Date with a Sheesha (13 page)

Hema gave me a look and maybe a slight nod, then looked away.

“Menu?” Domiwaitress had come up behind the women.

Unnati jumped. She stared at the server’s peculiar drag getup, which was a rather disquieting combination of dominatrix and ski bunny.

“No,” Unnati finally got out. “We can’t stay for long.” She turned away from the server who simply smiled politely and moved off. “I have brought these two books for you, Mr. Quant.”

I took the tomes she offered, cringing a little inside. They were textbooks. They reminded me of cramming for university exams, an activity I liked less than throwing up and probably only a little more than getting crabs—another reminder of university.

“Although Hema will be with you throughout this…this trip, we cannot be sure there won’t be times when you will be on your own, in the company of people who will expect you to know at least something about carpets. You understand?”

Of course I understood. “You mean stuff like the oldest knotted pile carpet ever found is the Pazyryk Carpet, dating from the fourth century B.C.? Or that the Xinjiang region of China holds an extremely rich collection of very old carpets? That Aubusson is a French design, flat weave rug, normally with a floral centre medallion and pastel colours? Or that Caucasian rugs were main-ly woven in Azerbaijan, in the Caucasus region? I also know that Herati is a rosette surrounded by a pattern of fowl repeating throughout the field of the rug.” I smiled. I may not have liked cramming, but I was usually pretty good at it.

“Fish,” Unnati said flatly.

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“Fish?”

“A Herati rosette has a pattern of
fish
repeating throughout the field of the rug.”

Fish. Fowl. I was close.

“Close is not good enough.”

Jumping jellyfish! Could this woman read my mind?

“These people will be watching your every move. Listening to your every word. They will be suspicious. They will be extremely distrustful.”

“I suppose I’d better stick pretty close to Hema, then.” I looked over at the younger woman. No help there. She was surveying the wares of the bookstore, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. So far, Hema seemed to me to be a rather timid and reserved gal. Then again, it must have been difficult standing out from the substantial shadow cast by her aunt.

Unnati tapped the hard cover of the topmost textbook in my hands. “This one is best for beginners. Study it first when you are on the plane.”

Why did I suddenly get the urge to sneak out the back way, bum a cigarette, and score some beer? I miss high school.

“You’ll excuse us now? Hema and I must find some lunch before returning to work.”

Uh, but you’re in a restaurant. I didn’t bother pointing that out. Colourful Mary’s probably wasn’t quite their cup of tea.

“I’ll see you on the plane, I guess,” I offered as a farewell to Hema.

She nodded and followed her aunt out of the restaurant.

I sat down and set the two books in front of me. One was:
The
Bulfinch Guide to Carpets: How to Identify, Classify, and Evaluate
Antique Carpets and Rugs
. The second:
Ancient Carpets through
Time
. Oh joy.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Mary said as she dropped herself into the seat next to mine.

“Oh, no,” I said, looking at her with fear in my eyes. “What happened in there?”

“Weeeeeellllllllll.”

“Mary, tell me.”

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“There was a slight disagreement as to how to make the best mushroom sauce. Then they had a spirited discussion about borscht. And, most surprising of all, your very Ukrainian mother had some rather strong opinions about my own very Cree mother’s baked trout and cattail cakes recipes.”

“Oh, Mary, I’m sorry. But I did try to warn you.”

“Don’t be sorry, Russell. I haven’t seen Marushka this animated in the kitchen for months. She’s eating it up, so to speak. But I have to tell you, there’s good news and there’s bad news.”

I winced. “Good news first, please.”

“They’ve challenged each other to a cook off. They’re not really calling it that, but that’s what it is.”

“And the bad news?”

“
You
have to decide whose dish is better.”

Once again I jumped up from my seat. I grabbed the jacket off the back of my chair, threw it on, kissed Mary on the cheek, handed her my mother’s purse, and ran out of there while my life was still worth a plug nickel.

Half an hour later I was back in my office. I’d scored a tasty take-out sandwich from Souleio Foods, a natural food market and eatery relatively new to the south downtown landscape. While I opened up my Hotmail account, I made a quick call to Colourful Mary’s. I asked Mary to explain to my mother that I had to rush away on urgent business and that I’d see her later at home. There was no way I was going to be the one to choose between the cooking of the chef at my favourite diner and my mother’s. It was culinary hara-kari.

I pulled a diet cola from the small fridge that holds up one end of my desk, and unwrapped the sandwich: eggplant pesto with Pine View Farms organic mango chicken. I opened my email inbox and was thrilled to see a message with attachments from Darrell Good. It was the emails he’d exchanged with Neil Gupta.

For the next hour, I read and studied the messages with a fine-tooth comb. Some were just short, catch-up emails. Others were longer, and written like letters. Sometimes I got the sense the two 89

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men were simply corresponding as friends. Other times I got the sense there was something more building up between the lines.

Darrell had been right about Fahd. Neil mentioned the man many times. Without knowing Neil’s character or being able to ask him questions, I had a difficult time figuring out if Fahd was a lover, just a friend, or a colleague. At first Neil seemed very fond of him. But in the more recent missives, fondness turned to annoyance and sometimes anger as Neil accused Fahd of “playing games as usual.” But was it playing games with his business or with his heart? I couldn’t be sure.

Several times, Neil referred to an upcoming trip to Saudi Arabia. He seemed excited, yet maybe a little anxious…or was it scared? Again, I was frustrated, knowing that words in writing could be misleading. I had to remind myself of this fact several times.

I spent most of my time on the final email:

“sa is coming up soon,”
he wrote. By now I knew that by “sa”

he was referring to Saudi Arabia.
“im a little unsure about what will
happen there im glad to finally be going but worried the big one still
eludes me and I still havent found saffron i need saffron.”

Saffron is a spice derived from the dried stigmas of the saffron crocus, and I guessed he must have been searching for some authentic stuff to bring home as a gift. I knew that saffron had been an ingredient in a number of dishes I’d tasted in the Gupta home during Neil’s memorial. I made a mental note to ask Hema about this.

The note finished off with:
“theyre throwing me a farewell party
at the deira old souk before i go it’s supposed to be a surprise but i found
out now i guess i have to go lol”

I found myself swallowing hard upon reading those last words written by Neil Gupta. Little did he know that death was the surprise waiting for him at that party.

I wondered how a joyous farewell celebration had turned so tragic. Who was with him? Who was Fahd? Lover? Friend?

Colleague? Murderer? Why was Neil so anxious to get to Saudi Arabia? What was the
big one
he was after? Did he find it?

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many questions. Too few answers.

I arrived home a little earlier than normal. I had to pack. I wanted to spend some quality time with Barbra and Brutus. I had to make up for the aborted visit with my mother at lunchtime. I had to check on the salmon I’d been marinating in one part soya sauce to three parts maple syrup since early that morning for my dinner with Ethan. I would be crusting it with cracked black pepper just before it went on the grill. I was
that
good a boyfriend. A little bit of cleanup, and then I’d be ready for the evening.

When Ethan arrived just after eight, everything was done except for my shower. Perfect.

By nine we were sitting by a roaring fire in the living room, romantic hits from the seventies and eighties playing in the background, glasses of Australian Mollydooker Velvet Glove Shiraz in hand, waiting for the salmon to cook in its tinfoil tent. Mom was in her garage suite, happily watching the Season Four DVD of
Murder, She Wrote
. Barbra and Brutus had chosen to spend the night with us. The aroma of cooking may have had something to do with it. Maybe it was because they both had major crushes on Ethan. But I’d like to think they knew it was their second-to-last night with me for a while.

Ethan had one of his manly paws on my shoulder, gently mas-saging it as he spoke. “You look a little stressed, hon. Wanna tell me about your day?”

Uh, nope. I wasn’t ready yet. But when? I had to give myself some kind of deadline. As the speakers poured out some smooth Sade, I made myself a deal. I’d spill my news as soon as I heard Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond singing a duet. Or no…wait…as soon as something by the Bee Gees came on—as it inevitably would—then I’d come clean.

“Never mind that,” I leaned in and gave him a peck behind the ear. I knew he liked that. “You’ve had a tougher day than me.

You first.”

He gave me a look. One of those that told me he wasn’t quite buying what I was selling but was willing to play along—for a 91

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while. I managed a Laura-Petrie-hiding-something-from-husband-Rob smile. Having someone who knew me so well definitely had its pros and cons.

“It was a good day,” he began. “Jared is working with the accountant on putting together the year-end books. Thank God for Jared, because that’s a task I’m very happy to be rid of. Frank and Hortense had a bit of a row, but I think it’s all settled now.

He’s agreed to record
JAG
and watch it later because it’s reruns anyway. That allows her to watch
Survivor
. You’d think this wouldn’t be a problem because they each have a flat screen in their rooms. But they both insist their show isn’t the same if they can’t watch it on the big screen downstairs. And for some reason, Hortense believes that since it’s reality TV, if you don’t watch it when it’s actually broadcast, you’re missing something happening as it happens.”

I nodded with an enthusiastic empathy that was probably overkill given the conversational content.

Ethan hesitated, eyeing me up. “Should I go on? I can tell you about Loretta’s bunion operation.”

No Bee Gees yet.

Why was I being so stupid about this? Why was I resisting telling Ethan about my trip to the Middle East? He’d never once, in the year and a half we’d been together, given me any reason to think I couldn’t tell him about anything. So why so shy, Mr.

Quant? Was there something different about this? Sure, this was the farthest and longest time I’d be away for work since we became a couple. Of course there was some danger. But more than usual? I couldn’t say for sure. And even so, so what? Did my psy-che know something my conscious mind was ignoring? Was there something about this case that was going to affect our relationship? How could that be? Maybe it was all the “should we move in together?” stuff that was unfairly giving me the jitters. Or maybe this was typical getting-to-be-a-long-term-relationship behaviour. After all, I was sorely out of practice. And this certainly wasn’t like riding a bike. Things had changed since the last time I’d done this. Or maybe…
I
had changed?

Ethan laid aside his drink and moved off the couch. He posi-92

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tioned himself in front of me, sitting on the coffee table, our knees laced together like fingers. He placed a hand on each of my thighs, leaned in, and looked me deep in the eyes. “Russell, I know when something is bothering you.”

“How? How do you know?” I really wanted to know. For future reference.

He grinned. “Lots of ways. But if you promise to tell me what’s going on, I’ll give up one of them.”

I warily nodded. Was this some kind of boyfriend trick?

“Your ears,” he said.

Huh? “What? What do you mean? Do they grow? Like Pinocchio’s nose?”

“They turn red. Right at the tips.”

I immediately felt the top of my ears. They did feel a little warm. But that was because of the fire. Wasn’t it?

“Come on,” he goaded me good-naturedly. “It’s just you and me. No kid. No mother. No oldsters. Only two dogs, and they promise not to repeat a word of anything they hear. You’re not going to find a better time to talk.”

He was right. I couldn’t wait any longer for “How Deep Is Your Love” or “If I Can’t Have You.” I took a deep breath, and dived in.

“I got a new case yesterday and they want me to investigate the death of their son in Dubai, so I’m leaving on Thursday and that’s why Mom is here so she can take care of the dogs while I’m away, and I know you’d have done it but you’re so busy with everything besides I think it does Mom good to get away from the farm during the winter. So did Loretta have both bunions done, or just one?” I sipped my wine, and wondered if it was too soon to check on the salmon.