Baby Khaki's Wings

by Anar Ali

  In Bolton, the girls were sent to school and Sakar Bai Haji, an old lady from Kampala, took care of Ashif during the day. Sakar Bai had shared a room with Layla and the children at the camp in London and had begged Layla to take her to Bolton with her. “I know I am old, but look here—” She pushed up the sleeve of her maxi and flexed her bony arm. “You see? I am stronger than Shiva even. I promise, bheta, I won’t burden you at all. Just don’t you leave me here. I am all alone.” Sakar Bai had stayed in Uganda for as long as she could, hoping to persuade her husband to leave. They will kill you, she said, begging him to join her. But he tied himself by the wrist to the door of his textile shop. “I was born in this country and I will die here only.” There was already a sign on the window front: PROPERTY OF BARCLAYS BANK D.C.O. That bastard Amin threw us out so he could snatch up all the property for the golas, but instead it was the British banks that ran away with all our money. Arrey, what kind of coup is that? Now I understand why they are always saying the sun never sets on the British Empire.

  Each evening, Layla would return to the boarding house from the factory exhausted—not only from the physical labour but also from the constant effort required to understand what some of her co-workers and the floor manager were saying to her with their sharp English accents. She would make dinner on the hot plate in their room, then bathe the children and put them to bed. There were two single beds in the room. Sakar Bai took one, the girls the other, and Layla slept on some blankets on the floor with Ashif. Sometimes it was so cold at night, she worried that she would be unable to retain enough body heat to keep the baby warm. On those nights, she would warm her hands over the hot plate and press her hands all over his small body.

  Months later, Layla received a letter, which told her that Mansoor was at an interim camp in Austria. Mansoor had sent the letter through a man at his camp who had relatives in London. The man’s aunt had spent weeks making enquiries at all the camps before finding Layla in Bolton.

  Layla and the children arrived at Vienna International Airport with a bulging brown suitcase and the winter coats given to them by the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service. Layla spotted Mansoor immediately; he stood behind the glass wall of the crowded meeting area, holding his briefcase in front of him with both hands. He was wearing his wedding suit, a suit that he had special-ordered from London and would only wear at their anniversary dinner parties—parties that Layla would spend weeks planning, counting down the days as if it were their wedding day all over again. Hundreds of guests would come and the party would eventually spill into the back garden, but it always ended with Layla and Mansoor, alone, on their verandah at sunrise, sipping on a cocktail of sugarcane, coconut and passion fruit juice. They would sit across each other on the settee while Mansoor massaged Layla’s feet, sore from wearing Marilyn Monroe–style pumps all night.

  Only when Layla pulled the children closer to the meeting area did she realize how much weight Mansoor had lost. He used to look so dapper in that suit—complete with a white Oxford shirt, a red silk scarf tucked into the jacket pocket, and his metal-tipped leather shoes. Now, the dark blue suit hung on him like a gunny sack! Layla’s heart sank, as if into a swamp, when she also saw that Mansoor had shaved off his moustache—a Marlon Brando moustache that she had convinced him to grow when they were first married. “You look just like Brando in my favourite film,” she used to whisper, and then tiptoe to the other side of the bed, eager not to wake her in-laws. “You know the one. The Ugly American.” He’d chase her around the bed until he finally caught her. “Did I hear you correctly, Mrs. Visram?” “Yes, you did,” she’d squeal, pretending to struggle in his arms until he picked her up and threw her gently onto the bed. “Well, it’s true—anyone would be ugly next to you, darling, but please, I’m no American and I never will be.”

  When Mansoor raised his arms above his head, frantically waving at them, Layla’s heart lifted as if it had surfaced for air, and she rushed toward her husband, Ashif bouncing in her arms and the girls trailing close behind. She felt like she had only enough energy to make it to his arms. But Mansoor reached first for his children, and Layla stood aside, watching as he twirled Sikin in his arms. “My God, Sikina-sachu! You’re at least an inch taller.” Then, he took Farzana’s face in his palms. “Wa-wa, Falu! Look at you. Even prettier than Pappa remembers.” But what brought tears streaming down his face was seeing his son, who was now over a year old, and walking. Mansoor tried to pick him up, but the boy screamed and locked his arms around his mother’s knees. Mansoor pried his son away from Layla, despite his kicks and screams, and pressed Ashif tightly to his chest. He only returned the boy to Layla when people in the waiting area shot him dirty looks.

  “Let’s go, everyone,” he said enthusiastically as he waved his daughters forward.

  Mansoor never asked Layla how she had coped alone, and whenever she tried to ask him about his final days in Uganda or the camp in Austria, he just shook his head. “Oh-ho, Layla. What’s the use in talking about the past?”

  Now Layla wrapped both hands firmly around her teacup and gazed directly at Mansoor, who was expertly punching numbers into his calculator. “So, you tell me then,” Layla said, her voice shaking. “How in God’s name are we going to manage with another baby?”

  Mansoor kept his head down. What the hell is wrong with this woman? he thought. Does she have such little faith in my abilities? Has she forgotten that I have always provided for this family—no matter what? Many at the Austrian refugee camp had seemed defeated, and succumbed to their new positions. At first, Mansoor also felt overwhelmed with everything they had lost. It was as if he had been on a giant wheel—one quick revolution and he was spun back in time. He was exactly where his father, Visram Govindji, a pauper from India, had been in 1912, at the age of thirteen, after surviving a wretched three-month journey on a dhow to arrive on the shores of Zanzibar with nothing but two rupees in his pocket and great hope for building a new life. Mansoor never imagined that his children might lead a life that was less fortunate than his. How could that be? Regression instead of progression. What kind of man, what kind of father would allow it? Not him! As each day passed at the Austrian refugee camp, Mansoor only deepened his resolve to charge ahead and rebuild their lives. They had been kings in Uganda and they would be kings yet again. He would do whatever it took to see that his children’s lives were better than his, that they developed deep roots in whichever country they would now end up in (any country, but please, God, let it be a good country), so that they would never go through this again. Nothing else mattered. Yes, he would tell himself, each generation will grow stronger, not weaker, and one day, his progeny would herald him as a pioneer, just like his father in Uganda, who started one small dry goods shop in Tororo, on the Uganda–Kenya border, and then followed the new European railroad, eventually opening new shops at every stop: Busembatia, Iganga, Jinja, and finally, Kampala. “So you see,” he would say to his children each Saturday morning when he marched them (and sometimes Layla) into his office and gave them a lesson on family history, “it can take a very long time to become good at something, but you mustn’t ever give up. Hard work and determination! That is the only sure-fire formula for success. Everyone understand?” He would wait for a communal nodding of heads and then continue, “Mark my words—we will rebuild here in Canada, but instead of following the railway, we will just follow the oil patch.”

  Mansoor leaned over the kitchen table and erased an entry in his accounting ledger. “How many times can I tell you now, Layla?” He blew away the shavings. “Leave it to me. As if I haven’t planned everything out, made all the necessary arrangements.”

  “But it isn’t practical.” Layla tried to control the tears pooling in her eyes. “Please, the doctors said we still have time.”

  “Aye-ya-ya, Layla. Leave it, I said! Can’t you see?” He waved his HB pencil over the pile of neatly stacked manila folders. “I have so many bloody things to do.”

  Layla pushed her chair bac
k with such strength that her teacup rattled on its saucer; she stood up and walked away, disappearing down the narrow staircase to the laundry room in the basement.

  —

  MANSOOR WAS NERVOUS as he welcomed Mr. Snelgrove, the Loans Officer from his branch of Alberta Imperial Bank of Commerce, into his store. Mr. Snelgrove was a tall plump man with a freckled face and bright orange hair buzzed to his scalp. The banker tucked his burgundy satchel, etched with the bank’s logo, between his knees and then swept each arm with a gloved hand to remove the sprinkle of snow that had settled on his blue down-filled jacket.

  “Not even Halloween and already got ourselves quite the dump of snow, eh?”

  “Yes, yes. And minus twenty-eight with the wind chill.” Mansoor reached for the banker’s jacket; he was surprised to see that Mr. Snelgrove was not formally dressed. He wore a pair of black slacks and a pale blue shirt with a white T-shirt visible at the collar. Mansoor, on the other hand, was dressed in a dark grey suit, a crisp white shirt that Layla had freshly laundered and ironed, and a blue tie with red maple leaves. A terrible thought occurred to Mansoor: Was the banker trying, with this casual attitude, to ease him into some bad news? No! It’s not possible. Wait until Snelgrove sees my new business plan—everything will be fine, Mansoor told himself. Think positively. He then took a deep breath and tried to slow his heart rate.

  Mr. Snelgrove reached down to remove his galoshes, but Mansoor immediately stopped him. “No, no. Please, no need to worry about that.” Mansoor knew that Canadians, like the British in Uganda, had the same filthy habit: they did not remove their shoes before entering homes. Earlier that day, Mansoor had laid a track of plastic from the interconnecting door to the entrance to his office, located next to the kitchen, and from the office to the bathroom, just in case.

  “It’s all right, Mansoor. They’re quite a mess with all the snow and sleet.”

  Mansoor conceded and pulled open the door to the house. “This way, Mr. Snelgrove.”

  “It’s been three years, Mansoor. Why don’t you just call me Martin?” Mr. Snelgrove stepped into the house. “The bank doesn’t believe in formalities. We take a fresh approach to things, you know.”

  Mansoor nodded. Three years, yes, but this was only the second time the man had taken the time to come to the gas station.

  Inside, Mansoor asked Layla, who stood with her back to them washing dishes, to make two cups of coffee.

  “Nice to see you again, Layla.” Mr. Snelgrove raised a finger to the air as he followed Mansoor into his office. “And if you could make it two sugars, two creams, please.”

  Layla turned her head, her hands still in the sink. “Of course, Mr. Snelgrove, I remember,” she said, smiling. She rushed to turn on the electric kettle. Please, God, let this meeting go well.

  “Please take a seat, Mr. Snel…Martin,” Mansoor said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. Mansoor was about to sit down himself when he noticed Ashif’s caged classroom gerbil in the back corner. Layla had refused to let Ashif bring home the rodent. He protested, saying that all his friends were being allowed to take turns signing out the class pet. Layla stood firm on her decision, saying she could understand having a dog for protection, like the Alsatians they kept in Kampala to guard the house, but she just couldn’t understand the point of keeping such filthy animals—and to top it off, inside your house—for no reason at all except your own enjoyment. “Signing it out?” she had said. “What is it? A library book?” Mansoor hadn’t liked the idea either, but when Ashif showed him the school newsletter, he changed his mind. Pets, it said, are an excellent way for children to learn about responsibility. Now, as the gerbil climbed into its exercise wheel and began to spin frantically, the wheel making a loud whirring sound, Mansoor was furious. Why had Layla put the cage in here? She knew that he was having an important meeting today! I swear that woman is going to be the end of me one day.

  Mr. Snelgrove turned toward the cage. “Hey, what have we got here? Let me guess. Your new business plan calls for an addition of a pet store?” He smiled broadly and winked.

  Mansoor laughed along as best as he could. “Oh, it’s my son’s, you see. Brought it home from school….” Mansoor stepped out from behind his desk. “Please, let me remove it.”

  “Oh no, let it be. We’ve got an Irish setter ourselves. My younger boy’s hoping we’ll get him a puppy for Christmas. Why not? It’s a fine way to teach them responsibility. And it keeps them out of your hair too, eh?” Mr. Snelgrove let out a laugh that sounded liked a sputtering car engine.

  “Exactly!” Mansoor knew he had made the right choice by letting Ashif bring home the animal. This was the Canadian way. Wait until he tells Layla what the banker said. Mansoor’s spirits buoyed with confidence. He felt a strange kinship with the banker, and for some reason, he was now compelled to announce Layla’s pregnancy. “My wife is expecting in December, you know? December 25th actually.”

  “Is that right? And a Christmas baby at that. Well, congratulations.” Mr. Snelgrove leaned over the desk to shake Mansoor’s hand. “You’re going to have yourself a football team before you know it, eh?”

  “Or maybe a hockey team.” Mansoor laughed heartily as he placed a copy of the new business plan, like a menu, in front of the banker. He then stood behind his desk and started his presentation, waving his arms with great enthusiasm as he pointed to a series of colourful charts that were taped to the wall and contained phrases like BREAK-EVEN POINT, SALES VOLUME, and PROFIT MARGIN. The banker crossed his right foot over his left knee and removed a red felt-tip pen from his shirt pocket. As he listened to Mansoor, he lightly tapped the pen on the front cover of the business plan, making a constellation of red spots.

  Layla came in, holding two cups of coffee and a plate of assorted cookies. Mr. Snelgrove congratulated her about the baby and then added, “Well, let’s hope your Christmas baby gets Mansoor’s business savvy and your looks, eh?”

  Layla just smiled, but her mind travelled back to Kampala. She had been a bank teller at Barclays, where she had earned an excellent reputation over the years. She had even been promised a promotion to management, but then she learned that she was pregnant with Sikin. A few months after giving birth, she became pregnant again, this time with Farzana. Layla convinced Mansoor that she should return to work, but his father had adamantly refused. “What will other people say? That I am some sort of low-class fool sending my only daughter-in-law outside the house? Never. Not as long as I am alive. Besides, children need their mother.” Her father-in-law died a few years later and Mansoor did not object when Layla returned to work at the bank. She was just re-establishing her reputation when she became pregnant with Ashif.

  Layla placed the coffee mugs in front of each of the men; Mr. Snelgrove thanked her. The baby delivered a swift kick, but Layla held back any sign of pain. “Most welcome,” she said, then returned to the kitchen.

  As Mansoor approached the end of his presentation, he was sure he had impressed Mr. Snelgrove with all his research and figures. “As you can see, keeping the station open for 24 hours will increase sales by nine percent. Unheard of in this economy! But I have all the figures to back me up. That’s right. Nine percent, Mr. Snel…Martin.”

  Mr. Snelgrove slapped the business plan against his knee. “Well, it all looks pretty good, my friend, but my primary concern here, you see,” he took a sip of his coffee, “is that your last four loan payments have been late.” He reached into his satchel, removed a letter with a gold seal, and pushed it across Mansoor’s desk.

  Mansoor lowered himself into his chair and pulled himself to the desk. What was this? Was the bastard placing him in default of the loan? But he had paid each and every time, including the bloody seventeen-percent interest and the ridiculous late fees. Mansoor wanted to appear confident. He remembered his father’s advice: An elephant has two sets of teeth—one for eating and the other for showing. As Mansoor picked up the letter, he tried not to pay attention to the gerbil, which continued
to spin faster and faster in its wheel. He read the letter and then looked directly at the banker. “Yes, this sounds fine.”

  The banker seemed surprised by Mansoor’s reaction. “Mansoor, you do realize that this is serious, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” As if he was an idiot. If only this stupid man could have seen me in Uganda. I’ve done more bloody business in one year than he will in his entire life. The letter meant nothing to Mansoor. It was, in his opinion, just another obstacle on the long road to success.

  “If we were any other bank, we might’ve been putting you into receivership, but that’s not at all how we like to operate. Your success is our success. I hate to be so formal, Mansoor,” he cleared his throat, “but for legal reasons, I have to read the official warning to you.” Mr. Snelgrove reached into his satchel and removed another copy of the letter. “‘If Visram Speedy Gas & Convenience Incorporated (herein referred to as Visram Gas) is unable to remit loan payments on a timely basis for any reason whatsoever, then Alberta Imperial Bank of Commerce (herein referred to as The Bank) will place Visram Gas in default to The Bank, at which time The Bank will appoint the chartered accounting firm of Stanley Coleridge & Partners as receivers and the property and inventory of Visram Gas will be immediately liquidated.’”

  Mansoor slipped his hands under his desk and cupped his knees. “I’m absolutely positive, Martin, no doubt about it. A hundred and fifty percent certain that keeping the station open 24 hours a day will turn things around.”

  “When is your sign arriving? The sooner you get it up, the sooner your business plan kicks in, eh?”

  “Yes, of course. The installers were delayed. Some sort of a problem with staffing. A few of their men were sick. But I’m expecting them in the next few days.”

  “What’s wrong with people these days? Used to be a time when a man could be dying and he’d still bust his balls to get to work. People today just don’t seem to understand the value of hard work, eh?” Mr. Snelgrove shook his head. “They all need to be reminded that this great country wasn’t built on men calling in sick.”