by Pasha Malla
‘There are three of these insipid things?’ But, as the opening chase proceeded through a moving train, Brij settled back against his pillow. By the time the opening credits rolled, a begrudging delight consumed his dad’s face.
‘Hollywood,’ he whispered, shaking his head with a half-smile. ‘So stupid.’
Two commercial breaks later Ash drifted off and woke to a drool-soaked pillow and Sean Connery and Harrison Ford tied back-to-back in a burning Nazi bunker.
‘You’re alive,’ said Brij.
‘Yeah. What happened?’
‘The movie happened!’
‘No, how’d they get tied up like that?’
‘Oh.’ The two Joneses wiggled over to a fireplace in the corner of the blazing room. ‘The young one. It was his fault.’
‘Really. Not the old man?’
‘No. The boy…compromised them. Like a fool.’
Ford activated a lever that rotated the fireplace through a secret door into a Nazi bunker, and back into the burning room—and the station cut to commercial.
‘See?’ said Brij. ‘Everything is the boy’s fault. He is reckless. He never listens to his father.’
‘That’s not how I remember this movie at all. What else did I miss?’
‘Oh, you know. The father’s tremendous dignity.’
‘Dignity.’
‘Yes!’ Brij muted an ad for a grotesque, oozing sandwich. ‘The son, meanwhile, is rash and foolish. He craves only adventure.’
Ash liked this game. ‘Is there no chance, though, that the father goes along with his son because he actually wants to have adventures?’
‘No. None. He’s forced to.’ Brij looked over. ‘What do you have schemed for us tomorrow, idiot?’
‘It’s a surprise. Something fun, though, I told you.’
‘Just like the boy in the film. He doesn’t respect his father’s traditions.’
Ash grinned. ‘But do those traditions really mean anything anymore, or is he clinging to them for some other reason?’
Too much.
Brij tensed, turned up the volume. A woman was mopping her kitchen floor with a delirious, medicated sort of joy. ‘Look at this imbecile,’ he said.
‘Brij?’
‘Be quiet, it’s starting. Either sleep or watch the film and shut up.’
They settled back into silence, though it was a heavy one. The movie should have been distracting enough. But Brij pointed his face at the screen with the deliberateness of self-distraction. Was Ash meant to apologize? The air felt charged with hurt.
After one more commercial break it was over: Connery and Ford and two associates—one brown, one white—rode off into the sunset to the fanfare of that iconic theme song. Fade to black. Roll credits.
‘There.’ Brij stabbed the remote at the TV. The screen dissolved. ‘Goodnight.’
He rolled over in bed with a grunt, curled away from Ash and in minutes his snoring filled the room. And Ash, with his father lost to sleep only inches away, was abandoned to the greyish-blue light of the room, the chug of the air conditioner, its backdraft rustling the curtains.
—
BRIJ’S CONFERENCE WAS DONE by eleven the following morning, so after lunch Ash had him drive them down to nearby Gananoque. Once there, he revealed his plan: a three-hour kayaking tour around the Thousand Islands.
Brij was horrified. ‘What is this, a bloody canoe?’
‘It’s a kayak. A tandem kayak. You go in that front spot, and I’ll be in back.’
‘Are we Eskimos?’
Ash laughed. ‘You’ll like it, I promise.’
Brij had never been comfortable around water. He was a mountain person. He avoided, at all costs, oceans and lakes. So even putting on the lifejacket made him uncomfortable—and he looked weird in it, the padding hunched at his shoulders like hockey equipment.
‘It doesn’t bloody fit.’
Ash came over, adjusted it while Brij glowered.
‘I look like I’m ready for the psych ward in this stupid thing.’
‘Oh be quiet. You haven’t even got your skirt on yet.’
‘Skirt?’
Once these mortifications were over and Brij was fully outfitted, and accordingly miserable, it was time to get in the boat. Ash held it steady while his dad slid in. Helped him pull down his skirt. Handed him his paddle.
‘Do you even know what you’re doing?’
‘Relax, would you? Matt and I used to go kayaking all the time.’ Brij’s face contorted with worry as Ash walked the boat out into the water. ‘Now, if we tip—’
‘Let me fucking out.’
‘Stop it. If we tip, which we won’t, just pull that handle and release your skirt and swim free.’
‘My god, idiot! Those are your safety measures?’
‘Ready?’
No reply.
‘Okay, here we go.’ Ash slipped in, hitched his skirt and swung them around with a broad sweep of his paddle.
‘Careful!’
‘Oh would you cut it out,’ Ash said with a laugh. ‘We’re fine. Now get your paddle in and—not like that. One side then the other, back and forth. It’s not like canoeing. Look at me. See?’
From the stern Ash watched his father’s back as they paddled the shallows a stone’s throw from shore. After ten minutes of frenzied splashing, Brij developed a mechanical rhythm, alternating strokes with the precision of an automaton. Such a scientist, even in leisure.
‘Ready for open water?’
In terror Brij gazed beyond the cove. ‘There?’
‘Sure. We’re not just going to boot around the launch all afternoon.’
‘Isn’t it dangerous?’
‘No. No more so than your driving, anyway.’
So they headed out, and just as they entered the channel a motorboat went zooming past and sent them teetering in its wake.
‘Sister fuckers!’ Brij screamed.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ash said. ‘It’ll take a lot more than that to spill—’
‘Idiot, you’re steering us right into that tsunami!’
‘You’d rather hit it side-on?’
The waves settled. Brij resumed paddling in grudging silence. Once they were coasting into the St. Lawrence Ash asked his dad to pass him a bottle of water from the carryall stashed behind his seat.
‘And unbalance the ship? Are you out of your bloody mind?’
‘Relax. Seriously. If anything’s going to sink us it’s your hysteria.’
‘Idiot,’ Brij muttered. ‘You want water, drink from the lake.’
‘River.’
‘What’s that on the other side, then?’
‘There?’ Ash squinted. The far shoreline was hazy in the late-summer light. ‘America.’
Brij considered this. ‘Let’s go.’
‘To America? Did you bring your passport?’
‘Passport? Who needs a passport? We’ll sneak in.’
‘Couple of brown guys in a boat, smuggling themselves into the United States. Sounds like a good idea to me.’
Brij pointed his paddle at a bank of rock in the middle of the river. ‘There, then.’
‘Probably more reasonable. Unless it’s owned by France or something.’
‘We’ll conquer it,’ said Brij, and dug into the water with renewed vigour.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled up to an island no bigger than a tennis court. Ash slipped out, steadied the kayak, and invited his dad ashore.
‘What, we’re exiting? Is it safe?’
‘Safe?’ Ash looked around the little stony patch. ‘Is there a bear here I’m not seeing?’
His father crawled out, cursing his son, the world, the hubris of marine travel. But once he was sitting on the rocky slope of the little islet, his lifejacket unzipped, sharing a bag of chips, he relaxed.
‘Keep your paddle handy,’ he said. ‘In case we have to beat away any intruders.’
Ash spoke through a mouthful of chips: ‘Hey, are you almost having fun?’
‘Fun
? On the water? When we’re not about to drown I suppose it’s tolerable.’
‘Bullshit. I think I even heard you laugh.’
Brij took the chips, shaking his head. ‘I was retching. Sea sickness.’
‘Didn’t you grow up beside a lake?’
‘A lake, yes. But there the shikaras have drivers. And the houseboats are immobile.’
‘What’s the point of a houseboat if it doesn’t go anywhere?’
‘People live in them, idiot. Does your condominium often go rolling down the street?’
‘Give me the chips back. You always do this, take the bag and eat them all.’
Brij handed it over distractedly. His thoughts were elsewhere. ‘And both Dal and Nigeen Lake are full of lotus. Thick with them, too thick in places to swim. People use them for everything. The flowers for decoration. And before they bloom there are the seeds—delicious, very sweet, like little nuts. You wouldn’t have had those, but you’ve eaten lotus stem, I’ve made it. The Chinese cook it too, don’t they?’
Ash nodded. This was rare, his father sailing off on a Kashmir tangent and then doubling back to see if anyone was along for the ride.
‘And the leaves—big, fat leaves—they use for all sorts of things. You see women harvesting them, huge stacks in their canoes. Beautiful canoes, hand-carved.’ His eyes brightened. ‘And the floating vegetable market! Early in the morning the boats collect in the corner of Dal Lake. Such delicious vegetables: radish, squash, aubergine, haak—’
‘That’s spinach?’
‘Far better.’ Brij took the chips back from Ash. ‘My god! You’ve inhaled them!’ Shaking his head Brij tipped the crumbs down his throat, then smoothed the empty bag into a neat rectangle on the rocks. ‘You had all these vegetables as a boy. When I took you to Kashmir.’ He paused. ‘Do you remember?’
‘Of course,’ Ash lied.
Together they looked out over the water, fractured here and there with rocky clusters. A cottage, half-hidden by trees, lorded over the closest island, with watercraft of variable size and opulence jostling below in the river.
Theirs had a shrub. Otherwise it was barren.
‘What number do you think this island is?’ said Ash.
‘Number?’
‘If there are a thousand of them, I mean.’
‘Do they all have numbers? What about names?’
‘I don’t know. Should we name it? Claim it for the family?’
‘Dhar Island.’
‘We’d need a flag.’
‘Here,’ said Brij. He speared the empty potato chip bag with a stick, found a crack in the stones and wedged it in. His flag crackled in the breeze. ‘It is ours now.’
‘The land of Dhar. Where the ladies wear no…salwars?’
‘I remember you singing that song, you and Mona. That and diarrhea, diarrhea.’ Brij grinned, shook his head. ‘So stupid.’
‘So what about Mona? How does she figure in our empire?’
‘Of course she is welcome. She will be princess of the land.’
‘And we’re the kings?’
‘Idiot, I’m the king. You’re the prince.’
‘So who gets this place when you’re gone? Me or your eldest daughter?’
‘Well,’ Brij said. ‘Normally she would be queen. But it would be wrong not to bequeath some of my kingdom to you, since you were along for the discovery.’
‘Along? Do you really think you could have got here on your own?’
Brij laughed.
‘Anyway,’ said Ash, ‘if I play my cards right someday all this will be mine?’
His dad eyed him with mock distrust. ‘I should be wary of these sorts of ambitions. Indian princes have a habit of murdering their fathers. Maybe I should kill you first.’
Now it was Ash’s turn to laugh. He couldn’t remember ever having a conversation like this with his dad before, one of shared fantasy. As a kid, maybe, though the particulars of such a thing escaped him. His thoughts raced for something to grow the story. ‘Should we build a fort here to consolidate our holdings?’
Brij stared at the mainland. The look in his eyes was distant, searching. He seemed on the verge of revelation. Ash waited. But when he spoke again his register turned professorial. ‘Akbar, for example. India’s greatest king, a lover of art and poetry. Twice his eldest son, an alcoholic, tried to kill him.’
‘Right.’
‘He had a preferred son, his second eldest. A good boy. Though the older one was meant to assume the throne, despite that he’d twice attempted patricide. And he had a great deal of support among Akbar’s harem. So on his deathbed Akbar ordered that his sons’ elephants should fight and the victor’s would be king.’
‘Who won?’
‘The drunk.’ Brij rose, brushing his hands on his shorts. ‘Whose own son revolted. And then when that son became king, his son in turn tried to overthrow him.’
‘So it goes, I guess,’ said Ash, and got up too.
They stood there, side-by-side, the late afternoon light golden on their faces. The kayak made sucking sounds as the waves knocked it about the rocks. All around their little patch of land the river ruffled and sparked. Brij reached over and squeezed Ash’s shoulder. And let go, and patted him twice on the head.
—
THE DRIVE BACK to Kingston was quiet.
At Brij’s suggestion they took the scenic route along the riverside. ‘You’ve plenty of time,’ he said.
He drove with uncharacteristic leisure. There was little traffic, which helped, but even when they did encounter a car Brij didn’t tailgate and go roaring past in a fit of rage, but held back patiently for them to turn off the highway. Once Ash even caught a smile playing on his lips; then Brij shook his head and a little blast of air escaped his nostrils—a private, wistful laugh. What was he remembering: the afternoon they’d just spent together, or something long before?
They didn’t speak, not really. The radio was turned down to an ambient murmur. The water scrolled by, indigo flashing where little whitecaps curled up and caught the sunlight. Ash rolled down the window and let his hand ride the slipstream. For half an hour they were like this, until they reached the causeway into town and Brij spoke: ‘I could just drive you home.’
‘To Toronto?’
‘Sure.’
‘Don’t you have to work tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course. I would drop you, then go back to Montreal.’
‘So two hours to Toronto, then you’d turn right around and do another six?’
Over the causeway they went. On the northern side the river narrowed and wiggled up into the mainland.
‘It’s feasible in five,’ said Brij.
‘Still, seems like a lot of driving.’
‘Once we’re past the bridge I either take you into Kingston or we go up to the 401.’ He shrugged. ‘You decide. I don’t mind.’
Ash watched his father. He seemed tired, resigned. Old.
They reached the mainland, banked left.
Brij looked over at Ash. ‘So?’
‘It’s a really nice offer, but to be honest I don’t love the idea of you driving back to Quebec in the middle of the night.’
His father sighed. ‘Well, hurry up. If we’re going west I need to take this turn.’
‘I don’t know.’
The exit passed. Brij shook his head. ‘That’s it then,’ he said.
His father veered to cut off a passing minivan, laid on the horn, cursed, and they drove in a new, stiffer kind of silence up through downtown, making an enemy of every motorist they encountered, all the way to the station.
—
ASH FOUND HIS SEAT in the last car of the train and got out his laptop. Opened up a file that contained some notes about an author he’d invited on the show in the New Year. This writer wasn’t someone Sherene was crazy about—too esoteric, too ‘out there’—so she’d told Ash he could take first crack at the introduction. Ash struggled with this sort of thing, how to say something sincere or ex
press admiration; he found it far easier to fake middling interest. He read over the few lines he’d attempted—sycophantic, trite—and erased them. Confronted with the blank screen, the blinking cursor, he found himself replaying the afternoon with his dad.
Brij had been predictably ridiculous in the kayak. Like so many things he did, his technique had seemed mimetic, like an impression of paddling based on study but not practice. There’d been something almost cute about it. Childlike. How quickly he’d gone from disgruntled and thrashing to a calculated dip and swing, the paddle rotating like a wobbly axle. There’d been that moment, too, when Ash had swung them around to open water. How serenely they’d coasted out to their island. How nice and good it was. Reserving the boat, he’d thought that three hours would be pushing it. But in the end he and his father had only reached the cusp of something—and deserted it.
Ash looked out the window. They were moving.
The train crawled out of the station. A horn blew. The platform slid away. And now they were on open track, passing the parking lot—and here was his father, leaning on his car and watching the train. The pose was typical Brij: arms crossed, head thrown back in a kind of resentful interest—a little haughty, a little suspicious, but still watching and waiting despite himself.
Brij’s eyes searched the train’s windows, though he didn’t seem able to make out his son. Ash pressed his face to the glass, waved. Still his dad scanned left and right. It was the late afternoon light, probably, bouncing off the train. All he would be able to see was glare and reflection. So all Ash could do was watch Brij watching the train.
And it was picking up speed now, galloping out of the station. His dad and the parking lot vanished and were replaced with the fields outside Kingston, the sky opening up and deepening at its edges toward night.
Ash sat back. It was okay. He would go to Montreal the next chance he got. He and Brij could pick up where they’d left off. They could go kayaking again—maybe they could even return to Dhar Island, if they could find it, and see if their flag still flew. Ash smiled. Yes. That would be fun. Or another trip, to some other place. They could go anywhere. They could do anything. There would always be more time.
PASHA MALLA is the author of five works of poetry and fiction, including the story collection The Withdrawal Method and the novel People Park. His work has won the Danuta Gleed Literary Award, the Trillium Book Prize, an Arthur Ellis Award and several National Magazine awards. It has also been shortlisted for the Amazon.ca Best First Novel Award and the Commonwealth Prize (Best First Book, Canada & Caribbean), and longlisted for the Scotiabank Giller Prize and the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. Pasha is a monthly books columnist for The Globe and Mail, and a regular contributor to Newyorker.com, The Walrus and CBC Radio. He lives in Hamilton, Ontario.