Читать книгу Six Metres of Pavement - Farzana Doctor - Страница 8

— 3 —

Inert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, sorry. What were you saying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A starter home is supposed to be temporary. Ismail was supposed to be the sort of husband who would ascend through the ranks of the public service, his income rising with each annual promotion. Their two children were supposed to be born while they lived there and then, before the first little one started kindergarten, they’d move to a detached four-bedroom with a big backyard and a two-car garage in an postal code where the property taxes were higher and the schools better. Such plans! Unimaginative, perhaps, but ambitious, at least. Ismail soon gave up on those dreams, but Rehana steadfastly maintained them, later finding those children, that husband, and the tawny house in the suburbs, without Ismail.

In their divorce settlement, Ismail bought out Rehana’s share of the Lochrie house. Besides the customary division of other financial assets (which were fairly meagre at the time), she took little apart from her clothing and jewellery, perhaps wanting to leave behind anything imprinted with their life together.

Although he was an outsider, an immigrant among his immigrant neighbours, often without language in common, Ismail grew to see Lochrie as his home, became accustomed to its noise and bustle. It was the kind of place where people yelled across fences to greet their friends. During soccer season, revellers crammed the main roads and blocked streetcar tracks, waving flags and singing their allegiance to countries they hadn’t visited for far too long. The old men there, the ones too old to work, spent their evenings watering cemented-over gardens. Somehow, Ismail felt he belonged there, too.

Over the following eighteen years, the neighbourhood shifted a little, taking on new tones and shades with each decade. Ismail watched the Portuguese kids grow up and move to the suburbs, leaving their parents to grow old alone. He witnessed the Chinese and Vietnamese immigrants move in, co-mingling with their Old World European neighbours in uneasy and unfamiliar ways. He observed the yuppies strip down houses, cultivate native plants, waiting for gentrification to move their way.

Meanwhile, Ismail stayed put, and altered little in his life. Even at work, except for one promotion caused by a co-worker’s death, and a bureaucratic restructuring that had him changing cubicles, he never really changed jobs. He remained, as always, a Municipal Engineer with the Transportation Infrastructure Management Unit of the Transportation Services Division at the City of Toronto, a moderately interesting, low-to-medium stress position with civil co-workers, good benefits, and more vacation and sick days than he could tolerate to use.

He believed inertia would prevent him from being hurt by life. Mostly, he wanted to avoid making another mistake.

Ismail sighed, closed his daytimer, no longer interested in his renovations list. He drove home, all the while considering his brother’s words and his empty house. He parked his car partway between his home and the bar, and half-walked, half-jogged into the Merry Pint, where he found his friend Daphne sitting alone at a table near the front of the bar. He allowed her to distract him with a drinking game. It was the one where its players watch The Simpsons and then take a drink each time one of the characters says something predictable, like when Homer says “D’oh!” or Flanders mentions God. The booze and Daphne obliterated the rest of the night.

— * —

A few miles away, in a hospital room smelling of sour breath and floor cleaner, Celia sat beside José’s bed, watching him sleep. She’d been there a full twenty-four hours already, and still wore her clothes from the previous day. She pulled her coat tight around her neck, and shivered; since arriving at the hospital, she hadn’t been able to shake off a persistent chill. Although José looked warm enough, she tucked his sheet and blanket around him, which caused him to grunt and grimace in his sleep. The familiar sounds were a comfort, evidence of him still alive, still with her.

Someone in a neighbouring bed started to cough, first quietly and then erupting into a cacophony of hacking. She hoped the patient was covering his mouth. She’d seen all the new public health notices on the hospital walls telling people to sneeze into their sleeves and she wondered whether the cougher had seen those posters, too.

She stood up and closed the curtains around them, blocking out the three other patients’ noise and germs.