Six Metres of Pavement

by Farzana Doctor

  The magazine had all sorts of tips about how to make underground rooms cheery-looking. Apparently pale yellows were the best shades for dark, dingy spaces and pot lights a fine substitute for sunshine. She put aside the magazine and paced her bedroom-den restlessly, the four walls too close. She went out into the living room, hoping for the company of others, but remembered that everyone had already gone to their rooms. She heard faint murmurs of conversation and laughter upstairs, her daughter and son-in-law entertaining themselves on a Friday night.

  She switched on the television to drown out their happy noises. Eighty-three stations clicked past her, and still she found nothing good on at 10:07 p.m. Eventually, she paused at the Shopping Channel, and watched the hosts marvel about a mop that used steam instead of soap to clean floors. They demonstrated how the mop’s heating action could skate through grease and evaporate grime; a proposition she found reassuring. A one-eight-hundred number danced across the screen.

  The number flirted with her, urging her to dial, and when she finally did, she was connected to a salesman with a deep voice. She kept him on the line for a few minutes, asking inane questions, and offering him false hope for a sale to meet his quota. At one point during the conversation, she thought she heard an extension phone being picked up and then discreetly hung up again, her daughter policing her illicit, late-night shopping.

  When she’d run out of things to ask Mr. Deep Voice, and attempted to say goodbye, she thought she detected a whiny rise in his lovely baritone. He appealed to her with special offers of extra pads and deeper discounts that would only be valid for the next fifteen minutes. She hesitated, appreciating the desperation she heard in his voice. Or maybe it was his humanity; a real person reaching out to her on a lonely night. Nonetheless, she turned down his entreaties and felt guilty for leading him on like that.

  She glanced back at the television. One of the hosts seemed to be working herself up into a sales frenzy, when the other yelled, “Gosh Jeannie, I can’t believe it! We’ve sold one thousand mops this hour! The Wonder Mop did it again!” They cheered for their mop and Celia sighed and turned off the TV, a small clench of regret in her belly.

  When she looked out the living room window again, the streetscape had altered. Things had quieted somewhat at the party place, the music safely contained within its walls. Next door, Ismail’s front rooms were now lit. He’d come home at last.

  Celia looked long at Ismail’s closed drapes and remembered the starry night a few days back. Her lips blushed with the memory of his warm mouth on hers and that brought the rest of her into a flush, too. The downy hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood up in anticipation of something more. Her stomach did flip-flops, and her knees felt like buckling, even though she was sitting on the couch.

  Her wanting made her feel ridiculous. What was she doing? Why kiss a strange man, and then run back into the house? He probably thought she was crazy. A little widow gone batty in her loneliness. Was this kissing thing a symptom of the agonias, too — one that no one ever mentioned?

  And what could she really want from him, anyway? His company? She certainly didn’t want another husband, another man to look after. No, she was finished with that. So why think about him so much? She continued her internal interrogation for a few moments, her questions and answers snarling like a knotted ball of yarn. And then, a moment of clarity, an aha! that unravelled the tangle. Yes, that’s what I want. She nodded to no one. Another kiss. That’s all. Nothing less, nothing more.

  What would Ismail think about an unplanned visit at 10:42? She shrugged, decided not to care too much, for she knew analysis would only lead to hesitation and inaction. She slipped on her burgundy boots, crossed Lochrie Street and before she could raise her arm to ring the doorbell, he was there, waiting, opening his door wide to her.

  There was no conversation, no small talk, no unnecessary words. There was just an embrace, and one long kiss.

  A kiss that made heat travel up and down and through her body, like a joyful hot flash.

  A kiss that made lightning burst beneath tired eyelids, and thunder rumble through her limbs.

  A kiss that erased past and future, making nothing else but itself exist.

  That was the sort of kiss it was.

  — * —

  Ismail heard her soft footfalls on his wooden porch and went to meet her at the door. Perhaps he should have questioned her presence, but he didn’t. And he wasn’t surprised when she leaned into him, held his face, and pressed her lips onto his. She was like a hurricane, drawing him to its eye, and he yielded to its force. They travelled to a place where they could be completely alone, quiet and still, protected from the storm whirling around them.

  When she released him, he gasped for air.

  — * —

  It wasn’t until Celia finally pulled away, that she smelled it. A woman’s perfume, faint and faraway and unfamiliar. But there it was, nonetheless, a light spray on the speckled skin of his neck.

  That was when she realized that she did want something more.

  The thought made her afraid and so she turned away from him. She forced herself off his porch, down his steps and onto the sidewalk. She was crossing Lochrie when his voice stopped her. A human voice, filling the silent night.

  — * —

  “Wait,” Ismail called out, and she paused in the middle of the empty street. She kept her back turned to him and he feared the slightest misstep would start her walking again. “Come back, Celia.” Still, she didn’t move.

  “You can’t just come to the door and kiss me like that and then go away again. Come back,” he pleaded. And Ismail was telling the truth. He didn’t think he could bear for her to leave him right then. He’d never been kissed like that. Not by Daphne, or any of the Mary Pinters, and not even by Rehana. He couldn’t let her go away and leave him standing on the other side of her closed door. He couldn’t. She still faced away from him, but he could tell that her arms were crossed over her bosom.

  “I mean, this is the second time now. Don’t you think that we should have a chat? Have a regular interaction? Maybe go out on a date or something at least?” Ismail’s words felt too mundane for the magic that had just happened between them, but those ordinary words were all he had.

  A car approached, its headlights brightening the black tar. There wasn’t enough room to drive around her. She came up onto the sidewalk, faced Ismail. He didn’t dare step closer, lest she change her mind.

  “Please, come in and talk about it,” he begged. She stared down at the ground silently.

  A couple stepped out next door, lighting up cigarettes, a blast of loud music following them out onto the porch. They looked down at Celia, and then across the short railing at Ismail, and back at her again. They lingered, witnessing the standoff over puffs of cigarette smoke.

  “Please, Celia, why don’t you come in for a minute? Just one minute?” One of the smokers coughed, drawing attention to himself and Celia looked his way. Perhaps the audience made her self-conscious, and so she relented. Ismail held the screen door open, and she went inside.

  — * —

  She was back in his foyer, the door closing behind her. He beckoned her farther inside and so she took off her boots, placing them carefully on the mat by the door. She suddenly felt like a stranger to this man. He was all awkwardness, too, with his wringing of hands and offers of tea. They both seemed to need the formality and so she accepted, and waited in the living room for him to return with a tray of cups and biscuits. She examined the domesticity of the scene and blurted, “I’m not looking for another husband, you know.”

  “All right,” he said, holding out a cup for her. She didn’t take it, but he kept his hand outstretched, anyway.

  “I mean it. I had one husband all my life. I can’t have another now. Besides, it’s just not done. A widow is not supposed to remarry. We�
��re expected to marry just once in our lives.” She held up her index finger at him and didn’t know why she was telling him all this.

  “I’m sure I’d make a terrible husband, anyway. I’ve already been married once before, too. It didn’t turn out so well.” His self-deprecation made her smile. She reached for the cup and he sat down next to her.

  “Why, do you play cards?” It seemed to her like an important thing to ask.

  “Cards?” he asked, with raised eyebrows.

  “Gambling. Do you gamble?”

  “No.”

  “Do you drink?”

  “Sometimes … but I just meant —” He struggled to regain control of the conversation. “I have been on my own a long time. I wouldn’t know how to be a husband again.” She nodded. His answer didn’t surprise her.

  “Good, because … I won’t take care of you,” she said resolutely. “I’ve done enough of that in my life, too.”

  “Okay,” he said, and blew on his tea.

  “I mean it. I like you but I can tell you … you’ve got some problems. And I’m not going to get involved in them.” There was a long pause while they sipped the orange pekoe.

  — * —

  Her bluntness should have been intimidating to Ismail, but it wasn’t. Rather, he was glad to be talking, finally speaking about the strange chemistry that wafted like the sweetest incense between them. Even so, the evening had a kind of surreal feeling to it. He hadn’t counted on coming home from his date with Shakila to find Celia on his doorstep. To be kissed again. Not like that.

  “So Celia, what do you want, then? What are we doing here?” That wasn’t really what he meant to say. If he’d been more suave, he might have said that her kiss left him breathless, that he’d been waiting his entire life for a kiss like that. Celia searched his eyes and then placed her cup upon the table. Ismail did the same.

  “How am I supposed to know?” she said with a shrug and a smile. Then she drew closer to him, leaning in, her lips reaching for his.

  — * —

  This time, kissing Ismail sent Celia into a spin. She closed her eyes, and submitted to it. It was like riding the Tilt-a-Whirl with José at the Canadian National Exhibition. They used to go every year, buying tickets for a ride that would make her insides flutter and her head dizzy. Safe, but just a little dangerous, too.

  She opened her eyes, looked straight ahead at Ismail’s damp forehead and closed eyelids, at the bliss in his face. She leaned in closer, felt his grip tighten around her waist. She allowed her hands to roam, up and down his back, settling on his neck. She kissed him again and fragments of his question — what … are … we … doing … here? — grew wings and fluttered about them, transposing into nonsensical, dancing word fragments: ting … wha … do … we … are … Meanwhile, their bodies drew into one another, forming an unspoken, wordless, pact.

  — * —

  They remained on the couch for most of the night, necking the way Ismail imagined teenagers did in cars at lookout points. They never took off their clothes, kept their hands chastely above the waist, and barely spoke. One kiss breathed into another. When they finally broke their embrace, the sky had lightened and sleep had passed them by. Celia left Ismail with the rising of the sun.

  — 31 —

  Privacy

  After Celia left, Ismail fell into bed. When the telephone rang a few hours later, he opened his eyes to see that his clock radio was blinking 10:12. He hoped it was Celia calling and so he picked up on the third ring.

  “Ismail, it’s me, Shakila,” she said cheerily.

  “Oh. Hello … hi. It’s nice to hear from you.” Ismail coughed, trying to clear the sleep from his voice. Overheating in his bed, he pushed the covers off.

  “Did I wake you? You sound like you just got up.”

  “No, no. Well, yes actually. I had a late night,” he mumbled, and then guessed this sounded bad. After all, he’d just been out with her last night. “Uh, I ended up going to bed late. I … watched a movie.”

  “Oh yes? Which one?” Her tone was simply curious, but Ismail started to sweat as though in an interrogation. Lying never came easily to him.

  “Um, well, just something I caught on TV. Some made-for-TV thing. Not very good,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. He fanned himself with the covers. A sudden guilt washed over him, but its source felt murky. Was it that he was lying to Shakila? Two-timing her? Turning Celia into a bad movie? He decided he was likely guilty of it all.

  “Well, I just thought I’d call and confirm the place for Monday. Beijing House, did you say?”

  “Oh yes, yes. Beijing House. Yes. It’s on Gerrard, just a few doors east of Broadview … on the south side.”

  “Six-thirty good for you?”

  “Perfect,” he said, wiping his brow with his bed sheet. They said their goodbyes and he flopped down onto the mattress.

  — * —

  Celia didn’t go to bed at all. Her mind and body buzzed with an energy she hadn’t experienced in a long time, and she didn’t want to waste it by sleeping. She cooked up a feast of eggs, sausages, and corn muffins and waited for the family to stir. Marco stumbled down first, and greeted her with a sleepy hug. Celia held him tightly and breathed in the smell of discount brand shampoo. She sat him at the table and spooned scrambled eggs onto his plate. He told her that he’d dreamed of dinosaurs the night before, a topic that was his main interest during the daytime. Nearly all his pajamas, sheets, toys, and books had Tyrannosaurus rex or Brontosaurus motifs on them and now it seemed that his subconscious was being overpopulated by these creatures, too.

  Lydia and Antonio arrived half an hour later, making appreciative noises over her breakfast preparations. When they sat down at the table, their cordial behaviour told Celia they were readying themselves to make an announcement. Lydia was especially polite and Antonio only picked at his sausages, even though they were his favourite kind. Marco was sent off to watch cartoons.

  “Mãe, there’s something we wanted to talk to you about,” Lydia said carefully, while Antonio made geometric patterns in his scrambled eggs.

  “Yes?” Celia waited.

  “Well, here’s the thing. You know Antonio has been working on the basement, right?” Celia nodded. “Well, we sort of mentioned this idea before, but … we’d like to do it soon. Well, we’d like to convert your room back into a den, and make you a nice suite downstairs. You’d have your own bathroom, and more privacy — we wouldn’t even go down there, except to do laundry, and Antonio is going to build a wall so that the washer and dryer are in a separate area from your room and —” Lydia said, without taking a breath.

  “I understand,” said Celia, cutting in. “That will be fine.”

  “You don’t mind?” asked Antonio. “We don’t want you to feel, well, pushed aside, by this change. It’s just good to have … more space … for us all. My cousin recently built a suite for his mother-in-law and they say they all get along better.” His words sounded rehearsed to Celia.

  “Not that we aren’t getting along,” Lydia clarified. “It’s been good having you here. Really.” Lydia looked at Antonio, who nodded and murmured his agreement.

  “And it’s good for Marco to have you here. And you know we are trying for another baby, and it will be great to have you around to help out,” Lydia continued.

  “I don’t mind,” Celia lied, knowing that her honesty wouldn’t do much good, anyway. “No, you kids have been great. Very generous,” she said, perhaps a little tersely, her jaw tightening shut. Her true feelings skated across the bony ridges of her palate, bumped against her teeth, and bounced silently on her tongue: Ungrateful children! Putting me in the basement! She knew she was probably being unfair, but all the same, she didn’t like being assessed by how helpful she could be to her daughter. What’s next? Moving me to the shed out back?
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br />   “Good, well, I should have it all ready within a couple of weeks,” Antonio said, standing up from the table. Celia looked at his plate, the grease from the cooled sausages congealing yellow. She watched him leave the room without bothering to clear his plate, a habit she’d corrected out of her own son at a young age. Who did he think was going to pick up after him? She eyed Lydia disapprovingly, as though it were her fault. When he was out of earshot, Lydia pulled her chair closer.

  “I’m glad you are okay with this, Mãe. I think this will be better for all of us.”

  “Yes, it’s fine,” Celia repeated, helping herself to another corn muffin. She spread a generous layer of butter over it.

  “It’s good to see that your appetite is back these days. You seem much better lately. More content,” Lydia said, speculatively.

  “Yes, I do feel better these days,” she said, stuffing the muffin in her mouth. Her tongue pushed into the velvety butter, felt the coarseness of the cornmeal. The sensation reminded her of Ismail’s tongue and kisses that started at midnight and continued until sunrise. Celia felt her daughters’ eyes on her. “Mmmm, these muffins turned out good,” she said, helping herself to another.

  “So, what were you doing last night? I heard you talking to some man on the phone and then you went out. I stayed up until midnight waiting and then I guess I fell asleep.”

  “Oh, I just went out for a breath of fresh air. And the man was a salesman at a shopping channel. I nearly got sucked in to buying a new mop they were selling.” Celia rolled her eyes in mock dismay. Then, regarding her daughter’s suspicious expression, she added, “You know, the mop that uses steam instead of detergent?”