“You presume too much,” Aydin shot back, a trace of anger in his voice now. “If you’re determined to play the victim, there’s not much I can do. My restaurant isn’t going anywhere, and you will have to live with that.”
I glanced down the street, at the storefronts that had guarded the entrance to Golden Crescent for a generation, and then to Wholistic Burgers and Grill, still under its construction tarps. Something that felt a lot like fear made my chest tighten. “You mean live with it until you and your father put my family out of business?”
Junaid Uncle walked past our little group and came to a stop a few metres away, his back to us. At the sight of his father, Aydin’s expression shut down even further. “If it wasn’t Wholistic Grill, it would be another halal restaurant. Consider this as motivation to work on your competitive skills.” His face was immobile. “Assuming that you have any,” he added.
Rashid, who had followed Yusuf, was standing a few feet away. He waved at Aydin. “If you’re free tomorrow, let’s play baseball in the park,” he called over in Urdu. Then he caught my eye and his expression turned sheepish. “I’ll kick your ass!” he yelled in English.
At this unexpected about-face, Mr. Silver Shades smiled slightly. He joined his father, and together they walked down the darkened street towards their new restaurant.
Chapter Thirteen
Iknew my family would hear about the Business Owners Association meeting before I got home. The second favourite pastime of the BOA, aside from formingSurvivor-style alliances, was to gossip. The story of Ghufran’s bad-tempered, scene-causing younger daughter would be carried to my family lightning-fast, and I didn’t even have a bedroom to hide in.
I slipped into our backyard, stumbling through ankle-high weeds. Mowing the lawn had been my job, but when I became busy with my internship during the past year, I had resigned from yard-care duties. The rest of my family were always working, so the position had yet to be filled.
I dragged one of the rusty lawn chairs from the side of the house and placed it near the back fence. Now it felt almost like my Thinking Wall at Radio Toronto.
Our backyard edged onto a small ravine, and I let the quiet envelop me as I leaned against the fence, tilting my head up towards the inky darkness. The velvet air brushed against my loosened hijab and the dull buzz of nocturnal insects kept me company.Maybe I should just sleep out here until everyone leaves.
I heard the click of a cigarette lighter and saw Kawkab Khala’s face illuminated beside the patio door. I tried to shrink against the fence, but she had seen me. She stood a foot away and blew smoke into the night.
“Ghufran and Ijaz are worried about you,” she remarked. “Rashid said you were going for a walk.” No judgment in her voice, only interest. “I used to take night walks too, in Delhi. I waited until my family fell asleep and then I would sneak out. Nobody bothered me, because they all knew who I was—the crazy daughter of the localnawab,” she said, using the Urdu word for a wealthy landowner. “Nighttime is the best time to think.”
“What did you think about?” I asked, intrigued despite my wish to be left alone.
“Love, marriage, my future.” She smiled. “I’m sorry to disappoint you with my ordinary thoughts. But then, the young are often very predictable.”
“Were you in love with someone?”
She took another deep puff on her cigarette. “Only with my solitude. Love came later. It surprised me, and everyone else too. I married in my forties, but we never had children.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I had heard about Billi Apa’s wild youth, but not about her adulthood. I was happy to hear she had found love and happiness later in life, even if I wasn’t entirely sure what to think of the person before me. She had always been a character from a story until now.
“You shouldn’t have attacked that young man and his father today at the meeting. That’s not the way a girl should behave.”
Right. There she was, my caustic Kawkab Khala.
“In North America, women are encouraged to speak their minds,” I answered.
The glow of the cigarette illuminated Kawkab’s amused expression. “I only meant that an intelligent young woman—I assume you are intelligent—would not lay all her cards on the table. Gather information, consider your options, and then act accordingly.”
“What would you have done?” I asked. Despite my annoyance, I wanted to know.
She dropped the cigarette butt into the grass, ground it with her foot. “I am still gathering information on the situation.”
What situation? Our restaurant, the new restaurant, or something else altogether? Perhaps my aunt was the real spy.
As if reading my thoughts, Kawkab Khala said, “Have you asked anyone about me?”
“I grew up hearing stories of your adventures.”
Kawkab’s brown eyes glittered in the dark night, long fingers pale blue shadows. “Do you know why they called me Billi?” she asked.
“I assumed it was your middle name, short for Bilqis,” I said. It was a common Muslim name.
“Billiis Urdu for cat. And what do cats do best?”
I waited for her answer, now thoroughly confused by this conversation.
