We headed back to our seats.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The cure for recovering from an Islamophobic attack, it turned out, was junk food and baseball. I felt almost normal when we walked out of the Rogers Centre at six p.m., though I kept an eye out for three enraged white men in dark T-shirts. Rashid remained completely oblivious, chatting about the home run at the bottom of the third and the spectacular catch that won the Blue Jays the game at the top of the ninth, as if we had nothing to fear. I envied his calm, and I couldn’t wait to get back to Golden Crescent, where things were familiar and safe.
“I called a cab,” Aydin informed us as I turned towards the subway. A yellow car idled in front of the stadium. He opened the door and motioned for me to get in, then clambered in beside me. Rashid sat beside the driver, a friendly man from Romania. They talked baseball while Aydin adjusted a fresh ice pack behind my back. He gently tugged on my sleeve and our eyes met in the dark interior.
“Okay?” he asked, as the cab merged onto Toronto’s perennially congested streets. I noticed a small scar on his jaw amid the dark stubble. I nodded, and he leaned back and closed his eyes.
Rashid sighed with happiness. “What a perfect day,” he said. He turned around to face us. “Hana Apa, have you spoken to Aydin about our mutual problem?”
Now what was my cousin up to? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answered, a warning in my voice that Rashid proceeded to ignore.
“Why do you think I invited Aydin on our trip downtown? It is clear we must join forces to fight against a common enemy.”
Aydin and I looked at each other. “We don’t have a common enemy,” he said.
“Yes, we do. Junaid Shah.”
Aydin froze. “My father is not my enemy.”
Rashid shrugged. “Any fool can see your dad is trying to sabotage you. He spoke out during the business association meeting even though you asked him to stop. He’s made enemies of your neighbours by threatening them. For some reason he does not want you or the restaurant to succeed. Your only choice is to join forces with us. The enemy of your enemy is your friend.”
Aydin and I exchanged glances.Machiavelli, he mouthed.
“Actually I prefer Chanakya, the fourth-century teacher who pioneered political science in India. His teachings helped me with my baseball strategy,” Rashid said serenely.
I crossed my arms. “I don’t trust him,” I said, jerking my head towards Aydin. “He’s an opportunist.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Aydin said.
Rashid ignored him. “Which is why he will make the best ally. As soon as the summer festival is done and all our fortunes have improved, we will return to our former battle stations.”
I mulled over his words. Rashid wasn’t just my eighteen-year-oldcousin from India anymore, I realized. He stood up in the face of hate and talked about building dams. His parents were “accountants” who knew how to fight for their turf. Rashid was not what he appeared.
But then, neither was Aydin. The cold, arrogant man I had first met didn’t tally with the vulnerable, protective person I had spent the day with. Maybe it was time to let down my defensive walls, or at least lower them a fraction. I shrugged casually. “Fine, we can work together until after the street festival. I told Yusuf I would help with the protest anyway,” I said.
Aydin blinked. “What protest?”
Rashid clapped his hands. “I knew you would see reason. This will all work out, Hana Apa. You’ll see.”
AYDIN GENTLY SHOOK ME AWAKE;I had fallen asleep on his shoulder during the cab ride. He helped me out of the car and then followed us up the pathway to my house.
Delicious smells wafted through the front door. “What are you doing?” I whispered when he moved to follow us inside.
“Walking you home.” His ears were tinged pink again. “I’d like to say salaam to your parents. And, um, to apologize. For what happened today.”
I steered him to the side. “We’re not telling them,” I said firmly, arms crossed.
Aydin looked confused. “Won’t they notice that you’re hurt?”
“I tripped and fell in the subway but I’m fine.” I glared at him. “They have enough to worry about, and I never want to think about what happened downtown again. Understand?”
He nodded. When he still moved to follow me inside the house, I raised an eyebrow.
“It would be rude if I didn’t at least say hello. I promise I’ll behave.”
We were greeted by the aromas of spicy chapli kebab—seasoned minced beef patties studded with whole coriander seeds—and fresh tandoori chicken, served with homemade naan and lots of fresh mint yogurt chutney. I wondered if the opportunity to eat my mother’s cooking was the real reason Aydin was eager to visit.
