Night of Power, page 8
Chapter 12
MANSOOR ARRIVES AT THE Air Canada business lounge dressed in his best business suit: a charcoal three-piece with a freshly laundered white shirt; a blue pinstriped tie, tied into a fat Windsor knot. He carries a briefcase and, in his jacket pocket, a silver-embossed card holder with his son’s initials.
The plush lounge is packed with men in smart suits, conducting business meetings. Striking deals. Exactly the kind of place he and his son should be. He straightens, feeling taller and more muscular, as if he’s taking up more space, as he strides to the host.
“Good morning!” Mansoor says enthusiastically.
The host looks up from his desk and smiles. “Good morning, sir. Are you a member?”
“No. But my son is,” Mansoor announces loudly. “Mr. Ashif M. Visram. Elite member.”
The host punches some keys on his computer keyboard. “Yes, of course.”
“That’s my son, you see. Maybe you know him?”
“Could be.”
Imagine, they know his son here.
The host steps out from behind his podium. “Please follow me, sir.”
Mansoor walks behind him. The work stations and tables are full of white men. A few wear Stetsons with their suits, like financial cowboys. Maybe he should have worn his Stetson, too. No, he looks much more distinguished than any one of them. Of course he does. He’s probably done more business than most of them will ever do. He stumbles on the thick carpet. A few tables turn to look.
The host leads him to a window table and pulls a chair out for him. Outside, morning light bathes the tarmac, and in the distance, the fields extend to the horizon and merge with the endless prairie sky. The host snaps open a napkin. Mansoor takes it from him before he can lay it on his lap. The host hands him a menu and lays another on the second setting across from him. “A waiter will be right with you, sir.”
Mansoor nods. He unlocks his briefcase and retrieves all its contents: two pens, two calculators, two copies of his business plan, a short list of properties, the silver-plated business-card holder. He arranges them on the chair next to him, setting the card holder on top. He reviews the agenda, which he typed up last night. Reading the words, so carefully arranged on the page, slows the chaotic beating of his heart.
Eight o’clock sharp and there’s Ashif walking across the room. He looks so smart with his navy-coloured suit and expensive briefcase. He watches as his son stops and says hello to a few men. My son knows these men? He feels a giddy excitement run through him. He waves. Ashif smiles, waggling two fingers in the air. “Two minutes,” he mouths. Mansoor nods, gives his son a thumbs-up.
A new thought occurs to him—maybe Ashif knows someone at City Hall. Maybe he even knows the mayor? Imagine. If not personally, then surely one of his contacts will know him. Who knew his son was on friendly terms with such top-class men? Men who push open doors with the snap of a finger. Open sesame. They get anything they want. Just like him in Uganda.
Mansoor glances again at Ashif. He’s now chatting with two men at another table. Yes, his son will surely be able to help him—help their company—cut through the red tape and secure the necessary meetings at the City. There’s nothing they can’t do together. He and his son!
“Sorry I’m late.” Ashif takes a deep breath as he sets his briefcase down.
Mansoor stands to greet his son. “No problem, son. You are worth waiting for. Terrific choice, this place,” he says.
“I’m glad you like it,” Ashif says and they both sit down.
“Coffee, sir?” the waiter asks, holding a carafe over Ashif’s cup.
“Yes,” Ashif replies.
“Are you ready to order?”
“Have you looked at the menu, Pappa?”
Mansoor slips on his bifocals and reviews the menu. It is printed on thick stock and does not have many choices. He runs his finger down the list of items. Some of the items are strange and exotic: bison breakfast burger, potatoes in béchamel sauce, lobster frittata, truffled scrambled eggs. What are these things? He does not want to ask the waiter and he will definitely not ask Ashif. What will his son think—that his father knows nothing? Instead, he searches for something familiar. Thirty-eighty dollars for steak and eggs? Is it made with gold or what? Forget the price, he decides. This is a celebration and money is of no importance. Maybe later they will even have a drink. So what if it’s morning? This is Calgary. Cowboy country. It will be his chance to toast his son to their new beginning.
“I’ll have the steak and eggs, why not?” Mansoor says grandly.
“Yogurt and fruit for me.”
“Is that all, son? Have something more substantial.” Ashif needs to put on weight, build a more muscular physique. That’s the only way other businessmen will take him seriously.
“I don’t want anything heavy.”
“Okay.” Mansoor won’t say anything now, but once Ashif is under his wing, he’ll insist the boy start a healthier fitness and food regimen. Fit body, fit mind.
When the waiter leaves, Mansoor and Ashif exchange pleasantries, like businessmen at the beginning of a meeting. They discuss the weather, the business news, yesterday’s hockey game.
Mansoor taps the presentation on the chair next to him, waiting for an opening in their conversation, but it’s Ashif who draws first. He reaches into his suit pocket and retrieves an envelope. “Here,” he says, handing it to his father.
“What’s this?” Mansoor takes the envelope with his name on the front. MR. MANSOOR VISRAM. He’s impressed. His son is using “mister” to address him—clearly a sign of Ashif’s growing respect for him.
“Open it,” Ashif encourages him.
Mansoor slides a finger under the seal and lifts out a cheque in his name. An investment in the dry cleaners? What else could it be? The amount is exactly the amount he needs for his down payment. He laughs, shaking his head. “This is very generous but not necessary,” he says. He didn’t expect his son to invest money into their partnership. The family business was his birthright. He’d already booked an appointment with Abrahams & Abrahams. He is going to see them right after breakfast.
“I wanted to talk to you about…” Ashif starts.
“You won’t believe it but I was thinking the same thing. How did you know I was going to ask you to join the business?”
“What? No, Pappa. That’s not what this money is for.”
Mansoor isn’t listening. He’s already set a copy of his business plan in front of Ashif. He taps the title page. “See that. We’re going to revolutionize the retail industry, son. You and me together.”
Ashif glances at the cover page. M.G. Visram & Son Dry Cleaners, Ltd. A Presentation to the City of Calgary. “A new business plan? That’s what you need this money for?” His coffee cup rattles in its saucer.
“Everything will be automated, you see,” Mansoor continues, unable to stop himself, after holding it in for what feels like a lifetime.
Ashif leans across the table and tries to stop him. “Look, Pappa. This is money so you can clear your debt and retire.” Mansoor reaches across and opens the business plan for Ashif. “We can take advantage of these new technologies, you see. Computers, the Internet, e-commerce,” Mansoor continues undaunted. “It’s the new frontier. But we’ve got to get in now. Before everyone else and their dog thinks it’s a good idea, too. There’s no time to waste.”
“The Internet? Are you kidding? No one knows if dot-coms are a bubble or the real thing.” Ashif taps his knife against his coffee cup. “You might as well be betting on horses.”
Mansoor guffaws. As if his business was based on luck. It’s based on mathematical models, on calculated risks. But Ashif should know that. He’s a businessman. “Go ahead and check the numbers for yourself. Then you’ll see.”
Ashif slaps shut the business plan. “No more business plans for you, Pappa. It’s too late now. The Internet is for young people.”
Mansoor laughs. He flexes an arm over the table. “Feel this! I can do anything.” Why does his son have such little faith in him? Mansoor has never let him down. Not once. Not ever. He’s been an exemplary father. What’s wrong with this boy?
Ashif sits back and clenches his knees.
“I’m stronger than most men your age. Fit body, fit mind.”
“I want you to stop putting our family at risk. I also don’t want Mummy to work anymore. She needs to retire, too.”
Underneath the table, Mansoor knits his hands together. So what if Layla works? It’s not as if her income is supporting the family. He had only asked her to contribute a little, that’s all. Why was his son being so old-fashioned? “I’m sure she doesn’t mind. It’s like her seva to the community. Her service to all the young people who don’t have home-cooked meals anymore.”
Ashif feels his pulse in his fingertips, thinking about his mother’s hands. “Not everyone is cut out for business.”
“Absolutely true, not everyone is. I have told her, expand. People love her food. But she doesn’t want to. And I don’t like to pressurize anyone. Yet how much money can she make? White people, they love exotic foods. Just like in Uganda. Give them any kind of curry—Goan, Gujarati, Punj—”
“No, Pappa!” Ashif balls his fists on the table. “I’m talking about you. You are the one who’s not cut out for business. Please just stop. For your sake and ours, too.”
Mansoor slaps the table. “How dare you talk to me—”
“Here you go,” the waiter says, sliding their orders in front of them.
Mansoor and Ashif fall silent. They gape at the food as if failing to understand what is expected of them.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asks.
“We’re fine, thanks.” Ashif pushes his bowl of granola and yogurt away. He leans forward and tries a new tack. “Look, Pappa. I know you’ve tried. We all do. You don’t have to worry—I’m here. I’ll take care of you and Mummy. This cheque is only your first instalment. I will support you. I want to,” he says, trying to convince his father, himself too.
His son has some middle-management job, and he thinks he owns the world. As if Mansoor needs his money. “What about your promotion? Have you got it yet?” Mansoor shoves a piece of steak into his mouth and chews vigorously. Thirty-eight dollars for this? A complete waste of money.
Ashif sits back in his chair and lets out a sigh. “Not yet, but I will.”
“Maybe they are considering you for a layoff?” Mansoor slides the cheque across the table to Ashif.
“I’m one of their top employees, Pappa. How many times do I have to tell you that?” Ashif half yells, unable to hold back his anger.
Two men at another table turn to look at them.
“Keep your voice down!” Mansoor says, motioning to the other tables with his knife. “We are not in some low-class place. What will people think?”
“I don’t care what they think.” Ashif sinks his spoon into the granola.
Ashif’s outburst only reconfirms Mansoor’s thoughts. His son will get laid off. No question about it. No one wants an employee who can’t control himself. He reminds himself why they’re here today: he needs to save his boy. “Quit, son! Come join me. Together we are unbeatable.” He then hands Ashif the silver-plated business-card holder. “Go ahead, open it,” he says with a broad smile.
Ashif pulls out a slip of card stock, a mocked-up business card in his father’s handwriting. ASHIF M. VISRAM, B.COMM. (WITH DISTINCTION), SHAREHOLDER & PARTNER,M.G. VISRAM & SON DRY CLEANERS, LTD. He throws the paper and card holder down. “I’m not going to join the business, Pappa. Not now. Not ever. Get that through your head.” He slides the cheque to his father. “This is your first instalment. But you will not, I repeat, use this money or any future money I send you for this business or any other business. You understand?”
Mansoor refuses the cheque with a shake of his head.
“This isn’t a game, Pappa! You need to stop thinking about yourself. Think about us for once.”
Mansoor is perplexed by his son’s words. Think about them? That’s all he does. His whole life is about them. His family. There is no difference for him between who he is and who they are. “Everything is for you….”
Ashif laughs. “For me? No, everything is for you.” Then words spew out of him, like a volcanic eruption. “I hate my job, did you know that, Pappa? I can’t stand it, actually. But why do I stay? Because of you! You can’t take care of Mummy, so I have to. I want you to stop putting my mother’s life in jeopardy!”
Mansoor turns his gaze outside. Rows of planes sit on the tarmac, like giant, motionless birds. His hands throb with pain as if they are bruised, as if his fingers are broken. He pumps his fists open and closed, but there is no relief.
Ashif tucks the cheque between the salt and pepper shakers. “The next time I speak to you, I only want to hear that you’ve sold the business, paid off the debt, and you’re ready to retire. Understand me?” He stands up.
“Where are you going? There’s still so much I want to tell you.” Mansoor offers his son a copy of his plan. “It will change everything. Revolutionize the retail industry. I promise you.”
Ashif shoos his father’s hand away. “No more pipe dreams, Pappa. Enough is enough!” He buttons his jacket and briskly walks away.
Chapter 13
“ENOUGH IS ENOUGH,” MANSOOR’S father said as he pushed open the front door with his cane. He was home for lunch, as always. Dwarfed behind him was his accountant, Badur, who carried a small brown bag stained with oil. A canvas bag hung from his shoulder. In his shirt pocket, a pocket-protector lined with pens; behind it, a pair of scissors, only the curved black handle visible. Mansoor was three years old. He sat at the dining table, his head resting on an outstretched arm, rolling a wooden toy car back and forth across the surface. His ayah, Jocelyn, sat next to him in a pinafore patterned with acacia trees. When Govindji walked in, Jocelyn sat up to attention. So did Mansoor. He was eager to say hello, but he knew he had to wait for his father to address him first.
“What a nice surprise, Badur bhai. You’ve come for lunch,” Mansoor’s mother, Gulzar, said. She was standing at the stove and quickly lifted her pacheri-scarf from around her neck to cover her head. “Let me bring another plate.”
“No, no, Bai. I am not eating,” Badur said, shoving his Coke-bottle glasses up his nose.
“What have you come for then?” Gulzar asked.
Badur shifted his eyes to Govindji, who was already at the coal stove, lifting the lids on the pots.
“See what I mean, Badur Bhai? Vegetables again!” Govindji held a spoonful of cauliflower curry above the pot. “What are we? Paupers who can’t afford meat? I can afford anything!” He threw the spoon back into the pot. It clanged against the side. “How’s a man to live on vegetables alone? And look at my boy,” he said, pointing to Mansoor. “Without a proper diet, how will he grow, hanh? Have I not provided everything for her, told her she can buy anything from the grocers, butchers, fishmongers, you name it? My only request: meat! Essential for the diet. Look at the Europeans, hanh? Solid. Rock solid. Meanwhile she wants my son to eat like a street boy. This is not India, lady. This is the new world. This is Africa!” Govindji shifted from one foot to the other as he jockeyed his pants up over his round belly.
“Give me the bag, Badur Bhai.” Govindji waved his accountant forward.
Govindji pulled a chicken leg out of the bag and handed the bag back. He held the chicken leg to Gulzar’s lips. “Eat,” he commanded.
Gulzar leaned away from her husband.
Mansoor’s small body stiffened.
Govindji took Gulzar by the base of her neck and pushed her lips to the chicken. “Open, I say.”
Gulzar squirmed, frantically moving her head from side to side, her lips firmly pressed together. Piri-piri sauce dripped red down her chin.
Govindji dug his fingers into her mouth and pried it open. He tried to shove the chicken leg in.
Gulzar bit his finger instead.
The chicken leg fell to the ground.
Govindji’s arm shot out. Gulzar’s head snapped back.
“Animal!” he shouted.
Mansoor wrapped his arms around himself as if to keep from falling apart.
“What’s a man to do with a woman like her, Badur Bhai?” Govindji kicked the chicken leg out of his way and turned to his accountant.
Badur handed Govindji a handkerchief.
“Defiant to the core!” Govindji pulled each greasy finger through the handkerchief. “I’m sick of it. Sick of her. Tells me she can’t stomach it. But we are not Hindus anymore! How many times can I tell her? We don’t believe in those hoodoo-voodoo ways anymore. Before we were Hindus, we were monkeys, so does that mean we should go back to eating bananas and walking on all fours, too?” Govindji chortled. “I say, Badur Bhai, you can take the girl out of the jungle but you cannot take the jungle out of her.”
Gulzar continued preparing lunch, one side of her face bright red.
“Believe you me, I’ve done my level best to bring her into the modern age. To educate her. You’ve got to change with the times. Otherwise you go the way of the dodo bird. But she’s got stones up here,” Govindji said, tapping his forehead. “You saw, didn’t you, Badur Bhai? She is impossible.”
