— 33 —
Ismail and Celia
They returned to the same couch where they’d spent the previous Friday night, taking familiar positions, only this time Celia sat a few inches farther away from him, her body holding itself straighter and taller than before. Ismail inhaled a big breath, coming clean in one long sentence, his words unravelling his story and his panic. He explained about his brother’s matchmaking right before their first kiss, described the two dinner dates, and confessed that she had been all he could think about for days.
Telling her everything was easier than he’d imagined. Perhaps it was Celia’s forthright questioning (“So, you want me or you want her?”). Maybe it was that they’d maintained few pretenses in their strangely developing relationship. After all, she’d seen him collapsed on the floor, crying over newspaper clippings. She’d kissed him in the street without warning. They’d both spied on one another for months.
While they talked, he watched her anger wash down and out of her, dissolving her cold stare, relaxing her jaw, and softening her shoulders. She let it happen, for she wasn’t interested in staying mad. But still, she held on to a smidgeon of caution, for there was still something important she needed him to do.
“And what about her?” she asked.
He checked his watch. It was a few minutes before ten o’clock and he felt as though a deadline was about to pass. He excused himself, took the telephone into the kitchen and scrolled through the phone’s call display to find Shakila’s number. While his heart thudded heavily in his chest, he made his second confession of the day.
“It’s been lovely meeting you … but I’m afraid that I just don’t see us together in a long-term way … I’m sorry … if I led you on.”
“I suppose I’m not surprised. I wasn’t sure if there was, you know, that spark thing, between us.” Ismail thought she sounded disappointed.
“You’re a very nice person — I’m sure the right person is out there. It’s just … not me,” he reassured.
“You, too. Well, no hard feelings.”
“Yes … and thanks. Well …”
“Good night,” she said.
“Good night.” What had seemed so very complex and to Ismail just a few hours before had turned out to be a rather simple undertaking. He hung up the phone, and returned to the living room.
“So I called Shakila and broke it off,” he said to Celia, wringing his hands.
“Yes, I heard. How did it go?”
“Just fine. Not as awkward as I imagined.” He sat down beside her. “I should have done it earlier, though.”
“I’ve never been in that situation. Breaking up with someone.”
“Me, neither. I’ve always been on the receiving end of these things.” They both looked into their laps. Finally, she broke the silence.
“I have to tell you, I have no idea how to do this,” she blurted. “The last time I dated anyone it was over thirty years ago. José was my first and only boyfriend. I was just out of high school when we married. I think you are much more experienced at this than me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I haven’t had a truly serious relationship since my ex-wife Rehana. And that was a long time ago.” Although she knew he wasn’t exactly lying, she could tell this wasn’t the whole truth.
“But you’ve been out with women?”
“Yes, a few,” he said, looking off into space, and she wondered who he was thinking about just then. She waited for him to continue, unsure of how much she really wanted to know.
“Yes,” he said, crossing his left leg over his right, his eyes meeting hers and then darting away again. They waited for the silence to pass. And then he said, “But you know, dating experience doesn’t mean much. I don’t have any special wisdom. I’m probably pretty terrible at it, and to tell you the truth, I feel very clumsy.” Celia looked at Ismail’s graceful hands, admiring his short, neatly trimmed fingernails.
“But you — you’re not clumsy at all,” he continued. “You have been the one to take all the initiative. This,” he said, gesturing to the space between them, “wouldn’t have ever happened if it hadn’t been for your …” he paused, appearing suddenly stumped.
“… my what?”
“I don’t know. Your initiative … your gumption. Your … magic.”
“Ah yes,” she laughed, “my magic. Wouldn’t that be something if I had magical powers … I would have my old house back. I could have saved my husband. Maybe my mother, too. I wouldn’t be living in my daughter’s house.”
A look of sadness cast over Celia’s face then, her pink cheeks growing pale. He wasn’t sure how to interpret her expression. Did she really want her old life back? Did she want José back, too? He wouldn’t have blamed her if she did; if he could have gone back to the morning before Zubi’s death, he would have flown there in a heartbeat. Every day, he wished for Zubi to be alive again, for his mistake to reverse itself. And on some days, he even wanted Rehana, too. He fantasized about how things might be in this second-chance reality. By then, Zubi would be in university, perhaps still at home, or insisting on moving out on her own. Rehana and he might have entered a new stage of life together, satisfied that they’d raised their daughter well and planning their retirement in ten years.
He found it funny that he could think all this while in Celia’s company, while wanting her so much; he could inhabit a middle space of yearning for what could have been with Zubi and Rehana, while anticipating what might be with Celia. Perhaps, he considered, watching her glazed-over expression, Celia was soaking in the waters of her own past and present lives, too.
“You’re right,” she said, breaking the silence that had grown between them. “I have been forward, haven’t I?” A broad smile overtook face. “So,” she continued, “I will continue being forward, then.”
“Good!” He laughed, giddy all of a sudden.
“Shall we go steady?” Her face turned earnest. “Is that what people still call it?” Ismail wasn’t sure if people still said that, but he nodded anyway.
“So we’ll go steady, then,” she said.
— 34 —
Steady
Celia and Ismail lay on their sides, face to face, regarding the other shyly from this new perspective. They were tentative at first, glad for the darkness of his bedroom, each relying on inadequate past experience to guide them. Their kisses began feathery and light and soon became deeper, hungrier. Their uncertain bodies became easy and they took turns removing their clothes as though in an egalitarian round of strip poker; first his shirt, followed by her blouse, and so on until their clothing lay in a heap on the floor. Ismail smiled when he saw the orange bra that had once revealed itself to him from Celia’s fluttering clothesline. Their bare skin pressed together, made heat, their limbs wrapping around the other until they resembled a tight knot.
They spent the night talking and laughing and making love, sometimes all three at the same time. The combination was new to Ismail, for whom sex had always been a fairly serious project, his performance of great concern for him. Celia, too, found it to be a novel experience. It wasn’t that José hadn’t been gentle or considerate, at times. It was just that it had been a long, long time since sex had been a romantic affair; in his last few years, it had turned into a furtive, late-night activity, his breath boozy and his movements ungainly.
Around 3:00 a.m., Ismail marvelled at how his middle-aged body was still functioning and Celia took that as an invitation to climb on top of him. They fell asleep sometime around dawn, his head on her shoulder.
Ismail called in sick the next morning, and Celia phoned her daughter to say she wouldn’t be back in time to take Marco to school. Her answers were curt monosyllables and he assumed she was being questioned for her absence. He poured her coffee and took out eggs and a frying pan to make omelettes.
“So how
was that, talking to your daughter?”
“Hah! Can’t you guess?” she said, with a laugh and then a grimace.
“It sounded, er … tense.”
“Can you make mine sunny-side up?” she asked, thinking that it had been forever since anyone had cooked her breakfast.
“Of course.” Ismail turned on the burner, watched it glow red, and then put a pat of butter in the pan. “So, are you all right?” He hadn’t yet learned how to read Celia’s expressions.
“She asked me if I was here. I said ‘yes.’ She asked if I spent the night. I said ‘yes.’ Then she asked, ‘in his bed, Mãe?’ and I said ‘yes.’ Then she started lecturing me about being careful with strange men, and being a vulnerable widow, and calling when I’m not going to be coming home, et cetera, et cetera. She even tried to guilt-trip me, telling me that Marco was upset when he came down to my room and saw that I wasn’t there! I hung up on her,” she said with an exaggerated shrug.
“Oh,” he said, and waited.
“You know, the conversation reminded me of when Lydia was twenty, and she’d stayed out all night with a boyfriend for the first time. I was so mad,” she said with a sigh. “I never told José because I knew he’d be crazy mad. I have to admit, I probably asked her the same questions. I gave her the same lecture.” She sat down at the table.
“Of course you’d have to react like that when she was young. But you’re her mother … she shouldn’t be lecturing you. You’re not a twenty-year-old,” he said, taking her hand. She squeezed his.
“You make me feel like a twenty-year-old … in a good way,” she said, looking up at Ismail and batting her eyelashes at him. “Not that fifty is all that old. My hairdresser told me it’s the new thirty.”
“That’s funny. Although I wouldn’t want to be thirty again. But yes,” he agreed, standing taller, “you make me feel young, too. Imagine, I barely slept, and I feel wonderful!” He turned and cracked eggs into the pan with a flourish. “I suppose it will catch up with me later today, though.”
“It’s all the good brain chemicals that get released. What are they called again?”
“Endorphins.” They’d talked about this during the night when he told her about being in AA. She’d been particularly interested in one of the anecdotes he’d recounted about a member who’d quit drinking and became a sex addict, chasing the high in a new way.
“Right. Endorphins. They feel good … all the more reason for my daughter to just be happy for me, yes? She’s been bugging me to get out more, to stop moping around. And here I am doing something that makes me happy. Can you believe she asked me if I used protection?” she whispered. “I’d never be so forward with her!” Ismail poked at the sizzling eggs.
“Well, I guess she ought to be concerned for you. She doesn’t know me at all. For all she knows, I could be a pervert, or … worse.” Ismail was about to say “a psycho killer” to be funny, but the word caught in his throat. He busied himself at the stove.
“That’s why I lectured her when she was young. Because she didn’t have any sense back then. But this is different. I’m fifty. If I don’t know things by now, a lecture won’t do me any good.”
“I have a feeling I’ll get a lecture from my older brother when he finds out that I broke things off with Shakila,” he said with a smirk, feeling as though nothing could hurt him in that moment. “And when I tell him that I am seeing my beautiful neighbour, I’ll receive an epic lecture, one of the magnitude usually reserved for his youngest son.”
“Hmmm. I hope not,” she said, frowning. He’d told her about Asghar and his relationship with his father the previous night.
“You know, Asghar will be glad that I’m taking over his role for a while. The poor boy can have a break while his uncle catches fire,” he joked, and this made her smile. He popped four slices of bread into the toaster, feeling charming again.
Ismail served the eggs onto her plate, perfect, sunny yolks facing up. After a quick breakfast, they returned to bed for another couple of hours, Ismail pretending to chase Celia up the stairs. Later, at noon, he walked her to the door so that she could pick up Marco from school. They stood in the foyer and made plans to meet for dinner after Lydia came home from work.
“Oh, but wait,” she said, pausing at the door. “Don’t you have something you do on Tuesday nights?” A look of alarm spread across Ismail’s face and Celia blushed, rushing to explain, “I’m sorry, I seem so nosy. I used to spend a lot of miserable afternoons and evenings just staring out the window. I know half the neighbourhood’s routines by now.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that I forgot that it was Tuesday already! It’s the last writing class tonight and I’m supposed to present my homework to the class.”
“That’s the class where you met the young woman who’s having trouble with her parents?”
“Yes, Fatima.” He was surprised she’d remembered this detail. He told her he guessed the girl was fine because he hadn’t heard from her in a while. Celia paused, considering her next question.
“And that other girl, the one with the short red dress who left early that same morning, who was she?”
“Oh no … you saw her, too?” He stammered out details about Fatima’s birthday, misplaced keys, and the spare bedroom. Once again, interpreting his nervousness as truthfulness, Celia was satisfied with his answer. She stepped out onto the porch, kissed him goodbye, and they promised to meet later. The air was cool, with just a hint of spring’s warmth riding the breeze.
— * —
Celia was glad to arrive to an empty house. She reached for her long, burgundy coat with the fluffy faux-fur collar, and pulled on her matching boots. As she walked the two blocks to Marco’s school, she noticed a subtle transformation within her body. There was an almost imperceptible stiffness in her walk, and a faint feeling of being turned inside out, her privates somehow exposed to the wind while under several layers of clothing. She paused on the street, hugged her thighs together to hold on tight to the sensation.
A young postman approached. She’d seen him walking his route many times before and had said hello once or twice. He’d always been businesslike with her, passing her the mail and hurrying off again with his brisk postman walk. But that day, he glanced up from his parcels and looked long at her, his eyes scanning her up and down. His mouth curled upwards into a grin and she smiled back, feeling a warmth spread up her spine. Hello to you, too! she cooed in her mind.
By the time she approached the schoolyard, a small group of mothers and grandmothers had already congregated by the doors, waiting for their children to spill out. She approached the semi-circle of widows, sensed the sudden hush in their conversations. She nodded to them and took her place beside Sylvia Silva.
“Bom dia,” she called out to the widows.
“Bom dia,” came the chorus. Celia felt several pairs of eyes size her up. She looked away, allowing them a moment to take her changes in. Not for the first time, she felt different from these women. Yes, they spoke the same language, belonged to the same church, but unlike many of them, she’d grown up in this country, played Canadian games in a schoolyard very much like the one in which she stood. Her mind tripped over a question that had been brewing there for some time: shouldn’t she be allowed to stand with these ladies, but choose her own way too? Be included and also a little different?
She felt a pang of longing for her friends from the old neighbourhood, women she’d once believed she had to lose in order to inhabit her new life. Perhaps it was time to meet up with Adriana or Joana. But would it be the same? Over a year and a half had passed, and she was not the same old Celia. Would they have her back?
There was a whisper and a click of a tongue. When she turned back to meet the women’s gazes, Sylvia had taken a step closer to her. She leaned over and said, “Such a pretty coat you’re wearing.” And then, in
a louder voice, she said, “You look good, Celia. Really good.” Sylvia threaded her arm through Celia’s and together they waited for the junior kindergarten class to be released.
— * —
After Celia left, Ismail did chores: he washed dishes, swept the barely dusty floor, made the bed. He took a shower, discarding the sliver of soap he’d been using for days and lathered up with a brand-new bar. He dressed. And then he wandered the house restlessly. The elation of new love accompanied him, but also along for the ride was a familiar discomfort; something was missing. He paced the living room, climbed the stairs. His chest was tight and his back slick with sweat. He pulled his shirt-tail from his trousers and billowed it out to cool himself. He undid a couple of buttons and rubbed the skin there, soothing the bumpy scar over his sternum. It prickled and itched with each stroke.
The sensation drew him outside to his car, to search the glove compartment for the sheets Fatima had given him the previous week. Standing in the street, he reread her words: The scar may grow warm under his touch, friction bringing to life something usually ignored, something he’d rather forget. He stood there while cars pulled in out of parking spots, delivery trucks passed and cats lazed on sidewalks. Eventually, he went back inside, sorted through the papers scattered over his desk and finally found his notes about Celia’s first kiss. Turning on the computer, he transcribed the nearly unreadable handwriting onto the computer screen, and not wanting to tarry, he printed them out, making them paper and ink, material and real. He resolved to read them in class that night. Fatima’s pages, and his new writing, would be like a call and response to one another.
Six Metres of Pavement Page 26