face and smell besidehim…. He was too much a creature of habit, especially now. Perhaps there could yet be someone somewhere who would really love him with a passion, perhaps he should give himself that chance … though did he have time for love?
He recalled a reunion among friends, his old pal Haji visiting from the States; Haji the handsome, free, and easygoing academic, and she once calling Haji by her husband’s name, Nazir; and his ears pricked up, and he hurt a little, but only for a moment, there was so much on his mind, and what could you do about such a situation, such a buried feeling anyway. Only he wished she could see what was obvious to everybody else there, how envious Handsome Haji was of what Nazir had made of his life, how hungry these professors were for just a little more money, and at the end of the day what did they have to show for themselves? No Einsteins among them, that was certain
.
The first thing next morning, a call from his father. Yes, yes, Dad, I’ll do your shopping, can’t you give me even a day, but he knew all his dad wanted was to speak to him … and the more his dad called for no reason at all, which meant just to be able to speak to somebody, the more impatient Nazir got with him.
And so, coffee and croissant at his neighbourhood café; a tour of his properties. On Elm Street at Crescent International Hostel, the Portuguese manager was obviously skimming off some, letting rooms without recording them; which was expected, but there was an Albanian he had earmarked for the job, a former engineer no less, who looked trustworthy. Meanwhile the Portuguese had to be watched. Perhaps a job at the hotel on Don Valley, a promotion of sorts, and as soon as heshowed his true colours, as he was certain to do, push him off.
Bad business at the hostel on Danforth. They were converting it into upscale, in an area fast growing fashionable and touristy; which meant the former occupants had to be squeezed out with higher rates and room renovations to go with them. There were three units left to be converted, their occupants a single Indian woman, another woman who was a single mother of two, and a retired Bangladeshi couple. That’s what the manager reminded him of over the mobile. When he arrived at the manager’s office, the tenants were sitting outside to appeal the notice of rate hike. They didn’t have a legal option to speak of, Nazir knew. The single mother was a white woman of thirty or so, and the Indian woman—he glared at her, avoided her eyes, looked away.
But she latched on to him. Mr. Nazir, I know you; in Gujarati. Help me please, we are as one—It’s not in my hands, he told her, throwing glances at the other tenants; then tautly in English: Pay the new rate and you can stay. But how can I, Mr. Nazir….
He felt dirty, he shouldn’t have come. Hadn’t he resolved he was beyond this low-level supervision? But for a business to run successfully you have to be in touch at all levels. Dirt was part of the risk, the cost of business.
That look from her, so piteous. How can you do that, Nazir? But this is the business I entered into; it has to be done right. Someone else in my shoes would do the same, or worse. Give them a month’s notice of the new rates, he told the manager. If they can’t pay they must vacate.
On his way to his car, he paused at a neighbouring building that had begun to interest him recently, a dilapidated structure, but for that very reason full of potential. Preoccupied by its possibilities, he drove off to shop for his father.
Paper flowers; aloe extract; Froot Loops—“good for my digestion”—pure bull; peanut butter, for rubbing into his arthritic knees; paraffin for laxative; vacuum cleaner bags; deboned chicken, which he normally wouldn’t buy, but his son was paying; tortilla wraps to use as rotis.
The apartment was hideous, reflecting his mother’s aesthetic sense when she was alive. Oversized and excessive furniture mostly with
He recalled a reunion among friends, his old pal Haji visiting from the States; Haji the handsome, free, and easygoing academic, and she once calling Haji by her husband’s name, Nazir; and his ears pricked up, and he hurt a little, but only for a moment, there was so much on his mind, and what could you do about such a situation, such a buried feeling anyway. Only he wished she could see what was obvious to everybody else there, how envious Handsome Haji was of what Nazir had made of his life, how hungry these professors were for just a little more money, and at the end of the day what did they have to show for themselves? No Einsteins among them, that was certain
.
The first thing next morning, a call from his father. Yes, yes, Dad, I’ll do your shopping, can’t you give me even a day, but he knew all his dad wanted was to speak to him … and the more his dad called for no reason at all, which meant just to be able to speak to somebody, the more impatient Nazir got with him.
And so, coffee and croissant at his neighbourhood café; a tour of his properties. On Elm Street at Crescent International Hostel, the Portuguese manager was obviously skimming off some, letting rooms without recording them; which was expected, but there was an Albanian he had earmarked for the job, a former engineer no less, who looked trustworthy. Meanwhile the Portuguese had to be watched. Perhaps a job at the hotel on Don Valley, a promotion of sorts, and as soon as heshowed his true colours, as he was certain to do, push him off.
Bad business at the hostel on Danforth. They were converting it into upscale, in an area fast growing fashionable and touristy; which meant the former occupants had to be squeezed out with higher rates and room renovations to go with them. There were three units left to be converted, their occupants a single Indian woman, another woman who was a single mother of two, and a retired Bangladeshi couple. That’s what the manager reminded him of over the mobile. When he arrived at the manager’s office, the tenants were sitting outside to appeal the notice of rate hike. They didn’t have a legal option to speak of, Nazir knew. The single mother was a white woman of thirty or so, and the Indian woman—he glared at her, avoided her eyes, looked away.
But she latched on to him. Mr. Nazir, I know you; in Gujarati. Help me please, we are as one—It’s not in my hands, he told her, throwing glances at the other tenants; then tautly in English: Pay the new rate and you can stay. But how can I, Mr. Nazir….
He felt dirty, he shouldn’t have come. Hadn’t he resolved he was beyond this low-level supervision? But for a business to run successfully you have to be in touch at all levels. Dirt was part of the risk, the cost of business.
That look from her, so piteous. How can you do that, Nazir? But this is the business I entered into; it has to be done right. Someone else in my shoes would do the same, or worse. Give them a month’s notice of the new rates, he told the manager. If they can’t pay they must vacate.
On his way to his car, he paused at a neighbouring building that had begun to interest him recently, a dilapidated structure, but for that very reason full of potential. Preoccupied by its possibilities, he drove off to shop for his father.
Paper flowers; aloe extract; Froot Loops—“good for my digestion”—pure bull; peanut butter, for rubbing into his arthritic knees; paraffin for laxative; vacuum cleaner bags; deboned chicken, which he normally wouldn’t buy, but his son was paying; tortilla wraps to use as rotis.
The apartment was hideous, reflecting his mother’s aesthetic sense when she was alive. Oversized and excessive furniture mostly with
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