Six Metres of Pavement

by Farzana Doctor

  She sat by the living-room window, gazing out into the night. A dog-walker passed, a slight woman being dragged along the sidewalk by a beefy German shepherd. Then two teenaged boys rushed by, a snowball fight in progress. They ran in fits and starts, stopping to form more snowballs and then launching them with laughter and threats they didn’t mean. Later, a pick-up truck full of old appliances drove past, looking for treasures on recycling night. The street went silent again for a few minutes. She was about to head to bed when another vehicle approached, its headlights illuminating the dark sidewalk. She looked more closely and recognized Ismail’s car, passing slowly. She checked her watch.

  She searched the night sky. So many stars out. She put her coat over her shoulders, and went outside in her felted house slippers. The nights were still cold, and wind nipped at her heels, but she stood on the porch and waited.

  — * —

  That late in the evening, Ismail couldn’t find a parking spot in front of his house. He drove around the block and finally found space one street north. He locked the car and walked south to Lochrie. When he turned the corner, he saw Celia on her porch, gazing skyward. He approached her house.

  “A very clear night. Lots of stars,” she called out.

  “Oh yes,” he said awkwardly, and tilted his head up to see, “there are.”

  “Look, there’s Orion,” she said, taking a step toward him, off her porch, and onto the path that led to the sidewalk.

  “It is bright tonight. Orion is more clear than usual.”

  “Yes. I love a starry night,” she said, walking a few more steps closer to him, her eyes fixed on his. He looked away, her gaze too intense.

  “And look over there.” He pointed. “What’s that one over there called? The one shaped like a ‘W’?”

  “Cassiopeia,” she said. A couple more paces, and she was right in front of him.

  “That’s right. I always forget the name of it.” His gaze dropped from the stars above down to the flowers in her eyes.

  And that’s when she rose onto her toes and kissed him.

  — * —

  His lips were smoother that she expected a man’s to be, but never mind, they were warm. She imagined herself a ballerina, balancing perfectly on the tips of her toes, her face tilted to meet his. It was just a short kiss, a peck, really, his lips suspending her in the air for just a moment. Heat tickled her head, rushed down her spine, and brought life to cold feet. The kiss thawed the frozen night.

  She opened her eyes, saw raised eyebrows stretching his face long. But then he smiled. And so did she.

  Celia wasn’t sure what to do next. Everything that had come before — the wandering onto the porch, the astronomy, the reaching up for him — all seemed simple, automatic, as though she were a marionette being directed by someone else’s hand. And then suddenly, the strings were cut, and she was dropped back to the ground. So, she said good night, uncertain but giddy. He looked back at her, wide-eyed. She turned away, skipped up her walk, and shut the door the behind her.

  Oh! It had been a long time since she’d kissed a man. And it had been ages since her very first kiss with José, the act that started a whirlwind courtship she never thought to stop. They’d met at a dance, were necking that same evening, and even more the next night. Celia followed the heat of her youthful passion and the urgings of a boy hopped up on hormones.

  This thing that was happening with Ismail was different. She didn’t know what to call it. Not passion, exactly, but nice.

  — * —

  Ismail ambled up the steps to his porch, managed to slip the key into the lock and absent-mindedly dropped his coat onto the foyer floor. All of him was numb, except for his tingling lips, lips that no longer felt attached to his face. He replayed the moments before her kiss over and over in his mind: the scent of her fruity shampoo lingering in her red hair, her pink, bare feet in her bedroom slippers, the way she had said “Cassiopeia.”

  Cassiopeia, Cassiopeia, Cassiopeia, Cassiopeia, Cassiopeia, Cassiopeia.

  He sat on the living-room couch, then stood up, walked into the kitchen, and then back to the living room. He peeked out the window at her lit-up house, then sat down again. He turned off the lights, climbed the stairs, and looked out from his bedroom window, nervous energy prickling through him, a light cool sweat under his armpits. This perspiration was different from the liquid heat of his anxiety. Celia’s kiss had caused him to be cool and damp and light in his limbs.

  He had an urge to talk to someone, to chatter like a teenager with a cellphone on public transit. He’d start with the minutiae of his day and end with the grand finale of being kissed by a woman he barely knew. Names of confidants ran through his mind: Nabil? No, he would just tell him to smarten up and call Shakila. Ismail knew that Fatima would love to hear his news, but they weren’t exactly peers. He also wasn’t sure what to say about the writing she’d given him.

  He dialed Daphne’s number, let it ring twice and hung up, still angry with her for dropping him at the beginning of the class; he didn’t want to pollute his good feelings. Then, James’s voice came to him. He went into the spare room, turned on his computer, and watched the black screen chug to life. What was happening inside his mind felt too urgent and quick for his aging computer, which was still warming up. Instead, he scrambled to find a piece of paper and a pen. In messy handwriting, out came the flurry of words:

  The widow kissed me! This woman who has been a regular presence in my life, appeared like magic and then disappeared once again. I haven’t allowed her dowdy, polyester camouflage to fool me, oh no. I’ve perhaps always known there was someone different lurking underneath, a woman who is direct, to the point. No beating around the bush. No room for my clumsy hesitations. I suppose she wanted a kiss and so she kissed me. Simple.

  Was it fate or something more mundane like proximity, the fact that we are neighbours, and if we left our drapes wide open, we could see right into one another’s lives? But there was romance, too, from that lady in bedroom slippers. She spoke of pinpricks of light shining through the dark night sky. Never before have the constellations been so interesting or beautiful to me. And then, in one quick movement, that starry night became a mere backdrop to the firecrackers that exploded inside of me when she kissed me.

  She kissed me. It was short, yes, just enough to leave me questioning if it happened. It was the kind of kiss that happens in the best and worst Bollywood films. The sort of kiss that at once satiates a longing never before acknowledged while leaving behind a desire that simmers long after.

  Then, she pulled away, took hold of my hands, and left me there with the clear night sky, in a fit of delirium, the empty street my only company. I almost believed it to be mere fantasy until I came inside, glimpsed myself in the hallway mirror and saw the evidence: a ruby red smudge on the corner of my mouth. I’ll never wipe it away.

  — 30 —

  No Unnecessary Words

  The next morning, Ismail awoke to the telephone’s ring. It was 8:00 a.m., and he’d already slept through a full hour of the radio broadcasting Metro Morning. He reached for the phone on his nightstand.

  “Hi, Ismail.” Although she’d quit smoking a couple of years ago, she still had that husky, unmistakable, nicotine-tinged voice.

  “Daphne?” Ismail sat up in bed, rubbed his face awake, switched off the radio.

  “Hi. I saw from the call display that you phoned last night. You didn’t leave a message, which isn’t like you, so I wondered if everything was all right …” Ismail remembered that Daphne preferred to screen her calls. Very likely, he’d been screened out the night before. Still, she was calling back, and he supposed that was good of her.

  “Yes, things are fine … I just called to say hello. It was nothing important. I didn’t mean to concern you.”

  “Okay … well, that’s good. We should get togethe
r some time. Catch up.”

  “Sure, that would be nice, Daphne. I’m available tomorrow, or Thursday or Friday this week,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.

  “Um, I’ll have to check my schedule … I’ll email you and we can set it up.”

  “Oh … sounds good,” he replied, sensing she wouldn’t. Perhaps it was better that she didn’t agree to meet him, only to cancel later.

  “Okay.”

  “All right.”

  “Yeah, good.”

  “Well, thanks for calling, Daphne. I’m running a little late this morning, so I’d better go. Bye.” Before Daphne could say goodbye, he pressed the “end” button on the phone’s keypad, and let her go.

  Later that day, after two reminders (an email from Nabil’s BlackBerry and a text message from Nabila), Ismail succumbed to their pressure to telephone Shakila. And what harm could there be in one dinner with the woman? he thought. Luckily, she wasn’t home when he phoned, and then she returned his call when he was out, so the whole awkward business of arranging the date was completed by voice mail. Ismail wasn’t sure what kind of cuisines she ate, other than Indian food, so he suggested meeting on Friday at Siddhartha, one of the few Little India restaurants which he knew had tablecloths and a clean washroom in the basement. It was common ground, halfway between each of their west-end and east-end homes.

  —

  Two days later, Ismail dressed and set off for the restaurant. He arrived fifteen minutes early and considered ordering a beer to calm his nerves. While he waited for the server to come and take his order, he calculated that it had been almost two weeks since he had last allowed himself to drink to the point of intoxication, right after the debacle at Fatima’s parents’ house. He re-committed to avoiding further involvement in Fatima’s complicated family situation and ordered a Kingfisher.

  He finished the beer while waiting for Shakila. He checked his watch, saw that she was already ten minutes late, and entertained worries of being stood up. He was about to order another beer when Shakila finally entered the restaurant, almost fifteen minutes late.

  “Ismail, sorry I’m a few minutes late. The traffic was really terrible. An accident blocked traffic all the way up Coxwell.” Ismail stood and they shook hands. His palms were already damp, and so he kept the handshake brief so she wouldn’t notice. He watched her carefully drape her red parka around her chair before she sat down. As she unravelled her silk scarf, perfume wafted his way.

  “Your perfume is very nice.” It was the only thing he could think to say.

  “I hope it’s not too overpowering? I didn’t put too much on?” she asked, her hands tightening around her scarf.

  “No, no, very nice. Noticeable, but not overpowering in the least. Just the right amount,” Ismail fibbed.

  “You know I can’t stand it when women overdo it. Sometimes you walk into a room and waah! It’s like you can’t even breathe!” she exclaimed, her fingers floating up to her mouth.

  “Yes, men can also be the culprits with their aftershave,” he added, wanting to seem balanced about the issue. “At work, we have a policy against wearing any cologne or perfume. Too many people are allergic these days.”

  “Yes, we do, too. So I don’t wear perfume to work,” she said and he wondered how long they could discuss scents before the line of conversation would exhaust itself. The waiter arrived to take her drink order and scooped up Ismail’s empty Kingfisher bottle.

  “I’ll have a mango lassi,” she said, her eyes following the empty bottle up to the waiter’s tray.

  “Another Kingfisher for you, sir?”

  “Yes,” Ismail said, and then noticed Shakila’s terse smile. “Uh, wait, I’ll have a mango lassi, too,” he said, observing Shakila’s shoulders relax. He supposed that Shakila didn’t approve of drinking or perhaps abided by religious prohibitions against alcohol.

  Just like at their previous meeting, Shakila proved to be a pleasant companion. She told interesting stories, had articulate opinions about current affairs (Barack Obama’s presidency, Fidel’s ailing health, the City budget), and was an attentive listener to his stories (students in his writing class, the state of the City’s bridges). Ismail learned that she liked Chinese and Italian food. She neither drank nor smoked and attended the mosque on special holidays.

  As they stood side by side at the buffet, they briefly brushed up against each other and he liked the padded feel of her hips where they met his thigh. Before they sat down, she passed him a fork and knife, and he made a corny joke about her surname (“A true culterywala, then, hehe”), and she laughed and he blushed. Ismail willed himself to be calm, and hoped he wasn’t perspiring too much. After dinner, they ambled around Little India, bought chocolate burfi, and looked at saris in shop windows. When he walked her to her red Saturn, she hugged him goodbye and kissed him on the cheek.

  “There is a good Chinese restaurant not too far from here that you might like, in the east-end Chinatown,” he ventured, as he pretended to inspect the hood of her car, “I’ve been there once with my friend Daphne. Um, it’s called Beijing House. Would you like to go there with me … maybe on Monday night?” Ismail hoped he wasn’t being too forward, suggesting another date in just three days, but he didn’t want to wait a week. Although he couldn’t explain the urgency, he felt that if the relationship with Shakila was going to work out, he needed to know as soon as possible. He would have suggested the weekend, but she’d already told him she was going to be busy looking after her niece and nephew.

  “That would be nice. I’m free after six,” she said, and walked around to the driver’s side. “Let’s call each other tomorrow or Sunday so I can get the address.”

  Ismail smiled broadly, nodding like a simpleton. It has been much too long since he’d been on a real date with a lady and he was thrilled to have a phone call and a second date to look forward to.

  As he leisurely drove west along Danforth Avenue, he evaluated the dinner, concluding that it had been a success. Perhaps I’m not such a washout with the ladies. Just a few days earlier, Celia had kissed him out of the blue, and now Shakila had agreed to see him again. Two ladies in four days! After so many years of loneliness, he felt his luck might be changing. His self-satisfied grin accompanied him, all the way past Pape.

  When Ismail approached Broadview Avenue, his thoughts turned to Fatima, that house with the falling-down door and untidy yard. He considered her situation and this dampened his elation. He weighed her parents’ faulty reactions to her gayness against his own liberal beliefs and wondered: what if Zubi had turned out to be a gay rebel? Would he bluster like Hassan or pressure like Shelina? He wanted to believe that he’d be a different sort of father, one who would listen, negotiate. Surely he wouldn’t threaten to abandon his child if she didn’t conform to his values? But he wasn’t so sure.

  Ismail crossed the Don Valley, driving over the bridge with its complex netting that was supposed to stop the city’s most desperate and alone from jumping. He contemplated Fatima’s written gift to him, and the way she’d glanced something within him he’d barely recognized himself. When the traffic light changed from amber to red at the next intersection, Ismail found himself unbuttoning his jacket and top shirt buttons to finger the web of tight skin crisscrossing his sternum. He felt for the injury, long ago suffered and never forgotten. Perhaps the girl is right.

  He passed the ROM, then Christie Pits, and turned south on Ossington Avenue. The roads were clear and he got home quickly. For the first time in a very long time, Ismail Boxwala felt like a lucky man.

  — * —

  Earlier that evening, Celia gazed through the dirty glass of her bedroom-den window, spying on Ismail’s house. It looked abandoned, with all of its lamps extinguished and the day’s post lingering in the mailbox. The neighbouring houses contrasted his, surrounding it in a carnival of light and sound. On the left, a part
y was in progress, laughter and music leaking out with each arrival. On the right, silhouettes moved behind gauzy curtains while a television flickered blue, an electronic hearth.

  Celia couldn’t help but ponder the dark house’s occupant. Until a short time ago, Ismail’s presence had been predictable; she could tell that he spent many of his after-work hours and weekends at home, and probably alone. The recent change in his schedule troubled her. Could it be those girls keeping him out late again? She hoped that if he was spending time with them it was with the one with the baggy pants and family problems, and not with the girl in the short red dress who’d stumbled out of his house before her. Since that morning, she’d been mulling over that red dress: What sort of grown man goes out with girls so young?

  She contemplated all the places a man could go on a Friday night. Perhaps Ismail was at a café or bar — José certainly liked to spend evenings at the Delta doing whatever it was that men did there all night long. He’d roll into bed with the stench of beer and cigarettes on his skin and she’d scootch over to avoid being pawed by a drunkard. José went to other places, too, places she knew nothing about until after his death, where he played cards until dawn. She never asked what kind of cards he played there, didn’t know what to ask. Maybe Ismail was mixed up in the same kinds of things, Celia wagered. Men. They’re all the same. Only interested in girls, and drinking and getting into trouble. And then the criticism turned inwards: Ya! So pretty dumb to kiss him, then, eh? She took a deep breath to slow her thoughts. But maybe he’s different?

  At the house to Ismail’s right, the television switched off, startling her from her thoughts. She watched the party house a while longer, and then turned away from her window. She picked up one of Lydia’s home decor magazines. Lydia had perused it earlier, bending back pages she wanted Celia to look at, articles about finished basements. She told Celia she wanted her opinion about what colour to paint the downstairs walls and although no one was saying it directly, Celia understood that they were preparing to move her into a subterranean mother-in-law suite very soon. Antonio had already started hanging drywall and she’d overheard him say that one of his buddies was going to come next week to install plumbing.