Bitter Paradise

by Ross Pennie

  Hamish gave an approving nod and headed toward the locker room. “We’d better get rocking. But first, I need to ditch my street clothes for a set of scrubs.”

  “Say, Hamish, may I come in with you and eyeball these patients?”

  Hamish hesitated. “You have privileges here, right? I mean —”

  “It’s okay. Yes, I am legit.” Zol tapped himself on the chest. “Your Chief Medical Officer of Health has privileges at all your local hospitals.” He flashed his eyebrows. “One of the special perks of the job.”

  A few minutes later, they were dressed in their protective gear and shuffling toward Bhavjeet Singh Malik’s isolation room. In addition to disposable gowns over their scrubs, they had vinyl gloves on their hands, shoe covers on their feet, caps on their heads, and suffocating N-95 masks on their faces.

  Zol felt decidedly silly in the getup. They were now into the third week of the epidemic and hadn’t seen a single case of poliomyelitis transmitted from a known case to a household member. If the polio patients weren’t passing their disease on to their closest loved ones, medical personnel probably weren’t at risk from them either. Going the whole nine yards with protective gear was overkill. The only protection the staff needed was a good dose of soap and water.

  The worst part of the getup was the N-95 mask. It made it damned hard to breathe and awkward to establish rapport with patients and families. As Hamish opened the door to Bhavjeet’s sparsely furnished isolation room, Zol ripped off his mask.

  Chapter 11

  At nine twenty on that cool but clear Friday evening, following the Caliph’s detailed instructions in the envelope Omar had found dropped through the mail slot, Hosam put on a dark jacket over his dark shirt and dark jeans. He checked to be sure he had his gloves, also dark, then opened the front door. Behind him, Leila was sobbing in the kitchen. Alone. She had refused to have a neighbour lady come and sit with her while he was gone. Omar was upstairs in his bed, the covers pulled up to his neck and a heavy-metal band blasting so loudly it was escaping through his earphones and audible downstairs.

  The streetlamps along this section of the street had burned out months ago, or maybe it was years. It was too dark to see whether anyone was lurking in the shadows or in the decrepit Honda across the street. According to the locals, that car hadn’t moved in half a decade. How much did it matter, anyway, if someone was waiting to pounce with a fist or a knife? Unless he wanted Leila and Omar to suffer terribly at the hands of a Syrian mob here in Hamilton, he had no option but to do as the Caliph commanded.

  He closed the door behind him and strode northward the two minutes to the traffic light at Barton Street. There, he turned right at the Beer Store. In front of him loomed a modern-day fortress armed with searchlights and automatic rifles: the Hamilton-Wentworth Detention Centre. The thought of that jail lurking at the end of his street gave him the shivers during the day. Standing in front of it in the dark conjured the tortures he’d endured in Damascus at the hands of the Mukhabarat. Was that exactly what the Caliph had in mind, a vivid reminder of those horrors? Did the man want him to stand here alone in the dark contemplating the terrors that beset those who didn’t do exactly as they were told?

  As directed, he waited at the bus stop. The bright glow of the Beer Store, the only business open at this hour, provided a measure of comfort. He could take refuge inside if a menacing figure showed up before the next Route 2 Barton arrived. The instructions said to expect a bus shortly after nine thirty.

  Dinnertime had been an emotional hurricane. Neither he nor Leila could contemplate food in any form, and Omar would not leave his room. Late in the afternoon, after finding the envelope, Omar had made the rounds of the social media sites he had neglected while playing Fortnite. He was soon bombarded with photos and stories of the barbershop attack and was the first to learn that Marwan had died of his wounds. He tore from his bedroom and shouted at Hosam over and over and over, until his vocal cords gave out: You broke your promise. You broke your promise. You promised we’d be safe here. But they know where you work, and they’re going to get us. All of us. Just like that barber. They always do.

  Hosam’s throat had tightened at the news. He had tried to blink away the tears as he pictured Marwan exsanguinating on the barbershop floor. Merde! He had been such a decent young man. Always quick to do more than his share around the shop.

  He realized, now, he should have interrupted Omar’s computer game. He should have calmly told his son about the attack at the shop and provided fatherly reassurance. But he had not been able to do it. Not when Omar was finally engaged with a simpatico group of friends his age.

  During the relentless bombardment of Aleppo, and for many months thereafter, they had each withdrawn into themselves. These days, Omar was still in partial retreat. His distress made that clear. In Aleppo, Hosam had coped by working day and night in the operating theatre. Admittedly, he had spent far too little time with his family. That changed in Turkey. Crammed together in the refugee camp, they had scrounged for food, space, and dignity. Hosam’s well-thumbed copy of Toronto Notes now replaced the theatre; his bedroom desk was now the operating table. Cramming for his crack at the MCCQE was a distraction as absorbing as a full day of challenging surgery. Chasing a dream made you selfish, he knew that. But if you achieved that dream, would you not be a better man? Would your family prosper? He could only hope.

  He had told Leila about this morning’s barbershop attack the moment she finished her workday. And after that, he showed her the note from the Caliph. He had wanted to shield her from the threats, but he knew better. If they were going to survive this, she had to know everything. A professional herself, and never one for hysterics, Leila sat quietly at the kitchen table, her mouth contorted, her cheeks flooded with tears, her shoulders heaving in never-ending sobs. It was like living those final weeks in Aleppo all over again.

  Three years ago, when Syria’s not-so-secret Mukhabarat police arrived from Damascus to cart Hosam off to President Bashar al-Assad’s notorious prison, Hosam had been terrified. Leila too. But they did have an inkling of what was in store for him. They had heard stories of prisoners doused with water, electrocuted, and hung from the ceiling by their wrists. But tonight, waiting for a city bus in peaceful, law-abiding Canada, Hosam had no idea what his fate would be at the end of the thirty-minute ride along Barton Street. Somehow, this was worse.

  How distasteful was the job that awaited him? If he survived this one, how many others would there be until the Caliph deemed him out of favour? And then what?

  For the moment, all he knew was that someone would be waiting at a Tim Hortons coffee shop on Barton Street, one block past the route’s final stop at the Bell Manor loop. And if Hosam did not want Leila and Omar to end up like Marwan, he had to be there at ten o’clock, dressed in black.

  When the Route 2 Barton arrived, he climbed aboard. He tapped his transit card and held his breath. Would it trigger the proper beep? If the transit card didn’t work, he would have to pay in cash. Sufficient fare with no change given. But all he had was a ten-dollar bill. If he gave the driver the full ten dollars now, he would never get home.

  Relief! The card beeped and let him ride. The driver gave him a quick glance but said nothing. As he walked into the aisle, he could see five riders. Three teens were huddled in the rear, two perky girls and a boy with a passable Peaky Blinders undercut fade and effeminately sculpted eyebrows. They were giggling over something on their phones. Two middle-aged men, nondescript, were sitting separately and halfway back. Their eyes were closed. Hosam took a seat within earshot of the driver, a forty-something woman with spiky hair faded to a number one at the sides and back, and enormous thighs. Bus drivers did a lot of sitting.

  By the time the driver announced the end of the line at the Bell Manor loop, Hosam was the only passenger left on the bus. As he descended, he could see the bright signs of a Tim Hortons coffee shop up ahead. It was o
n his side of Barton Street and only a few paces beyond the next intersection.

  The three-minute walk felt like an eternity. He took several deep breaths to slow his heart rate. It did not work. His chest still pounded. How would he recognize the guy he was supposed to meet? What if he missed the man, and the Caliph took it out on Leila and Omar? He would never forgive himself. The note mentioned nothing more than the Route 2 city bus, a Tim Hortons at this location, and ten o’clock. He told himself to relax, the contact would probably have swarthy skin like his own, dark hair without any grey, and mutter a brief greeting in Arabic. And, if the contact was one of the Caliph’s al-Nusra buddies from back home, he would have a full beard. He was probably not going to miss him.

  Hosam had been standing on the sidewalk in front of the Tim’s for less than a minute when a black, full-size Lincoln SUV in mint condition pulled to a stop beside him. The front passenger window dropped down. The sole occupant was a woman his age with huge dark eyes, glistening red lips, and blond hair showing dark roots like Madonna’s. The hair was so long, he realized, it went down to her waist. “Quick,” she said, “get in.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I . . . I cannot. I’m waiting for . . . for a friend.” He looked from side to side and felt himself blush. He had been approached by hookers before, but never by one driving her own luxury tank. And not for a good many years.

  “Seriously,” she said, “put on your gloves and get the F in.” She had switched to Arabic. “This is a no-stopping zone, and I can’t afford to attract attention.” He could not place the accent, but there was no missing the anxiety scrawled across her face as she glanced at her rearview mirror. “You’re Hosam. From the barbershop. I’m supposed to pick you up. For God’s sake, jump in.”

  He yanked the door open with his gloved right hand and slipped in beside her.

  Chapter 12

  When Zol and Hamish walked into Bhavjeet Singh Malik’s isolation room in Caledonian’s Emergency Department, the first thing Zol sensed was the testosterone. Two men as tall as Zol, even taller in their turbans, were standing at the patient’s bedside. Their skin was light brown, their shoulders broad, and their beards thick and well groomed. They had to be a father and his mid-twenties son. The tiger’s head tattoo on the side of the younger man’s neck was impossible to miss.

  Their masks and gowns lay discarded in the biohazard bin. Zol could feel why. The heat in the room was oppressive. He tossed his mask in there too.

  The youth in the bed — late teens, frightened eyes, black turban — was awake, lying on his back, and shivering beneath the sheets. A blanket was pulled up to his sparsely bearded chin. Such shivers in a hot room said the young man had a fever.

  Before anyone had a chance to introduce themselves, the older man strode forward from the bed and said sharply, “Doctors, you must tell me what is wrong with my nephew.” His enormous brown belly threatened to burst through the buttons of his gaping shirt. “Why is he so poorly walking?” His deep blue turban wavered with the shaking of his head as his anxious eyes flipped back and forth between Zol and Hamish. Pools of sweat glistened above his eyebrows.

  “That’s what Dr. Szabo and I are here to find out,” Hamish said. He glanced at Zol, caught the absence of his mask, and pulled his off. “I’m Dr. Wakefield, the infection specialist.” He didn’t offer his hand.

  “Specialist?” said the uncle. “My brother is specialist also. Cardiologist.”

  “Here in Hamilton?” Hamish asked.

  The man bobbed his head in that unique South Asian way that could be difficult to decipher. “Lahore.”

  Hamish addressed the patient without further comment to the uncle. It became clear that the young fellow was drowsy, could speak only a little English, and his uncle and cousin would need to translate.

  Zol found it painful to watch poor Hamish trying to pull the patient’s story out of the three men, only two of whom were fully awake. The cousin volunteered almost nothing and the uncle interrupted incessantly. Neither showed any interest in providing answers to questions such as did anyone among their friends and relatives have a similar illness, exactly what medicines had Bhavjeet taken, how had he been occupying his time, did he have any hobbies, what local sights had he visited, and what was his occupation back home.

  The hard facts were that Bhavjeet was visiting Hamilton from Pakistan and staying with his paternal uncle, the man in the blue turban. Also living in the townhouse were the uncle’s wife and adult son, the fellow with the tiger tattoo. They claimed to be in good health. Bhavjeet was nineteen years old and had been perfectly well until three days earlier when he began shivering and complaining of a headache. Since then, he’d eaten little, developed a sore neck, and hadn’t wanted to leave his bed. Today, after the family had coaxed him downstairs to try eating a little snack, he couldn’t walk back up again and had fallen to the floor. They’d called 911. As Hamish tried to tease out whether this was an illness acquired overseas or in Canada, the uncle was cagey about the date of Bhavjeet’s arrival from Pakistan. Zol took that to mean that the young man had probably outstayed his six-month visitor visa. If his symptoms were the result of an infection, he had almost certainly acquired it in Canada.

  Zol caught Hamish’s eye and then asked the men, “Do you know anyone who has an aquarium?” When only puzzled looks came back in reply, he rephrased his question and mimed a fish tank with his hands and arms. “I mean, a glass tank that you fill with water and keep tropical fish in.” He held up a thumb and forefinger to show he was talking about little fish, not mackerel or tuna. The puzzled looks persisted.

  Hamish shook his head, satisfied that this group had no idea what Zol was talking about. “Have any of you ever visited a pet store called Petz Haven?”

  Uncle made a face. “We are not liking dogs or cats.”

  Hamish turned to Bhavjeet. “Are you certain you have never been to a store called Petz Haven?” Bhavjeet looked beseechingly at his uncle who translated the question and the answer. “He is too busy for shopping.”

  “Well then,” Hamish asked, “Do you keep birds? Perhaps a parrot or a macaw?”

  Uncle waved a giant, dismissive hand. “You are asking are we crazy, keeping birds in the house?”

  Hamish shrugged Uncle an apology and approached the patient’s right side. He pulled the sheets and blanket down to Bhavjeet’s waist and motioned for Zol to stand close and look over his shoulder. Slipping the young man’s arms out of the flimsy blue hospital gown, Hamish carefully inspected the skin on his upper body — chest, arms, belly, and back. Zol could see no rashes, wounds, or lesions. Hamish palpated for swollen glands in the neck and armpits and seemed to find none. He cradled the back of the teenager’s head in his hands and pulled gently upwards. The poor fellow grimaced, and his neck muscles tightened visibly on both sides. Such painful neck stiffness was definitely not normal. Hamish listened without comment to the chest, using the stethoscope provided on the counter beside the sink. When he palpated the slender abdomen with the palm and fingertips of his right hand, Bhavjeet gave no indication of discomfort.

  After helping the patient don the gown again, he palpated the groin for enlarged lymph nodes and examined the legs for skin lesions and swollen joints. None found. Next, he tested the power in the young man’s upper limbs. Perhaps a little weakness there. The lower limbs were another story. The muscles were abnormally floppy and decidedly weak. Bhavjeet could barely lift his heels a centimetre off the bed. The tendon reflexes at the elbows were present but diminished from what would normally be expected in a teenager. At the knees and ankles, there was no response to Hamish’s tendon-hammer taps. Bhavjeet’s sensory function in his arms and legs seemed to be preserved: with his eyes closed, he could tell when Hamish stroked his skin with a bit of paper towel, and he could accurately say whether Hamish moved his big toe upward or downward. When Hamish stroked the bottom of his feet with the pointed end of the hammer, Bhavjeet’s
face showed he didn’t like it, but his toes didn’t move. The toes of a person with a healthy nervous system would have curled downward.

  Hamish took the flashlight from the counter and tested Bhavjeet’s eye and facial movements. They were normal. He gestured to a box of wooden tongue depressors on the counter, and Zol handed him one. “Open your mouth, please,” Hamish said, “and stick out your tongue.”

  It was obvious it had been days since Bhavjeet had last brushed his teeth. And even a non-dentist could see he had several cavities that needed attention.

  Hamish held the flashlight’s beam over the lower left molars. “Those are sutures,” he said, his tone indignant. “Black silk.” He turned to Uncle. “You didn’t tell me he’d recently been to the dentist.” He removed the tongue depressor from Bhavjeet’s mouth and mimed a tooth extraction. “When did you have that tooth pulled?”

  Bhavjeet looked at Uncle and shrugged. Either he was too drowsy to remember or had been cautioned not to say.

  Zol hoped a less indignant tone might shed some light on the story. “Uncle, did your nephew have a bad toothache recently?” Zol mimed pain and swelling around his left cheek. “Perhaps a nasty infection? Did a dentist have to remove a tooth?”

  Uncle looked up from his shoes and said, “I take him to my dentist. No can fix. Have to take two teeth.”

  “A dentist here in Hamilton?”

  Uncle said, “Of course, doctor.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his beefy hand and made no further comment.

  “And when was that, sir?” Zol asked him.

  “Um . . . last week. Wednesday or Thursday.”

  By the looks of Bhavjeet’s teeth, he’d neglected them his whole life. Dentists were probably as expensive in Pakistan as they were in Canada and beyond the reach of ordinary people without dental insurance. Uncle would have paid for the extractions out of his own pocket — unless he’d successfully scammed his dental plan by passing Bhavjeet off as his son.