Fog, a Novel

by Rana Bose

  As I stepped into the building I saw closed circuit cameras swivelling noiselessly along the top edge of the black polished mosaic on the back wall. I imagined there were other cameras within the tinted glass boxes on either side of the front desk. The receptionist had me sign the log book before providing me with a visitor’s badge and asking me to sit.

  I put my back to the cameras and began to leaf through a selection of industry journals laid out in a rack below a large oil portrait of the big man himself. A group of Chinese businessmen came in and quickly registered at the front desk. They were immediately badged up and whisked away. I waited for nearly fifteen minutes before someone came to fetch me for my interview in the Logistics department.

  The position was for a Shipping Administrator in one of their outlets in Montreal East. The interview was hurried and direct. I was offered the position right there and then. I had no hesitation and accepted.

  I resigned from my position at the courier company, which was a sad event. I had worked there for so long and was leaving behind folks who had confided in me about everything: their affairs, their parents’ dementia, and their arrogant neighbours who threw bricks at clothes lines whose pulleys screeched excessively. I knew about the bruises they didn’t choose to discuss, about brothers who were acting strange and sisters who were coming home late, about being half-Algonquin and half-Quebecois and getting short shrift in both communities. I knew their opinions on the inevitable issues of Quebec sovereignty, les autres, les raëlians, and streets destroyed in winter by the same contractors who restored them in summer with lousy asphalt. I knew about their ten-hour waits in hospital emergency rooms and the beaches they enjoyed in Cancun or Florida. I loved my colleagues and they admired what they saw as my even temperament and good upbringing.

  Now I was imprudently taking a job to pursue a case, not a career, amongst a set of unknown people, and entering it with deception and intrigue on my mind. The pay would be better, but I’d have to work five days a week. And I would be walking to work. There’d be less time to write. I realized for a short-lived moment that eventually this is how people move out of the Main; one by one the ties get cut. How they cut through the fog. Do people really move out, or do they just take the Main with them?

  There was a small farewell party for me at the office during my last afternoon. It was nice. The folks were kind, smiling, and a bit teary-eyed. Some remembered coming to me to settle issues about geography, country capitals, food habits, best sellers, bad movie reviews, what was at the Louvre and not at the Prado, carbon emissions, and other “intellectual stuff.” I had, they said, played the role of the bard, the knowledgeable one.

  This was a bit embarrassing, because if it were not for RK, my world would not have really expanded beyond the artery that ran north-south on the island of Montreal from the rapids in the north to the Old Port to the south. I stayed late, cleared my desk, explained to the appropriate people the idiosyncrasies I had developed managing the paperwork. Then I made photocopies of the waybill from the lady who, years ago, had entered with what she claimed was a package of dried flowers and left her beastly and impatient Benz idling outside like an exterminating Marie-Antoinette who had no endurance for the peasants who got in her way. I finally left at 7 p.m. on a Thursday evening. From now on, I would be working in the belly.

  My grandfather, when informed of the change, said that it was due to an auspicious confluence in the nakshatra, by which he meant it was destined by an alignment of the stars that provided succour to those who believe in that kind of thing. I didn’t, nor did my grandfather, usually. But then he added an interesting caveat. “Due to your commitment,” he said, “the nakshatra will take note of the fact that you are taking a direct risk by entering the mouth of the beast.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Puffs of Smoke

  I finished dinner and began arranging old papers while watching TV. Breaking headlines began to crawl along the bottom of the screen. Four Canadians had been killed by ‘friendly fire’ near Kandahar. My stomach turned into a knot. I went on the Internet and found the following news item from an American press agency.

  Bombing Accident Kills Four Canadian Soldiers in Afghanistan

  WASHINGTON—Four Canadian soldiers were killed early today and eight others seriously injured when a U.S. fighter jet dropped at least one 500-pound bomb on their position near Kandahar, Afghanistan, Canadian defence officials said.

  Details are sketchy, but U.S. Central Command officials confirmed a U.S. Air National Guard F-16 fighter dropped “one or two” laser-guided bombs on the Canadians at about 1:55 a.m. local time. Command officials did not speculate as to the cause of the accident, but said an investigation will be conducted.

  The Canadian troops were conducting a live-fire night exercise near Kandahar. “Without a doubt there was a misidentification of the Canadians and what they were doing on the ground,” Gen. Ray Lavoie, chief of the Canadian Defence Staff, told reporters in Ottawa.

  The U.S. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld issued a statement today expressing his “deep regret and sadness over the tragic accident.” He said he assured his Canadian counterpart of Central Command’s full cooperation in the investigation.

  The Canadian Prime Minister said that President Bush called him to offer condolences and also to assure U.S. cooperation in the investigation.

  My first reaction was to call his mother, but I didn’t. If something had happened and they had notified her then she’d call me. Or would she? I suddenly found myself putting on a jacket, slipping my feet into a pair of old comfortable casuals, and walking out the door. I received a call on my cellphone just as I reached the corner of Duluth and St-Laurent. Horror gripped me as I saw her number pop up on my screen. I answered ‘hello’ in a very soft tone. There was a perplexing silence for a few seconds; the night went cold, all sounds ceased and the silent words in the sky above became icicles hanging down like daggers. I was sure something had gone wrong.

  “It’s not him.”

  I actually stopped walking and threw my arms up. “I was just coming over to your place. Can I?” I said this with so much relief that she sensed it.

  “Of course, dear!” She said this as a mom would. I was over at her place in no time. She had an embracing smile and held her arms stretched out to greet me. She gave me a hug and I told her, “I’m so happy to see you.” She nodded her head and her lips quivered.

  I showed her the printout from the Internet site, and she said that Nat had called, fearing she would panic. He was safe, she said, although the incident happened very close to him. “He sounded angry. I have never heard him so angry about the Americans.” I watched her closely as she rose to go towards the kitchen to make tea. There were no physical kinks, no hesitation, no favouring of the hips or the knees. She was agile, smooth, and dexterous.

  Although it was late, she was in a mood to chat. “You know,” she said, apologetically, “you offered to help sometimes, and I‘d be happy if you dropped by. I don’t think I need a lot of help with the business. It’s already set up. We don’t need to market anything, and there’s a young fellow that Moshe trained who handles the orders well.”

  I didn’t quite understand, then, why she might need me, with everything all set up, but perhaps she wanted me to drop by from time to time to chat. I sensed that. Did she have no other family or friends? It was past midnight and I was unsure what I should say, so I asked how she felt about Nat having left so suddenly. “Was it planned? Had you known for a long time? Had he discussed it with you?”

  She wrung her hands and went silent. I didn’t push. I understood. He had deceived us both.

  But then, he had at least written a letter to me before leaving. That made a difference. We loved each other, he and I. We had grown up together, walked home from school together, and then suddenly he had disappeared. Now here I was sitting in front of his mother, alone, late at night and bot
h of us seemed paralyzed. She didn’t comment on Nat’s sudden departure, but instead returned to talking about the business.

  “You know, Moshe’s death was totally unexpected.” She hesitated. “He was a quiet man who went away quietly. But to just lie down on the pavement on St-Laurent and die, unnoticed, and in front of where he had carried on his business for decades . . . ”

  “That really bothered me,” I said spontaneously, thinking of the uncaring hustlers who were taking over the neighbourhood. “No one stopped.”

  “For weeks I didn’t know what had hit me. I knew you were with Nat most of the time. But there was no one with me. I was alone.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Meeropol. I wasn’t sure what was appropriate. I didn’t wish to intrude.”

  “Yes, yes of course.” Some hurt there. But she continued. “Even though we’re very well known in the community, we haven’t been that religious or observant. Nor have we been too forthcoming about our views. I’m telling you all this because you may be wondering why you didn’t see a lot of people in the house.”

  “But there were public condolence meetings and a lot in the press.”

  “Oh! Of course, Moshe was a stalwart. He was quietly there for so many others, but he just stood at the back. When I could, I joined him. We didn’t raise our voices. We didn’t make a fuss when there were all sorts of debates and discussions going on.”

  “He seemed a quiet man.”

  “Yes, maybe aloof is a better word, which I admired. Making tombstones was not a religious commitment for us. It was a way of making a living. We respected the religious laws but that was about it. We didn’t preach, nor did we profess. Our feelings about our religion and our people were confined to quiet nights of discussion amongst ourselves, unravelling things that few in the community wanted to discuss.”

  She took a deep breath and smiled in a very gentle, attractive way, her eyelids barely holding together as she looked at me.

  “You know, headstones were not meant to be ornamental like they are nowadays. It was not Moshe’s style. It wasn’t our style. You see, Jews are supposed to be humble and attentive, not arrogant and talkative. Headstones are not statements. They are remembrances. In the beginning, headstones were put flat over the grave to protect the body from jackals, or to warn passers-by of the rising spirits. They were not meant to be ostentatious. Even the idea of marking the day of birth and the day of death was foreign to us as Jews. Didn’t some rabbi say it was an insult to the dead to put ornaments and decorations over them, that the pious should be remembered for their words and deeds? It was not a tradition in the Middle East to build ornamental tombstones. It was more Greek and Roman. But now, things have changed.”

  Sometimes when people have thought something through and yet haven’t had the opportunity to discuss it, it comes tumbling out in a rush. I thought to myself, how fortunate I am to listen and learn from this lady. But I also felt angry that there was no one else to hear. I didn’t look at my watch. It would insult and disorient her.

  “I shudder when people request outrageous headstones. It’s not done! But what can you do? You try to persuade them.” She looked at me and I sensed there were still unspoken thoughts on her mind. I could see that she and Moshe had sat down and quietly chatted about their clients and their behaviour. I realize they had shared a quiet and reflective sobriety, and she was missing it.

  “People come here and order from samples they’ve seen on the web or in some American catalogue. Moshe would try to gently persuade them otherwise, but most were so sure of themselves that it was a lost case. We complied with a smile. And you know . . . when you saw Moshe hunched over his desk with a gentle smile, who could not overpower him?”

  She looked at me and saw that my eyes were tired. She asked if I’d like another decaffeinated green tea. I said yes because I liked listening. She made it and returned, then picked up where she had left off.

  That night, she told me about many of the buildings on Boulevard St-Laurent and who had owned them. Some of the original families still owned a few of the buildings but didn’t live there anymore. They were rented out. There was so much history in those buildings: it was an obscenity that the current crop of shops, boutiques, and parlours operated in such ignorance of where they were. There was no anger or resignation in her eyes, just a profound belief that all that is said and repeated accounts for only a small part of what is embodied within the community.

  “Something is always lost when people move, and history gets reinvented, you know what I mean?” She smiled demurely.

  It sounded like she was concluding her thoughts, and yet still there was something held back. It was about three in the morning and my eyes had started to glow. She asked if I wanted to lie down in Nat’s bed. I kind of jumped up to leave, but she also got up and held me by the shoulders and said, “Stay.”

  There was something in the way she said it.

  I took my shoes off and lay down on the couch and she brought me a pillow and a duvet and covered me. I said, “Thank you, Ava Gardner.” She hesitated for a second and then smiled. She understood. She knew I thought of her as a beautiful person with a beautiful mind, and that I adored her. I closed my eyes.

  In the morning, as my eyes opened, I noticed her standing by the couch with a cup of tea in her hands. I knew she had been gazing at me. I sat up and said quietly but cheerfully, “Good morning.” I looked into Nat’s bedroom before I left. I stood there thinking of the smoke rising from hilltops in Kandahar, the puffs of smouldering anger as elders lit up their stoves and gathered around the glowing heat. I imagined them tearing into day-old pieces of stone-baked bread while the younger ones drew ambush plans with twigs on the reddish soil, their Kalashnikovs on their laps.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kandahar will Devour Us

  Winter had now settled in comfortably again.

  During the Friday afternoon, a snowstorm swept through the city like a spirit singing, pushing its way past the tall buildings, through the alleys, dumping tons of fine star-shine in neatly sculptured banks at every corner. The drifts swirled and lifted and stayed on second and third floor window sills, which made the houses in the Mile End district look like square-jawed brown faces, grim with greying moustaches and droopy white eyebrows. The temperature dropped below -9C and stayed there. Tall Hassidic men walked by at acute angles. They braved the biting wind as icy flakes came down like fine spears launched from dark clouds. They clutched their hats while curling locks flew about their ears. Their kids trailed them with their long white socks and faint looks. Everyone moved at the same angle, leaning into the wind.

  As it turned to night, the wind calmed. The half-moon sat like a cat perched on the clouds, cuddled and glowing and the snow-covered branches reached into the evening sky like a thousand open palms with long manicured nails. Myra and I talked by phone and decided to stroll through the snow before dining out, meeting at my place first.

  I was ready to go when she arrived, but she rushed upstairs to show off her clothes beneath her winter coat. She wore a black lace blouse and the silk shawl I had given her wrapped about her neck in a smart knot. We kissed. I told her she looked like Frida, as in Kahlo, with her dark eyebrows elegantly coiffed. She seemed pleased. She had just gotten two acting stints, so was in the money and joyously confident. She said, “I’m paying tonight. Let’s go to your parents’ place, okay?”

  We trudged through the heavy snow. As we walked by the clubs on St-Laurent, acid remixes of Tribe Called Quest pumped out with hungry bursts of tenor and bass and a beat box that went Digidigipampamparra . . . The people in the bars, with silk shirts open at the neck, behind the big glass windows sat hunched under xenon lamps on high red stools downing glasses of red and looked out at us struggling. Finally I flagged down a lonesome cab and we hopped inside. Myra reached her hand out to me and I held it gently. I thought it wise to initiate a conversation about the
food that awaited us, saying that my parents didn’t always get it right; there might be a problem with consistency.

  “That’s true of the best restaurants,” she replied gaily. “If you visit any good restaurant twice in a row and order the same dishes you’d probably be disappointed. Anyhow, the place has great reviews.”

  My mother was there to meet us. Although we speak frequently, I hadn’t seen her for a long time. She embraced both of us warmly. My father didn’t seem to be around. “I have something for you, stranger!” she said with one eyebrow raised. “Remind me when you’re leaving.” I had told my mom about Myra when I made the reservation, but she had promptly replied that my grandfather had already informed them of everything. In other words, there was an implied reprimand for discussing the girlfriend with the grandfather and not the parents.

  We began by ordering a light Indian beer atrociously named Taj. Then I asked my mother what she recommended. She promptly suggested special items that weren’t on the menu. Myra smiled and said, “Ain’t nothing like being related to the chef!”

  We started with large shrimps—they call them tiger prawns in India—soaked in vodka and roasted lightly in lemon, pepper, and a chili paste with diced onions, all floating in butter. My mother surrounded the prawns with neat swirls of avocado mousse. That was a hit. She had also developed a finely chopped dry lamb recipe, which she recommended to us. It was New Zealand lamb soaked in dopiaza- style sauce served with finely chopped onions and garlic with coriander and green onions on the side. It was very dry and dark. We had that with kulcha naans. Then she brought us a fish dish. I am sure if my father or grandfather were around she’d have been reprimanded for having the fish after the meat—not done in Bengal. In any case, the fish serving was one of my father’s recent developments: tilapia soaked in lemon and the Indian mustard called kasundi, covered with coconut cream, wrapped in banana leaves and steamed. She also gave us potatoes and zucchini cooked in a poppy seed sauce as a side dish. My parents, I realized, made confident forays into areas where few Indian restaurants ventured.