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  He shrugged. He’d never considered entering a program without first knowing what he’d do after graduation. It was important to have an endgame in mind. Know how you’re going to make a living before wasting money on a degree. That’s what everyone—especially his father—seemed to say. He was leaning toward something like chartered accounting or maybe pharmacy. He was good at math and chemistry, even if he didn’t like them. Shafina’s ideas seemed both ludicrous and liberating. “Do your parents know about this?” he asked.

  She laughed. “They don’t need to know everything about my life. They’ll find out soon enough, anyway,” she said, her face turning grim. “Larkin was right. You have to leave home as soon as you can. Before your parents screw you up.”

  Who’s Larkin? he wanted to ask but didn’t. He was entranced by the way she spoke. Her words flowed out of her with such strength but softness, too. Like gold, melting. It took him a few seconds to respond and even then, all he could muster was, “Oh, that’s interesting.”

  “Not like there’s anything they can do about it, anyway. I’m just going to get a scholarship and get out of here. Do what I want to do.”

  He could hardly grasp her meaning. As if she was speaking a foreign language. Doing what she wanted without the approval of her parents was crazy. He would never do that to his parents. “What university do you want to go to?”

  “It’s not just about the school. I want to be in the right city, you know. Montreal, New York, Paris, Cairo.” She adjusted her beret. “Calgary is so…” she rolled her eyes, “pedestrian. Who wants to live among cowboys? I want to be a moth, not a candle.”

  Her words continued to confuse him, but he liked the sound of them. The rhythm. “What does that mean…I want to be a moth, not a candle?”

  “Poets! I want to live among poets,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “You know, like Rumi. Don’t pretend to be a candle, be a moth.” She lifted her book and turned the cover to face him. Divan-e-Shams-e-Tabrizi, by Jalaludin Rumi. “You know him, right? He’s like, famous. Well, maybe not here and definitely not with those heathens,” she said pointing to the crowd.

  Ashif shrugged. He felt that he didn’t know anything. He hadn’t even heard of this guy, let alone read him. All the books on the required reading list at school were written by white authors. Maybe once in a while, he’d come across a foreign name at the library like Anita Desai or Naguib Mahfouz.

  “He’s Ismaili, you know,” she announced.

  “What? No way!” he said, bowled over. He’d never heard of an Ismaili poet or any Ismaili artists, for that matter. Authors, painters, musicians, actors. Nobody. As if they didn’t exist. But it made sense. You can’t make a living as an artist. So what’s the use of it?

  “He converted for Pir Shams. Well, that’s what some people say. But he’s definitely Muslim. They were lovers, maybe, or Pir Shams was just his mentor,” she said, scribbling in the margin of the book. “There are different versions of the story.”

  He was astounded by her openness. No one he knew talked about lovers or gay relationships. He felt he could say anything to her and it would be okay.

  “Here.” She tucked a bookmark into place then handed him the book. “Borrow it.”

  “No, that’s okay,” he said even as he took the book. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to return it to you.”

  “How about Thursday at the Beauty Salon?”

  “The beauty salon?” Suddenly, he felt conscious of his body the way he did in the locker room at school. He remembered how some of the jocks at school called him a sissy boy. “I’m not into beauty stuff!” he blurted out.

  “I bet Prince has manicures and pedicures. I mean, look at him.” She pulled her T-shirt taut. “He’s hot! But I’m not talking about that kind of salon, anyway. This salon is French. The n is pronounced nasally.” She repeated the word for him, enunciating slowly. “We read poetry, watch films, look at paintings. Anything beautiful,” she said with a glint in her eye. “We meet every Thursday at the Forrest Lawn library. Four o’clock sharp.”

  “Hey, Shaf!” Arzeen called from the bottom of the bleachers, waving her arms frantically. “Pappa’s here.”

  Shafina bolted up. “I gotta go.”

  Ashif stood up, too, his eyes fixed on the image of Prince on her T-shirt. He was in a leather jacket and chains, straddling a Harley. He was also pouting at the camera and his eyes were lined with kohl. She thinks he’s hot? The thought confounded him, and for the first time, he considered a new idea. Maybe he could be attractive, too.

  “Oh, and you’ll need one of these for the salon,” she said, tapping her beret.

  “I’ve got no plans to be in Paris any time soon.”

  “Try Kmart,” she said with a wink.

  He watched as she stepped down the bleachers, the pleats on the back of her skirt swishing like a mermaid’s tail.

  “How many members do you have?” he called after her.

  “Two now,” she said, turning back with a smile.

  His legs shook with a nervous excitement. He sat down, cradled the book. He’d never met anyone like her. He felt as if he’d been wading in a river all this time when suddenly, he was at its mouth, gushing into the ocean. He flipped open the book. His eyes landed on the line of a poem, underlined in brilliant blue.

  You are an ocean in a drop of dew.

  Chapter 7

  WHEN LAYLA GETS OFF the phone, she’s upset. That was Mukhiyani Ma of Headquarters Jamatkhana. She had called to place her regular order, not only for her family, but also for her phat, the table of nightly offerings she’s responsible for. Today, she asked Layla if she could order her famous chicken samosas, too. Layla refused, but she persisted. “Please, Layla Bai, give me the honour. Just this once. Lailatul Qadr is such a big night and I really want something special on my phat.” She’s got such gall! Layla knows she shouldn’t be so disrespectful to a jamati leader, but she is annoyed with Mukhiyani Ma. How many times can she say no? If anyone should understand the value of a vow, it should be her. There were countless others who had asked her, too, but most people had the decency to accept her no graciously. Everyone knows that Layla has taken a personal vow to never make her chicken samosas for anyone but the Imam.

  She had the privilege of cooking for Khudavind in 1992, his last visit to Canada. “He wants to eat my samosas, again?” she asked the councillor who delivered the good news. She could hardly believe her luck. It was hard enough to believe it the first time. In 1982, Layla won the chicken samosa competition during the Imam’s silver jubilee to celebrate the beloved Aga Khan’s twenty-five years since he came to the throne of Imamat, which was handed down to him by his grandfather, a direct descendant of the Prophet. The competition was sponsored by the Ismailia Council to ensure that the job, coveted by so many, was given this time to someone on the basis of merit rather than connections. They were in a new world now, and the Imam was keen for them to embrace a new philosophy: meritocracy. “Mediocrity?” she asked Ashif when she first heard the word. “No, Mummy. Meri-toc-racee.” He then tried to explain the meaning but she didn’t agree with the idea, not that she said anything. She hadn’t won the contest on skill alone. She knew there were greater forces at play.

  A lacquered portrait of the Imam in a white polo shirt, next to an Arabian horse, hangs on the wall in the living room. A red-and-green rosary is strung around the picture frame like a garland of flowers on a Hindu god, despite the clear but gentle instructions at jamatkhana asking people to please let go of these old traditions. “We are not idol worshippers. We are Ismaili Muslims, not Hindus like our forefathers. And the essence of our faith is esoteric not exoteric.” Next to the portrait, mounted in a locked glass display box, is a white plate with a twenty-four-karat-gold fork and knife glued to it like the crossed swords of a royal shield. Underneath, the bronze nameplate reads MRS. LAYLA M. VISRAM, CHICKEN SAMOSA CHAMPION, SILVER JUBILEE 1982.

  The Imam had been so impressed by Layla’s samosas that he sent her the plate as well as the cutlery he used to eat them. A divine gift! Normally, all items he touched would have been auctioned off to the jamat—like the Mercedes he was driven in, the throne chair he sat on during the ceremonies, or the silver knife he used during a cake-cutting ceremony. Not that any of the items (with the exception of the car) were ever used after they were purchased. That would be sacrilegious. Instead, the items were covered in plastic and placed on display in the homes of the winning bidders. Private museums scattered throughout the city, the country, the world. At first, Layla was hurt when she found out the Imam had not used his bare hands to eat her samosas but then she realized that it was not an insult to her but this is how he ate. After all, he was no ordinary man. He was the Imam! He carried the light of Allah in him. He must eat everything with a fork and knife. Just like the Europeans.

  From the kitchen window, Layla sees Mansoor pull into his parking spot. Why is he home so early? It’s only six. He doesn’t come home until she’s back from jamatkhana at nine.

  Mansoor walks in with a mess of papers pressed against his chest and his briefcase. “Where’s my son?” he asks, setting his things down on the dining table, crushing a napkin shaped into a rose. The table is already set for tomorrow’s lunch.

  “Tomorrow. He’s coming tomorrow for lunch,” she says.

  “Impossible! He said today.”

  “No, Tuesday. The day before…”

  Mansoor doesn’t wait for her to finish and walks away. She hears the door of his bedroom open and close. Her bedroom, too. The bathroom.

  When he returns, she reminds him that tomorrow is the right date. “The day before Lailatul Qadr, remember?”

  “Oh-ho, Layla. How would I know when that is?” He drags a dining chair out and sits down heavil
y.

  She quickly moves a plate setting out of his way.

  “Sometimes I can’t keep things straight,” he says, shaking his head. “Things are slipping away from me…”

  “Why don’t you rest for a little while? Then you’ll be fresh.”

  “There’s no time to rest!” he snaps. “I have so much to do. You know that.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I have to…a man cannot go out worse off than how he came in. I have to finish…”

  “Don’t worry, you will finish,” she says, though she is not sure what he means.

  “You think so?” he asks like a child looking for approval.

  “Yes, of course!” she says, trying to cheer him up. “Let me make you some tea, okay?”

  “Yes, tea. Let’s have tea. That would be nice,” he says, slumping back into his chair.

  Suddenly, her husband looks so small to her, as if his body has shrunk, and Layla’s mind begins to spin with worry.

  * * *

  Layla arrived at Vienna International Airport with a suitcase in one hand and Ashif’s hand in the other. He was close to two and now walking and talking. Almost a year after they first arrived in London, she received a letter from Mansoor telling her that he was at an interim camp in Austria. He had sent the letter through a man at his camp who had relatives in London. The man’s cousin, Farida, spent months making inquiries before she finally found Layla and Ashif. At first, Farida thought she had found the wrong woman. “But the woman I am looking for only has one child, not two,” she said, pointing to the bulge in the blanket tied across Layla’s body like a baby sling. “No, no,” Layla said, opening the blanket to reveal the hot-water bottle she used to stay warm. “It’s me, only. Layla Visram.”

  At the airport, she spotted Mansoor behind the glass wall of the crowded meeting area with his briefcase between his feet. He was wearing his wedding suit, the one he only wore at their anniversary parties. He had on the metal-tipped shoes, too. It was only when she pulled Ashif closer that she realized how much weight Mansoor had lost. The suit hung on him like a blue gunnysack. Her heart sank, as if into a swamp. What had happened to her husband?

  Mansoor raised his arms above his head and frantically waved at them, and her heart lifted. She pulled Ashif by the wrist and ran to him. Mansoor reached first for his son.

  “Look at you!” Mansoor kneeled down, his eyes moist with tears. “You’re such a big boy!”

  “Mummy!” Ashif screamed and locked his arms around his mother’s knees.

  Mansoor pried his son away from her, despite his kicks and screams, and pressed him tightly to his chest. “Pappa is so happy to see you!” He only returned him to Layla when people in the waiting area shot him dirty looks.

  “He just needs some time to get used to things,” Layla said, though she needed time, too. She barely recognized him, either.

  “You’re right,” he said and put his arm around her. “Come, let’s go.”

  He then told her he’d made all the arrangements for their new life. They were booked on the first flight to Montreal tomorrow morning. They were moving to Canada. He never asked her how she had coped alone in London, and when she tried to ask him about his final days in Uganda and the camp in Austria, he just shook his head. “What’s the use of talking about the past, Layla?”

  That night, they stayed at a small inn near the airport. When they made love, she could feel the bones of his rib cage.

  Chapter 8

  FROM HER KITCHEN WINDOW, Layla watches children scatter as a limousine winds its way through the inner road of the townhouse complex. Pedestrians stop, trying to make out who’s behind the tinted windows. “He’s here!” she shouts. She peels off her apron and tosses it on the kitchen counter. Underneath, an A-shaped dress patterned with tiny roses that she bought this morning. A new lipstick, too.

  At his desk in the living room, Mansoor stands up to face the window. A driver with a chauffeur’s hat jumps out of a limousine and rushes to pull open the back door. An arm holding a briefcase extends, but then the prairie sun escapes from behind a cloud and turns the window into a mirror. Now all Mansoor can see is an image of himself.

  Ashif walks up the front steps with a massive heart-shaped balloon attached to a bouquet of red roses. Inside, he’s hidden his mother’s spa certificate. He doesn’t want his father to know.

  At the front door, Layla taps her hair to make sure it’s in place and checks her lipstick.

  “Aye, Layla, he’s not a guest. This is the boy’s home.” Mansoor throws open the front door. Sunshine pours into the house. Tucked under his arm, two copies of his business plan, and a new set of loan forms he drew up with Ashif as a silent partner.

  Layla starts crying the minute she sees him.

  Ashif sets his briefcase down and takes her in his arms. “Hi, Mummy.”

  “You’re going to ruin your makeup,” Mansoor says.

  Ashif gently pushes her back. “But she still looks beautiful.” He gives her the roses.

  “Why, son? You shouldn’t waste your money,” she says, wiping her tears.

  “She’s right. They’ll be dead within days,” Mansoor says, feeling slighted. Not only did he say hello to his mother first, but his son did not bring him a gift. He never does.

  Ashif reaches a hand out to his father. “Hi, Pappa.”

  “Good to see you, son!” Mansoor shakes his son’s hand heartily. “Come in. Come in. Let’s go to my office, catch up before lunch.”

  “But the food!” Layla protests. “It will get cold.”

  “You can rewarm it, Layla. I have things to talk to my son about.” Mansoor reaches for his son’s arm.

  “Let’s eat first, Pappa. I’m really hungry,” Ashif says, though he’d had breakfast on his flight.

  Layla is elated. She hooks her arm in her son’s and leads him inside.

  Mansoor feels a flicker of anger. His son needs to show him more respect! But he doesn’t say anything. He’s bigger than that. “Yes, yes. Let’s eat,” he says and follows them in.

  * * *

  “So, what is your meeting about, son?” Mansoor asks, his elbows planted on the dining table as he mixes a plateful of chicken biryani with the fingers of one hand.

  “The company’s restructuring,” Ashif says, dipping a piece of dhokra into the date-tamarind chutney.

  “Downsizing?” Mansoor leans over his plate and stuffs a fistful of rice into his mouth.

  “Yup.” Ashif glances at the TV in the living room, which is turned to the news, but set to mute. The image behind the anchorman shows a sheep with a nameplate that reads DOLLY around its neck. The headline above reads WILL THERE EVER BE ANOTHER YOU?

  “Part of the sales force is being automated,” he adds.

  “It’s a brave new world, son! The digital revolution.” He taps the copy of his business plan that’s tucked under his thigh, readying himself to share his news.

  “They’re laying off about twenty percent globally. Over the next six months.”

  Mansoor raises his eyebrows. “Got to run a tight ship. Get rid of slackers.”

  Layla puts one rotli on Mansoor’s plate, then the other on Ashif’s, before adding the rest to a stack in the middle of the table.

  “Efficiency is the name of the game.” Mansoor picks up the piece of chicken and pops it into his mouth. “And it’s technology that will lead the way.”

  “Come on, sit with us,” Ashif implores Layla. He wants his mother to relax and join them instead of running around catering to them like she’s their waitress. He also doesn’t want to be alone with his father, especially now that the subject has switched from the weather and the news to business. Like a preacher at his pulpit, it’s always a one-way conversation.

  “I’m coming, bheta,” Layla says. “You eat, eat.”

  “Yes, eat, son. Don’t worry about your mother.” Mansoor folds his rotli and rips it into two.