three days earlier, but they hadn’t bumped into one another since then. Perhaps he was embarrassed, and avoiding her? She trained her steady stare on him and waited for him to look her way.

  Finally, their eyes met and they exchanged brief smiles. Sylvia noticed the shift in Celia’s mood, and followed her gaze to find out what had caused it. Somewhere ahead of them, a band started up and people sang a hymn. Celia and Sylvia hummed along.

  — * —

  Two days later, at six-thirty sharp, Ismail rang the doorbell at Nabil and Nabila’s place. Technically, he could have just walked in — they hardly ever locked the door, believing that their neighbourhood, a forest of custom-built homes, was perfectly safe. He waited on their porch, shivering. There was the thumping of youthful footsteps and then Asghar opened the door.

  “Hey, Ismail Kakaji,” the young man said, grinning. Ismail shook his hand and clapped him on his back.

  “Look at you! You’ve grown a beard … no, that’s not a beard. What’s that called?” Ismail asked, inspecting the space between Asghar’s bottom lip and chin, where a tuft of hair had recently sprung up. He’d seen this style of facial hair on young men around his office, and on the host of his favourite home makeover show.

  “It’s called a soul patch, Kakaji. Much easier to maintain than a goatee or beard … and way cooler,” he said, caressing his novelty inch of fur.

  “Very nice … er, very cool. Yes.” While Ismail hung his coat in the hallway closet, Nabila came out to greet him.

  “Ismail. Don’t encourage him. I wish he’d just get rid of that thing. Doesn’t it look like he missed a spot when he shaved this morning? I should creep up on him while he’s sleeping and just shave it off,” she said, brushing Ismail’s cheek with a light kiss. Asghar rolled his eyes. “Really, it would just take one stroke of the razor!” She mimed the deed, brandishing an imaginary blade at her son’s chin.

  “You just try it, Mom, and see if you don’t need a wig the next morning!”

  “You see how my youngest child speaks to me?” she asked, in mock dismay. Ismail couldn’t help but laugh at their banter.

  “Yes, well, I think you’d both be wise to keep the razors locked up around here,” he counselled them.

  “Yes, and our bedroom doors, too, Ismail. Come, sit in the living room. Nabil should be down in a minute,” she instructed. Ismail did as he was told and found Asghar’s older brother, Altaf, already there, dipping a samosa in tamarind chutney.

  “Kakaji, nice to see you,” he said, putting the samosa down and extending an oily hand.

  “So, I hear that things are going well for you these days.
School is good?”

  “Yes, so far so good. The residency is much easier that I was told it would be,” he said with an air that was neither boastful nor self-important. Altaf had always been successful in his pursuits, including those self-chosen or chosen for him. It was just the way he was. He and his brother polarized one another effortlessly.

  “My son is going to be a surgeon!” Nabila chimed from the kitchen, her voice singsonging maternal pride.

  “Very good, very good, congratulations. And Asghar, school going all right for you, too?”

  “It’s fine. I like my courses way better now. Remember I told you I decided to change my major?”

  Ismail nodded.

  “Well, I did it and Dad flipped,” said Asghar. “But that’s okay, I’ll survive. He’s pretty distracted with arranging Altaf’s marriage, anyhow.”

  “Oh yes, your father told me that you’ve met a girl,” Ismail replied, turning back to Altaf.

  “We’ve gone on a few dates. She’s very nice, and planning to go to med school. But,” he said, glowering at his brother, “it is not an arranged marriage.”

  “Could have fooled me. Kakaji, her whole family came over for dinner to do the introduction. It was like a scene right out of Bride and Prejudice.”

  Ismail laughed at the reference. They’d all watched the movie on DVD the last time Ismail was over, and Asghar, not a fan of Bollywood-style films, tossed popcorn at the TV screen each time a song and dance interlude began.

  “Stop exaggerating, Asghar,” Nabila called from the kitchen.

  “Yeah, it was just our two families having dinner together. Hardly even an introduction,” Altaf said, resolutely, “and anyway it’s a good way to meet a nice girl. Why not depend on our parents’ network for one of the most important decisions I’m going to make in my life?”

  “Whatever,” Asghar scoffed, dismissing his brother. “Speaking of introductions,” he leaned in closer and said conspiratorially, “you should know that Mum and Dad have invited over a lady. She’s divorced. They haven’t said so, but I’m pretty sure it’s a hook-up.”

  “A hook-up?” Ismail looked at him blankly. “What for?”

  “A hook-up for you!” he said, pointing at Ismail. Asghar giggled in high-pitched bursts that irritated his uncle’s ears.

  “A hook-up for me?” Ismail asked, incredulous. Altaf joined in his brother’s laughter. Nabil and Nabila hadn’t tried matchmaking Ismail since the mid-nineties, after those first two abortive attempts at re-entering the dating scene.

  “What’s everyone laughing about?” Nabil asked, finally making his appearance. “Hello, Ismail,” he said, reaching a hand out to his brother. “Hey, boys, stop eating all the samosas. Mom put those out because we are having a guest.”

  “Nabil, please take off your Bluetooth. It’s not sociable,” Nabila said, coming into the sitting room. “Yes, what’s the joke?”

  “Er … who is this ‘guest’ who is coming over?” Ismail asked them warily.

  “She’s an old friend —”

  “Really, an acquaintance,” Nabila said, correcting her husband.

  “Yes, well, someone we’ve known for a long time. She’s a nurse. A divorceé —”

  “It was terrible — her husband, a Canadian man, was having an affair. But listen, this is the worst part,” she said, her voice hushing dramatically. “He was having an affair with her best friend! Can you believe it? Such a scandal! I guess the moral of the story is that’s what happens when you marry outside of the community, right?” She looked to Nabil, who nodded in agreement.

  “Aw, come on Mom. Don’t be so narrow-minded! The moral of the story could very well be ‘never trust your best friend,’” Altaf interjected with logic.

  “I’m not! I’m just stating the facts. They split about three years ago. She’s a very nice lady. You’ll like her,” Nabila said.

  “Yes, but Nabila —” Ismail stammered. He made eye contact with Asghar, who watched the exchange with amusement.

  “We thought the two of you might like to meet one another. You know, you are both divorced, without kids and around the same age. Actually she is a few years younger, in her late forties, wouldn’t you say, Nabil?” Ismail raised his eyebrows at his brother and sister-in-law.

  “Don’t look at us like that! It’s just a little introduction over dinner. Don’t you want to meet a nice woman, settle down?” Nabil asked. Before Ismail could answer, the doorbell rang.

  “That must be Shakila now,” Nabila said, going to answer the door.

  “Like a lamb to the slaughter,” Asghar muttered and Altaf snickered.

  “Just be quiet and behave yourself,” Nabil admonished Asghar. Then, looking at Altaf, too, he said, “You both behave yourselves.”

  “What did I do?” Altaf protested.

  Ismail’s nervousness stole his appetite and so he couldn’t enjoy the mutton biryani, kofta curry, and kachumbar Nabila had prepared, a meal he’d been looking forward to all day. Shakila, in contrast, seemed not at all uncomfortable with the obvious matchmaking. He observed her fill her plate and take seconds, habits he quite enjoyed in a woman. She made good conversation, laughed easily and was pretty, with straight, shoulder-length hair that nicely framed her round face. Ismail judged her makeup to be a little on the heavy side, however, her eye shadow a tad too dark and her cheeks over-rouged. He tried not to over-focus on it, but Shakila’s eyes reminded him of a Mary Pinter he’d slept with years ago, her eyelashes leaving behind a streak of black on his white pillowcase.

  His own appearance made him self-conscious; if he’d known he was being set up, he might have dressed a little more formally, exchanging chinos for dress pants and a button-down shirt in a good poly-cotton blend for the casual pullover he was wearing that evening. Not that he looked shabby — he always took a minute to iron his clothes and look presentable before going out. Rehana found his grooming and his preference for a well-pressed shirt to be on the fussy side, perhaps because she wasn’t used to a man doing his own ironing. Ismail had learned the skill in college, when, for the first time in his life, he was forced to launder his own clothes. He even came to enjoy the experience: the smell of starch-scented steam, the smoothing of fabric and the ability to solve simple, wrinkly problems with the press of metal.

  Nabila and Nabil directed the dinner conversation like a pair of conductors leading a small, mostly compliant orchestra. They asked Ismail and Shakila questions that were likely to produce entertaining stories, or display their guests’ most agreeable attributes. Even the boys were welcomed into the performance to flaunt their talents and demonstrate what a harmonious family the Boxwalas made.

  Ismail learned that Shakila was a public health nurse, working mostly with seniors. (“You’re both civil servants!” Nabila exclaimed, her voice like a cymbal’s clatter.) She had lived in Canada for over fifteen years, arriving in her thirties. She liked to knit, do Sudoku, and had recently learned to cross-country ski. Nabil and Nabila prodded him: Ismail, tell Shakila about your renovations! Or my brother was involved in updating the bridge over the Don Valley, right Ismail? Ismail tried his best, dutifully describing his hardwood floors, and the skylight he’d installed. He modestly explained that he was among a large committee that deliberated on the installation of suicide barriers for the Bloor Street Viaduct. Shakila seemed suitably impressed with his talents. This gave him confidence to go out on a limb and announce his attendance in James Busbridge’s writing course.

  “Really, Kakaji, I didn’t know you liked to write,” Asghar remarked while taking a third helping of biryani.

  “I haven’t done much of it since I was about your age. I sort of gave it up when I got busy with college, and then after awhile, I lost the habit.”

  “So what made you go to a class now?” Shakila inquired. Ismail thought her tone was nurselike, as though she
were conducting an assessment.

  “Well,” Ismail said, feeling cagey, “a friend of mine took a similar class and encouraged me to try it as a new hobby. So I did.”

  “It’s good to try new things, especially at our age,” Shakila said, nodding over a forkful of kofta curry.

  “So that’s where you met that girl,” Nabila murmured, her head resting on her folded hands, her elbows on the table. Nabil frowned at her and she raised her eyebrows at him. Ismail pushed a lonely onion slice around on his plate.

  “What girl?” Asghar and Altaf asked in unison, sensing an off note in their parents’ orchestration.

  “Er … a family friend. Ismail met one of our friend’s daughters in the class. You don’t know her. So, Shakila, your brother’s children must be school-age now?” Nabil asked, decisively steering the conversation away from his brother and diverting the boys, who had, by then, already lost interest in the conversation. Ismail bristled with irritation. Nabila picked up a spoon and was poised to put more rice on his plate, but he pulled it away and out of reach.

  “Yes, tell us about your nieces,” Nabila said, seeking to restore harmony.

  Shakila told them a funny story about how her youngest niece swallowed one of her teddy bear’s plastic eyeballs and how she discovered it later, while changing her diaper. The tale made everyone laugh and Nabila jumped in with a similarly embarrassing account about when Asghar was a child.

  Ismail felt a sudden urge to share an anecdote about when Zubi ate Altaf’s Play Doh. She seemed to think it was candy, and only realized it wasn’t after she swallowed. He and Rehana fretted, rushed her to the hospital, only to be told that the substance wasn’t toxic and she’d be fine. Of course, he remained quiet, listening to the others’ stories. Nabila slopped more kofta on his plate while he wasn’t looking.

  When they’d finished dinner, the group moved to the living room. Nabila released the boys, and Asghar and Altaf said their goodbyes, relieved to be excused from the dull company. Nabila served cake and tea, and the chatter turned toward politics at the local mosque, which Nabil, Nabila, and Shakila attended irregularly. Ismail smiled and nodded through this conversation, aware that it wouldn’t look good if he were to admit he wasn’t a member. By this point in the evening, he found himself participating fully in Nabil and Nabila’s scheming, behaving like a proper, eligible bachelor.