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  The executive track is clearly mapped out. It has a separate route and leads to the top of the company’s organizational chart. The chart is divided into trading regions and sub-regions, each territory in the world clearly marked and managed. Level IV means access to what everyone at the company refers to as the Golden Room. Level IV managers receive stock options, increased expense accounts (particularly for entertaining clients), business class travel (and, if available, access to the company jet), membership to the Granite Club, and comprehensive health benefits. “With great power comes the golden handcuffs, Spidey, not freedom,” colleagues joked. “Once you’re in that room, they own you.”

  In the lobby, Rick taps a card on a security panel and the glass doors swing open. “Good luck this week.”

  As Ashif walks through the doors, he sees a faint reflection of himself in the glass, as if there’s another man trapped inside. He takes the elevator down to the twenty-sixth floor, where he weaves through a maze of cubicles, filled with administrative staff and junior salespeople, to his office in the northwest corner. His assistant, Patty, stands up from her desk and greets him with a stack of messages.

  “Anything urgent?” he asks as he walks into his office.

  “Just one.” She follows behind in small steps, her red pencil skirt and heels restricting her. “Serge needs to speak to you about the meetings in Atlanta next week.”

  “Okay. Get him on the line for me.” Ashif sets a massive binder with the company’s restructuring plans down on his desk. He sits down, rolling his high-back leather chair to his desk. In the building across the street, small, dark figures move behind the square windows like birds in glass cages.

  She hands him an envelope labelled FAIRMONT HOTELS & SPAS on the front. “For your mom.”

  “Thanks.” He’s sure Patty thinks he’s a mamma’s boy. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

  “Hopefully,” he says, though he’s never sure what his mother likes or wants. She never tells him anything directly. She speaks in code so that even when he was a child, if his father asked her if she wanted to go for ice cream and she answered, “Only if Ashif does,” he knew that meant yes. But his interpretations weren’t always right. He finds himself constantly worrying about her, even now when she’s thousands of miles away. As if she’s always with him, stuck to him like a foot on wet tar.

  Patty tells him she’s confirmed his hotel reservations. Two nights in Calgary, then on to Vancouver for two more. His limo to and from the airport are also confirmed.

  “Can you tell the limo company that there will be two stops in Calgary?” he instructs Patty. “I’m going to have lunch with my parents before I head to the hotel.” He writes down an address and hands it to her. “My parents’ home,” he says, though his parents would both admonish him if they heard him call it their home. In their minds, their home was his home in the same way that they thought his home was theirs. There was no difference between mine and yours. As if everything belonged to the family. If you believed anything else, you would be considered selfish.

  “That’s so nice,” Patty says, as she scribbles on her notepad. “You’re a good son, Ash.”

  When she leaves, he unlocks the top drawer in his desk, lifts the pen tray, and retrieves a bottle. In the distance, he can see an army of headlights moving down Bay Street. In the evening, he’ll watch the same stream in reverse when people return home, leaving behind office towers, like empty shells, with only the janitors and a few others, like him, at their desks. He taps a small white pill from the bottle. It’s tiny but he can’t manage without it. His doctor agrees. Ashif has been on anti-depressants for years now. He presses the pill to the back of his throat and swallows.

  Chapter 4

  MANSOOR PULLS INTO A shopping plaza, not far from his store, for his appointment with the bank. He closed the dry cleaners for an hour, putting a sign up on the front door to tell customers he would be back at 4:30 p.m., ample time for the banker to review his mortgage application. He gathers his things and steps out. A briefcase and an accordion file with all his papers. The store’s financial records, his tax returns (personal and business), the deed to his home. Ten years’ worth of numbers. But that’s how it is with bankers. You have to prove yourself, as you do in a court of law, except at a bank you are guilty until proven innocent. But he’s not worried. His store has a solid track record and he has the numbers to prove it. He’s also brought along three property listings from his real estate agent, although there’s only one he’s really interested in. An abandoned storage facility on the outskirts of Calgary.

  Outside, the sky is an endless patch of white and blue. The parking lot is a mess of snow and mud. As Mansoor crosses it, a man in torn clothes and long, knotted hair steps out from behind a Dumpster. He reeks of urine. Mansoor steps back, startled.

  “Spare some change?” the man asks.

  Mansoor hesitates, then he remembers Uganda.

  * * *

  Days after Idi Amin’s deadline to leave expired, Mansoor boarded one of the last U.N. charter flights out of Uganda. He found his seat through a haze of cigarette smoke. The flight was packed with stateless Asian men, men who now belonged nowhere.

  Soon after Layla and Ashif left for England, five army officers had stormed into one of his shops, brandishing machetes. They demanded money and the keys. Mansoor wanted to resist, but he was overcome with an intense fear. It was as if he were leisurely swimming at the Aga Khan Sports Club when he suddenly realized that he wasn’t in the pool, but in Lake Victoria. Bulging crocodile eyes surfaced all around him. He complied with the officers and quietly walked out of Visram P. Govindji & Son, Inc.

  He’d rushed home through the city’s back streets and packed within minutes. He then drove to the gurdwara with his house servant, Joseph, in the passenger seat. The Sikh temple was now the only safe haven for people who hadn’t been able to get out before Amin’s deadline. At the temple, Mansoor removed his suitcase from the trunk, then gave Joseph the keys to his Mercedes and the family house, too.

  The plane taxied down the runway and soon they were airborne. A few men became boisterous, yelling slurs out to Amin, “Good riddance, General Dodo.” Some, though, were certain he’d rescind his policy and ask them to come back. Not that they knew where they were going. Others spoke to each other in whispers, but most, like Mansoor, sat quietly in their seats and stared out their windows. In the distance, Mansoor could see the vast blue of Lake Victoria and below him, the city of Entebbe. Though Kampala was too far in the distance, in his mind’s eye, he could see the houses where he had lived as a child, each one larger than the last as his father continued to expand his empire. He could see the jamatkhana on Jinja Road where he played in the garden courtyard as a child; the primary school that he used to walk to with his friends early each morning, carrying his lunch of chapati and dhal curry; the years in secondary school with that same group of friends; the countryside where the family picnicked each Sunday, roasting sticks of spicy mishkaki on an open fire; his father’s first store on Martin Road, opened in 1929, and which he was allowed to manage by himself when he turned sixteen. He could see the Aga Khan Hospital where Ashif was born; City Bar where he celebrated the birth with a roomful of men; the Ismailia Cemetery where his father was buried. Soon, Uganda vanished under a screen of white clouds.

  Fourteen hours later, they landed in Vienna, where they were cleared through a special line at immigration then escorted into the arrivals hall to throngs of cheering Austrians. Some held up signs. Willkommen Refugees! Others reached out to shake their hands as though they were film stars. One woman gifted Mansoor a sandwich and a bag of chocolate coins. “We are very much sorry for your pain, sir,” she said. He didn’t want it, but he understood. She was only trying to welcome him to her country. He took the food and thanked her, though her gesture made him feel small. As if he was a beggar. Passing through the revolving door from customs into the arrivals hall h
ad spun him back in time. He was exactly where his father had been when he landed on the shores of Zanzibar sixty years ago. A pauper with nothing to his name.

  At the refugee camp in Austria, it soon became clear that only so many countries would take them. So many countries, like America, had turned their backs to the refugees, but not Canada. Pierre Elliott Trudeau generously opened the country’s borders to Uganda’s Asians, including the Ismailis. If it wasn’t for the prime minister, Mansoor doesn’t know what would have become of them.

  At the time of Uganda’s independence, the British had promised to protect those who were worried about a fever of excessive African nationalism; they encouraged people to maintain their British passports. But without Ugandan citizenship, the new African government would not allow Asians to operate their businesses. So, what to do? Stay in the safe middle. Stuck in the middle, more like it. Let the wife maintain a British passport and the husband can get a Ugandan passport.

  What bloody irony: Amin threw them out because Asians had split loyalties. Why hadn’t they chosen to become Ugandan citizens at the most critical time in the country’s history? You have milked the cow, but you did not feed it. Some said that Amin threw them out because an Asian family refused him their daughter’s hand in marriage. Then the Queen refused entry to those without passports even if their families had already been airlifted to London.

  During one of their history lessons, he told Ashif that the prime minister had rescued him by pirouetting into the Vienna refugee camp in a red cape and beret with a maple leaf on it before he scooped him up and away like a superhero. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Trudeau. Merci beaucoup. Since becoming a Canadian citizen, Mansoor insisted that he and Layla vote Liberal; she did (he hoped) even though she said there was no point in voting, especially during provincial elections. What difference could they make? There had been no change to Alberta’s Conservatives in decades. She may have been right, but that was hardly the point. Why couldn’t she understand such a simple matter?

  * * *

  Mansoor fishes out a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and hands it to the homeless man.

  The man kisses it and raises it to the sky. “Thank you, sir!”

  “Good luck to you,” Mansoor says, feeling a deep sense of pride and dignity as he steps through the bank’s doors. He is now the host, here in this great new country of his.

  The banker, Jon Brady, is younger than Mansoor expected. He looks about Ashif’s age and that pleases him. He doesn’t want some stodgy old banker who might have a hard time understanding new technologies and his groundbreaking business plan. Mansoor places a copy of his business plan, like a menu, in front of Jon. The banker sits back and scribbles notes on the business plan as Mansoor speaks with great enthusiasm about break-even point, sales volume, the Internet, and e-commerce. When he’s done, Jon praises him.

  “You’ve got a terrific plan here. Very innovative.”

  Mansoor laughs. See! He knew this would be easy. His plan is rock-solid.

  “My main concern though is that your debt service ratio is a little high,” Jon says.

  That makes no sense to Mansoor. “But I have no debt. None! I paid off the gas station debt years ago. I’ve even paid off my house. I have a clean slate.”

  “Yes, I can see that from your records.” He lightly taps his pen against his knee.

  “I never missed a payment. I was never late. Not even once.” Mansoor feels as if the banker is trying to convict him of something even though he is innocent.

  “Yes, I understand, Mansoor. But the debt service coverage ratio is connected to income, as you know. Your current income can support the payments, but from our perspective there’s just not enough breathing room if your income goes down.”

  “My income won’t go down! It will only go up now that I’m expanding.” He fumbles with his business plan and opens it up to a graph. “See that!” He traces the income line from 1987 to 1997, his finger like a gondola climbing a ski hill.

  “Unfortunately, we don’t lend based on projections. We need something more solid. It would help your case if you could secure your contract with the city first.”

  “I can’t secure the contract without the plant, Jon.”

  “Right. It’s a bit of a chicken-and-egg story, then. Sorry, that happens sometimes.”

  Mansoor digs his fingers into his knees. “But I’ve done business here for twenty-five years. The bank knows me. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “It counts for a lot. We truly appreciate your business. I just don’t have any wiggle room here. These are the bank’s rules.”

  Mansoor glimpses the framed certificate on Jon’s wall. Mount Royal College, Business. Is that all the education this boy has? No wonder. His bosses will be so angry if they find out how they treated him, let such a solid opportunity slip out of their hands. “My son went to business school at the University of Toronto. One of Canada’s top, but I’m sure you know that.”

  “It’s a tough school to get into,” Jon says. “You must be proud.”

  “Yes, very.” Mansoor’s chest swells. “My son got top marks, even won a scholarship, all expenses paid. Secured a top-rate job, too, of course.” Meanwhile, Mansoor has to listen to this lowly banker who claims to have a degree in business. “Can I speak to your manager?”

  “I am the manager,” Jon says.

  Mansoor is dumbfounded. What kind of operation is this? They’ll give a job to anyone who walks in off the street.

  “Look, Mansoor,” Jon continues, “you do have other options. You could consider a B lender. Companies like Abrahams & Abrahams. They’ll take on higher levels of risk.”

  Mansoor just nods. But he’s no risk! He would never use a B lender. Their interest rates are ridiculous. Might as well go to a loan shark.

  “How about a partner, Mansoor? Even a silent one. Someone who could act as your guarantor. That would give the bank the extra assurance it needs. Do you have anyone who could do that for you?”

  Mansoor shakes his head. “I have no one.”

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  Jon hands the business plan and loan forms back to him. “If your circumstances change, please come back to us. We’d be happy to help you.” Jon then stands up and extends his hand to Mansoor. “Thank you for coming in.”

  Mansoor’s legs tremble as he walks down the long hallway from Jon’s office to the front of the bank. He hears heavy footsteps behind him. He turns to see his father approaching. His heart races. He quickens his pace. So does his father.

  “I knew you couldn’t do it!” his father says. His words pound down the hallway, like waves through a narrow channel. “You’re useless. Utterly useless.”

  That’s all Mansoor can hear. He’s drowning in his father’s words. Drowning in shame.

  He doesn’t realize what has happened until he is on the ground.

  “Are you okay?” a voice asks.

  Mansoor turns to see a security guard kneeling next to him. Then, a wall of glass in front of him. Outside, a parking lot of cars and snow. On the floor next to him, the scattered contents of his briefcase. He touches his forehead as if he’s expecting blood. But there isn’t any. Just a throbbing pain.

  The security guard tries to help him up.

  “No, no. I’m fine…fine.” He presses a hand to the glass and raises himself up.

  Mansoor stares at the mess of papers on the ground. At the top, his business plan with the initials, AMV. That’s when it comes to him: Ashif! Of course. He can co-sign the loan for him. He has a solid job at a blue-chip company—and he’s doing so well there. He’s my son, isn’t he? He laughs out loud in relief. Normally, he would never burden his son with a financial matter. He was the head of the household, not Ashif. But he wasn’t asking his son for money. Of course not! He would never do that. He just needs his signature, that’s all. And who better to vouch for him than his own son? Mansoor’s shoulders begin to soften, his mind, too. He can finally relax. His son will
be here soon and then everything will be fine.

  Chapter 5

  LAYLA’S APRON IS STAINED with a day’s worth of cooking. The kitchen counters are dusted with flour, the hood fan is set on high, and all six elements on her stove are in use. On one of them, a bowl made of tinfoil lined with perfume-soaked sugar. It helps her fumigate the house. “Once you let those spices settle in, they are impossible to remove,” Mansoor always says. It’s the same reason he asks her to keep his clothes sheathed in dry-cleaner’s plastic. Otherwise, he says, his customers might run away. She doesn’t like it, but she understands. She knows white people don’t like food that is too spicy. Not that she has ever eaten at any of their houses, but she’s eaten at a few restaurants here to know.

  When Ashif was growing up, Mansoor insisted they celebrate birthdays at a restaurant. White Spot. Ponderosa. Chuck E. Cheese. He wanted his son to do what Canadian children did. She relented, arming herself with a bottle of mircha chili in her purse. But when she doused her food with it, Ashif made her stop. “God, Mummy!” he whispered harshly. “People are watching.” Mansoor agreed. He asked her to put the bottle away and she did. After that, she kept her mircha bottle at home and learned how to force the bland food down on its own.

  Layla lifts a heavy pot from the stove and shuffles to the counter, where she carefully sets it down. Scents of coconut and coriander rise from the kuku paka. She ladles the coconut curry, chicken, and eggs into the rows of Tupperware containers, stopping occasionally to shake her hands loose from the stiffness. She lets the steam escape, then snaps the lids on, running her finger around the outer edge to make sure each one is tightly sealed. She continues with the rest of the dishes on tonight’s menu then stacks each completed order into a plastic bag pre-labelled with the customer’s name. Meals that many won’t eat until they break their fast after sundown. Layla is fasting for the month of Ramadan, too. People fast for different reasons, but for her, it is a symbol of her dedication to the Imam.