Date with a Sheesha (10 page)

“Hmmm,” Cardinale let out a huff of breath. “It’s not perfect, I suppose. But preferable to the alternative.”

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The alternative being carpet-dummy me running around Arabia with a blank cheque, buying up rugs for his precious collection. His reluctance was understandable, I suppose.

Cardinale pulled an envelope from his suit’s breast pocket and handed it to me.

“Neil’s itinerary for the next two weeks. You may ignore the references to lectures he was to deliver. Those have all been cancelled or assigned to other scholars.”

I nodded, opening the envelope and studying its contents.

“I’ve also attached a list of names of carpet merchants and liaisons Neil was dealing with, or expected to deal with, in procuring the remaining pieces.”

I found the listing, complete with names, dates, and locations of marketplaces. It all looked rather overwhelming at the outset.

But I was sure it would make sense once I studied the documents more closely.

“Liaisons?” I questioned the term.

“Many of the latest deals Neil was brokering were at the initial bargaining stages only. Much of the important carpet trade in Arabia occurs by way of word-of-mouth, carried out by trusted liaisons. References as to your character, and the perceived seriousness of your intent as a purchaser, are passed on from one liaison to another. These people are often relatives or close business associates of the actual carpet owner. Often you won’t even meet the owner, or see the carpet in question, until you’ve been proper-ly vetted by the liaisons. This can take minutes, days, or weeks.

For our sake, and yours, the former is preferable.”

This sounded wonky to me. “How do you even know you want to buy a carpet if you haven’t even seen it?”

Cardinale laughed. “By reputation. By rumour. By insinua-tion.”

Oh good golly Miss Molly.

“Are you certain you’re up to this, Russell?”

Russell again.

I nodded. “I’m up for anything.”

“That’s good,” he said with arched brow. “Almost anything is exactly what you should expect.”

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It was late, cold, dark, Monday—yecch all around—when I steered the Babamobile into the back lane that leads to the garage at the back of my yard. Pulling up, I hit the button for the auto-matic door and noticed she’d arrived.

The babysitter.

The lights were on in the rooms above the garage. I used to think of them as extra storage rooms. But a few years ago they officially became “the granny suite.” The “granny” in question being my mother, Kay Quant née Wistonchuk.

With my next door neighbour, Sereena, out of town, and Errall soon to be, I was reluctantly down to number three on the list of those who could take care of my pooches while I was away. It was only recently that Mom had become free and willing to do so, and then only during the winter months.

For most of her life, Mom was the proud keeper of a cornu-copia of farm animals: chickens, pigs, cats, a dog, geese, a milk cow, and one very rude donkey. But we’d finally convinced her that, at almost seventy, she could probably forego the butchering, milking, and egg-collecting activities necessary to procure her daily meals from her own stock. Now the herd had been whittled down to the domestics—or nearly. And so, although in the summer she still insisted on tending her excessively huge yard and beautiful flower garden, in winter, with the help of a neighbour to check in on the dog and cats, she could spend time away from the farm. I’d made the phone call to Mom after being turned down by Errall. Although I wasn’t leaving for a couple of days, she’d readily agreed and decided to drive down to Saskatoon immediately.

I think she got a little bored in the winter, with no yard to care for and so few animals around. She’d never admit to it, but I think she looked forward to a few days in the big city every now and again. She’d scoff at the fancy stores and restaurants, question my choice of career and clothing, and wonder why I had wine and pâté and tiny jars of chutney and Kir-soaked cherries in my refrig-erator rather than whole milk, bacon slabs, and bricks of butter.

But deep down, I think the experience titillated her, and it gave 68

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her good stories with which to entertain her less-well-travelled lady friends at home. My mother is a simple woman, but who doesn’t want to play queen-of-the-manor every once in a while?

I knew that no matter how much I urged the Babamobile’s motor to be quiet about it, when I pulled into the garage my mother would hear my arrival. And I know a good son would have gone straight up to say hello, but I was bagged. To relieve my pangs of guilt, I promised the universe that I’d take my mother out for lunch tomorrow and catch up then.

Before going inside, I rounded the house via a path the width of a snow shovel. I made my way into the front yard, then out the gate onto the street, where I knew Mom would have parked. For a moment I stood there, frozen to the spot, horrified by what I saw.

My mother and I were driving the same vehicle.

Her van sat there, mocking me, telling me and the world that the nearly identical van I’d just left behind in the garage was irrefutable proof that I was turning into my mother: a sixty-nine-year-old, Ukrainian farm woman.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being a sixty-nine-year-old, Ukrainian farm woman. I just didn’t want to be one.

I debated leaving the cruel van to freeze to its death. But that was no good. I’d be the one having to haul my mother around town if her own vehicle didn’t start in the morning. Grudgingly, I found the van’s block heater cord near the bottom of the grill, and plugged it into one end of the cord I’d brought with me. I then threaded the bright orange extension to an outlet at the front of the house. I returned to the van and cocked my head over the hood. I heard the telltale hum, letting me know the heater was running and protecting the engine from turning into a block of ice overnight.

That done, I raced around to the backyard and entered the house through the kitchen doors at the rear. At first I wondered why Barbra and Brutus were not there to greet me, as was their usual routine. But of course, why would they be? All I had to offer was water and dry kibble for their late supper. Mom had likely already fed them twice since arriving. At least one of those meals 69

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would have included something creamy, something meaty, and something warmed up in the oven. As far as Mom was concerned, my insistence on feeding my dogs a diet of high quality, heart-healthy, and freakily expensive dry dog food bordered on animal abuse. There was no confusion as to why, when Mom was in town, Barbra and Brutus barely noticed I was alive. They were like doggie junkies, each day growing more glassy-eyed and lethargic, antsy for their next dose of morsels from Mom’s personal pantry of goodies she’d brought straight from the farm.

Was I insane? What was I thinking, leaving Mom to care for them while I was away for the next several days? Maybe I should reconsider Alberta’s offer? What was worse? Leaving my schnauzers to be yoga trained and spiritually enhanced, or fed to the point of explosion?

I concluded it was best to go with the devil I knew. I didn’t turn out so bad, despite my own cinnamon-bun-a-day-keeps-the-doctor-away childhood.

After shedding my coat, I put on the kettle and trudged into the bedroom. While hot water filled my oversize Jacuzzi tub, I stripped, snuggled into a thick, navy blue bathrobe, and brushed my teeth. I tossed some seaweed salts that came from the Dead Sea (a claim made on the bottle I’d decided to believe was true), and just a tad too much plumeria-scented bubble bath into the water. Back in the living room, I turned on the Old Time Standards satellite station, and pushed the right buttons so the music would stream through my bedroom speakers. By then, the kettle was whistling its insistent tune. I fixed myself a steaming mug of Darjeeling, spiked with a touch of honey, a shot of amber rum, and a dash of Cointreau.

Returning to the bedroom with my tea toddy, my bath was just about ready. I tossed aside my bathrobe and gave myself a quick once-over in the full-length.

Forty was still at bay (barely), and my body seemed to be holding up okay. After the scare with the matching vans, I was a little spooked. Maybe I’d physically turned into my mother too—

short and stocky, a figure made for thick nylons and flowery aprons.

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I ran my hand through thick hair, still pleasantly sandy, with just a hint of…not sandy. Thanks to good genes, I was betting I’d have a full head of it ‘til my last day. Assessing my six-foot frame, I was pleased to see that the few pounds I’d recently lost were nowhere to be found. The loss, I swore, was the direct result of a regular and vigorous sex life. After a ridiculously energetic and enthusiastic first few months of new-couplehood lovemaking, Ethan and I had finally settled into a more sustainable routine of two or three times a week, with another two or three times on the weekend. Who needs a good diet when you have a good boyfriend?

Most of the weight seemed to have dropped from my face. The result was an extra tightness around my jaw, and a bit of a hollow at the cheeks, that gave me a more serious look. A regular gym routine, which I disliked but had come to accept—along with shaving, taking out the garbage, and paying taxes—gave me a firmly muscled physique that sometimes came in handy in my line of work. And, last but not least, I shifted around for a look at the caboose. Still in place, high and proud.

All physical attributes accounted for and assessed a passing grade, I retrieved my book—a Michael Thomas Ford hardcover—

from the bedside table, turned on the tub’s jets, and lowered myself into the bubbling water with an orgasmic sigh.

But before I could fully give in to my little bit of heaven, I had one last duty. Using a remote, I activated my telephone message manager. With a sip of tea, I put my head back, closed my eyes, and listened to the report.

“Hi, hon.” Ethan. “Sorry I missed your call earlier, but Edda had one of her ‘spells’ today.”

I knew what that meant. Every so often, Edda, a longtime resident of Ash House, proclaimed that she’d lost the use of her limbs. This necessitated a great deal of personal attention, hand-holding, and to-and-fro’ing with meals, hand mirrors, barrettes for her hair, books, and whatever else she simply couldn’t do without that day. The doctors agreed there was absolutely nothing was wrong with her and she shouldn’t be encouraged.

“Anyway, she’s fine now,” Ethan continued. “When she heard 71

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we were having crème caramel for dessert, she even made it down the stairs after dinner. She still doesn’t trust the elevator.

Are you staying in town tonight or coming out here?”

I grimaced and remembered Ethan hadn’t been on my list of babysitters for Barbra and Brutus. Why? Because I hadn’t yet told him I was going away. I needed time to come up with the right words. And I didn’t want to do it over the phone. He’d be worried about me. He’d come around. And then of course he’d offer to take care of the dogs. But with it being winter, having a full house of residents, a teenaged daughter, and two dogs of his own to take care of, I would feel guilty giving him two more mouths to feed and look after. (Even though Barbra and Brutus were the best dogs in the world and really no problem at all.)

“Love you,” his sweet voice chirped. “Hopefully I’ll see you later tonight. If not, give me a call when you get in. Oh, Simon wanted me to tell you she aced her exam today. Bye, sweetheart.”

Sigh. He’s so dreamy.

The next two messages were quick hellos from friends: Jessica in Edmonton, Paul and Jan in Whitefish. Then came Anthony, who’d certainly wasted no time collecting information for me about Neil Gupta.

“Puppy, I hope you’re free tomorrow morning. Neil Gupta’s boyfriend, or maybe ex-boyfriend—that isn’t quite clear to me—

has agreed to see you then. His name is Darrell Good. You may recognize the name? His father is Darrell Good, Senior, the propri-etor of Good Auto in the Auto Mall. Powerful man around town.

Anyway, Darrell works there with his father. He says if you come by in the morning before it gets busy, say about ten, he’d be willing to talk with you. Seemed rather keen to do so actually. Hope this helps. Hugs.”

The final call was from my client’s wife, Unnati Gupta. “Mr.

Quant? My husband tells me I should provide you with some study materials. I have two volumes on antique carpets. You should find them quite helpful. With preparations for the symposium, I have a very busy schedule in and out of my office these days. So it is no use for you to come to the university. Tomorrow I will be at Teachers Credit Union Place working on arrange-72

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ments. Is there a place we could meet downtown, perhaps during the lunch break? These are valuable books, and I’d prefer to hand them to you in person. Please call.”

She left a phone number. It was too late to call her now. I’d do it in the morning.