Six Metres of Pavement

by Farzana Doctor

  “Everyone’s creative, Ismail. And you don’t have to be good at it, you know. God knows I’m terrible at it. I know that it will never be anything but a hobby for me,” she said, and Ismail heard the old cynicism in her voice.

  “What are you writing about?” he asked, vainly hoping he might have inspired prose.

  “It depends on what I feel like at the time. I’ve done some poetry — mostly sappy stuff when I was with Laura, you remember her, don’t you? I wrote a lot of love poetry during that short time we were together,” Daphne said, looking down into her plastic straw.

  “Oh, so you’re not still with her?” A tiny bubble of hope floated up.

  “Nope. That turned out to be just a fling, and now I’m just a sad single girl again,” she said, pushing out her lips into a mock pout. “I fell hard because she was my first — first girl, that is. She inspired a lot of bad lesbian poetry. Now I’m on to writing short stories. Maybe one day I’ll write a novel.” She paused, looked thoughtful, and pushed her glass away. “You know, I bet you could write a novel about your life. You’ve been through so much. And it’s really therapeutic. It might help you.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone being interested in my life story. Besides, I hardly ever read books anymore.” As a youth, Ismail read all the classics: The Great Gatsby, War and Peace, Ulysses, Heart of Darkness, all of which had been assigned in school. But as an adult, he developed more of an appreciation for the inky reality of newspapers.

  “What about all those self-help books from the library? You’ve read a ton of those.” Ismail nodded, considering a few of the dozens of titles he’d borrowed: Healing from Loss, Accepting Your Mistakes, Beyond Anxiety.

  “A lot of good they’ve done me,” he quipped, but Daphne wasn’t to be dissuaded.

  “Maybe that’s your genre.”

  “My what?”

  “Genre. You know, category of writing. Genre.”

  “Oh, genre,” Ismail repeated, pronouncing it jan-rah. He’d never heard anyone pronounce it her way.

  “I think it’s a French word, Ismail.”

  “Oh,” he said, feeling foolish. He ordered another beer and sipped on it while she continued to talk about the short stories she was working on.

  “I’ve done two stories loosely based on my family history. I feel like I am finally starting to get to some kind of resolution. I couldn’t tell you why, but when I write down the stories, they don’t take up so much room inside my head. And my teacher said they showed … promise,” she said shyly.

  “I envy you, Daphne.”

  “Really? Why?” She looked at him quizzically, but seemed pleased all the same.

  “I’ve done a year of therapy. A hundred AA meetings. Read a couple dozen self-help books. I’m still the same old miserable person after all of these years. I envy you for finding something that helps you. Good on you.” Ismail lifted his glass to toast her. She bit her lip and reached for his arm, the soft padded tips of her fingers resting on his wrist. He put his glass down.

  “So come with me to the writing class, then. It might help you with the drinking, too. They’re registering people now for the February session.” Ismail remained quiet, the beer and her touch creating a warm blush within him. “It’ll be like old times,” she purred. He met her eyes and she continued, “I’ve missed seeing you around.” Ismail looked down at her hand in his and remembered their Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He told himself that perhaps they could rekindle their friendship, and things would be different this time.

  “Maybe. Well, I don’t have anything else on the go right now. And it looks good on you,” Ismail said. She blushed, and he heard himself mumble, “Why not?” He wasn’t really sure he meant it, but as he sipped his drink with his left hand, he allowed Daphne to scrawl the location and date of the class on his right. The press of ballpoint against his palm raised a field of goosebumps on his arm.

  “Now, don’t wash this off,” she warned, smiling bright, sunny rays down on him. Ismail gazed into her eyes and promised he wouldn’t.

  — * —

  It was late, but Celia knew sleep wouldn’t come for an hour or two yet. Still, falsely hopeful, she changed into a flannel nightie. As she passed a mirror, she glimpsed herself in the bright garment, her pale hands and neck reaching out and up from the aquamarine blue cuffs and collar. These colours were only for her underwear and nightclothes now.

  She donned the mourning clothes for José, exchanging her stylish pants, blouses, and skirts for black dresses and loafers. She only intended to do so for a month or two, for she never saw herself as such a traditional person. Even for her father, her black attire was only for a week. But after her mother died, she just didn’t feel like changing out of the widow’s uniform. Besides, nearly all her other clothes were still in boxes in the basement, and she didn’t have the energy to unpack them.

  Old friends who knew the cheerful woman from before, and didn’t follow the traditions of widows, questioned her about when she would come out of the mourning clothes.

  “Come on, Celia, you grew up here, went to school here. This isn’t like you,” Adriana cajoled.

  “Yeah, it’s fine for a little while, but you can stop now,” added Joana.

  She would just shrug. At least everything matches with black, yes?

  And the mourning clothes matched her mood, the sorrow and bitter resentments she exhaled with each breath. Her friends cautioned her about developing the agonias, the murky sadness for the self, but much more than that, too, a breathless sense of fear for the world. It’s our special kind of condition, eh? She knew the agonias were the worst kind of ailment a woman could succumb to, for its quivering anxiety sapped the muscles of energy, the blood of vitality, and the mind of all hope. Mostly, it left Celia tired, more tired than she’d ever been in her life. She could curl up in ball, forget the past, and not have to worry about the future. Perhaps, Celia thought, I am entitled to my agonias. After what I’ve been through.

  There were nights when she dreamt of José and mornings she awoke expecting to see him beside her. She would roll over in bed, cotton sheets wound tight around her legs. She’d reach for him, her eyes closed, her cheek searching for a place to nuzzle into his warm chest. There would be a moment, when in her half-sleep, she would feel his shadowy presence in the bed, and she would soak in his warmth. His curly chest hairs would be soft under her face and her breathing would regulate to his heartbeat. Usually, when daylight peeked past her curtains, she’d rouse from that dreamlike place, and the figment beside her would lift his head from the pillow, turn away, and leave the room. She would swear she could sense the mattress shift beneath her, the springs recoiling from José’s departure.

  A part of her, the one half-asleep and longing for him to return, wanted to call out to him, to wail, to pull out her hair in anguish each time he abandoned her. The other part of her, the one half awake, rebuked her husband, whispered curses at his spirit, forbade him to ever again return to her bed.

  Half awake and half asleep. That was how her new life left her. In the mornings, bleary-eyed, she would reach for her water glass with her right arm, only to find that the TV tray was on her left. She’d open her top drawer for a pair of pantyhose and realize that they were stored in the second. She would search her reflection in the mirror and not recognize the old widow looking back at her. Whose sad eyes are those? Whose grey hair? Whose unrouged cheeks, unperfumed neck, barren lips? She hadn’t yet grown accustomed to it all, but didn’t resist it, either. The other ladies on her block with dead husbands told her that she would get used to wearing black, to being a woman conspicuous in her grief, and invisible in every other way.

  — 11 —

  Big Bhai

  It was another Thursday afternoon, and Ismail was receiving Nabil’s weekly phone call. He sat at his desk, coat on, the phone’s receiver warming his e
ar. Looking for a suitable topic of conversation, he’d mentioned that he might take a winter trip to the Caribbean. Nabil liked to go on luxury all-inclusive vacations with his family.

  “Yes, it would be good for you to have some new surroundings, get away from that bar you spend so much time in. And that bad-influence woman,” Nabil said, finally taking a breath in the lecture he’d been delivering over the previous three minutes. He’d started by discussing the merits of travel agents and then somehow gotten diverted to Ismail’s drinking. Ismail felt himself crumple into the small boy whose older brother protected him from the playground bullies but later scolded him for not standing up for himself.

  “Oh, well, I don’t drink much these days,” Ismail said in self-defense, “and I rarely see Daphne much, either.” He was almost about to explain that the reason for their lack of contact was Daphne’s nascent homosexuality, but he stopped himself. He looked at his palm, seeing her faint, almost washed-off handwriting. He also chose not to tell Nabil about the writing class, which he’d signed up for the previous night before heading to bed. Half-drunk and sleepy, he’d managed to match the course numbers Daphne had scrawled on his hand to the ones on the University of Toronto’s Continuing Education website.

  “Glad to hear it. Moderation is the main thing.”

  “Yes, Bhai,” Ismail sighed.

  “Really, I’m not saying you should quit, but you should make sure you are moderate. That’s the best thing. Even I enjoy a good wine with dinner from time to time. But be careful. Just take heed of what the doctor told you.” Ismail often regretted telling Nabil about his health scare a few years back.

  “Yes, Bhai, I haven’t forgotten. I’m looking after my health,” Ismail repeated. “So … how are Altaf and Asghar?” he asked, wanting to change the subject. And he knew this topic would be a good one. When Nabil thought about his sons, something unlocked within his brain, allowing him to exhale and slow his pace. Ismail pictured him easing up on the accelerator, guiding his car from the passing lane to the middle.

  “Well,” Nabil said, his tone brightening, “Altaf is about to begin his residency. And did I tell you he decided to meet that girl Maasi was talking about? You know, Kakaji’s cousin’s daughter, Muriam? They’ve been on two dates already. She seems like a nice girl.”

  “Who? Which cousin?”

  “Hatim Kakaji’s cousin, Yusufali. His daughter.”

  “I didn’t know Yusufali had a daughter named Muriam,” Ismail admitted, as he mentally sifted through his aunts and uncles and cousins, reconstructing the complex family tree in his mind.

  “He has three daughters. One of them is Altaf’s age,” Nabil explained impatiently.

  “Oh, right, Yusufali. I was confusing him with Hassanali. So Altaf likes her? I didn’t think he’d go for an arrangement.”

  “Yes, they have a lot in common. And it was more of an introduction, not an arrangement. I’m not that old-fashioned, you know.” This was more or less true. Nabil kept up appearances by attending the mosque once or twice a year and avoided alcohol and pork when people from the community might see him. In the privacy of his own home, he did whatever he pleased.

  “Glad he’s met someone. And they’re a good match?”

  “Yes, I think they are compatible. She’s studying medicine, too, and is also an accomplished tennis player.”

  “Good, good. And how is Asghar?” In every family, there is a child who doesn’t behave as everyone expects, and for this reason, Asghar had always been Ismail’s favourite.

  “Yeah, he is fine.” There was a cough, a honking horn, the end of Nabil’s calm.

  “You okay? Is traffic bad?”

  “No, no, just changed lanes and the jackass behind me wasn’t watching the road. What were we talking about?”

  “I was asking about Asghar.”

  “Oh yeah, Asghar. He’s had a little trouble at the university. Was involved in some stupid thing involving political protests or some such foolishness. Luckily at York they are a little lenient about these things, so he received a warning, but no suspension, thank God. And now he is talking about getting out of business and going into something else. And in his third year! And after taking a year off already,” Nabil grumbled. He still was angry about Asghar’s decision to travel and work for a year before entering university, believing it put his son “a year behind” everyone else.

  “Yes, he told me he was involved in some anti-war protests when I was over last time. And that he was thinking about not staying in business.”

  “He told you that? You knew about that and didn’t tell me?”

  “I figured you knew already,” Ismail lied.

  “Well I didn’t and he just went ahead and changed majors without discussing it with me first. I should cut off his tuition!”

  “Come on, Nabil, he’s a young man now. He has to follow his own direction in life. Think about how it was when we were young,” Ismail said, hoping to appease his brother. When Ismail and Nabil were in college, their father expected them to come work as managers in his packaging plant. The business had been passed down for three generations and made plastic and cardboard boxes (explaining the origin of their surname), bubble wrap, and tiffins. Nabil endured the greatest pressure, when, after business school, he chose to immigrate to Canada.

  “So, what does Asghar plan to study?” Ismail knew the answer already because he and Asghar had had a lengthy talk on the subject the last time they spoke.

  “Oh, he wants to go into the Faculty of Art or Social Sciences, some such thing, Political Science or something.”

  “Political Science is not so bad, is it? If that is what he most wants to do, Bhai, you have to let him, don’t you? Don’t you think it’s your duty to support his education?”

  “What a sham, Political Science. Not even a real science! Let him follow his interests as a hobby. Can he feed himself on his interests?”

  “Well, but that isn’t the point —” Ismail stammered, trying to think of something to help Asghar’s case, “Perhaps he’ll go into politics one day.”

  “What’s the point of that? Canada will never elect a South Asian Prime Minister … look, I have to go. I’ve just pulled into a client’s driveway. Let’s plan a date for dinner, okay? You’ll be coming over for the holidays, right?”

  “Yes, sure. I’ll call Nabila to arrange it.”

  “Great, got to go.”

  — 12 —

  Blue Hair

  It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve and about two dozen people were in the house, mostly Antonio’s family and her son, Filipe, in from Montreal. Celia tried to smile at the children, make small-talk with her in-laws, to match the gaiety in the room. When she could, she retreated to the kitchen, washed dishes, refreshed platters. It was her second Christmas without José and her mother, and it seemed she was the only one who noticed their absence. Last year the whole family mourned, the holiday low-key and half-hearted. Now, as she searched Filipe’s eyes and watched Lydia greet her guests, there wasn’t even a whisper of grief. From the kitchen, she heard the living room break into laughter over a shared joke she didn’t hear.

  — * —

  Ismail spent Christmas and Boxing Day with Nabil, Nabila, and their two boys, staying overnight in their newly redone guest suite. Furnished like a high-end hotel room, it had a sleigh bed with a mattress more comfortable than his own. The bathroom featured a soaker tub that Nabila said they’d never use, but would be a good investment if they ever sold the house. On his first evening there, he briefly contemplated his brother’s offer to move in, thinking the suite might be a welcome alternative to his lonely row house. However, after two days of the family’s minor squabbles, negotiations, and noise, he longed for his quiet downtown life again.

  He phoned Daphne twice during the holidays, and even bought her a fancy notebook as a Christmas pr
esent. He hoped she’d like it — it had plenty of room for her to jot down her thoughts and was full of quotations from famous women, like Gloria Steinem and Jennifer Aniston. Daphne didn’t return any of his calls, except once in mid-January to confirm that she was still planning to go to the creative writing class and would meet him there.

  So, on February ninth, at 7:00 p.m., Ismail walked into University College 122, where twenty skittish-looking people of various ages sat around a large U-shaped table. He scanned the room anxiously for the absent Daphne, and then found a pair of vacant seats for them. As the minutes passed, his heart sped up and the sweats started. Luckily, Ismail was always prepared for his perspiration, and carried two white cotton handkerchiefs, one in his front pocket and one in his back.

  While dabbing his forehead, he closed his eyes and tried to recall the mental “calm place” the therapist, from many years ago, had taught him to imagine. Away he went to a beach in Goa, sunning himself in the sand. For extra measure, he commenced his panic-attack breathing. This helped somewhat, so Ismail opened his eyes again and looked around. He saw that a woman with grey hair and a frilly blouse sat a few seats to his left, a notebook, a pencil, and a pen sitting neatly in front of her. Near the front of the room, a man and a woman, perhaps in their thirties, and presumably together, simultaneously opened up matching pea-green laptops. Ismail watched as the woman whispered something to the man, cupping her palm around his ear. He nodded and whispered something back.

  The classroom itself was somewhat calming, reminding him of the courses he’d taken over thirty years ago at a campus across the world, in a similar Victorian building. He looked at the high windows, admired the arcs of the vaulted ceiling. He imagined that the long mahogany tables, slightly worn and scratched, had been witness to hundreds of courses and thousands of students.