Six Metres of Pavement. Farzana Doctor

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СКАЧАТЬ accompanied the name “Ismail Boxwala.” Rather, there was amiable conversation, sincere greetings, and of course, Gallagher’s unexpected demeanour. Ismail had tried to follow along with this unfamiliar routine, hoping that he had responded in kind, appropriately shaking hands, talking to, and complimenting Lydia’s three-year-old (What a smart young man you are!).

      However, he was sure that once he was just out of earshot, Gallagher would lean toward the women, in that way that backstabbing neighbours do, and whisper, in not so hushed tones, the terrible history that kept him alone all those years. But when Ismail looked over his shoulder, he saw that they were not gossiping. Gallagher was back at work, raking leaves, and the women were pushing the stroller toward the house across from Ismail’s. Was it possible that he was slowly being unwritten from the history books? Was he no longer worthy of gossip?

      Ismail resolved to shrug off the encounter, not wanting to become too comfortable with its civility. But as he walked the rest of the way to the Merry Pint, he replayed the conversation in his mind, reviewing each and every word. Mostly, he evaluated his own participation, assessing whether he had said the correct, normal, expected things. He chided himself for one or two stupid-sounding errors. He also pondered the older woman’s attentions, and the feeling of ease that came over him when she looked his way.

      — *—

      As Celia and her daughter steered the stroller across the street, she regarded the honking geese above them. She disliked those birds for announcing the change of seasons, the arrival of cold.

      She couldn’t say why, but she liked the Indian man she had just met. He was tidy-looking; his thick salt-and-pepper hair combed into place, his jacket and pants crisp, even though it was the end of the day, and his face clean-shaven, without any hint of a scruffy beard-shadow. At the same time, his slight smile crinkled fine lines around his eyes, exposing something beyond his orderly exterior. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she felt its chaotic vibration. It made her wonder about him and where he was heading that evening.

      What was his name again? Something starting with an “I”? She asked Lydia later, who shrugged and said she’d forgotten, too. But remembering his name didn’t matter, anyway, because on that late September day, Celia had more pressing preoccupations.

      She needed to get home and see how José was doing. Her husband had called that afternoon, complaining of feeling ill and saying he was coming home early. It was so unlike him; he’d never missed a day of work in his life. And then there was her seventy-four-year-old mother, who had moved in over a decade earlier, after Celia’s father died. With advanced age, she was developing into a very fussy eater. Celia sorted through the cupboards and shelves of her mind; what could she cook for her mother today?

      She would file away most of the small details of that day, the walk with her daughter and grandson, and meeting Lydia’s neighbours, the stupid fellow and the polite Indian man. Instead, what remained were the irritations and worries; the sound of a flock of geese, her mother’s refusal to eat, and her husband’s chest pains would be the things indelibly etched in her memory.

      — 3 —

      Inert

      Ismail was packing up his things at work the next day, when Nabil, his older brother, called. A man in constant motion, Nabil had achieved many things that, depending on Ismail’s mood, he either envied or mocked, sometimes at the same time: a five-bedroom, six-bathroom home in the suburbs; a beautiful wife who was a successful realtor and his business partner; and two handsome sons. Since the tragedy with Zubi, Nabil had been consistent in his attentions toward Ismail, his brotherliness regular, if a little too routine. His habit was to call once a week to check in, usually on a Thursday around Ismail’s quitting time.

      That afternoon, like all the others, Ismail knew Nabil was phoning from his Mercedes M-Class SUV while speeding along the Gardiner Expressway. He often wondered why his brother liked to call on the same day and time. Was it a scheduled task in his BlackBerry? Perhaps one of the highway exit signs along the way reminded him of his only sibling, or maybe his filial duty kicked in whenever he passed the Brother Cookie Company in Etobicoke.

      Ismail envisioned him with his Trekkie-style headset hooked on his ear, as he simultaneously talked, drove, checked his text messages or whatever else needed doing, while traveling 120 kilometres an hour.

      “Nabilbhai. I’m just leaving work and —”

      “— Good, good. Life treating you well, then?”

      “Yes, things are pretty much the same. I’m thinking about another renovation in the dining —”

      “— One minute, another call is coming in.”

      And Ismail waited patiently, dutifully for his older brother to return.

      “Sorry, sorry. What were you saying?”

      “Oh, just that I was thinking about another renovation in the dining room, but will have to start getting estimates on —”

      “— Yes, always get a minimum of three. Sometimes four, even. And check their references. So many of these contractors are such scoundrels, under-quoting on price and time just so you will say yes and then doing a lousy job. I’d refer you to one of the guys I know, but they don’t tend to like small jobs in the downtown core.”

      “That’s all right, Nabilbhai. I have worked with a few good ones already.”

      “But Ismail, how long can you keep upgrading the house? Haven’t you done enough with that place? Seriously, how long can you stay in that house with its sloping floors and thin walls?” Ismail cringed while Nabil continued to insult his home. “Why not let me sell it for you? Then you can find a bigger place near us. Or if you want, we have so much space, you could even move in with us, take over the entire guest suite.” Ismail had always felt a deep aversion for suburbia, but his brother’s suggestions of family closeness, albeit geographical, felt like affection to him.

      “I think I prefer the city, Bhai. But thanks for your offer.”

      “Alright. Just think about it. Have to go. When will we see you next? Maybe on the weekend?”

      “Yes, maybe. I’ll look at my schedule.”

      “Good. Call Nabila and schedule it. See you.” Nabila was his brother’s wife.

      “Okay, I’ll call Nabila. Bye.” This was how the brothers ended most of their conversations, with promises to arrange to see one another soon. In truth, they tended to meet up every couple of months, Ismail’s inertia and Nabil’s momentum wearing at their filial bonds.

      Ismail did consult his day planner, but instead of calling his sister-in-law, he reviewed the short to-do list he’d compiled earlier: compare prices on new windows, go to Ikea and look at drapes, research sofas at The Brick.

      Ismail and Rehana bought the Lochrie Street house in Little Portugal as a starter home. It was a modest three-bedroom row house, bound to six others, all with the same postage-stamp backyards, flat roofs, and aging facades. The adjoining walls were thin, the joists of the entire row connected, so that when Mrs. Ferreira two houses down sneezed with vigour, her neighbours knew of her allergies.

      A starter home is supposed to be temporary. Ismail was supposed to be the sort of husband who would ascend through the ranks of the public service, his income rising with each annual promotion. Their two children were supposed to be born while they lived there and then, before the first little one started kindergarten, they’d СКАЧАТЬ