Six Metres of Pavement

by Farzana Doctor

  After the dessert dishes and teacups were cleared away, Shakila gracefully thanked her hosts, shook Ismail’s hand, and took her leave. Nabila walked her out to the driveway and Nabil checked his cellphone for messages. Ismail carried the dessert plates to the kitchen, and began rinsing them. In a few minutes, Nabila joined him.

  “So, Ismail, what do you think? She’s a very nice person. I could tell you liked her,” Nabila said, while he helped load the dishwasher. Both Nabil and Nabila had a habit of asking a question and then offering their response before receiving an answer.

  “You want her number? I think you should call her. Maybe follow up in a day or two. Don’t call tonight, or even tomorrow. But don’t wait too long to call, either,” Nabil advised from across the kitchen, working a toothpick through his lower front teeth.

  “I don’t know. She does seem nice, but you know how these things have worked out in the past. I’m not sure I want a repeat of what happened with Maimoona, or what was that other one’s name? Ameena?”

  “Ameera. Ameera Millwala. She was a gossip, wasn’t she? We shouldn’t have bothered with her. And you know, she’s still unmarried,” Nabila said smugly, shutting the dishwasher and turning it on.

  “Not surprising, really. She’s very negative,” Nabil mumbled, guiding the toothpick to his back molars.

  “But that was a long time back, Ismail. Remember? The boys were still very young at the time and you’d only been divorced a few years. The gossip is old news now,” she pronounced, transferring the remaining kofta into a plastic container for him to take home. He considered her words. Yes, time had passed, and things were different for him. But what about the community? He thought about Fatima’s parents, Hassan and Shelina. He almost offered their example in rebuttal, but decided against it, not wanting to reopen the discussion with Nabil.

  “I agree with Nabila. And Shakila is different. She has class,” Nabil proclaimed, tossing his toothpick into the garbage bin.

  “Yes, she is a mature, down-to-earth person. And … I think she likes you,” Nabila said, grinning at Ismail.

  “You think so? Did she say something about me when you were outside?” The creamy kofta churned in the pit of his stomach.

  “Well, she did say she had a good time and would like to do it again,” Nabila said, smiling coyly.

  “But that doesn’t mean she likes me. And anyway, once she picks up the phone to tell one of her friends about meeting me, you know it will all be over before it starts.”

  “Not necessarily. Nabila is right. Time has passed,” Nabil said, picking up a pen. “Nabila, where is Shakila’s number?”

  “In my cell. Just scroll through my address book for me?” She said, spraying an anti-bacterial solution over the countertop and wiping it down with a cloth.

  “Her last name is Baker?”

  “No, she went back to her maiden name, Cutlerywala.”

  “Here it is ‘Shakila Cutlerywala.’” He wrote the number down on a piece of paper and handed it to Ismail. He took the scrap and shoved it deep into his pocket.

  The pleasantness of the evening left Ismail warming to the idea of a proper date with an intelligent woman. Before leaving their place, Nabila made him promise he would call Shakila, and in that moment it seemed like a good idea to him. But as he drove home along the highway, his doubts resurfaced.

  By the time he reached Lochrie, there weren’t any parking spots, so he circled the block twice before he found one. At each pass, he found himself slowing to look into Celia’s lit window. He ambled up his walk, hesitating on his porch. Before he went in, he glanced over his shoulder at Celia’s closed door.

  — 29 —

  Show Don’t Tell

  Although ambivalent about encountering Fatima again, Ismail did go to the next writing class. She left a message after he hung up on her and his call display indicated that she’d phoned twice more over the week. When he saw her enter the classroom, tardy as usual, he was filled with dread. At the same time, he hoped she’d choose her usual seat, next to his. He was unsure what to do with all the push-pull she elicited in him.

  He watched her lug her bulging backpack all the way around the room. She landed heavily in the chair beside his, unzipped her coat and pulled a notebook from her bag without glancing his way. Ismail pretended to listen to James’s lecture while discreetly sneaking looks at her, regarding her heavy bag and its weighty reality. Her skin seemed pale, her posture slack with fatigue. Eventually, she turned to him and whispered, “I called you a few times.”

  “Yes. I’ve been busy,” he replied curtly, his gaze on James, who was detailing the differences between exposition and description. Show, don’t tell, Ismail scribbled into his notebook.

  “Have you been … okay?” He turned towards her and saw that her eyes were wide, her brows furrowed. He relaxed his jaw, allowed his shoulders to fall away from his ears.

  “Um, yes, I’m all right. Sorry I didn’t call you back. Let’s talk later. James is speaking.” She moved away, sighing loudly, slumping down in her chair. Ismail hardly heard James for the rest of the class. Instead, he was distracted by Fatima’s breathing, the click-click-click of her pen, and the squeak of her chair as she fidgeted in her seat. After James finished, three students were called up to read their writing. Ismail forced himself to concentrate on them, and pushed Fatima’s noisy presence to the background.

  At the break, Fatima leaned over, brushing soft fingers against his forearm. “Want to come out with me while I smoke?” Ismail nodded and silently followed her out the door. Worry pooled acidic in his stomach; he was aware that everything had changed between he and Fatima since the last time they’d spoken at the university, the night she told him her troubles. In just two weeks, he’d met her friends, partied the night away with them, permitted she and Sonia to stay in his home, met her parents. And now, she knew something about his life, too. He buttoned his jacket, protection from her and the cold.

  Ismail watched a large snowflake land, its intricate pattern vanishing into the outer layer of his coat. They stepped into a little alcove to stay dry. The gothic-style lampposts gave off only a half-hearted glow, and as they stood together, just a few inches apart, he was once again reminded of the strange intimacy between them.

  Fatima struck a match, casting an orange blush over her chin and lips. “I’ve gotta quit — I can’t really afford it anymore,” she said, lighting her cigarette and waving away the smoke, and perhaps also her words. He nodded in agreement, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to speak to her, so he stared out at the falling snow.

  She inhaled deeply, and reflexively, so did he. They exhaled in tandem, Ismail letting go of clouds of vapour much like her puffs of smoke.

  “So, are you okay?” she asked again, taking another drag of her cigarette.

  “Yes,” he replied, too quickly, “I don’t like this weather though.” He fidgeted with his gloves, stretching the soft leather over his fingers. “It’s still so cold.”

  “I mean about the article,” she said, impatient. She took two short drags on her cigarette. “About your daughter, Ismail. The article I found on the Internet. I worried about you after you hung up on me.” He contemplated Fatima’s frowning expression. He found it strange that a girl with so many troubles of her own would show such concern for his.

  “Yes. I’m fine … I didn’t mean to worry you. It was difficult for me, at first, to read that article. It came as a surprise — I hadn’t seen it before. But … now I am better.” Ismail remembered how Celia had found him on his kitchen floor, and stayed there until he’d recovered. He recalled her soft hands, their embrace, and her small smile on Good Friday.

  “Well, I’m glad. I didn’t really know what to think, you know? It was a shock to read the article, but —”

  “— You probably think I am a terrible person. Most people do afte
r they hear about what happened,” Ismail said, interrupting her, wanting to finish her sentence before she could.

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean, it was really shocking to read. But, I mostly felt bad for you. All this time I’ve been so focused on myself, and never really stopped to think about what your life might be like. You know, the problems you might have. And then I thought about how she and I would have been about the same age.” A waft of cigarette smoke blew into his face and stung his eyes.

  “She would have been only a year older than you.”

  “I’m really sorry, Ismail,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, and his shoulders tensed once again. Although criticisms were hard to hear, sympathy was somehow even more difficult; hatred could elicit his anger, at least, but kindness only left him sad.

  “It must have been really hard to … lose your baby.” She exhaled, and allowed her cigarette to fall to the ground. Ismail watched as she squashed it with her boot, the nicotine staining the snow a yellow-brown. Ochre, he thought, is that what ochre looks like? No, that’s closer to mustard. He knew she was still speaking, but couldn’t be sure how many of her words he missed.

  “That’s gotta be the worst thing a parent can ever experience. To lose a child like that …”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured, and watched the snow fall.

  “… of course, my own parents are of a different breed. They don’t seem to mind losing me. They were only too quick to throw me away,” she muttered, jamming her fingers into her pockets. She paused and he collected his thoughts, relieved that she was no longer talking about him.

  “Yes, well … they’re making a terrible mistake. They are losing a lot. I can tell you that … that their lives won’t be as full without you in it,” he said quietly, watching Fatima’s face soften, her chin tremble. He realized sympathy was having the same impact on her, so he changed his approach. “But, don’t worry, Fatima. Your situation might not be permanent. They could still come around. After some time you could work all this out with them.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Though it doesn’t feel like that. You know, I called them this past week, hoping that they’d have calmed down a little. My father picked up even though I called when I thought he’d be out. I wanted to speak to my mom, but he … hung up on me,” she sniffed, and Ismail looked down at her and saw that her face was streaked with tears. He passed her a handkerchief, the gesture reminding him of Celia, in his kitchen, the previous week. Fatima accepted it, dried her face, her eyeliner rubbing off onto the white cotton. He gazed out into the wintry night, the abandoned soccer field and at the glow of lights at the intersection, considering the neglectfulness of parents and the vulnerability of children.

  The snow was falling more heavily then, obscuring the night. Fatima and Ismail stood there, side by side in the gloom of the alcove, and anyone passing by might have thought they resembled confidants, friends, or perhaps father and daughter.

  “You will be all right, Fatima, whatever happens with them. You will manage.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly, feeling her thin frame through her coat. Protectiveness welled up inside him. “You will manage,” he repeated. And then he said these words inside his head: We will manage.

  She nodded and they returned to the classroom.

  Two more students were called upon to read their work aloud during the second half of class. He still hadn’t written anything much himself, and feared he might not be able to squeak by undetected through to the following week, the eighth and final class.

  An hour later, as he was rushing to put away his notebook, he saw James approach. “Oh good, you’re still here Ismail, I’ve noticed that you haven’t signed up to share your writing with the class. I think you might have been away when we did the sign-up during the second week of class.”

  “Yes, I was away,” Ismail agreed, sheepishly. He knew the sheet had been passed around on week two, but hadn’t exactly been proactive in signing up. “But listen, James, do I really have do it? I’ve been enjoying the class, but I’m not a very good writer myself.”

  “It wouldn’t be fair to the others. Remember the class guidelines we set up early on? Everyone has to share something.” Ismail nodded and James continued, “There’s still a spot available next week, our last class. Why don’t you share something short? And remember, it doesn’t have to be great, it just has to be an attempt.” Ismail regarded James’s earnest expression.

  “Really, next week is the last class already?” Ismail asked, trying to look innocent.

  “So you’ll bring something for next week, then?”

  “Yes.” Ismail agreed. James smiled and returned to the front of the classroom.

  “Thought you’d get away with not having to write anything in a writing class, didn’t you?” Fatima said, smirking.

  “I suppose. I really don’t want to get up in front of everyone …”

  “It’s not as terrible as you think it will be. A little nerve-wracking, but that’s all,” she advised.

  “I wish I’d written something weeks ago. I don’t have a clue what to write about now.”

  “Everyone always says to start with something you know.”

  “I’ll bore everyone to tears.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I think there is a lot about you that’s interesting,” she said, regarding him with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “Hmmph,” he muttered, putting on his jacket.

  “Ismail? Listen … here’s something I’ve been meaning to give you. I wrote it in class a few weeks ago — do you remember when we had to do a sketch of a character’s deepest desires? You know, that week when the furnace overheated?” He nodded and recognized the folded square of paper she held tightly in her hand.

  “This is what I wrote. I reworked it this past week,” she said shyly. “You can have it, but look at it later. Not now. Okay?” She held the paper out to him, and he reached for it, understanding it was a gift being offered. He watched her pack up her bag, heft it onto her back, and hurry from the room. He slipped her writing into his breast pocket.

  While he waited for his car to warm up, he unfolded Fatima’s page:

  His deepest desire is covered over by an ancient scar, thick now with years of layered, intricate webbing, evidence of something hidden. The scar sits over his sternum, the years-old skin reaching out a few centimetres in all directions like a spider’s web, and then, suddenly coming to a full stop. The whole mess of it lies hidden beneath a navy blue or black or grey bureaucratic jacket, then a buttoned to-the-neck dress shirt. A stylish tie — perhaps with thin stripes, or a swirly pattern, maybe one he carefully chose during a Boxing Day sale — cinches his collar, further preventing anyone from glimpsing his injury. But then, it was hot today, and he had to unbutton, didn’t he?

  I imagine that sometimes, when he is alone, maybe after stepping out of the shower, his skin still damp, he glances at himself in the steamy bathroom mirror, and spies the pink smudge on his chest. It’s a vulnerable, shiny patch that refuses to blend in, refuses to be invisible. He might rub the spot, sensing its bumpy ridges, its waxy edges, wanting to smooth it down with his thumb. The scar may grow warm under his touch, friction bringing to life something usually ignored, something he’d rather forget. Eventually, the mirror will de-fog and his reflection will come into perfect focus and he’ll look away. He will try to forget the wound. Again.

  But trying to forget keeps him from what he wants most. His deepest desire, the one he doesn’t even know he has, the one he has made himself stop wanting for far too long now, lies beneath that scar, way under the tender skin, and just below whatever hurt that caused it in the first place. What he longs for most is to be able to love again.

  Ismail read the passage all the way through, and then read it once more. He folded the sheet back into its quarters, the memory of its creases still fresh. He placed it in
the glove compartment, on top of a Perly’s guide and beside a tiny yellow barrette. He looked into the rearview mirror at the empty back seat, and then drove home.

  — * —

  At Celia’s, the house was quiet, except for the murmuring of the television upstairs in her daughter’s room. These days, Antonio and Lydia had taken to watching their favourite evening programs — like Law and Order and CSI — in their bedroom after Marco was in bed. Maybe they could do without Celia sitting with them, complaining about all the violence on television, suggesting they switch to her shows — So You Think You Can Dance? or Canadian Idol. Now, those were good programs to watch before going to sleep.

  Perhaps Antonio and Lydia just wanted some privacy and Celia couldn’t find fault with that. It had been a year and a half since Celia had moved into Lochrie Street, and rarely had they been alone, just the two of them. Celia hardly ever went out at night and most evenings, after Marco’s bedtime, Antonio and Celia bookended Lydia on the chesterfield, the three of them with their eyes locked on the television.

  Celia heard laughter now from upstairs. Lately, Lydia had been making some vague comments about trying for another baby, so maybe they weren’t even watching the television, Celia mused. She agreed that Marco needed a brother or sister, someone to play with, someone with whom to grow old.

  After a time, both the television and the laughter went quiet. She listened to the stillness of the house, welcoming it. She’d lived with the noise of others all her life, going from her parents’ home, to José’s, and now to Lydia’s. What would be next? Ping-ponging between her older brother in Vancouver and her son in Montreal when Lydia got tired of her? She always imagined that living alone would be a terribly lonely existence. Now, she questioned if that was true.