Night of Power, page 13
Mansoor turns away from his wrecked car and briefly surveys the landscape. The dark fields extend to the horizon and merge seamlessly with the night sky. A perfect circle. A barbed-wire fence separates the ditch from the field. This was one of the reasons he was drawn to Alberta. The sheer immensity of the land, the feeling that anything was possible here.
* * *
In Montreal, Mansoor was asked to choose the province his family wanted to live in. First, he studied the wall map of Canada pinned up at the immigration office. A massive country, longer than his outstretched arms. He developed catchy acronyms to remember key facts like BAS MOQ, which translated to “I’ve had enough.” Each letter represented the large provinces, west to east: British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Ontario, and Quebec. After grasping the basics of Canadian geography, he pored through the library at the immigration office. The collection included a few books of fiction. But what he really wanted was to understand the real Canada so he studied the non-fiction—travel books and history books—making a list of the beneficial features of each major city. He crossed off Montreal immediately. It reminded him too much of Vienna with its cobblestone roads, old buildings, and its stubborn insistence on tradition. He had no interest in holding on to the past. And who wanted to be a part of such an unwelcoming society? One that insisted on one language, one way of doing things? Not him. Not after Uganda. Toronto also seemed mired in the old with its mess of intertwining streets named after old battles, royal figures, and war heroes. Roncesvalles, Queen, King, Bathurst. Tied to the old country like a child to a mother’s apron strings. Suffocating—all this history staring down at you at every turn. He ruled out Vancouver and the Maritime provinces. Vancouver with an ocean at the base of its mountains and St. John’s with its craggy harbour. Too much beauty can lull a person into a false sense of well-being. It breeds laziness. Nobody works hard in coastal cities. They think they are on vacation all the time. It was business-minded Alberta, and Calgary, in particular, that appealed to him. A city clearly divided into quadrants, the streets and avenues numbered and easy to follow. If a street was named, it was for the neighbourhood, not for some bygone man, so that all the streets in Pineridge started with the letter P. That made complete sense. That’s how every city should be designed. He also liked Alberta’s landscape. Clear lines, straight roads, neatly cut hectares, perfect rolls of hay. Even the colours were simple: golden fields, blue skies, emerald lakes. But most of all, he felt a deep kinship with Alberta’s history—the prairie homesteaders who worked relentlessly to break and settle the land through the harshest of winters and with hardly any tools or resources. They were strong. Resilient. Self-sufficient. Just like him. Just like his father. The Wild Wild West. A blank slate where he could make his mark.
“Why Alberta?” Lyle, the volunteer at the immigration office, asked when Mansoor told him his decision.
“My father was a cowboy, you see. And so am I.”
Lyle laughed. “Right on, man. And here I thought you were Indian.”
“Of course not!”
“You’ll fit right in there, man,” Lyle said, sliding his yellow tinted glasses up the ridge of his nose. He then scribbled on the immigration forms and handed them to him. “Congratulations, Mansoor. Canada welcomes you.”
* * *
In the distance, he sees the faint outline of a structure. Moonlight reflects off the roof. He can’t make it out clearly. A house or maybe a barn? Even if it is a barn, the farmhouse will be close by. Maybe he should walk there instead and ask the farmer to use his phone? It is closer than the main highway. Besides, he doesn’t know which way to start walking. He scans the dark fields—there must be a road that leads to the house, but finding it may be hard. Cutting across the field is the most rational decision.
Mansoor steps one leg through the barbed-wire fence and checks the depth of snow like a swimmer testing the temperature of the water before diving in. He sinks down to his ankles. His galoshes will not do.
He returns to the trunk where he pulls out the pair of mukluks he keeps there for just such an occasion. He bought the boots—with matching ones for Ashif and for Layla, too—for their first winter in Canada. They were expensive, but he wanted his family to be warm. “Like moon boots, Pappa!” Ashif squealed when Mansoor gave them to him. “That’s right. One small step for us, one giant step for mankind.”
Mansoor had assumed they were the best model to buy. After all, the Inuit wore them. But it didn’t take long for him to realize that they were the wrong boots for Calgary. Fine in Edmonton, Red Deer, Banff, or other parts of the country. But in Calgary, chinooks were the problem. Warm winds that blew in and turned streets of snow into pools of slush. The mukluks became waterlogged, making it difficult to walk. But they would do well for cutting across a field of snow. He sits down on the bumper and slips them on.
He is about to close the trunk when he decides to also take the boxy briefcase with him. He will look more respectable this way—a businessman, which he is of course. He does not want to startle the farmer. They have guns! They might think he is a traveling salesman—someone who wants to sell them a vacuum cleaner or solicit donations for a church. This thought makes Mansoor laugh. Well, better that than a wanderer. He would certainly never open his door to someone like that, especially if his family was at home. But then it occurs to him that a salesman is homeless; he is always on the road.
Mansoor slips his briefcase between the barbed wire fence. He ducks down and slides one leg in. He is about to pull his second leg through when his pants catch on the wire. He tugs the fabric free and rolls into the snowfield like a boxer into a ring. He stands up immediately; dusts the snow off. He reaches for his flashlight and inspects his leg. His pants are slightly torn and on his calf, a hairline cut. Nothing serious. There is no blood. Just a minor battle scar. He laughs and shakes his leg vigorously as if to rejuvenate it.
He glances back at the road and considers for a moment if he should just wait for someone to drive by. He checks his watch: half-past midnight. He reviews the logic of his decision: too late for a passing car, short distance to the farmhouse, reasonable temperatures. Yes, this is a good idea. He flips the hood of his coat over his head and puts on his gloves. He begins his walk to the farmhouse, his sales bag swinging from one hand, his car’s hazard lights blinking behind him.
Chapter 21
THE CAR COMPOUND IS located in an industrial park off Blackfoot Trail in the southeast quadrant of the city. Inside the garage, a man in greasy striped coveralls and a Calgary Flames toque flips through the forms. An oval patch over his chest reads BRANDON. “Accident or tow?” he asks.
“Accident.” Ashif turns his gaze to the window. In the distance, he glimpses the huddle of the city’s skyscrapers, like concrete mountains. A plane arcs over the skyline. Only yesterday he walked out of the business lounge at the airport, his stride quick and sure. He never said goodbye. He never turned around, not even for one last look. If only he’d taken one last look. All he remembers is his father’s hand, the veins green and bulbous, pushing the envelope with his name on it back at Ashif.
Brandon leads Ashif outside to the yard of cars. They zigzag past what seems like hundreds of cars, the snow crunching under their feet. Some of the cars are unrecognizable, crumpled empty shells. Others are flattened into sheets of metal, piled one on top of the other. A few are buried, rounded bodies of snow and ice like frozen tombs.
“Here it is. Chevy Impala. They’re good cars. If you like American, that is.”
His father’s words run through his head. When you weigh the pros and cons, Impala always comes out on top.
Ashif surveys the car. The front right side of the car is damaged, a large indent, like a crater, on the body. The hood on that side is squeezed up, a steel wave frozen in place.
“Doesn’t look too bad to me,” Brandon says. “Chances are we can have it back to you in no time.”
“Can I have my father back, too?” Ashif wants to say.
Ashif squats down, the edge of his winter coat gathering on the snow, and inspects the damage from close range. He pulls at the fingertips of one glove to remove it, and is about to touch the damaged quarter panel when Brandon stops him.
“Please don’t touch anything. The insurance folks need to see it first.”
“Okay.”
A long steady bell rings. Brandon gazes back at the garage. “Got another customer. I’ll be right back.”
When Brandon’s out of sight, Ashif sweeps a gloved hand over a window to clear the snow and peers in. He can’t see anything through the frost. He tests the driver’s side door. It’s locked. He tries the back door. To his surprise, it opens. He glances back at the garage then throws his briefcase in and slides inside.
Light seeps through the frosty windows, casting a pale glow over the interior, like light seeping through cracks of ice. The shadow of a pine-tree air freshener hangs from the rear-view mirror. He sees his father’s head, too. A circle like a full moon that almost touches the roof. He reaches out to touch it.
Ashif feels something under his feet. He reaches up for the light switch but it doesn’t work. He clicks on his cellphone and pans the lighted screen over the interior. The floor and seat are littered with debris, which surprises him. His father’s car was always so well-organized and tidy. Something shimmers between the front seats. A dry-cleaning sheath. He rubs his fingers against the edge of the sheath to separate the plastic, then knots it at one end.
He scoops up paper cups, a crushed water bottle, a yellow chamois cloth. From under a seat, a box of tissues patterned with wild geese. He yanks the pine-tree air freshener off the rear-view mirror, presses it to his nose before throwing it into the bag. Then he reaches deep into the front seat and retrieves the garbage from the floor: gum wrappers, an empty can of club soda, crumpled-up serviettes. He pushes his feet against the back seat to steady himself and stretches to the driver’s door. In the side panel, he finds several maps neatly banded together with elastic, one of Canada, the others of Alberta, as well as several pens. He tears the suede sleeve from the steering wheel, his fingers fumbling with the strings. Then he shifts to the other side, snaps open the glove compartment, and continues his excavation. He finds a vinyl organizer and a black notebook with a pen clipped to the coil binding. He throws them into the thin, sagging bag. From the front seat, he clatters together the handful of CDs. His breath is shallow, his brow wet. He pats the pockets on the back of the front seats as if he is frisking them. He reaches in and removes handfuls of small notebooks, bundled into sets of four.
Suddenly, the front passenger door jerks open. Sunshine pours in. Ashif shields his eyes.
Brandon leans into the car, blocking the light. “Hey! What are you doing in there?”
“I’m leaving,” Ashif says, shoving the notebooks into the bag.
“Just put the stuff back in the car and I’ll pretend it never happened, okay?” Brandon offers.
“I’m taking it,” he says, the bag firmly in his grip.
“Fine. Do what you want.” Brandon slams the back door shut. “But you can kiss your insurance goodbye. They’ll probably scrap the car.”
Ashif stops and faces Brandon. “Let them! He’s dead. He’s dead,” he says like a mantra as if he’s trying to convince himself that it’s true.
Ashif walks to the service road at the entrance of the compound. His legs feel heavy yet weak, like steel columns wobbling. He sets down his briefcase and the dry-cleaning bag on a clear patch of road and waits to flag down a taxi. It takes him a few minutes to remember that it’s impossible to flag down a taxi in Calgary. You have to call for one. He reaches for his cell, but the phone is dead. Using it as a flashlight must have drained the battery. He picks up his briefcase and heaves the bag over his shoulder, a hobo in a business suit. He crosses the road to the car rental shop, “M.G. Visram & Son Dry Cleaners, Ltd: Suiting Canada Since 1987” bobbing against his back.
The young woman is efficient. Within ten minutes, he’s back outside, unplugging the rental from the electrical post. The car is mid-sized, much smaller than his father’s Chevy Impala, but bigger than any car he would buy, not that he’s ever owned one. It’s been years since he’s driven—he’s only kept up his driver’s licence to use as ID.
He slips off his jacket and is about to throw it in the back seat when the letter from Shafina falls out. He picks it up and dusts the snow off. He then steps into the driver’s seat, surprised by the new-car smell. He tucks the letter into a corner of the dash. He wraps his fingers around the steering wheel. It feels good in his hands. He twists the wheel one way then the other, like a child pretending to drive.
* * *
He must have been six, no older. He was standing on the sofa on the second floor of their apartment building with his face pressed to the glass, watching, as always, for his father to come home from his job at Patterson Used Cars & Trucks. He watched as one bus after the other passed. Then there he was, stepping out of a long blue automobile.
“Mummy!” Ashif screamed. “Pappa’s home. With a car!”
His father saw him in the window and waved him down.
Ashif pulled on his mukluks, even though it was a warm chinook day and the streets were dotted with pools of melting snow. “Let’s go, Mummy!”
Outside, Layla took his hand in hers to cross the street, but he dropped it as soon as he could and ran to his father. Mansoor crouched down with open arms and lifted his son up. He tried to wrap his small hands around his father’s forearm, but he couldn’t. They were so big.
Mansoor slapped the roof of the car. “So, what do you think?” he asked. “Chevy Impala.”
“Very nice!” Layla said.
“Only a matter of time before I turn this into a brand-new Lincoln Continental. We’ll dress up and go to the best restaurant. How’s that, Layla?”
Layla nodded and laughed.
Ashif imagined his father in a black tuxedo, shouting “Abracadabra-Alakazam!” as he turned this car into another, then another, and another.
Mansoor kneeled down to Ashif. “And you? What’s your expert opinion, sir?”
“Super-duper.”
Mansoor rustled his hair. “Let’s go for a drive. Come, Layla, all of us.”
“You go ahead. I still haven’t finished cooking,” Layla said.
“Okay. It’ll be just the men today,” Mansoor said, turning to Ashif. “Ready, son?”
“Yes!” Ashif said then hesitated. He didn’t want to get his mukluks wet. “My boots, Pappa.”
Mansoor scooped him back up and carried him to the passenger side. In his father’s arms, he soared over the slushy pools, like an astronaut over the moon’s craters.
“Wear your seat belt,” Layla called after them.
His father swung open the door and sat Ashif inside.
Mansoor stepped into the driver’s side and patted the dashboard. “There are two kinds of people in the world, son. Those who ride buses and those who drive cars. And what kind are we?”
“Car people!”
“Look, it has all the latest gadgets: cruise control, double tape deck instead of an eight-track, 140 horsepower—a muscle car!” Mansoor said, turning the ignition. The car roared to life. The dashboard lit up, a halo of green under the wood panelling.
“Just like a spaceship, Pappa!”
“Our mission: to go where no man has gone before.”
Mansoor drove them up and down the flat, well-organized streets of Calgary. Near Bowness Park, they came to a hill. They climbed up and zoomed down many times, with Mansoor’s hands floating above the steering wheel and Ashif’s in the air, screaming with the thrill of it.
On their way home, Mansoor pulled the car into an empty parking lot. “Son, your turn now.”
Ashif giggled with nervous excitement. “But I’m too small.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be right here.”
He sat on his father’s lap, his back pressed against his father’s chest. The sweet-spice smell of Yardley’s hair cream filled his nostrils. He could barely see over the dashboard, the street a black slither. His father lifted his hands to the steering wheel and laid his own hands on top.
“Ready, Captain Visram?” Mansoor asked, shifting the car into drive.
Ashif nodded.
“Are you super-duper sure, Captain?”
Ashif laughed and gave him a thumbs-up.
First, they drove in circles around the parking lot. He was amazed at how a small turn of the wheel could turn so much steel. They were driving down a street where all the houses looked like castles when suddenly a golden dog leapt into the road in front of them. The car screeched to a halt. Ashif’s head hit the steering wheel and snapped back. He started to cry, mostly from the shock and partly from the pain. Mansoor quickly pulled the car over and set his son back into the passenger side.
“Let’s see,” he said, pushing Ashif’s curls off his forehead. “It’s hardly anything. You’ll be fine, son.”
Ashif tried to hold back his tears, but he couldn’t; they came pouring down his cheeks.
“Boys don’t cry, do they?”
Ashif shook his head. He wiped his tears away with broad, clumsy strokes.
“Come on, show me your muscles.”
Ashif flexed his arms for his father.
Mansoor squeezed his biceps. “Pretty good. Soon, you’ll be strong as me.”
Ashif basked in the warm glow of his father’s praise.
* * *
