Baby Khaki's Wings Read online

  Layla followed Mansoor back to his office, her worn-out penny loafers squeezing her swollen feet. “What kind of sign costs this much money?” she asked.

  Mansoor didn’t say anything. How many times did he have to tell her to leave the business to him? Stop interfering! He reached into a brown accordion file, pulled out a piece of paper, and slapped it on his desk. “Look at this. Red neon,” Mansoor said, hardly able to hold back his excitement. “It’ll get people’s attention—especially at night.” The paper had several lines and measurements under a sketch of block-shaped letters with the words OPEN 24 HOURS.

  “Twenty-four hours?”

  “Exactly! If we can tap into the traffic at night, it will definitely boost business. Look here.” Mansoor picked up a red felt pen and pointed to the same colourful charts he had showcased to Mr. Snelgrove. “The X axis represents nighttime traffic numbers, categorized by vehicle type, semis, passenger…” He continued, explaining his new business plan, which included offering specialty coffees and fresh doughnuts. “You wait and see, even the cop-las will become regular customers.” Another point: aggressively market the fact that people can park overnight in the abandoned lot next door. There weren’t any motels for miles, and what do those poor truckers do if they are sleepy or, worse yet, if they’re caught in a snowstorm? In the same way that they had expanded by adding the front store, this would be another phase of growth for Visram Speedy Gas & Convenience. Maybe phase three would include a bar and restaurant with large televisions where locals could watch the number one pastime, hockey. Mansoor didn’t expect Layla to understand the details of the plan, but suddenly he felt very pleased with himself. This wasn’t just a matter of surviving the recession: this was another step in growing the business. Yes! It was going to be a good year. He would turn the business around, and with the Christmas baby arriving soon, this would be the beginning of their new life here, the kind of life they were supposed to be living.

  Memories of Uganda swelled in Layla’s head. “But anything could happen at night…”

  Mansoor clucked his tongue. “Could you listen for even one bloody second?” He went on to explain that a doorbell would be installed and nighttime customers would ring for service. This way the store would be locked most of the night.

  “Please, I don’t want you to work at night. It’s too much. You’re going to kill yourself working like this.”

  Madre-chod! As if he couldn’t bloody well manage it, Mansoor thought. Hadn’t he survived much worse? He was fully capable of managing a 24-hour business. He was in excellent health. Did he have to remind her that he had been the boxing champion in the Lightweight Asian Division? Didn’t they even liken him to Muhammed Ali? Hadn’t people joked during the Ali–Foreman “Rumble in the Jungle” match that Mansoor should drive to the Congo and replace Ali? Why couldn’t she see him for who he really was?

  “I’ll rest in the afternoon, and until the baby comes, you can work part of the day. Plus the girls are now old enough to start taking a little bit more responsibility. They will work at the front counter for a few hours after school and on the weekends.” Mansoor pulled out a calendar on which he had already worked out their schedules.

  A sharp pain shot up Layla’s legs and into her back. She folded her arms over her belly. What kind of life was this for the family? This was no condition to bring another child into the world. Bad enough the children never got a chance to go anywhere. Always stuck here, in the middle of nowhere. And now there would be bells ringing all night? And what about going to jamatkhana? There was a small community in Red Deer that congregated for prayers in a hall. The family had been able to attend Friday ceremonies once in a while, and more important occasions like Kushali or Chandraat, but now they would never be able to get away from the business. And what about the Imam’s Silver Jubilee Padrami next year? All other families would surely be going to the celebrations, even taking many days off to go to Edmonton or Calgary, Vancouver and Toronto just so that they could all be together for deedar. For that matter, some would even charter planes from the world over, just as they had during the Imam’s first Canadian visit in 1978. Bad enough the children don’t get a chance to socialize with other children from the community, but not attending Padrami? This is worse than the jungle! Layla knew she wouldn’t be able to convince Mansoor, so she offered a compromise. “At least have an alarm system installed?”

  “Eh-ma, Layla. You have become a radio-mbafu. Same story all the time.” Mansoor tapped his pen like a drumstick on his palm. “Listen carefully this time. This isn’t Uganda. We’ve been here for ten years now. For God’s sake, when will you bury Uganda in Uganda?”

  The front door jingled and the children came roaring into the house. Layla turned and rushed to the kitchen. She still had to make dinner.

  —

  IN LATE NOVEMBER, the girls had asked their father if they could decorate the store with Christmas ornaments and maybe even get a tree. “Of course!” Mansoor was so proud of his daughters. They had easily taken on the responsibility of working at the store, and on top of it all, they were showing great potential by initiating new ideas like this one.

  Now Layla was perched on a stool behind the counter, her arms crossed over her swollen belly, as she watched her daughters.

  “Mummy, can we buy Christmas presents?” Sikin asked as she held a stencil of the nativity scene against the front window. Farzana vigorously shook a can of artificial snow and sprayed in Baby Jesus.

  “Isn’t your new baby brother or sister enough of a present?” Layla said, even though she had already bought each of them a small gift: a Judy Blume book, Deenie, for Sikin; a box set of nail polish for Farzana; and a Marvel comic, Captain America versus The Incredible Hulk, for Ashif. She had decided to give them the presents on December 13th, the Imam’s birthday, especially since they would not make it to jamatkhana for the celebrations.

  “As if a baby could ever replace anything.” Sikin delicately wiped away an error on Joseph’s face, her finger wrapped in a Viva paper towel.

  “I hope it’s not a boy. Who wants another brother?” Farzana overfilled the Virgin Mary by mistake; a glob of snow oozed down her body, leaving an empty strip in the middle of her.

  Just then, Mansoor walked in from the house, his arms filled with boxes of Christmas lights purchased at Canadian Tire. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl, as long as it’s healthy.” He placed the boxes onto the counter.

  “Exactly, as long it’s healthy,” Layla echoed as a sharp pain shot up her legs and into her back.

  “Look, girls, I have lights. Red and green.” Mansoor waved a box above his head. “We can string them over the Hawaiian palm tree and it will feel just like Kushali in Kampala, huh?”

  The girls nodded enthusiastically. “Great idea, Pappa.”

  Layla shifted on the stool, trying to find a comfortable position, while Mansoor opened the box of chocolates sent by Mr. Snelgrove. The attached card had a picture of the bank’s employees in front of a towering Christmas tree. Inside, in red script, it read, All the best this holiday season. From our family to yours, followed by many signatures, none of which Mansoor recognized. He also didn’t recognize anyone in the picture except Snelgrove, who had written in above his name, We appreciate your business. Mansoor felt great satisfaction in these words. He had made the last bank payment on time—a day early in fact—and Snelgrove had obviously made note of it. Mansoor knew how bankers, like all good businessmen, operated. Gifts never arrived without some hidden meaning: Snelgrove was obviously trying to butter him up, certain that Mansoor would one day be a business tycoon. Mansoor held the card open like a wishbone in front of Layla and pointed to the banker’s message. “See. Didn’t I tell you everything would be fine?”

  Layla didn’t bother reading the text. Her mind was occupied with all the preparations required for the baby’s arrival. “Inshallah, business will improve.” She leaned forward and reached into the box of chocolates.

  �
�Will improve? Already sales are up significantly.” Mansoor tapped her hand away. “Arrey, don’t just take any one. Check first. Don’t you know that many are filled with all sorts of rubbish—rum, Irish cream, and who knows what else?” He examined the descriptions on the inner lid of the box and chose one, the shape of a finger, and handed it to her.

  Layla shook her head.

  “Who’s saying don’t have one?”

  “Bas,” she said, focusing her gaze on the girls. “I don’t want one. I lost my craving.”

  Mansoor laughed in surprise and frustration. But it’s for her own bloody well-being! I’m telling you, there’s just no satisfying this woman. Even when things are starting to look brighter, she still insists on spoiling everything. If only this woman supported me rather than always causing problems, then surely, we would fulfill our dreams much quicker in this new land. I don’t know when she’ll learn to be more co-operative!

  —

  IT DIDN’T TAKE Mansoor long to become accustomed to waking up to serve customers. On some nights, especially the weekends, the traffic was quite heavy, interrupting his sleep seven or eight times. Yes, he was a little tired, but it was all worth it, he would tell himself. Besides, it was crucial to take advantage of what he called “Christmas traffic”—people returning from parties or on their way to visit family. Also, night customers were willing to pay more and surely they would start turning a profit soon. “Might as well get used to waking up, Layla,” he would say if she suggested that he turn off the 24-hour sign so that the family could have at least one peaceful night. “The baby is due soon.”

  Layla pulled the bedcover over the mound of her belly and tucked it under her chin. Her lower back was throbbing with pain even though she had taken an aspirin earlier that night. She preferred not to take any medication during the pregnancy, but tonight, she could not bare the pain. She hadn’t told Mansoor, certain that it would spoil his sleep; he would be up all night, worried about whether the baby was all right.

  “You’ve become such a toon-toon,” Mansoor teased, tapping Layla’s belly.

  “It’s going to be a big baby,” Layla said.

  “Of course. A Canadian baby. What do you expect? Maybe even a hockey player, huh? Who knows, you might be carrying the next Gretzky in there.” Mansoor laughed as he folded his Red Deer Gazette in half and tossed it onto the shag carpet. Layla rolled over to her side and pretended she hadn’t heard him.

  Mansoor had just switched off his bedside lamp when the front bell rang. “Customer,” he said, and quickly slipped out of bed. He grabbed his suit jacket from behind the bedroom door and put it on over his pyjamas as he rushed down the long hallway.

  A black Bronco truck with red and orange flames covering its front cab was parked in front of gas pump number three. Mansoor flicked on the pump switch, and then buttoned his suit jacket, tucking his pyjama sleeves up and out of sight. Outside, a short muscular man wearing a Santa Claus hat removed the gas nozzle. Next to his truck with its raised monster-sized tires, the man looked like one of Ashif’s action-figure toys. Mansoor chuckled out loud at his comparison. Yes, a tiny Incredible Hulk. If only he was green!

  The Hulk replaced the nozzle and ambled over to the truck, where he rapped his knuckles against the tinted window and cocked his head toward the store. A lanky man with long, straight blond hair jumped out. A mangy German shepherd followed. The Santa hat slipped down the Hulk’s forehead as they headed toward the store. Mansoor rushed to unlock the front door; he stood aside and held the screen door open with an outstretched arm. His customers came in, the dog following, sniffing at Mansoor’s feet.

  “Sorry. No dogs in the store.”

  The Hulk hiccupped as he pushed up his Santa Claus hat to reveal his glassy green eyes. “I know, for fuck’s sake. Rocco here is just taking a piss. You heard the man, Rocco. Git!” The dog shifted from one front leg to the other and then took a cautious step forward. The Hulk jabbed his cowboy boot into the dog’s belly. “I said git!” The dog darted out, yelping.

  Mansoor closed the front door and followed the customers to the cash register, where the Hulk threw a few bags of Cheezies and a Mars bar on the counter.

  “Is that everything, fellows?” Mansoor asked as he rang in the items.

  The Hulk leaned into the counter. “How’s about a package of Export A’s? Oh, and looky here, Scotty.” The Hulk pointed to the sign: YOU MUST BE EIGHTEEN OR OLDER TO PURCHASE CIGARETTES OR ADULT MAGAZINES. “What do you think, Scotty?” He turned to his friend, who stared blankly, his hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets. “Come on now, Scotty, don’t be shy. The man ain’t going to bite you or nothing.” He yanked Scotty’s arm and pulled him closer to the counter. “Come on. I know you want some. Just tell the man.”

  Scotty’s cheeks flushed red. “Can I please have a Hustler?”

  “Atta boy, Scotty!” The Hulk slapped his friend’s back. “That’s right. Scotty here would like to get himself a Hustler. It’s been a long time since we’ve been out hunting for beaver. Ain’t that right, Scotty?”

  Mansoor normally would have asked for ID, but he did not want any trouble. He had smelled alcohol on their breaths. Mansoor removed a bundle of keys from his jacket pocket and unlocked the drawer under the counter. “There you go,” he said, and slapped the magazine onto the glass counter.

  The Hulk flipped through the pages with titles like “Bigger and Better Juggs” across the top. He laughed. “A jug o’ beer and a couple of jugs is all a man ever needs. Come on, Scotty, take a look at these.”

  Scotty snatched the magazine.

  The Hulk pointed a thumb toward his friend. “See what happens when you deprive a man of life’s pleasures for too long?”

  A surge of anger rose in Mansoor’s belly. Why the hell had he allowed Layla to push him into carrying such trash? Once, he had even examined the poozee magazines himself—slipped them into his jacket when he went to the washroom. They were filled with filth. He vowed to burn every single one as soon as these bastards left. He rang in the magazines and informed the men of their total.

  The Hulk, his eyebrows knitted together, asked incredulously, “Holy Christ, you trying to rip us off or what?” He elbowed his friend. “Scotty, I think this here man is trying to rip us off.”

  “No, no. Not at all.” Mansoor tore the receipt from the register and showed them the cost of each item. The Hulk swiped the receipt out of Mansoor’s fingers. “What?” he said, examining the receipt. “Why the hell is the price of gas so high? Ain’t supposed to be this high.”

  “Oh, well, you see, the nighttime price is slightly higher.”

  “Are you pulling my leg? Bad enough Trudeau’s ripping us off and now you motherfucking niggers want to rob us high and dry too?”

  The word nigger shocked Mansoor—not because he hadn’t been called other names before, names like Paki. Paki, he could, in a way, understand. After all, he did look Indian or Pakistani—even if he wasn’t. But nigger implied black. And my God, if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was black! For this, Mansoor felt highly offended. Don’t these bastards understand anything? He wanted to push up his sleeve, rub his skin, and show these men that he was brown. Brown, madre-chod, brown! Instead, Mansoor shovelled the items into a plastic bag and offered a solution. “Tell you what. Pay for the gas only. The rest of the items are on the house.”

  “Is that right? Well, that’s awfully kind of you. But seeing that you’re in such a generous mood,” the Hulk slid the plastic bag back to Mansoor, “why don’t you fill us up with a few more packets of Export A’s?”

  Scotty shook open a centrefold as Mansoor threw more packets of cigarettes into the bag. They better not ask for anything more. This was it! He would not tolerate being taken advantage of.

  The Hulk’s laughter rumbled through the store as he retrieved the bag from Mansoor. “Why, thank you very much. And here,” he tugged the white pompom of his hat, “I’m supposed to be Santee Claus. Hey, Scotty, you need anything else? It
ain’t every day you meet a real fucking Santa Claus, eh?”

  Scotty stuffed a few sticks of beef jerky down his sweatshirt.

  “Come on now, Scotty, take a few more things, why don’t ya? Mr. Claus here has been kind enough to open his workshop for us—we ought not to insult the man.”

  Scotty grinned. “How about another Hustler?”

  “Please now. Enough is enough,” Mansoor said more loudly than he had intended. “If you can please just pay and go.” For a moment, he wished that he had listened to Layla and installed an alarm system.

  “Come on, Scotty, let’s get out of here. Looks like Santa’s got his knickers in a knot.” The men hooted with laughter and turned to leave.

  “But wait. You haven’t paid for the gas,” Mansoor said, rushing behind them.

  The men continued toward the front door. “Boo-hoo,” responded the Hulk, rubbing his fists to his eyes. “Cry me a fucking river.”

  Mansoor felt a flood of heat rise from his belly. In his mind’s eye, he was driving to the Sikh gurdwara with his house servant, Joseph, in the passenger seat of the Mercedes. The gurdwara was now the only safe haven for persons without status, people who belonged nowhere and who hadn’t been able to get out before Amin’s deadline. Mansoor stepped out of his car, taking his one suitcase with him, before he handed Joseph the keys—not just to his car but also to their house. The business was already gone. Soon after Layla and the children 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 had been swimming leisurely at the Aga Khan Sports Club when he suddenly realized that he was not in a pool but in Lake Victoria. Bulging crocodile eyes surfaced all around him. Mansoor complied with the officers and quietly walked out of Govindji Visram and Sons, Inc.

  No! Mansoor now said to himself. He would not let that happen again. All the things he had worked so hard for would not be taken away from him this time. He would not start over, yet again. How many generations would it take, he asked himself, before his family, his community, would have a permanent home instead of constantly leaving in search of a better life or being tossed out of one country or another, as if they were tennis balls in a political match? No! Canada would be different. Canada would be their permanent home. Mansoor knew he had no choice; he reached for the Hulk’s shoulder and held on firmly.