Baby Khaki's Wings

by Anar Ali

Excited at the idea of a pursuit, Amir followed along the side of the building until the light disappeared and there was nothing but darkness and silence. At the back of the building, he picked up another crate and pushed it to the wall. Through the barred window, he could see Najma fumbling at her neck. She untied her scarf and draped it on the flashlight, which had been placed on a chair like a candle. Now he could only see when Najma and Topsie moved closer to the flashlight. It was like watching a damaged film—only flashes were illuminated. Bloody hell! What does she think—this is romantic? Pathetic. Romantic in a shoddy backroom? Try the London Savoy, maybe. What a first-class whore, going to the backroom with a man she hardly knows. Amir leaned in, his chin on the window ledge, his hands wrapped around the bars. As he watched, Amir now began to imagine a sweater coming off a shoulder, the muscles of a neck released backward, wet lips on a collarbone, the plumpness of a breast, the flesh of a thigh jiggling against tweed, fingers stumbling with a buckle, a head full of dark unruly hair lowering. He pressed his face to the bars. Amir couldn’t help himself. He let his left hand drop off the bar, his fingertips covered with grime. He unzipped his pants and reached inside.

  —

  ZARINA PUSHED HERSELF up on her tiptoes, steadying herself on the windowsill, but she still could not see anything. She wasn’t high enough. She stepped down, picked up a crate, and squared it on top of the one she had been standing on. She then glanced both ways before pulling her dress up to free her knees. Yes, much better, she thought as she climbed up and then cupped her hands to the window. Even still, Zarina could see only fragments of a couple inside, but she could hear the muffled rhythm of feet, like hooves on fields of wet grass. They were dancing! Zarina’s immediate impulse was to bang a fist to the glass and make her sister stop, but instead she leaned in, eager first to make out their faces, confirm that it was them.

  As Zarina waited patiently to catch a glimpse of her sister, she found herself tapping her toe to the crate, mimicking and amplifying the rhythms inside the ballroom. Soon, she started to sway her hips to match her feet. The swaying, like a trance, transported Zarina, so that the alley was turned into a ballroom and now it was her dancing. She imagined herself striding onto the dance floor, where she easily commanded the steps of even the most difficult routines—the Viennese waltz, the fox trot, the rumba. During one sequence, when her partner swung her away with one quick snap of his wrist, Zarina, like a sleepwalker, jumped off the stacked crates. Thump! She landed squarely on both feet, so that she felt as if her body had been snapped into place. Her breath was unencumbered, reaching, it seemed, each corner of her body for the very first time. She was light and free. The flashlight caught Zarina’s foot, illuminating it. She pointed the beam forward, coyly stepping into it and then following it down the alley like a dancer being called onto a stage.

  —

  AMIR PRACTICALLY FELL OFF the crate when he turned, in shock, toward the flashlight being pointed at him. He quickly pressed himself to the wall, his hands fumbling as he tucked himself back into his pants.

  Zarina gasped with terror when she saw a man standing in the back alley. It took her a few seconds to realize that this was no beggar, no shadowy mugger. This was her fiancé! She was now overcome with relief and excitement. “Darling!” she squealed, still in a partial trance. It was as if Amir had followed her stage directions and appeared, like a wish, in front of her. Zarina rushed to him, but when she reached him, she suddenly became nervous, and no longer knew what to do.

  Amir looked down at the figure in front of him and in the darkness, all he could see was the top of her head—as if it was suspended in mid-air, severed from the body. What in God’s name was she doing here? He stepped down from the crate, ready to reprimand her, but then his eyes met hers and he couldn’t help but be enthralled by her. Look at her! She is so beautiful. His body was still aching with pleasure and he felt compelled to take her in his arms.

  Zarina was excited by Amir’s touch, thrilled to be in his arms—finally! She nudged him forward. “Let’s dance!” she blurted out.

  Without thinking, Amir accepted. He pulled her in to him and then swung her away. Zarina leaned back and spun around him, like a planet to the sun, his presence warming her, making her feel alive. She flung her head back and watched the stars spinning above her as if they were rearranging themselves, creating new constellations.

  Amir pulled her close again, and in her excitement, Zarina pressed herself to him. He now felt his hardness against her and was suddenly embarrassed. What is wrong with her? My God, this was his future wife in his arms! He was filled with anger and disgust. In that moment, he wanted to reach down, pick up the flashlight, and smash it into her head. Instead he pushed her off him. Zarina flew back and hit the ground.

  She gasped for air, her mind still in a daze. When she looked up and saw her fiancé glaring at her, she now felt ashamed. She quickly cast her eyes down.

  Amir was about to rush away, but then his heart suddenly softened as he looked at Zarina sitting on the ground, helpless. He now felt a great need to take care of her, to protect her as a guard dog would a property. He bent down and cupped his hand to her elbow. “Come,” he whispered as he tried to lift her, but she was so heavy, like a rag doll filled with stones, that he struggled.

  Zarina tried to steady herself between the arms of the man she would spend the rest of her life with, but she could barely stand up, until her eyes caught the soft glow of light inside the ballroom and then, suddenly, she found her strength as a hot ember of rage and envy began to flicker inside of her.

  Open House

  Rubina Mawji pulls her silver Nissan Maxima in front of 314 Sunset Vista Drive, where she is conducting an Open House between 2 and 4 P.M. The house is located in Signal Hill, one of Calgary’s newer areas, and offers spectacular views of the city as well as the Rockies. The house itself has excellent curb appeal—an important feature when selling a house. It is landscaped beautifully and has a wraparound patio. Other features of the house include: three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a custom kitchen with granite countertops, new appliances including a gas barbeque built into the deck, and a fire pit in the back garden. It is also in excellent condition, and only seven years old.

  It should be easy to sell, but Rubina—or Ruby as most people call her—has had some trouble. This is the third weekend in a row that she has had to conduct an Open House here—a rarity for Ruby, who is often able to sell a house well above the asking price, in one week flat. It’s no wonder that she is touted at Stampede Realty as the fastest gun in the West. Before Ruby joined the company, it took an average of thirty days to sell a house. Thanks to her, the company average has dropped to twenty-one days.

  Ruby knows, as every realtor knows, the longer a house sits on the market, the harder it is to sell. Buyers grow more fearful with each passing day, wondering why no one has bought it yet. Speed is essential. It’s what differentiates good agents from top agents like Ruby. Her face, with its broad reassuring smile, appears on bus shelters and benches across Calgary. Perched on her head, a golden crown with a dazzling red ruby. Her slogan: 24-Karat Success Guaranteed! In fact, Ruby is so confident of her abilities that she offers to buy your house herself if she can’t sell it.

  Even the men at Stampede Reality marvel at Ruby’s abilities, and if she were younger, for Ruby is now forty-two, then many of them might even make lewd comments about her at the pub or else imagine how her prowess might translate to the bedroom. Instead, they casually flirt with her, telling her what a crying shame it is that she’s already married. Not that any one of them would really want to be her husband. The poor guy! We all know who wears the pants in that family, hey? Betcha that woman’s a ball-buster, hey?

  The current owners of 314 Sunset Vista, Lynda and Lance Nickel, have already purchased another house and are eager for Ruby to sell this house quickly. They do not want to carry two mortgages for much longer. Ruby advised them to wait before purchasing another home, or at minimum, to pur
chase the other house—which she had helped them find—on the condition that this one would sell. But the Nickels refused. They did not want to live here anymore. Lynda had miscarried three times. All tests confirmed that there was nothing wrong with her, and now, the Nickels are convinced that the source of the problem was the electricity tower located behind their house, only a few metres from their property line.

  Recently, there has been extensive media attention on the dangers of electricity towers. Beyond being an eyesore and blocking the view, research indicates electromagnetic fields could pose health threats, might even lead to infertility or cancer. Some experts say that the research is inconclusive and that the media, as always, is generating unnecessary fear. But several environmental advocacy groups disagree. One group is lobbying to replace the towers with underground wiring or else relocate them at a safer distance; yet another is demanding the wholesale removal of the towers, and suggesting the city adopt alternative sources of energy, such as wind power. This group has also organized protests, some of which have included home owners wrapping police tape around the perimeter of their houses or placing signs in their windows that read, BEWARE: ELECTRICAL TOWERS IN AREA!

  At previous Open Houses, Ruby tried to reassure potential buyers that the house was safe by providing them with a report prepared by Dwayne Olson, a house inspector that Ruby has employed on numerous occasions. Using a Gauss meter, Dwayne certified that the electromagnetic field emitted from the electricity towers was, in his expert opinion, nothing to worry about. “Microwaves and computers emit far more when all combined!” Ruby said to wary buyers. But this tactic did not seem to quell their fears, so Ruby decided more had to be done. She contracted Dwayne to prepare a short video that she could play during the Open House—one that demonstrates his findings. “People need to see what you’re talking about. It’s the only way they’ll understand that there’s nothing to be scared of. I want them to have the facts. Ignorance breeds fear, you know,” Ruby said to Dwayne.

  “Man, Ruby. You think of it all, don’t ya? Those poor people won’t know what’s hit them,” Dwayne said, shaking his head and laughing.

  Ruby didn’t say anything—Dwayne wouldn’t understand. How could he? He was a house inspector, someone whose job it was to point out problems, not solve them as she had to. Ruby takes great pride in her work and feels tremendous satisfaction in solving a problem for a client—it is like fitting all the pieces of a puzzle together. In fact this is how she built her business, her reputation as an agent who’d go the extra mile, do whatever it takes to make the sale. Her mind, like a calculator, works out various combinations and permutations until she is able to find the right solution for her client. So that if Ruby is presented with a problem such as the bathroom being too small, she contracts a designer to help draw up plans for how the house could accommodate a larger bathroom, or if there is rot in the foundation, then she solicits, at her own cost, a second opinion, and if the results are the same, then she provides quotes of how to get rid of it. She has struck deals with many builders and subcontractors in the city to help in the process. As Ruby has always said, with enough ingenuity, you can solve anything.

  Yet when Ruby discovered earlier this week that her husband Firoz was having an affair, she did not do anything about it, did not try to solve this problem. She didn’t ask him for any details, didn’t probe as she might a customer for the whats and whys, eager to respond with her expert skills in Objection Handling. There was no point. After all, this has been an ongoing problem for years now. Firoz, it seems, is able to duplicate his lovers in much the same way he might copy a document at one of his stores, Encore Printing. Ruby often wonders what these other women see in him. But what does it matter? It only makes her life easier. At least he’s out of my hair!

  Ruby turns off the ignition and then takes a sip of her coffee before tossing the paper cup into a small plastic garbage can. It lands on a pile of crumpled-up Wendy’s serviettes, Flake chocolate bar wrappers, and Diet Coke cans. Ruby is usually diligent about taking care of herself—eating well, working out for an hour each morning on the StairMaster or else to a Jane Fonda video, but on weekends, she often eats out—a consequence of being on the go, always rushing from one Open House to another. She enjoys the speed of her life—even if there are some days that she tires. It makes her feel like she’s maximizing each day, not wasting even one minute.

  Ruby flings open her car door and steps out, her arms filled with files and a small box. She turns and slams the door closed with her foot—another good reason not to drive an expensive car. You don’t have to worry about keeping it in immaculate condition. She doesn’t care that the bumper is dented, and is now showing signs of rust, or that the passenger side door has several dings. Not that Ruby can’t afford a nicer car—like a BMW or a Mercedes, the kind of car many other agents of her calibre seem to drive—but she feels it’s important not to show off. Clients don’t want to see how you spend their money. Besides, she prefers putting her money toward more practical things, like her son Alim’s education. She hopes that one day he will go to an Ivy League school in the States, maybe even Harvard like the Imam.

  Next door, a group of girls is busy chalking the sidewalk. One girl is lying down, her arms and legs spread out, while another girl squats next to her, tracing her body. “Looks like fun, ladies,” Ruby says cheerfully. She loves children. When they first married, Ruby and Firoz joked that they would have enough children to populate a small town. They even had a list tacked to the fridge of possible names. It started with Alim/Alyshah and ended with Zia/Zarah.

  Ruby heads up the walkway to the house, her heels clicking against the cement. A sign in the centre of the lawn reads, PESTICIDE FREE. She retrieves a key from the lock box wrapped around the doorknob, and unlocks the front door.

  The house was empty at previous Open Houses—the Nickels had already moved their furniture to their new house—yet another factor, Ruby is certain, that has made it hard to sell. People need to visualize what their lives would be like in a house before they can consider buying it. Without furniture or any belongings, that’s very difficult, if not impossible for most people. Today, Ruby has made arrangements with a local designer to stage the house. It is now filled with beautiful furniture, artwork, books, even family portraits—of whom, Ruby does not know.

  Selling a house is like hosting a dinner party, Ruby has always thought. Preparation is the key. You have to think through every single detail, right down to the colour of the napkins and the music you’ll play, so that when your guests arrive you don’t have to worry about a thing. You can put all your energy into entertaining—which is really the best part, isn’t it? The only difference is that at an Open House, you don’t have to cook or clean! And you get to go home at the end of the evening. This is not your house.

  There is no such thing as luck, Ruby often tells the many new agents who come to her clamouring for advice. Luck is when Preparation meets Opportunity. She doesn’t reveal her sources to the men, but she candidly tells the women that these are Oprah’s words, not hers. Ruby tapes the show and watches it each weeknight after she comes home from jamatkhana.

  Ruby walks through the house making sure everything is in order. It’s spotless, and there are fresh-cut flowers in almost every room. But Ruby still straightens pillows and adds her own touches. She lights a candle with the scent Fresh Grass and slides open several windows, running a paper towel along the sills. When she spots a partially decomposed wasp between the panes of a window, she plucks it out with the paper towel and then tosses it into a garbage can.

  Ruby turns on her laptop and waits for it to boot up. Until recently, this laptop had been Alim’s, but he wanted a new one, one that was more powerful.

  “Good God, Ruby, it’s the cost of a small car,” Ruby’s younger sister, Shelina, said when she heard, rolling her eyes. Shelina has two children, a boy and a girl, and often accuses Ruby of spoiling Alim. Once, when they’d gone to Earl’s for coffee and dessert
after Panje Bhenu majlis, a special ceremony for women only, she wagged her fork at Ruby and said, half laughing, “Just make sure my kids don’t get wind of what his allowance is, hmm? They’ll have my head.”

  Ruby clucked her tongue, pushing her fork into her cheesecake. “Come on, Shel. You know what a good kid he is. He deserves it.” Not only was Alim at the top of his class at Strathcona–Tweedsmuir, the best private school in Calgary, but he also ranked third in the city’s tennis tournament last year—after which Ruby and Firoz took him, on her suggestion, to the U.S. Open for their sixteenth wedding anniversary. Alim also volunteers on Saturdays at Headquarters Jamatkhana, teaching grade-one Bait-ul Ilm classes. It’s essential to give back, Ruby has always said to him. She herself is heavily involved in various voluntary committees like the Resettlement Committee, which helps newly arrived Afghani Ismailis settle in and become self-sufficient quickly—Canadian taxpayers, understandably, do not want yet another drain on their hard-earned money. Ruby is also the Chairperson of the Economic Planning Board—a post that takes much of her time so that she often has to survive on as little as four hours’ sleep. But it was all well worth it. Under her leadership, she had initiated a campaign on the importance of buying a home as well as comprehensive financial planning courses for women. Many speculate that with all her successes she might one day be the first woman appointed Council President.

  “And so what if I spoil him a little?” Ruby asked her sister, trying to hide her frustration. Isn’t that what she has worked so hard for all these years, to build a life in which she could raise Alim properly? How different am I from any other mother? What mother wants to see her child suffer? Ruby refuses to let her son go without, or to be wrought with worry about money, as she had been when she was growing up.

  When Ruby was twelve and Shelina seven, their parents sent them to study at the Forrest Hill Girls Boarding School in London. Tanzania was becoming increasingly unstable and Ruby’s parents, like so many others, worried for their children’s safety. Julius Nyerere had called for all non-owner occupied buildings and homes to be nationalized, but Ruby’s father had not wanted to leave the country just yet. Luckily, the new law did not affect Ruby’s family. They owned a sugar-cane farm and processing plant in Magugu, near Arusha, and business was still good. But who knew when it might be taken away? Might as well make as much money as we can now.