Yasmeen felt her cheeks flush as everyone’s gaze turned to her. “Hear, hear,” they toasted.
Ramzi cleared his throat and proposed his own toast, eye whites exposed as he glanced upwards at the ceiling. “And we remember Ed in our prayers, two years gone. God rest his soul.” There was a quiet murmur around the table before people picked up their forks and began to eat.
“So,” her mother said, passing the tabbouleh around, “why don’t you tell everyone what it’s like living with the Eskimos.”
“Inuit.”
Her mother glared.
Rose jumped in, deflecting the awkwardness. “I remember, we learned that at school. They call themselves Inuit now, not Eskimos. It means ‘the people.’ Right, Yaz?”
“That’s right.”
Dunya stabbed the air with her fork. “Very, very interesting.” Her earrings jangled as she spoke.
Uncle Boutros pulled off his bib and loosened his tie. He propped his elbows on the table. “They don’t live in igloos any more, that much I know.”
“The people??” said Uncle Ramzi, through a mouthful of rice. “What’s that crap supposed to mean? And what are we anyway, chopped liver?”
“For Christ sake, Ramzi,” said Uncle Boutros. “It’s Christmas. Can’t you just relax?” He looked at Yasmeen. “Do they really suck the marrow out of the seal intestines or is that all just hooey made up by us ignorant whites?”
Her brother shovelled a wedge of pita into his mouth, trying to talk at the same time. “If they rub noses instead of French kissing, I’m guessing they don’t suck face, they suck snot.”
“Tarek, we’re eating here!” Samiyah reprimanded. She glanced at the aunts, checking to see that they registered her disapproval.
“Hold it, just hold your horses,” Ramzi interjected. “I mean, hell, do these people”—he faltered on the word people—“do these people even know who the prime minister is? How on earth do they get the right to vote if they don’t know anything about what’s going on in the real world? They should have a law against that.”
It was the usual family banter, loud, critical, people passing food back and forth, gesturing for refills, no one listening to anybody else. This time it wasn’t about the Middle East or the Jews or the lazy, unionized workers. It was closer to home.
Yasmeen excused herself. “I’m not really feeling well.”
Dunya glanced at Samiyah. “Give her some kishk. That’ll fix her up.”
“Cod liver oil,” interrupted Jameela.
Yasmeen threw the napkin into her plate. “Would you mind if I went upstairs to lie down?”
Her mother nodded, turning to the aunts with her nose wrinkled. “It’s those flimsy planes, you know. Nothing between you and the atmosphere.”
Yasmeen dropped her food into the garburator and took the stairs two at a time to go call Joanasi. She could hardly dial fast enough. He answered on the first ring. “I just want to be back home with you,” she whispered into the phone.
FOURTEEN
“You’re not to mention Annie today,” said Joanasi as he opened the door to his mother’s place for her. Yasmeen stamped the snow off her boots and hitched her sewing bag over her shoulder, eager to be back after two weeks away. “Not a word,” he repeated.
“Why not?”
“Shh.” He pecked her on the lips and disappeared into his old bedroom to listen to music.
With Annie missing, Pasha’s living room was conspicuously silent, the women keeping their hands busy, stitching, cutting, knotting, no one uttering a word.
Sarah glanced up from her sewing. Yasmeen lifted her eyebrows and Sarah shrugged her shoulders as if to say God knew a heck of a lot more than she did, what could she do? Yasmeen settled into the empty seat beside her and whispered hello. Sarah nodded half-heartedly. Nobody else acknowledged her. She searched through her bag for her needle and thread and the half-sewn mitt she had started before Christmas, conscious of the noise she was making. She hoped that one of them would recognize she needed help but no one did, so she just blurted out, “I’ll need a hand with these,” hoping to spark a little interest. “Since Annie’s not here, I mean.” She looked around the room, but there were no takers. Sarah frowned disdainfully and shook her head.
•
Later that night in bed Joanasi discovered her tattoo. He put his hand on it and traced the inked initials with a finger, pleased with it but not overjoyed.
“I’m permanent here,” she said by way of explanation. “I’m not a guest or visitor or tourist.”
He shrugged and said, “Good, I’m happy for that.” He brought up the time when his father was a child and the RCMP arrived in the community to register all the families, who belonged to who, etc. “Most of the people here didn’t have last names, so they gave them a necklace with a number on it, like a dog tag.” He said her tattoo kind of reminded him of that. His reaction disappointed her but she tried not to let it show.
“Tell me more about your father,” she said, flipping onto her back.
He kissed one of her nipples. “Well, he definitely improved my English,” he said.
She made a face that indicated she didn’t understand.
“I had to spend a year down south with him when he got sick with the cancer and had to go to the hospital … I ate a lot of chocolate bars back then.”
“You must miss him. I know I miss mine.”
“First time I saw a tree it reminded me of my grandmother.” He smiled shyly. “The branches were like all the veins on her hand.”
“The first time I saw the tundra and all this wide open space, it reminded me of a desert, except the sand was snow. My ancestors came from the desert. Weird, eh?”
“Yeah, weird,” he said with lukewarm interest. He stroked her hair. It was a pleasant conversation until she asked about Annie. His expression changed rapidly the way the sky changes before a storm, dark clouds arriving unannounced. He sat up with his back to her and lit a cigarette. “I told you,” he said, sitting naked on the edge of the bed. “No more talk about that.”
•
A small, sweet-looking boy crossed Yasmeen on her way to the Co-op, a kid she had never seen before. She smiled at him. Something about him reminded her of Tarek at that age. The child made a gun with his hand and pointed it at her. It shocked her. She lowered her head and continued walking.
A dozen Skidoos were idling outside the Co-op. The store manager that the locals nicknamed Aupartuq, or Red, because of the colour of his hair was outside chopping up the ice on the steps. “Hey, Stewart,” she called out. He looked up and nodded. He was a gentle-looking man. She remembered what he had told her when she first arrived, about how the old store managers were trained to deal with all sorts of emergencies, and how villagers used to go to them for tooth extractions. She couldn’t imagine Stewart pulling anyone’s teeth out with a pair of pliers.
She zipped through the store with her cart, collecting what she needed for the week. At the checkout line, she recognized Annie’s amautik. She was just ahead of Yasmeen in the line. Yasmeen was about to tap her on the shoulder when she realized that the guy standing with her wasn’t her boyfriend. He was speaking to her in a gruff tone, signalling with his head that he would wait for her outside. He slid a cigarette out of his pack and clomped toward the door. Annie turned her head slightly and in that instant, catching her profile, Yasmeen saw that it wasn’t Annie after all. But why was a stranger carrying Annie’s kid in Annie’s amautik? It was definitely Annie’s kid in there. Curious, Yasmeen gently bumped the woman, issuing a swift apology. When the woman turned around Yasmeen almost puked. The woman was Annie. Annie, not even hiding behind a pair of dark glasses. Annie, with a full-blown lip and hollows for eyes. Yasmeen glanced quickly away, grateful for the groceries in her friend’s cart, a frozen dinner, a Jumbo Coke and a pack of cigarettes, something other than her blue, swol
len face to look at.
•
Yasmeen never expected Annie to call. She hoped she would, but she didn’t wait for it. When Annie finally phoned, a week later, Yasmeen was flattered that she trusted her enough to unload. She assumed it was because of Joanasi. Being his girlfriend gave Yasmeen credibility among the Inuit that the other teachers didn’t have. It conferred on her a certain status—she wasn’t exactly one of them, but almost. As it happened, Annie wasn’t calling for that. What she really wanted to tell Yasmeen was that she’d just baked and could she interest her in a fresh loaf of bannock.
“How much?” Yasmeen asked, trying to mask her disappointment.
“Maybe twenty,” said Annie. “How about you come here?”
Yasmeen knew the price was high, but she also knew that Annie wouldn’t ask her if she weren’t desperate. That was beside the point. Yasmeen already had a rough idea of what had happened to her. As a first responder, Jacqueline always had the gruesome details of what happened around town. Yasmeen felt slightly guilty going over Joanasi’s head to get the gossip when he refused to budge on the issue. Tight-lipped, he kept telling her to butt out, it was between the couple, how would you like everyone knowing all our private business? She saw his point but she went behind his back anyway.
“I’m not really authorized to talk about it,” said Jacqueline.
“C’mon, she’s my friend.”
“You’re putting me in an awkward position.”
Yasmeen promised not to breathe a word to anyone. “Besides, all the villagers probably know, anyway.”
“But you’re not—”
“Jackie, this is me, Joanasi’s girlfriend. I have a right.”
Jacqueline sighed heavily.
“C’mon.”
“What I can tell you is that it was terrible,” said Jacqueline. “At least the guy’s in jail down south.”
Yasmeen pressed her for more details.
Jacqueline shook her head in defeat. “Okay.” She lowered her voice. “Annie came here for Pampers and milk because her boyfriend used all their money for booze. Then when he found out, he went after her with a hammer.”
It was impossible to believe, especially of him, that boyfriend who always seemed to be sleeping or watching TV or playing tenderly with their kid. The same guy who every so often made an exquisite carving and sold it down south for a pretty penny.
Yasmeen lingered outside Annie’s door, working out a strategy for how to conduct herself. Should she pretend everything was fine or get her to talk? There was still blood on the snow outside the house, a congealed spatter on the porch and a few dribbles down the steps where Yasmeen supposed Annie had slipped and slid, running for her life. Why hadn’t anyone cleaned it up? She picked up a shovel and tried clearing it away but the snow was iced over and impossible to chop. She leaned the shovel back against the house, thinking at least she had tried. There was still all the business about what to say to Annie. She decided that saying nothing was maybe the best thing. Wait for her to bring it up herself. She knocked once and entered. The television was blaring and Annie and her son were laughing their heads off at a silly commercial for dog food. Yasmeen stood by the entrance, waiting for Annie to acknowledge her. When nothing happened, she cleared her throat, loud enough to be heard over the television. Annie turned briefly to look at her, hugging her son closer into her chest. Yasmeen flashed her the money, laid it on the counter and left immediately with the bannock.
•
On Valentine’s Day, a dump of snow blanketed the village. The school bus didn’t make it out of the parking lot, the driver and half the students still home asleep when the bell rang at nine o’clock. Yasmeen waited patiently in her brightly lit classroom of particleboard and drywall. She waited for her students to shuffle through the heavy steel door with the push bar and the key-scarred lock. She waited with a pot of barley soup and raisin muffins. She waited at her desk with a hot cup of coffee, staring through the big window that cut the sky into four grey rectangles. One by one they trickled in sleepy-eyed, and helped themselves to breakfast. On the board she drew a large heart.
“Poetry, we’ve said, is about language. Being the day of love, I’d like you to think of words you love the sound of.”
Savouring his muffin, Qalingo shouted “mamaqtuq.” Crumbs spilled out of his mouth and onto his desk.
“Excellent. I wonder if you can think of some English words?” She handed him a napkin and nodded at Elisapie to get the ball rolling. Salatee retreated shyly behind her bangs. “I can think of one you might like. How about beluga?”
Everyone smiled. Qalingo smacked his lips. With the chalk she wrote beluga at the centre of the heart on the board. “Anybody else?”
“Sewing!” cried Elisapie, taking the chalk from Yasmeen to add it to the list.
“Hunting!”
“Seal!”
“Polar bear!”
By the end of the period, the heart was filled with all of their words.
•
Yasmeen never let on what she knew about Annie. She just went about her days loving Joanasi, whose ancestors embraced the glacial land a thousand years ago. When he touched her, she wanted to melt inside of him.
“Our grandparents didn’t believe in love,” said Joanasi over their candlelight dinner. “The elders decided who would marry who when the children were very young. Sometimes it was arranged between families.”
“The parents, you mean?”
“Yeah, the parents decided who would make a good match.”
“What if the kids grew up and realized they didn’t like each other?” said Yasmeen. “I mean, it must have happened at least once.”
He shrugged. “That’s how it was back then. I heard from somebody that the aunt of my aunt didn’t want to marry the guy they chose for her. When she was around fourteen, her father strapped her to a qamutik, a sled, and sent her to him. She kicked and screamed all the way.” His look grew stern when he told her that any husband could exact revenge on a wife who had relations outside the marriage when the couple hadn’t agreed to it. He’d be justified, he said.
“Oh my god.”
His eyes bored through her.
She didn’t know where to look. “It’s a little barbaric, don’t you think?” When he didn’t answer, she tried to backpedal. She went to say something, then thought carefully before rephrasing. “I would never cheat on you.”
“I hope not.”
“A man needs a woman,” she said. “Aliappunga, I’m happy with you.”
“Uvangalu.” He smiled with little emotion, pulling a bead of hash from his shirt pocket. Did she want to get high, he asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
He broke it up into teensy pieces and folded them expertly into a rolling paper with a small amount of tobacco. He twisted the end and twirled the joint around in his mouth.
“I didn’t know you were a pro,” she said.
He lit it and flashed a smile. Even his teeth showed. “I like sex when I’m stoned.”
“So it seems.”
“Put your hand here,” he said. She felt him harden. “You make me strong.”
Yasmeen felt her own pleasure awaken too, instinct kicking in, telling her that his was the only body capable of giving hers what it needed. He held the joint for her while she inhaled and continued rubbing him until he got so big she had to release him. “Aippaq,” he said—which she understood as partner—“Aippaq, I have to come right now, I can’t hold it in anymore” and they dropped to the floor and she moved underneath him with her mouth and let him drain all over her.
FIFTEEN
It was Yasmeen’s first visit to the Pentecostal church. Its congregation, about a quarter of the population, believed it was the only real church in town, the one place on earth they could repent for their sins. They believed, as Sara
h intoned, that Jesus would come again to receive those who were saved.
Sarah had called several days earlier to remind Yasmeen about the special baptism, her voice echoing through the receiver. “A true miracle is about to take place.”
Since Christmas the village had been buzzing with the gossip that Paulussie, Sarah’s own insolent husband, was the new convert. Jacqueline had heard it directly from Annie when she was at the Nursing Station getting her wounds attended to. When Sarah learned that it was Paulussie who had sold Annie’s boyfriend the booze that led him to beat her with the hammer, she issued him an ultimatum, the Good Lord or the front door. Even Yasmeen figured out he would never give up his children.
The church was overheated, people fanning themselves with their hands, ignoring the gaggle of children crawling around under the pews. Up front, a man with shoulder-length hair and an earnest face strummed his guitar while a woman in a knit dress, chartreuse with shiny gold buttons, jangled the tambourine, her long, loose mane waving behind her. Eyes closed, they swayed with abandon as though they were experiencing an extraordinary visitation.
Yasmeen spotted Paulussie standing in the first pew, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The only one in the entire row, he was dressed in the same collared shirt and trousers he had worn at the school opening. Sarah rustled over to him in her priestly robes, signalling the start of the ceremony. She lifted her eyes up to God and laid her palm on his crown, murmuring a prayer.
Yasmeen glanced over at Joanasi. She adored being out in public with him, loved broadcasting their relationship, the electric charge between them, how it was impossible for them not to touch one another. Being in church with her lover, a holy place, a sanctuary of symbolism and human connectivity, had even more meaning for her. She was certain it raised her worth in the eyes of the locals, who surely saw the difference between her and those living at arm’s length from them, Iris and Sam and Elliot. She longed for the day when she would stand with him in her own amautik, their love child nestled in its hood.
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