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Stories
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Excerpts
PHANTOM LIMB
[Short
Story]
On a Monday
Whether he first appeared on the screen or on the
stage makes no difference. Out of the blue he seized
the spotlight. His unseen Persian cat was meowing
softly.
I’d woken up with an old idea that turned into a
sudden decision. I’d stopped blogging after I
arrived in T.O. I would start it again. I didn’t
know why. Was I replacing the scene by the screen?
Would there be any audience? Was there anything
forbidden to say in public seeking a venue to be
expressed? In Tehran, I knew why I blogged. My blog
was a kind of leg, dragging me out of my cell and
linking me to other young guys who had no faces but
had a common language.
Swamped with my weblog/leglog thoughts I
rushed to kitchen for a quick breakfast before
running to work. Passing in the hall I heard the
phone rang. None of my roommates could be home --
they had to be in the cabinet-making workshop by 6
a.m. I grudgingly picked up the phone. It was
Farhad’s father. Long distance. I said he’d gone to
work and wouldn’t be home sooner than late evening.
He said it wouldn’t be easy for him to call later.
“What can I do for you?” I asked. Amid a sudden
noisy burst of Mandarin, I recognized his broken
Farsi with a heavy Kurdish accent, “Let him know his
mother’s right leg was cut off a little while ago.”
I tried to dig a sound out of my larynx, but I
failed. Farhad’s cat, coming out of his room through
the half opened door, gave a long meow, though.
We usually rehearse in the living room
after dinner. I asked Najib and Varuzh to deliver
the bad news. After all, my roommates had known each
other a long time. Varuzh and Farhad became friends
while both of them were refugees in Germany, one
from Armenia, the other from Iran. Najib, who’d fled
from the Taliban, had met Varuzh in Moscow before he
went to Germany. In their forties and in refugee
status limbo, they work at the same hellish
workshop. They all love the theatre. I didn’t know
them when I arrived in Toronto with a student visa,
plus a dream to become a theatre director who could
direct any play he wants without lousy conditions or
fear of censorship. Soon I found these guys, who
would die to act on the stage.
When Varuzh and Najib returned, Farhad
was not with them. He should have gone to see the
owner of another cabinet making workshop in the hope
to find a job with less hours and possibly more
wage. We discussed how to let Farhad learn the news.
"Who's going to be Farhad?" I asked. "You could be
Farhad, yourself," said Najib, pointing at me.
Varuzh nodded. After practicing a bit, I decided not
to play. It would be better if I oversaw their
performance. They didn’t disagree. When Farhad
arrived, we forgot the details of our prep.
On a Tuesday
I
wanted to drop a few lines about my own job; neither
it nor writing about it interests me right now,
though. What the hell can you say about working for
a renovation business that hires people without work
permits and pays in cash at the least possible wage!
This morning I said to myself maybe I'd better give
a second thought about the job my roommates'
employer offered me. Not that cabinet making was
more exciting than renovating, or Bottomless Gut,
their boss, was better than my boss. I was just
curious to see where and how my roommates worked. My
curiosity sounded weird to them. They often
responded briefly. They wanted to forget their
workplace and asked me about the stage.
Reluctant to go to work, I called my
supervisor. Before dialing, I didn't think about an
excuse, relying on my default option, a variation of
the cliché “My grandmother passed away.” Instead, I
said, "I just got horrible news from home – my
mother's right leg was cut off because of a silent
killer." I don't know why I told such a lie, maybe
simply because the Persian cat had come in again. As
I expected, my supervisor was deeply impressed by my
tone, to the extent that he suggested that I could
have two days off.
On my way to the cabinet-making workshop
on Keele, I took a walk through Little Jamaica. I
tried to figure out how Farhad would feel, daily
passing through this neighbourhood, where Najib and
Varuzh sometimes shopped, or ate and drank in cheap
restaurants. Didn’t he feel safe and secure among
people who had no idea of his home and language?
Bottomless Gut, having breakfast in his
office, interviewed me. There wasn’t that much he
wanted to know. It wasn’t the first time I was
looking for a survival job. This time I just
pretended to be interested. He was devouring
everything on a tray his wife prepared; she was his
secretary too. The tray had two courses. Canadian:
bagel and cream cheese, coffee with milk and sugar,
and Iranian: two slices of toasted “Barbari” bread,
Tabriz cheese, honey, cherry jam, butter, and a big
glass of sweetened tea. While boasted about his
achievements as an immigrant who’d come out on top
as a businessman, I was fascinated by his jaws’
rhythmic movement. His story didn’t appeal to me,
maybe because my roommates had repeated it: an Air
Force officer for the Shah, trained in the U.S.,
worked briefly for the Islamic regime, fled to
Canada, and started from scratch. My roommates were
interested in his story because they distrusted him
and suspected there was something suspicious in his
political background. But I didn’t care if he
smuggled, or had any connection with foreign
intelligence. What amused me was his kind of hunger,
which brutally exploited his jaws. Noticing that I
was watching how he ate, he changed the subject to
complain how hungry he was. Turning my head towards
the open door of the workshop, I imagined the hungry
hours Farhad had had, either in solitary confinement
or during his escape over the mountains from
Kurdestan to Turkey. Thank God Farhad didn’t suffer
from having his boss’s kind of hunger.
Back home, I wanted to study for the
college admission test. Hardly had I started than
the phone rang. It was Farhad’s father, reporting
his mother’s sufferings. The old man seemed to enjoy
doing it, particularly when the listener was a
friend of Farhad, not Farhad. Well, he was smart
enough to recognize his son was averse to listening
to him. “He never denies he’s hostile to his
father,” Varuzh once said. Yet Najib thought that a
love-hate relationship dominated them. Responding to
his words with “Oh, yeah” and “Hmmm,” I was watching
the cat go by with her tail up. Najib always says
that such a graceful Persian shouldn’t show her
asshole. When she disappeared behind the door, I
looked up and fixed my eyes on two pictures hanging
the wall beside each other. One was a small map of
Iran covered with painted patterns like a Persian
cat’s coat. The other was an old black-and-white
photo in a plain black wooden frame, showing a young
woman with lustrous eyes riding a horse and holding
a gun in one hand and the bridle in the other. She
had wavy long black hair over her shoulders and a
wan smile on her lips. She was wearing a Kurdish
man’s puffed up pants and turban. After hanging up,
I went to the door and stared at both pictures for a
while through the half-opened door.
When Najib and Varuzh returned, Farhad
was not with them. “He had a sore heel,” one said.
“He went to get a pain killer from the drugstore,”
the other one said. I asked about the picture of the
woman on the wall. Najib said that she should be the
girl Farhad loved long ago. Varuzh disagreed. “Oh,
no, she should be his mother. I know for sure he
never saw that girl. He could hear her singing in
the next prison cell. How could he have a picture of
her?” I wondered if we could ask Farhad about that.
Both of them assured me that he wouldn’t talk about
it. When Farhad arrived, we forgot about the
picture.
On a Wednesday
Just before the daybreak I heard Farhad’s moan
insistently disturbing my sleep. I resisted for a
while and finally I got up at 5 a.m. Sitting on the
edge of his bed with head hunched, he said he was in
pain. Suspiciously I asked whether it was his right
heel. He nodded. When I tried to look at it, he
angrily said there wasn‘t a bruise or cut. “So,
there’s no reason to be worried,” I said gently. He
wasn’t worried, he said. He was in pain. He thought
I didn’t believe him, just as the old man never
believed his mother. But after the surgery the old
man called every so often to let us know what she
said and how she felt. Farhad shrugged. He used to
call back home once or twice a month to talk to her,
but after the operation neither she nor he wanted to
speak to each other. If the old man could talk to
Farhad he would report details of what he did for
her. To Farhad, his words implied that he hadn’t
done anything for his mother. To change the subject
I suggested that I would cover for him at work while
he rested in bed. Despite the fact that he didn’t
like my method of getting myself sick leave, he
couldn’t resist such a nice offer.
Farhad’s boss was not displeased to see
me instead of Farhad. After all, Bottomless Gut
needed young workers in good health and with no work
permits. Unlike Farhad who barely spoke or listened
to others, he was good at conversation. At noon he
invited three of us to have lunch with him at his
office. Varuzh and Najib wanted to have their own
sandwiches but he asked them to share a special dish
his wife made. He was very proud of his wife, but
enjoyed boasting about her cooking rather than her
other merits. In the afternoon a new worker cut his
hand badly. She gave him first aid and saved his
husband having to take him to a clinic, maybe even
paying for medicine. Najib and Varuzh knew her
talents included convincing the safety inspector
that the workshop followed regulations. They both
believed that her most remarkable skill was
persuading workers, unhappy because of low pay or
her boss’s short temper, not to quit.
When we came back from work, Farhad
wasn’t home. The cat, lolling in its usual spot,
ignored us. “He must have gone for a walk,” said
Varuzh. “But his foot hurt a lot this morning,” I
said. Varuzh reminded me that Farhad would take a
walk whenever he felt stressed. “Maybe he had
another unpleasant call from home,” Najib said. I
remembered the latest call from Farhad’s father and
that he spoke of his wife’s panic at seeing a bulgy
stump instead of her leg. Varuzh, setting the table
for dinner with deli we’d bought, said that it would
be hard to imagine news worse than what he’d already
got. Najib nodded. Varuzh and Najib thought that
Farhad adored his mother. When Farhad showed up, we
were glad he could rehearse with us.
On a Thursday
This morning a sharp sound ended my dream of a woman
with wavy long black hair over her shoulders riding
a horse across a pure green plain. I jumped out of
bed. The cane the boss’s wife gave Farhad had fallen
to the floor. The cat, who’d leapt over the edge of
the bed, slowly lowered her guilty tail. I wondered
if Farhad would return the cane one day. Bottomless
Gut wasn’t happy with a troublesome employee like
Farhad, constantly complaining about a suspicious
sore foot. Yet his wife had convinced him to let him
take a short unpaid leave so he could go to the
hospital to have tests. She had also taken time to
find her father-in-law’s cane in their attic among
all other stuff her husband, a packrat, was used to
keeping. I examined the cane to make sure it wasn’t
damaged. Farhad shrugged. It was a very old
hand-crafted hickory cane with engraving on its
handle. Bottomless Gut wouldn’t be pleased at his
wife’s generosity. I gently put the cane on the bed
and got dressed to go with Farhad to the hospital.
About noon we left hospital. Walking
along the broad sidewalk of University Avenue, we
didn’t exchange a word. Farhad looked a little
disappointed that the tests hadn’t shown anything
wrong. I didn’t wonder at all, though. What
surprised me was what he said to the doctor. This
time he declared that the pain was expanding across
all the leg. While the doctor was examining his
right leg, it couldn’t move properly, but it was
unclear whether this was because of pain, or whether
the pain came from the lack of movement. It’s been a
while since Farhad stopped moving his right leg as
much as he should. When he described his painful
tingling sensations, I wondered whether it could be
of any help to let the doctor know about an
amputated right leg thousands of kilometers away
from here.
When I came home without Farhad, the
phone was ringing. I reluctantly picked it up.
Farhad’s father sounded excited. Yet he didn’t get
to the point. He asked about Farhad. I didn’t say
anything about his sore leg; it was unlikely he’d
believe it. After talking about the weather and
inflation he had brief news: Farhad’s mother,
forgetting her missing leg again, wanted to get out
of the bed and fell facedown on the floor. “Thank
God, she only bruised her forehead slightly.
Hopefully, Farhad won’t panic.”
When they got back, Najib and Varuzh
listened to the news sympathetically. “No wonder she
doesn’t believe it; after all, she used to ride
horses,” said Varuzh. “Poor old woman…” Najib
murmured. Varuzh interrupted him, “She’s 60. When
she gave birth to Farhad, she was barely 15. She
married a man 20 years older and now the old man’s
still in good shape while she’s rapidly fading.”
Najib and I turned involuntarily looked at the
picture on the wall. Varuzh asked me where Farhad
went after his appointment with his doctor. I
shrugged. How could I explain to him what happened?
We were walking on the sidewalk in silence with our
heads down, our eyes fixed on legs moving around us.
We were watching women’s legs, not those covered by
pants or even nylons, but naked legs full of life. A
pair of well-shaped porcelain- white legs moving
quickly ahead of us. I remember the clicking sound
of Farhad’s cane on the ground as we followed them.
But all of a sudden I first missed the legs, and
then the sound. When I turned up my head, Farhad
wasn’t beside me. Varuzh didn’t repeat his question.
We all knew no matter wherever Farhad was, he’d be
home for our evening rehearsal.
On a Friday
I
started my day with doubts about my blog. It was
neither a weblog nor a leglog; it had no readers and
linked me to no one but Farhad. I wanted to see
Farhad on the stage, not on the screen. Claiming
that I had diarrhea, I left work in the early
afternoon and rushed home to get the stage set
ready. Standing in the middle of the living room,
pondering props, I spotted the cat squatting as
motionless as a plaster cast on the bed, her profile
visible through the half-opened door. She was
exactly under the map, and from my perspective they
both looked dull. My eyes turned towards the picture
in the black frame. For a moment I was seized by the
charm of those lustrous eyes and the sorrow of that
wan smile.
I finished getting the living room ready
as a stage. Despite the fact that I felt something
important was missing, I was more or less happy with
my changes and I expected to surprise Varuzh and
Najib. Instead of having two pictures on a wall
behind a half-closed door, I moved them to the
living-room. I was sure I couldn’t control the cat,
but looked forward to her usual comings and goings.
Yet my ace in the hole was the mirror. One boring
Sunday afternoon, killing time on Bloor St., my
roommates and I ended up shopping for stuff that
could be used for our future performances. It was
Farhad who’d first been fascinated by this mirror
laid among other trumperies on the back shelves of
the Salvation Army thrift store. Najib and Varuzh
were unhappy with the price. “God knows how many
things you could buy with 7 bucks!” said one of
them. It was worth it, though. A bit rusty at the
edges, it was a middle-sized oval with a
silvery-white wheat pattern at the bottom in a fine
thin silver frame – one of those you could find on
the mantelpiece of many houses as wedding keepsake.
Varuzh and Najib returned, but Farhad
was not with them. At first they didn’t pay
attention to the surprising changes. Instead, they
shocked me with their news: in order to replace a
newly fired labourer Bottomless Gut wanted Farhad to
unload the truck. In less than half an hour they
heard him scream. A timber had slipped from his hand
and struck his leg. Najib and Varuzh wanted to take
him to the hospital right away, but Bottomless Gut’s
wife assured them that she could handle it. A couple
of hours later Bottomless Gut came in, “My wife
called a minute ago. Thank God, it’s not fracture,
just badly bruised. She’ll take him home after he’s
done. Don’t worry!” When they finished, I didn’t ask
if it was his right leg or left leg. In less than an
hour, Farhad returned. He was on crutches with his
right leg covered in white bandages. The woman was
beside him. She and Farhad had small smiles. Farhad
didn’t look unhappy; in fact, I could see deep
concealed joy in his face. But the woman’s sad smile
reminded me again of something missing. For a moment
I heard in my head a tune hummed by an unseen girl
condemned to death.
On a Saturday
This morning I got up excited. We were going to have
our final performance. Bottomless Gut called and
asked us to work overtime. Needless to say he heard
“Sorry.” Saturday was the day for laundry, cleaning,
and grocery shopping. I went out to shop, while
Varuzh and Najib did domestic chores. Farhad, exempt
of duties, was resting in bed, talking to his mother
over the phone, playing with the cat, and listening
to his favourite folk music. Well, what else could a
one-legged man do? Since the moment we realized that
his right leg didn’t work any more, he started
regaining his confidence as well as his good humour.
He also began to call his mother every week. The
poor woman, who still couldn’t believe her loss, was
shocked to learn that her son had only one leg too.
Yet this shock led to a reunion. As Farhad said,
she'd accepted it as their fate. Varuzh disagreed
with Farhad and Najib didn't go along with Varuzh.
We couldn’t agree on what Farhad was feeling. In
fact it took a long time to look at him as a man
with only one leg, the other leg bent and tightly
bound to the thigh, hidden in the loose folds of
Kurdish pants.
In the afternoon we worked on getting
the stage ready for our after-dinner play. Even the
cat seemed excited. I got a bit nervous about the
cat’s moving around with her tail sometimes arched
over her back, sometimes held vertical. Farhad
believed we couldn’t control her. Before dinner we
checked everything for the last time. As our stage,
the living room was as empty as it could be.
Lighting design was confined to a candle on one side
of the stage where Varuzh was going to play the role
of Farhad’s father, and an incandescent lamp on the
other side where Najib was going to play Farhad. On
Farhad’s father side we had the map on the wall and
on the other side the picture of the woman hung. The
small mirror in between alternatively reflected the
father and son. The cat, wondering around, was
expected to belong to both sides. The used recorder
with the old tape containing a repeated folk tune
hummed by a fine female voice was all we had for
sound or music. Farhad had found that it was the
closest to what the never-ever seen girl in solitary
confinement used to hum before her execution.
After our supper, Varuzh and Najib started the play.
Farhad was not with them. He was with me. Farhad and
I were at once audience and director.
On the last Sunday
Whether Farhad disappeared on the screen or on the
stage makes no difference. Out of the blue he seized
the spotlight, then vanished. I was left alone with
a silent cat, a creased map, a time-stricken
picture, and a humming tune stuck in my head.
I'd woken up with an old idea that turned into a
sudden decision. I’d stop blogging in order to let
my phantom roommates, with their leglogs pass away
and free me of my weblog. But daytime was for
errands, or making extra money, or studying for my
course, or having fun. Grabbing a bite of bread and
cheese, I rushed to the workshop.
Bottomless Gut and I were alone the whole day. His
wife doesn’t show up in the workshop weekends. I
left my workplace in the afternoon and went to the
library to study a bit. When I came home, it was
supper time. My small place, laden with silence and
darkness, was empty. I didn’t feel hungry. Possibly
because I had lunch with the boss, who always made
me lose my appetite watching how he ate. Or it was
because I felt a bit betrayed. But who betrayed who?
A moral approach didn't make sense. It was just the
right time to leave. My roommates were once with me
and now they were not with me any more. That was
all. I went to my desk and turned on my laptop. What
I saw on the screen before I turned it off was the
last scene.
Farhad’s in the middle. Najib and Varuzh flank him.
All stand motionless, staring out at me. Yet their
looks don’t reveal anything, as if they are looking
at the void. Each has only one left leg covered by
pants and shoes. Their right pant legs are folded up
to knees, and there’s nothing below. Without
crutches or canes, they still look comfortable.
Behind them is a long wall with a cat-like
silhouette and a gloomy picture in a black frame.
There is no sign of the mirror or any other props.
Other than the white wall and their pale faces,
everything else, including their suits and shirts as
well as the floor, is black. Their hands are hidden
in their pockets. The background sound is a sad tune
hummed by a fine female voice that keeps in time to
the purring of an unseen cat, who is fast asleep.
Toronto, 2007
CORRESPONDENCE
[Short
Story]
Letter # 1
Dear
friend,
I am
indeed thrilled I’ve finally found a friend I can write
to, if not talk to. I hope that you don’t mind if I
number my letters to keep track of them easily. I trust
this letter will find you well. I’m OK too. People say
that life isn’t perfect, but I have to admit that I’m
really fine. I don’t have any serious health problems.
I have enough monthly income to live modestly. My new
place is also fine – not as big as my house in Tehran,
but enough space for a widower like me. It’s a bachelor
on the first floor of a low-rise building. My son says
I’m lucky he’s found such a nice affordable place where
I can keep my privacy. He is absolutely right.
Although my son and his wife were very nice with me
while I lived with them, I didn’t feel comfortable and
happy. That’s what he says, and he’s right about that,
too. He’s got a good head on his shoulders and he
always says the right things. That’s why I didn’t say
no when he said, “Dad, you’re alone in Tehran, sell the
house and come to Toronto to live with us.” My new
place has a window that opens to a narrow alley at the
back of the building. A room with a window facing an
alley, exactly like what I had in Tehran, when my son
was a baby. He always wanted me to hold him up so that
he could see the alley. “Isn’t it what you wanted?” my
son said on the day I moved in. He can read my mind.
Across from my window one sees the back yard of a big
house with a very old tree and a wooden fence. Opening
the window, my daughter-in-law said, “Look, Dad, here is
your garden, but you don’t have to worry about
collecting leaves.“ I nodded. She’s such a smart
woman! An old plane tree like this produces tons of
leaves in autumn, I said approvingly. My son commented
that it was a maple, not a plane tree, and my
daughter-in-law smilingly reminded me that I was living
in Toronto. You know, I’m very happy to have them
refresh my memory. How about you? Do you have a good
memory? Or do you too have someone refresh your memory
for your benefit? The family doctor, who my son took me
to once, said that I had to work on my memory. That’s
how my son interpreted his words. I promised to do
that. I asked my son to tell the doctor how I’ve always
been proud of my memory. I still remember clearly how
many nests of crows were in the plane tree beside my
father’s house. My son nodded and said a few words to
the doctor, who nodded and smiled back at me. Canada
has such understanding doctors, my daughter-in-law
commented the other day. Now, every morning after my
breakfast, I sit back on my armchair and think about my
files. Believe it or not, it’s never tough for me to
remember where to find one file and where to find
another. My letters of appreciation, of which only a
few are framed and hung on the wall in front of me,
prove that I was the best archivist in Tehran’s birth
registry. The one that I received in my first year of
service had golden decorations in the margins.
Moreover, my clients were happy when they noticed that
I recalled details about them and their families. “Hey,
man, you’re lucky to be the father of seven daughters –
don’t tell me you’re here for the eighth one!” Or, “My
friend, I’m so sorry you lost a baby son again.” Or,
“Look, old man, are you going to kill your wife with
non-stop babies?” Well, I didn’t make a big effort.
You know, I just did my job and my brain did its job.
That’s it. How about you? Do you have a rewarding job
too? Does your boss appreciate your faithful work? I
don’t expect you to write me long letters. We’re both
busy, just like other people. It’s nice, though, to
have a line once in a while from a dear friend like you.
Yours,
A.
Letter # 13
Dear
friend,
Interestingly, you are as well-organized and punctual as
me. That’s why I receive your letter every other
Monday. Certainly, you get my letter on time, too.
You’re so important to me that, on the appointed day, I
sacrifice my morning memory exercise and go out after
breakfast to mail my letter to you. Such has been my
routine since we started to correspond. Sometimes, on
my way back, I get off the bus one stop ahead to have
tea in a coffee shop always full of elderly men
discussing world affairs or playing backgammon. Well,
my son thinks that it’s good for me to socialize with my
peers. They are immigrants too, so you shouldn’t be
ashamed of your broken English. That’s what he says.
Obviously, he has no idea of the time the Allies’
soldiers were hanging around the streets in Tehran. Who
was ashamed then? A school boy like me who spoke French
fluently, or those tall lads who couldn’t understand
Farsi or French? This aside, what do I have to say to
these talkative old folks who think they know how to
solve the world’s problems? Occasionally, I play
backgammon with a quiet Greek man who never joins the
others’ political discussion. Otherwise, we might have
argued about our ancestors’ wars. To make my son happy,
I’ve told him about this Greek guy. You can practice
English with him, my son says. Do we need English to
play backgammon with Greeks or to fight with them? What
about grocery shopping? my daughter-in-law once asked.
I certainly don’t like to disagree with her, because
she’s really nice. That’s why I didn’t say no when she
encouraged me to go to an evening dance class for
elderly people. But you know how these old women are.
To know your life story doesn’t make them happy enough.
They want to know the whole history of your tribe. And
when you talk about history, obviously you step on their
toes in a way that no apologies can make up for. You
become ashamed. My daughter-in-law agreed with me and
gave up the idea of the dance class. What about you?
Do you have to go to any classes? “No matter how old
you are, it’s wonderful to go to classes, either to
learning something useful, or just for the fun of it,”
she used to tell me when I was living with them.
Certainly, I have no doubt about things like this. You
should know that I’m not fanatically trendy; I simply
want to avoid stress. Tell me, honestly, isn’t it
stressful to be a gentleman? Or worse than that, to face
non-stop challenges to show that you’re up-to-date?
Anyway, you surely know what I mean. That’s why we are
very willing to communicate with each other. You may
know that nobody writes me, other than you. How about
you? Do you have any relatives or friends to write
you? Are you a widower like me? I wonder if I already
told you about the day of my wife’s funeral. A bright
winter day, exactly like today, the sun in the sky, the
snow on the earth, and the house was as crowded as if
all the people who she had ever met were there. The
week after, I found myself as alone as Adam was in
Paradise. To tell the truth, I was not unhappy at all.
The only problem was that I didn’t know what to do.
When my wife was alive, she assigned me duties, either
outside, like shopping, or inside, like changing light
bulbs. I found myself a man without duties, as if she
had taken along all the errands with her into the
underground. Such a considerate woman she was! There
are so many things one can do. That’s what they say – I
mean my son and his wife. Of course, there are so many
things to do. But does a wise man bother himself doing
so many things? Surely you would say no, for you are a
wise man too. Anyway, I’d better end this letter now.
You’ll forgive me for being so wordy.
Looking forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours,
A.
Letter # 27
Dear
friend,
I
hope this letter will reach you on time and find you
well. In fact, I should have written you yesterday, but
I didn’t. You don’t think that it happened because of
my memory is dysfunctional, do you? For some reason I
was simply absent-minded. What did I do? Well,
probably, the same things I do every day. For sure, I
had breakfast because I don’t remember being hungry
before lunch. Maybe I had my lunch in the morning and
my breakfast at noon. I have to confess that this
happens sometimes. To me it’s not a big deal, despite
the fact that my son takes it as a serious proof of my
decline. Anyway, in the evening, I watched TV in my own
style, which means with the mute button on. If my
daughter-in-law found out that I watch TV but I don’t
listen to it, she would blame me for not taking this
opportunity to improve my English. You don’t think like
her, do you? Please, don’t ask me which channel, or
which program, or what time. I don’t pay attention to
things like these. My son insists on convincing me that
I should work on my short-term memory. He says that I
can’t remember what I’ve just done or seen or heard. I
don’t argue about things like this, but I tell you he is
wrong. What problems do I have now? Well, anybody may
forget what he is supposed to do now or where he put his
key or which bus stop he should get off at. These are
all trivialities. Anyway, what’s up in your world?
Nothing special? Are you bored? This is how I easily
amuse myself: I collect all flyers, catalogues,
brochures, and free newspapers. I categorize and file
them in the used binders I buy at garage sales or the
Salvation Army shops. I tag binders and shelve them
beside my books on the book case. This is something,
though my son and his wife think it is a useless hobby.
My policy is not to argue with them. Otherwise I could
prove to them that it’s no more futile than all the
other hobbies. Needless to say, one may do all the
things people do to amuse themselves, like reading
best-sellers, listening to the news, watching soap
operas, etc., etc. But tell me, do we have to follow
others? Sometimes, I put my armchair close to the window
and look out. But despite what my daughter-in-law
thought, I don’t enjoy watching my neighbour’s garden.
This old tree hardly ever attracts crows. It might be
because crows like Tehran more than Toronto and planes
more than maples. No wonder if such is the case. So,
why do I sit next to the window? Well, occasionally I
like spying on the squirrels running up and down the
trunk or jumping from a branch to another, though they
are not as amusing as the stray cats parading day and
night in all the alleys and streets of Tehran. What I
enjoy most is staring at a point, each time a different
point, either in midst of the foliage, or on the pointed
tops of picket fences, or at the edge of one of two big
trash bins and letting my mind go wherever it wants to.
Definitely you won’t ask me what’s the use of it, as
they would if they noticed me sitting by the window for
hours. They think whatever I do is useless. Well, it
might be true, though I doubt what they do is useful
either. You know what I mean, don’t you? You may say
that it’s a matter of different generations. I would
say it’s a matter of … anyway, let’s change the subject;
I forgot the word I meant. Thank God you don’t have
such problems with your children. But tell me if you
have any children at all. Please pardon my ignorance.
It’s not that I’m not concerned about you.
Looking forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours,
A.
P.S.:
My
son came by this past Monday to bring the cheque for the
landlord. As it happened, he ran into the mailman in
the lobby and took your letter from him. He was
surprised that I had a letter from a Toronto friend.
Letter # 30
Dear
friend,
I’m
hoping to find a way to get out and mail this letter to
you. You should know that they keep a close watch on
me. Can you imagine that one day your son forbids you
to go out? He is not alone; his wife is his
accomplice. They’ve threatened me to send me to a
nursing home. Shame on them! Don’t tell me to be
patient with them. How can I ignore their malicious
behaviour? They say they do this for my own good. Is
it good for me to stop communicating with you? Do I
have any friend other than you? My son suspects your
letters just because they’re sent from Toronto. I wish
you were in Tehran. But then, how could I correspond
with you? Moreover, I don’t remember if I ever heard
from you when I lived in Tehran. Maybe it was my wife’s
fault that never left me without errands after my
retirement. I know it’s not good to badmouth a former
wife, but I can’t help my mouth shut while I see that
her son and her daughter-in-law are intriguing against
me. Yesterday, no, the day before yesterday, I don’t
remember if it was in the morning or in the afternoon,
anyway, when I was leaving home, the superintendent
barred my way and gave me a piece of paper with a note
in Farsi saying, ”Dad, if you need to buy anything or
mail a letter, please call me. I’m worried in case you
get lost. Love, your son.” Can you believe it? As if
I’m a kid, not knowing what to do or where to go. Isn’t
it insulting? What does the guy, the superintendent,
think about me? Thank God, he doesn’t know Farsi. You
ask me what I did? Well, I smiled and nodded and
thanked him. In order not to raise more suspicions, I
didn’t leave the building. Yet my daughter-in-law
called me later and asked if I needed anything. Then
when I was in bed, my son called and said he just wanted
to be sure that I was OK. How nice they are! They poke
their nose into my life and claim they care about me.
In fact, they are obsessed with our letters. They can’t
stand that I have a relationship with someone other than
them. Remember how many times I wrote about their
insistence on my socializing with others? Dad, you
should be more outgoing! Dad, isn’t there any nice
woman in your ESL class? Dad, it’s not bad to have a
drink and chat with friends. Well, now you see how
hypocritical they are. The first time he noticed I had
a letter from you, he said, “Very good, so you have a
pen pal friend now, but why don’t you meet each other?”
How did he know that we hadn’t met each other? He was
suspicious from the very first moment. I may forget my
address, or my phone number, but I’m sure that I never
ever said anything indicating we hadn’t met each other.
Honestly, I doubt we hadn’t. I mean not in Toronto, or,
maybe even not in Tehran as far as I can remember. But
in the very past, perhaps, somewhere I don’t recall, I
guess I met you. Don’t you think so? And then we lost
track of each other. I, myself, got swamped – with
duties and errands. Well, that’s life. I’m happy I
found you again. This time, I’m not going to lose you.
I’m not saying that I regret I was a good employee or a
good family man. One may say that I was this and that
by nature. What I regret is that I didn’t have any
secret for myself. You know what I mean. I’m sure you
value our secret too. No matter how my memory works, we
write letters and we mail them. I take enough
precautions. What else do they want me to do? By
living on my own I’m proving to them I’m not crazy or
incapable of taking care of myself. Why should I live
in a nursing home? I don’t deny that sometimes I make
mistakes. However, it has nothing to do with my
intelligence. Yesterday, or the day before yesterday, I
had no plan to go out to mail the letter. I did that to
cheat them. Moreover, on my last phone conversation
with my son, I said to him, “One would have to be an
idiot to write to oneself. You don’t think your
father’s an idiot, do you?” What did he say? Well, he
believed me. Now it’s time for you, my dear friend, to
believe that I will mail this letter to you soon, in
good time. Don’t ask me how! I’ll tell you in my next
letter, if I don’t forget.
Yours,
A.
New Haven, 2006
Published in “TOK: book
2”, 2007
[Originally written in
English]
AN ABSURD REPORT
[Short
Story]
In my
serial nightmares there is a border crossing that takes a different name
each time. When I wake up, I don’t remember this name. What comes to me
first is a huge wave of horror – my fear of the next nightmare. It swallows
me and for a while I get lost in the deep down of an unknown ocean. Then the
daylight pushes it back, and I find myself alone on a deserted sandy beach
with my skin exposed to the viscous bodies of tiny bugs – the remains of the
past. I recall lines and shapes, frames and faces, images and hallucinations
- all vivid, all without a proper name, but each labelled.
Down there
I’m called "the female", as an officer refers to me in his report to his
supervisor. I see the officers’ nametags on their chests and I recognize the
letters. In no- name territory, they don’t produce a name. I cannot summon
names - either their names or even mine, or of my son, my daughter, my land,
and you. This is an unwritten law, and I know that I am appearing before the
law.
It is not a
court, but a scene. No accusers, but a bunch of dutiful guys doing a great
job in the midst of the never-ending comings and goings of grotesque aliens
from some freakish planets. No accused, but an actress in the role of an
interviewee. To get through the ordeal, she must suppress her voice. She
employs all her energy not to utter a word. But she imagines what she might
have reported to you about just one episode of many:
The other
evening my daughter phoned to talk to me. My son said to her that I had gone
with you to have dinner or lunch. She told me later that she had laughed. At
that time, somewhere around the ravine, we were having our breakfast – mine
toast and an omelette called something that sounded strange to me; yours
pancake and maple syrup, bacon and potatoes, and coffee, an ordinary course
for you, I guess.
A few days
later, at noon, in the familiar customs investigation room, I had my next
breakfast – dark coffee without any taste or aroma, in a half-full,
half-empty Styrofoam cup. It was my treat, offered by the officer after the
detective had left me alone. I sipped my coffee and thought that we would
have had our breakfast, noonish, somewhere around the ravine, if I hadn’t
had my birthplace in my passport, or if I hadn’t been born with a special
label pasted on my forehead.
A couple of
hours ago, before the check-in booth, once again, as sleepy as I was during
all the past episodes or as I would be in all the future ones, I had stared
at the black back of the desktop – uninterested in what was on the screen
before the goggle-eyed officer, I was thinking about the call I hadn’t given
you early that morning and the hug my son hadn’t given me.
"So it
appeared again," I said to myself when the officer rushed to the other room
with my passport in her hand. Avoiding a Kafkaesque interpretation, I
recalled a satirical story about an elephant hidden in a file. Any elephant
in my file could amuse these officers. Maybe in one of my previous lives I
was a dinosaur.
Waiting on a
bench, I began to watch passengers of the bus that was supposed to take me
across the border: they were called, inspected, and admitted one by one.
Then the next bus, the next line, the same process. This time, one was
sorted out – another female, with a light brown complexion, could have been
only a small elephant in her previous life. She sat beside me and smiled. In
order not to break the rule of muteness, I didn’t return her smile. Instead,
I furtively put an almond in my mouth and began to chew. She asked about my
case. I looked at her in the way a meat-eating dinosaur might look at a
small mammal. She kept talking to me about a baby shower on the other side
to which she had been invited.
While the
officer led me to the investigation room, she wasn’t terrified, but
confused. When a tall man, in a casual suit, appeared on the threshold, my
skin swarmed with what had remained of my previous presence in the room –
like the tiny bugs of a sandy beach. He greeted me, introduced himself, and
showed his ID – in the twinkling of an eye and with full courtesy. I only
heard one word: "detective."
If those bugs
hadn’t given me a creeping sensation, I might have reacted differently to
such a charming detective. "Again another investigator!" I suffocated the
furious groan that was about to roll out of my throat. The detective began
to apologize sincerely, explaining his agency’s mission and how it served
the Immigration Office, and said that since his colleagues knew me, there
was no need to another interview. However, "they" had asked his agency to
send a detective. He kept talking sympathetically, apologetically, and ended
up advising me to speak to "them" and ask "them" to stop the process. He
paused, stared at me as one might look at a saint, and continued, "Any
questions?" I felt a burning desire to say, "Are you here to ask me or to be
asked?" But I didn’t. When he left the room, I let my tears run over my
face, and my laughter echo in the void.
Hours passed.
The officer had switched from being horrified to confused to sympathetic to
apologetic. She spoke with "them", called "them", and explained to "them" to
help me not miss the last bus. Finally she rushed toward me to take me to
the booth for the last phase of the ritual – repeating the oath after her,
being fingerprinted, and the rest of it. The fast-forward part made the
officer sweat and get out of breath.
Aboard the
bus, I was looking at the name of my birthplace on the passport in my hand
when the officer pantingly rushed up and told me to get off. She reclaimed
my passport and left me alone in the corridor to watch the driver start the
bus. Another wave, another swarm, of tiny bugs! When she returned and handed
my passport to me, I swatted my labelled forehead. "What’s the problem?" she
asked softly. I looked at her mutely. My stomach rose. There was a big lump
in my throat. "Nothing, other than that I have to swallow my…" I stopped.
"Pride," she finished for me.
New Haven, 2005
First published in “idea&s” [the arts & science review, University of
Toronto], autumn 2006
[Originally written in English]
THE
RAVINE
[Short
Story]
I
She is an early bird in an early morning of the early
autumn. The wind is also early to be this cold. No
matter what the weather is, she’s used to taking a walk
before going to work. This is her time. She walks
along streets, or around the ravine park.
Today is her fourth day at the store. This
means something. The first time she saw the Help Wanted
sign behind the window, the job didn’t look that
difficult. It was not a big post office, only a small
outlet at a stationery store in Spadina Village, with
one sales person, one cashier, and that stout
grey-haired woman, always busy, grim-faced at the dimly
lit back of the store. She’d gone to the outlet before
to buy stamps for resumes she had had to mail or for
postcards to friends back home. She applied in person,
sent her resume, called several times to follow up until
last weekend she got a call from Olga, the stern stout
woman, who’d convinced her boss that a mature woman
could be more helpful than a careless adolescent. She
is sick of the part-time job she has at La Senza. If
she survives this week of probation, she’ll get out of
hell.
Hell is managed by Helena, the store manager: tall,
slim, blonde and beautiful, though with a slight hunch.
To be fair, she admits that hell is not hell just
because Helena is bossy, or arrogant, or a foolish
narcissist. What really annoys her is sorting panties
and bras, or competing with other sales persons to grab
a customer just to add a dollar to her daily wage, or
mechanically smiling at customers and cajoling them into
buying more and more. When Helena eats her lunch time
sandwich in the stock room, she amuses herself by
repeating, “I’m a genius!”, imitating her talking doll.
Observing Helena, she says to herself in the same tone
of voice, "I was a manager!".
Now her past looks as external as the
sidewalk she steps on; something detached, like the edge
of the ravine bordering the sidewalk. It’s outside
herself, around her, sometimes at her back, ahead of or
beside her, sometimes invisible, as if it were her
shadow. No wonder others ignore her shadow. She is not
concerned about that, either. But she knows that the
past, shadow or not, might be more than a past; maybe
it’s the entire present, the whole future, a unique
space of time. She lives in a Jewish neighbourhood, and
sees Hasidim cocooned in their past. Hers had been torn
apart by others, and abandoned by her.
She’s reached the bridge. Before crossing the street
and making her way towards Spadina Road, she lingers for
a while to watch the vast ravine broaden beneath the
surface of daily fuss. It’s in the full colours of the
season’s splendour, yet the wind’s chill makes it
unwelcoming. She recalls that lazy summer day when she
went there for a walk with her husband and her son.
They were new to the neighbourhood then and the ravine
looked like the countryside. Thrilled at the newness of
their surroundings, they enjoyed their meander around a
ravine so vast and open. They went up to the hilltop
and watched the pretty scene below. Then time began to
pass rapidly, and left them desperate. Her husband
started to regret what he had lost. Her son, unable to
communicate with his classmates, became isolated at
school. She found out that a survival job would be the
only kind she could get. One day on her way to work,
when she wanted to cross the ravine, an unleashed dog
ran towards her barking angrily. There was no sign of
the dog owner. She ignored it and kept walking; the dog
kept barking. At the entrance both she and the dog
stopped and looked at each other. She was afraid of it;
what she realized was that the dog had barked at her
because she was a stranger trying to invade its
territory. She was a stranger; she didn’t think of
herself that way but the dog noticed it at once. Since
then she has approached the ravine many times, but never
dared go in.
Olga is busy at the counter. The small shipping room is
full of bags and boxes. Olga has assigned her to
organize shelves, replace parcels and packages according
to the date they were received, check delivery orders,
review supply lists…. She doesn’t doubt that she can
manage all these tasks. She’s already caught a
discrepancy in the accounts and made corrections. Olga
didn’t give her a word of praise, but surely she
noticed. What makes her most anxious is the possibility
of having to work at the cash register; she’d certainly
be called to do that sooner or later. Yesterday she was
trained to do it. She’s also worked with the register
at La Senza; she knows she’s good enough. Her weakness
is her halting English. That’s why she’s afraid of the
customers. Olga knows well that she’s a newcomer, with
little experience in customer service. Does she expect
her to respond to all the customers’ demands promptly
and appropriately? Would it be bad if she asked a
customer to repeat an inquiry? Weren't many of these
customers once newcomers too? Yesterday, Olga had to go
out for an hour and left the outlet to her. Everything
went well. It was a quiet day though, and by chance
customers had simple demands. From time to time she
casts an eye over the queue cautiously and her anxiety
rises while she thinks how great and unpredictable the
range of these people’s demands might be. She’s proud
of her good memory and she spent a long time last night
memorizing the rates and prices of all possible
services. But this doesn’t guarantee anything.
Nothing is guaranteed. This is the key phrase of her
new home--the first she heard, the first she learnt.
Her husband doesn’t like to hear it. He is desperate
for guarantees, not only of objects, but also in their
life here. He agreed to emigrate, not only for a
guarantee of survival, but for success. Maybe she had
the same drive; yet she soon realized that it was
nothing more than a mirage. To be a mail clerk is a
very modest ambition, so tangible, so possible – if only
she survives today.
Olga calls her to stand at the cash register. She
flushes with anxiety as for a moment she senses Helena’s
tone in Olga’s voice. She summons her courage and
confidence. She smiles at the first customer, a
hunchbacked old woman with hearing aid, who declines to
return her smile. “She doesn’t like to see me at the
register instead of Olga,” she says to herself. Olga
watches her closely. Her heart beats so madly that she
thinks even deaf people can hear it. Then comes the
next customer, and another and another. At the end of
business hours she feels more or less comfortable with
customers, as if they were giving her the benefit of the
doubt. Thank God, she hasn’t made a big goof. Once or
twice she asked for clarification, once or twice she
hesitated over the right price, once or twice Olga had
to intervene and give her assistance or advice. Not too
bad for the first real test! Now she feels her muscles
relax, her forehead no longer sweating, her heart back
to its normal rhythm. Thinking back to the days when
she was advisor to a government minister, she discovers
that this present humble success gives her more
satisfaction than all her previous achievements
brought. Olga interrupts her thoughts by calling her to
the shipping room.
“Take a seat please,” says Olga.
She tries to look as dignified as Olga expects a mature
woman to be. She starts to think about how best she can
express her appreciation.
“My customers are local. Most of them are seniors.
They’re not patient enough to stand someone who’s not
quick with change. No doubt you wanted to be accurate,
I’m happy with what you did in the back and even with
the customers, but this job requires experience. You
looked clumsy when you made change …”
“But Olga…” she says in an unfamiliar pleading voice.
“I’m sorry…” Olga says, and her voice sounds unfamiliar
too.
Then she hears more words turning in a vacuum. On her
way home, hurrying by the edge of the ravine, she turns
her eyes away.
II
She’s early enough to get an early number. All she has
to do now is find a seat and wait. One end of the queue
reaches the desk of the smiling elderly woman giving out
the numbers; the other end goes out of the basement,
even past the steps and out onto the sidewalk of the
quiet secondary street. People are still coming to join
the group, alone or in company of pets, children, or
partners. Such a crowd on a February day at a branch of
the food bank in a wealthy neighbourhood raises
questions. But she’s reluctant to find herself becoming
an economic analyst again. For ten years she had
analyzed her country’s economy without knowing what was
happening around her, in her office, in her home, in the
city where she’d been born and brought up.
She heads for a drafty bench not far
from the entrance. She sits beside a little girl and
holds her empty backpack in her lap to make room for the
girl, who shifts over while taking care of a baby in a
stroller. Here she can observe the people, those who
are inside, hanging around the room, chatting, waiting
in the line, or standing in a corner sipping their free
coffee; and also those who are rushing in to flee the
cold and grab their canned goods. Though she doesn’t
know their names, their faces, bodies, and gestures are
as familiar to her as those of her family. Once in a
while a new face may appear. The first time or the
second it looks strange, then, whether she cares for it
or not, it joins the other faces in her new family
album. These people are a clan to which she feels she
belongs without having to perform any rituals.
Occasionally she exchanges information or a few words
about the weather with one of them; and most often
simply a pale smile or a gesture of deep sympathy. What
she has in common with them goes farther than
economics. They are all focused on the necessity of
food -- always the same food, the same brands and
quality, the same donated surplus products approaching
their expiration dates. Ironically, she realizes that
all the fine food she shared in the past with the
upper-class never created as strong a bond as she feels
with her companions and what they’re given here.
Maybe this is one of those things she will tell her
husband this afternoon. She looks at her watch. This
morning, before leaving home, she asked him to come to
the church.
“I have to take the car to the garage. Didn’t I tell
you it failed the emission test?” he said.
She knew that, and also that he hated to go to the food
bank. A few months ago, he had barely agreed with her
when she’d argued that they could save food expenses by
getting what they needed from the food bank.
“Listen, I’ll do it. I'm not ashamed to say we’re
poor,” she’d said, expecting to hear back, “You’re not
ashamed to ask for welfare either.” But he had said
nothing.
“I have to volunteer in the mornings and study in the
evenings to get a degree. I want to find a job as a
social worker,” she’d continued.
She still recalls how he flushed, almost choking, when
he heard about her new resolution. She was scared for a
moment.
“You’re crazy! You’ve forgotton who you were,” he
muttered hopelessly.
“I don’t care about the past,” she said to herself.
She was kind enough not provoke him more by saying it
aloud.
“I’ll be done by 5. I don’t want to walk home alone,”
she gently said to him this morning. This wasn’t true,
though. She wanted a chance to talk to him alone.
Perhaps in the ravine; after all it was a short cut
home. She wants very much to go there again, in cold or
pleasant weather, alone or in company. It’s been a
while since she started planning to do something for her
unhappy husband, for their son who was sick of so much
conflict at home, for herself who felt miserable seeing
them suffer. She began by setting short- and long-term
goals for herself. She replaced a full-time survival
job with a part-time one, registered in a university
program, began to volunteer. Nothing seemed to her more
reasonable. But it hadn’t caused their family life to
improve. Indeed, it seemed to make things worse. Her
husband had to keep working hard as a courier, a job he
hated, to pay the rent. His background didn’t serve him
well here. He didn’t like change; he did like a life of
leisure – having to make a living was vulgar.
The baby in the stroller bursts out crying. The little
girl starts to make funny faces to distract him. Their
mother is now at the box of treats, trying to find
something good. Occasionally they are lucky enough to
get such bonus items. Mostly, luck is a combination of
first-come, first-served, with enough cleverness to
wangle something extra. With a victorious smile and
Smarties the mother returns to her kids. She passes the
Smarties to the girl, digs into her big purse, finds the
pacifier, and thrusts it into the baby’s mouth. He
rejects it and starts screaming. The woman impatiently
keeps thrusting until the priest who updates clients’
profiles calls her over. The little girl crunches the
Smarties cheerfully, and keeps making silly faces for
the baby. Then she moistens a red Smartie with her
tongue, rubs it on the baby’s lip, tosses it into her
own mouth, and bursts out laughing.
“You’re a very smart girl,” she says, smiling. The
girl turns and looks at her as if she’s just noticed a
stranger beside her, and then giggles.
“My brother’s very cute, isn’t he?”
“He is. Good for you!” Before finding more words to
keep the thread of conversation, her number is called.
She rushes toward the counter, thinking about words not
to say to the girl but to her husband.
Putting the stuff in the backpack that once belonged to
her son, she reviews the items to see if she’s selected
what they needed most: a bar of soap, a box of
spaghetti, tea, sugar, flour, powdered milk, canned
corn, rice, and… “Oh! I could have grabbed Smarties for
my kid!” she whispers, remembering how her son’s eyes
shone whenever he’d seen a bag of those magic beans in
his parents’ hands. “Isn’t that what we needed most?”
she thinks. “If he’s my son, he needs luxuries, not
necessities!” she remembers her husband liked to say.
She looks at her watch. She has quite a lot of time
before meeting her husband at the streetcorner, far from
the side door of the church. As well as her purse and
the backpack, she has to carry a heavy plastic bag. She
places them on the bench close to the door. The girl
has moved the stroller to the other side of the room
where there is a small space for children. She sits,
trying to concentrate on what she wants to say. She
might start saying that she’s never ignored him, his
wishes, his preferences; that she knows what he’s doing
now goes against his will and nature; that she hates to
see him as the sacrificial lamb; that … “ But this
sounds mawkish,” she says to herself. She would say that
both of them were responsible for their misconceptions
and plans. They used to overestimate not only their
privileges, but also their ideas and abilities. It was
simply luck -- nothing to do with what they deserved --
that they once had many things and then had nothing.
They came here to flee an artificial paradise that had
suddenly turned into hell. They had brought their
savings to start a business and they had failed. “And
this sounds like a lecture,” she thinks. Maybe she’d
better get to the point right away as usual. But what’s
the point? She doesn’t know. All she knows is that
they can’t tolerate this mess anymore. She also knows
she’s ready to do whatever is reasonable and practical.
Like what? Well, one of them should work hard so that
the other can get a degree right for the job market, and
this one can be him, if not her. She doubts he’ll
accept this suggestion, but it seems the only way to get
them untangled. She breathes a sigh of relief.
The sidewalk is slippery. When she joins her husband,
they walk slowly; sometimes they’re shoulder to
shoulder, sometime he’s one or two steps ahead of her,
bent slightly by the weight of the backpack. His worn
boots are still in shape. “Good boots!” she says.
“Good bargain in Good Will!” he sneers.
She wonders why he hasn’t as usual suggested taking the
bus or even a taxi. “It’s good it’s not windy,” she
says to change the subject.
“It’s going to snow soon,” he says.
He doesn’t sound impatient or grumpy. It’s the right
time to reveal what she has in mind. Yet she doesn’t
know how to begin. It’s not easy to find words while
you’re walking on a slippery surface. She passes the
plastic bag over to the other hand. They reach the
intersection and stop at the red light. “The ravine is
the best place,” she thinks. He turns his head. “Let’s
go for coffee,” he says with a smile.
“Coffee? Now?”
“Why not? I’m going to invite you, Madame. What’s
wrong with that?”
“Well, nothing, but. …” she doesn’t find any reason,
“but I wanted to invite you to the ravine.”
“Oh! I won’t reject such a wonderful invitation once we
fuel ourselves with hot coffee.”
“I already had it.”
“OK, you enjoyed the free coffee of that damned place;
now enjoy your second cup.” He heads for the Second Cup
in Spadina Village, “I want to talk to you.”
He’s sipping his café latte in silence. “You forgive my
little treat, don’t you?” he breaks the silence.
“Is that what you wanted to say?” she’s angry that he’s
read her mind.
He puts his cup down. “Remember those golden days when
you spent money carelessly?”
She gazes out the window, trying to be calm. “It’s
getting dark,” she says softly.
“I quit my job.”
She tries to say, “We’re not going there,”
but she cannot speak.
“I called Mother and asked her to send me a ticket to go
back home.”
“In few minutes we could have reached the path,” she
says to herself. A brief smile crosses her face. She
drinks water.
“Over there at least there is a roof over our heads I
don’t have to ruin my life for. Right?”
She nods, trying to recapture her vanished smile. The
path would have led them quickly to the snow-covered
slope.
“I know you don’t want to go back, maybe just because
you’re too proud to accept it was all a failure.”
She stares at him. They could have slid down over the
smooth snow and seen how rapidly the white faces of the
trees passed them.
“Or you’d like to develop a thick skin. I’d rather take
care of my delicate skin.”
Down there, they could have stood and looked up at the
faraway hilltop.
“Well, consider me an asshole, if that helps you.” He
finishes his coffee.
They walk in silence; sometimes shoulder to shoulder,
sometimes the man one or two steps behind her
III
“Still closed,” she says as she parts the dark cotton
curtains. The window opens across from another
apartment window in the building opposite, a sooty brick
chimney, and a narrow patch of bright blue spring sky
lined with loose strands of cloud. “Close those
curtains!” her son groans and rolls over to the other
side in his bed.
She opens the widow a little to let fresh air i
