Baby Khaki's Wings

by Anar Ali

  Mansoor nodded enthusiastically. Once again, he felt a strong affinity with the banker. Snelgrove was right. A sick employee was hardly a good excuse for a delay. Was that any way to run a business? If they were my employees, I would have fired them on the spot. People should be bloody thankful to have a job in today’s economy.

  Mr. Snelgrove tucked the letter into his satchel and snapped it close. “All righty then, Mansoor. I think we’re done here.” Mr. Snelgrove stood up and then flung his satchel across his shoulder. “I’ll give you a dingle a few days before your next payment, eh?”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you very much.” Mansoor’s hand shot out to meet the banker’s.

  “No worries. That’s what we’re here for.”

  —

  MANSOOR CROSSED OFF October 28th on the Alberta Imperial Bank of Commerce calendar, which was hanging on a nail hammered into the wall behind the cash register and had a picture of an oilrig silhouetted against an orange prairie sky. The 24-hour sign better arrive today or else, he thought, as he unzipped a grey canvas bank bag and emptied the money onto the glass counter. He arranged the bills into piles and stacked the coins into small towers before recording the amounts on a grid-lined sheet with the title Daily Float. After placing the money into the appropriate compartments of the cash register, he walked to the front window, which was covered with a light frost, and flipped the sign over to OPEN. Outside, snow swirled around the four gas pumps, the piles of sandbags, and a small freezer that was empty now but filled with bags of ice during the summer. Mansoor unlocked the double-bolted front door and unlatched the screen door. Layla had suggested that they also get an alarm system. “Anything can happen out here in the middle of nowhere.” But Mansoor refused to raise his children under the impression that they weren’t safe. As if this was the African jungle! Using his handkerchief, which was inscribed with the letter M, Mansoor tried to wipe away the frost on the window, but instead, he created a pattern of semicircles, like smudgy rainbows all over the glass.

  Mansoor tucked his hands into his pockets and surveyed his store as he did every morning. The wall to his right was covered with a mural of Hawaii—a towering palm tree, an endless white sand beach, and a blue-green ocean. He had papered it himself, hoping it would brighten the place up. And it certainly did! It always reminded him of Kampala (even if Kampala was more beautiful) and most especially, it reminded him of the family picnics at Lake Victoria. Today as he looked at it, it also made him think about his Christmas baby and he was filled with tremendous hope. The new baby, thank God, would not be tainted by history. Born here. Not there. It will give us a fresh start in this great new country of ours.

  It was a small store, Mansoor thought, as he continued his inspection. Only 522 square feet but—he smiled proudly to himself—it was very clean and expertly merchandised. When they had first purchased the gas station, there was only a payment booth. But within a year, Mansoor expanded and built the store. He conducted surveys of all his customers and consulted with the local Chamber of Commerce on traffic patterns and other vital data in order to develop the right selection of products to carry. The store had four aisles: Fishing, Camping, Sundries, and Snacks. High-profit items, like chocolates and fish bait, were shelved at eye level, while lower-profit items like kerosene oil were on the bottom shelves. In the back were two coolers filled with soft drinks—although many of the slots were empty these days; they hadn’t reordered as they were worried about carrying too much inventory. Next to the pop coolers, on a dark-brown Formica counter, was a Slurpie machine fitted with two nozzles (Coca-Cola and root beer were the number one sellers in winter, Coca-Cola and cream soda in the summer) and a self-serve coffee station with packets of sugar, NutraSweet, and Carnation Instant Milk Powder, each stuffed into separate Styrofoam cups. Behind the cash register were glass shelves partially stocked with cigarettes. Under the shelves was a blue milk carton with a small collection of used books including Danielle Steel’s Promise, The Hardy Boys’ The House on the Cliff, and Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman—books that were traded in or purchased by summertime campers. In a locked drawer, they also kept a few adult magazines. A clear sign warned: YOU MUST BE EIGHTEEN OR OLDER TO PURCHASE CIGARETTES OR ADULT MAGAZINES. Layla had suggested the idea after noticing the many semi-trucks that had cartoons of naked women on their mud flaps. Mansoor was surprised by her suggestion (leave it to her to notice such poozee details), but he had agreed because it would be yet another way to increase sales. Layla was a practical woman, Mansoor thought, but sometimes a bit too practical. (How in the world had she even been able to suggest an abortion? There are times, he told himself, when a man must not compromise.)

  He reviewed the shelf signs in each of the aisles. Special promotions were highlighted with signs stencilled, under his close supervision, by Sikin and Farzana. He had developed an efficient process for the weekly production of new signs and was proud that he was teaching his daughters the value of hard work. He would come up with the promotional idea, then write the copy in a book chained to the front counter—Buy 2 Get 1 Free…Speedy Gas SuperSaver. The girls were given several markers to choose from (red, black, or blue) and two days to complete the work, after which they received one dollar for each sign they produced—not counting, of course, the ones that were not approved due to errors (and therefore thrown away) or the ones that did not meet his deadline.

  Layla pushed open the interconnecting door, holding two brown paper bags and a green Incredible Hulk lunch kit. She yelled into the house, “Jaldi-jaldi! The bus is going to leave.”

  The children rushed past her, grabbing their lunches on their way to the front door. Sikin rooted through her lunch bag, removed a Saran-wrapped sandwich and waved it above her head like a flag. “Cheese and tomato again?”

  “It’s good for you,” Layla said as she shuffled behind the children in her thong slippers and terry-cloth robe, under which she wore a threadbare yellow nightgown made of kanga material patterned with red giraffes and green acacia trees. “Get a proper nightgown, will you?” Mansoor would scold whenever she wore the kanga. “You’ll catch a bloody cold in that thing. This isn’t Kampala.” Layla loosened the robe’s belt, which was tied under her breasts—breasts that were now, to her dismay, double their original B cup. This pregnancy had been nothing like the others. She had retained so much more water; her fingers were fat sausages, making simple tasks like washing dishes or doing the laundry difficult, and her feet were balloons, making walking painful at times. She had also put on more weight than before, an extra thirty pounds. It was as if the baby, like a cancerous lump, was swelling inside of her at an exponential rate and pushing her to the outer edges of her own body. Soon, she felt, she would fall out of herself completely.

  Layla walked toward Sikin, one heavy step after the other. “But this time I used Velveeta, bheta. Just like you wanted. It will taste so nice, you wait and see.”

  “Yeah, fine,” Sikin mumbled, and pushed open the screen door.

  Mansoor shook his head as he watched his children. They were late again! Why couldn’t Layla organize them more effectively? She knew full well that the bus arrived at 8:21 on the nose, each and every morning. Rushing around like this was no good for them. Had they even eaten their breakfast?

  The girls waved goodbye as they stepped out into the cold. Layla pulled Ashif’s Edmonton Oilers toque over his ears and kissed him through the orange scarf wrapped around his neck and face. “Learn lots today, mitu.” Ashif nodded, then hurried behind his sisters. A drift of snow blew in, covering the floor and Layla’s feet. She unknotted the belt around her robe, then cinched it more tightly across her body as she watched the children run toward the service road, leaving a track of fresh footprints in the snow. The girls stepped onto the Rocky Mountain County school bus and disappeared among the other children who were from nearby farms, acreages, and trailer parks. Ashif turtled behind his sisters in his thick snowsuit. When he finally reached the bus and tried to climb in, he missed
the first step, falling flat on his bottom. Oh no! Layla automatically reached for the door handle, but as she pushed open the screen door, her feet slipped on the slick floor and she lost her balance.

  Mansoor’s voice shot through the aisles like a bullet. “Careful!” he yelled, and rushed to her.

  Layla had caught herself in time. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” As she steadied herself between the door frame with both hands, a thought occurred to her: What would have happened if I had fallen? But she quickly shook the idea out of her mind.

  Outside, Ashif struggled to get up; his knapsack seemed to be weighing him down.

  “You mustn’t spoil him,” Mansoor warned. “As if he’s a baby.”

  Ashif pushed himself up from the ground and dusted the snow off his pants.

  “See that?” Mansoor pointed to his son, who was now climbing onto the bus. “He’s fine. Bloody well going to make the children so phocha-phocha that they’ll just fold over with even the slightest difficulty in life. Is that what you want? Is that how we made kings of ourselves in Uganda?”

  Layla pulled the screen door shut. She was just glad that Ashif was wearing thick snow pants.

  Mansoor continued. “I’m asking you, Layla, is that what you want?”

  Layla turned around, marched straight past him, and disappeared back into the house.

  —

  LAYLA WAS STANDING on a small stepladder, busy dusting the cigarette shelves with a J Cloth, when a delivery truck pulled into the gas station. The truck was plastered with bumper stickers, one which read, LET THE EASTERN BASTARDS FREEZE IN THE DARK. The front door jingled. She steadied herself on the counter and carefully stepped down. She was happy to see a customer: a large burly man with a sheepskin hat and a down-filled jacket with the name Stu embossed on an oval patch. Stu stamped the snow off his boots and nodded hello as he walked to the counter and then slid a clipboard of papers to Layla. A pen attached to a worn-out string rolled out.

  “All I need is your John Hancock, ma’am. Top copy’s going to be yours.”

  Layla examined the form. Across the top it read: ROCKY MOUNTAIN SIGN COMPANY. At the bottom it was stamped with the words: Balance due in 30 days. “What is this?” she asked.

  The man pointed outside to his truck, the roof covered with mounds of snow. “The sign you ordered, ma’am. Rush delivery as requested.”

  Layla checked the order book chained to the back counter, in which Mansoor diligently tracked all orders, delivery dates, and outstanding invoices. The pages were bare. “But we’re not expecting anything. Are you sure?”

  “Yes’um, I sure am. Says Visram’s Speedy Gas right here,” he said, tapping the invoice. “Can’t imagine there’s another one with that name for many miles around, eh?” He grinned and leaned an elbow on the glass counter.

  Why had Mansoor ordered a sign instead of asking the girls to make one? “One minute, please. Let me get my husband.”

  Layla returned with Mansoor, who signed the papers right away. “Finally,” he said as he ripped off the top copy.

  “Sorry about the delay. Couple of the boys were down with that nasty flu that’s been going around. But we’ll get you set up nice and good. We appreciate your business, no doubt about it.” Stu slipped the clipboard under his armpit. “How’s business with you folks?”

  “A little slow right now.” Mansoor folded the invoice in half and creased it with his thumbnail. “But I’m sure things will pick up soon.”

  “I sure hope so. I’m telling you, if it wasn’t for them bloody feds—goddamn Trudeau—we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  “Yes, it’s terrible really,” Mansoor said, even though he was a bit put off that this man was blaming Trudeau. After all, if it wasn’t for Trudeau, God only knows what would have happened to them. At Uganda’s independence, the British had promised to protect all those who were worried about a fever of excessive African nationalism and therefore wanted to maintain their passports. But without Ugandan citizenship, the new African government would not allow Asians to operate their businesses. So what to do? Stay in the safe middle, what else? Let your wife maintain a British passport and you get a Ugandan passport. Such bloody irony, Mansoor thought. Amin threw us out because Asians had split loyalties. Why hadn’t you chosen to become Ugandan citizens at the most critical time in the country’s history? You have milked the cow, but did not feed it. Some said that Amin threw them out because an Asian family had refused his request for their daughter’s hand in marriage. (But who, in God’s name, would let their daughter marry an African even if he was the president?) And then, the Queen denied entry for those without passports even if they were stranded in Uganda and their families had been airlifted to London. Stuck in the middle, more like it.

  After the expulsion order, Mansoor had made many attempts to secure proper British documentation. Each night, many men, their sons in tow, camped outside the British High Commission to secure a good position in the long lineup. The Commission could only process so many refugee applications each day, yet they refused to extend their limited hours (10 A.M. to 12:30 P.M. and 2 P.M. to 4:30 P.M.). During one of the lineups, a man whose application had been denied quipped, “When the British came to Uganda, they didn’t need passports. Why do we need them to go to Britain?” Many countries, like America, had turned their backs. But not Canada. Pierre Elliott Trudeau generously opened Canada’s borders to Uganda’s Asians, including the Ismailis. The Aga Khan and Trudeau had been longtime friends, both of them Harvard alumni. Trudeau, if you can believe, even made time for the negotiations during the final game of the nail-biting Soviet–Canada hockey series! The Imam assured Trudeau that Ismailis would be self-sufficient. They were, after all, self-starters, entrepreneurs, civic-minded people who would add to Trudeau’s vision of a multicultural Canada. (During one of their history lessons, Mansoor told the children that the Prime Minister had rescued him by pirouetting into the Vienna Refugee Camp in a red cape and beret with a maple leaf on it, before scooping him up and away like a superhero. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Trudeau. Merci beaucoup.) Since their arrival ten years ago, Mansoor had insisted on keeping a small framed picture of the Prime Minister next to the larger one of the Imam. He also insisted that he and Layla vote Liberal; Layla agreed (he hoped) even though she said there was no point in voting, especially during provincial elections. What difference could they make? There had been no change to Alberta’s Conservative government for decades. “That’s not the point,” Mansoor retorted. As usual, she didn’t understand even the simplest of ideas.

  “We got to get that Trudeau out,” Stu continued. “ ’Member all the good years—before all this National Energy bullshit? Jumping Jesus! The construction crane was the provincial bird and all a man had to do to earn a living was get out of bed.” Stu scratched his neck and then pointed to the shelf behind Mansoor. “Give me a pack of Player’s, will ya?”

  How could Mansoor forget those years? If only he had been in a position to take advantage of Alberta’s booming economy. But he had spent the first seven years working double shifts at a dry-cleaning plant in Calgary and shovelling sidewalks in order to save enough money to make the required down payment on some sort of business. Business—that was the only way, the only way to own land, to call something your own. He wished he had more family here; that way they could have invested in a business together. But all three of Mansoor’s sisters had settled in the U.K.—although, with Thatcher in power now, jobs were no longer stable and many were keen on immigrating to Canada. Mansoor hadn’t said anything to Layla yet, but he had started to investigate how he could sponsor their families to come here. It was, after all, his duty as their brother to help them out.

  When they first arrived in Canada, Layla had suggested that she could work too; she reminded him of her experience in banking and pointed out that she now had Western work experience by way of the dressmaking factory. “You’re going to kill yourself working like this,” she said. But Mansoor refused. Ashif was only a bab
y and the girls were so young. His father was right: children need their mother. Especially in this country with no family around. Besides, Mansoor had no doubt that he could do it himself. Things will get easier, he would tell himself as he applied various chemicals onto the suits of other men. This is not for the rest of my life. No! He wasn’t like the other workers at the plant who had never tasted another kind of life, who easily accepted their mediocre lives. This was as good as it got for people like them. He had been so thankful that Immigration Canada had sent them to business-minded Alberta.

  “Soon enough things will change, you know,” Mansoor said as he handed Stu a pack of cigarettes. “Business is like that. All about cycles.”

  “I suppose so.” Stu tore the cellophane wrapping from the packet of cigarettes, and crumpled it before placing it on the counter, where it crackled open. “But the way things is going these days, I don’t know. It’s enough to make a good man a thief, eh?” He laughed, sliding open the pack of cigarettes and offering one to Mansoor.

  “No, no. I quit many years ago,” Mansoor said proudly.

  “Well, if I had a pretty wife like yours, then I woulda quit for her too.”

  Layla blushed as she reached for the cellophane wrapper and then tossed it into the garbage. She was the one who had made Mansoor stop the first time, soon after they were married, but he restarted the habit when they first moved to Canada. For years, Layla had begged him to quit, but he only did after Ashif told him about a competition at school. Whoever could get their parents to quit smoking would receive a pair of hockey tickets to see the Red Deer Rustlers.

  “But a man’s gotta have some sort of vice if he’s gonna survive, eh?” he said, winking at Mansoor. “Well, I best set the sign up for you.” He raised his arm to them and then turned to leave. “Good luck to you all.”