Chapter 12 Miz
12
MIZ
“I’m just trying to help,” I insist. Aimé’s sitting opposite me at an outdoor patio table at Rendez-Vous Ethiopian restaurant, scrolling through my texts with Kal yesterday about his situation. She’s wearing her oversized sunglasses so it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking. Resting my arm on the black fence of the patio, I pick at the potted fir plant on the other side, observing the flow of traffic. What I’m really keeping an eye out for, even on a Wednesday, are any blasts from the past I’d rather not run into here. I take pity on the fir and switch to fidgeting with the notecard advertising a drink promotion. I know I’m dancing on the edge of being too much with Kal, but I can’t help it. I also know that what I’m about to do, the final idea I have for him, will be equivalent to sailing right off the cliff. But if it works out, it’ll all have been worth it.
Aimé returns my phone and pushes back her sunglasses, pinning me with a look. “Keep it up and you’ll help yourself right out of a friendship,” she says with her best Judge Lynn impression. I flinch, as if she’s actually thrown down a gavel. “I bet you K-Money’s too depressed to even think about what lies ahead,” she goes on. “And here you are smothering him. You know Mr. Mellow—he likes his space .” Aimé has all kinds of affectionate nicknames for Kal. She cranes her neck and signals for a server’s attention from within the restaurant.
“Um, that’s some mama bear slash girlfriend slash wifey shite,” I say, affronted. “I do not smother .”
“Hookay.” Aimé mouths thank you to the server who brings us one menu.
I watch the server return inside. “Anyway, Aimé, the reason I wanted to meet up today,” I say to the top of her head as she peruses the menu, “is that I have one last possible solution for Kal.” She looks up at me warily. “I promise after this, I’ll stop,” I say. I know I sound like a person with a problem, a compulsion, but I don’t care. I do a drum roll on the tabletop. “I’m gonna…find someone to sign for him!”
“Sign what?” Aimé looks confused.
“Come on, don’t be thick.”
“I am thick.”
Discreetly, I mime sliding a ring on my left ring finger. “Someone to marry him.”
Aimé snaps her attention back to the menu. “I did not just hear that.”
I tug at the laminated page she’s holding. “Come on. Everybody gets married. We even have a song about it. Remember ‘Ale Gena’?”
“Most people don’t get married just to get papers.”
“But everyone gets married for something . There’s always some kind of convenience baked in with the ‘love.’?”
She shakes her head sadly at me, as if I have just gone beyond the beyond. “How romantic.”
I roll my eyes. “The time is not for romance. The time is for bold, decisive action.”
Aimé rubs the bridge of her nose and pointedly turns her eyes to look out at the pedestrians walking by. She looks as if she’s giving every person’s outfit a once-over, but really, she’s considering my idea. I know it. I tap my nails against my teeth, waiting for her to reach the same conclusion I had after I heard about Sosina. I’d mulled it all over and realized that a person can do the unthinkable if pushed into a corner. They can always change their mind about positions they’d been so firm about. Despite all my pessimism, I have never in a million years dreamed Sosina and her man would change their minds about each other, leaving me stuck with her wedding dress in my storage closet potentially forever. So why can’t Kal change his woo-woo mind about the sacred foreverness of marriage? Last time he had a crisis, he changed his mind about his entire identity! Threw deuces to his country, family, career and moved to Canada!
“And K’s on board with this?” Aimé says, mouth twisted to one side.
I grin. Someone is aboard the rescue train with me . “That’s the thing.” Aimé’s eyes narrow. “My idea is to first scout out women who might be good candidates to sign for him. Then, if anyone looks promising, I will casually pass the idea by him.” She gawks at me, and I use the opportunity to take her menu and use it as a fan, stealing glances at the inside of the restaurant. “I thought here would be a good place to start, where there are Ethiopian women working for a low enough wage that the prospect of making a year’s income for just filling out some forms would be very attractive to them.”
“Oh my god, Miz,” Aimé says in a whisper, as if she’s terrified someone will hear us. “Did I already say the levels of wrong this is rating at?”
“I just need you to help me with the chit-chat.”
“Miz! You need help.”
“I need to help. Aims, fifty thousand dollars could change a woman’s life. That’s a worthy, honourable cause that benefits everyone.” I put the menu down and cover her hand with mine and stare at her. “I’m just asking you to help me test the waters. How does one broach the topic? Like, should I go for the direct approach? ‘Hi, are you married?’?”
“Immediately no!”
“I remember words Mom used to say.” That subtle, roundabout lingo she dropped when coordinating favours in the community, making call after call like a switchboard operator. “ Chigir and metebaber . They might as well have been my first Amharic words.”
“Well, they ain’t about to become mine, honey.”
“It’s basically difficulty and cooperation .” I chuckle. How ironic, me an Amharic interpreter. Another server sails toward our table. “Oh, oh, here she comes. Be cool,” I hiss.
“Oh, I’m chillin’.” Aimé smiles sweetly at the server, who is wearing snug black dress pants and a short-sleeved top with an Ethiopian patterned scarf tied in a bun at the back of her head. She has the height and fine bones of a model.
“Hi,” Aimé says, barely audible. “Could you cooperate with helping me? I am having some difficulties.”
I kick her under the table. She thinks she’s funny.
“Hmm?” the woman says, confused, using one hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
I butt in. “So! What’s good today?” I’m being over-the-top friendly.
Weak shrug. “Everything.”
“Anything you don’t have? Haha.” I wink at her. “Easier if you tell me before I pick it.”
She does a combination forced smile and head wobble. “No, we have everything.”
God, if talking about the food is this painful…No, I can’t be discouraged so easily . “You’ve been working here a long time?”
“About a year,” she says, glancing back at the interior, which is not busy. But I get the message. I shoot a look at Aimé. She’s nose in phone, playing Candy Crush. Guess I’m riding solo.
“Do you like it? Is it good pay? Sorry, I’m just asking for someone.” I smile at her.
She looks at me as if I have two heads. “It’s good, yeah.”
“You plan to stay a long time? Are you new here? I mean to Canada.”
She finally meets my eyes, and I see a hint of I don’t get paid enough for this shit in them. “It is my work,” she says to me, as if that is all the explanation needed. “Can I bring you drinks?”
“Water would be great,” Aimé exclaims. “Thank you so much.” I swallow, feeling like a bumbling, selfish idiot. As soon as the server leaves, she turns on me. “Hopeless.”
“See! I need you!”
“ Mon dieu .” She sighs, just like her grandmother. “Kal, you owe me your firstborn.”
When the server comes back with our waters, Aimé gets to work. I make mental notes, paying attention to how she’s establishing rapport before going for the big time. But the server is just as curt with Aimé’s questions—whether she has any family here (some), siblings (no), long-term career plans (not sure)—as she was with me. We try to come up with all kinds of excuses to have her return so we can get further with the chit-chat: more napkins, more mitmita to add heat to our food, then a side of plain yogurt to stop our tongues burning…but nada.
“You think she sensed what we’re up to?” I say, after she has left us with the bill. It had appeared before we even finished our meals, the fastest I’ve ever seen a bill arrive. It’s as if she couldn’t wait to get rid of us.
“I feel gross,” Aimé says, pushing the bill to me. “How do men do this all the time?”
“You and me both. I’m tipping twenty-five percent,” I say, filling out the bill.
“Good. That’s the least we can do.” Aimé scoots out of her chair. “Well, we gave it a shot.”
Did we though? I think, as we leave the patio. Like the scent of the spices still on my fingertips, my plan doesn’t want to let me go. A bakery across the street gives me an idea.
“Dessert?”
“I thought I’m supposed to be off sugar,” Aimé says, but her eyes have lit up.
“Are you?” She smiles guiltily. “We’re right in Greektown, might as well.” Except where I lead us to is Mocha Cafe and Pastry, an Ethio-Eri spot.
Aimé looks skeptical. “Here?”
“We got this,” I say. I know she’s dreading getting stared at. But that never killed anyone, and by now, Aimé should be used to the Ethiopian national hobby of staring at each other and anyone who looks remotely like one of us. Inside the modest café wallpapered with a red stonework pattern, she distances herself from me, standing at the far end of the display case of tiramisus, sponge cakes, and baklavas, reading the coffee menu as if it’s the original ten commandments. The cashier, a plump woman in a denim shirt dress, comes up for my order, tossing a long thin ponytail over her shoulder. Right away, I notice she’s wearing what looks like a wedding ring like a pendant on a thick gold necklace. Dammit. I do the obligatory rapport building anyway (i.e., weather), then say, “That’s nice,” tapping the base of my neck to mean her necklace. “You were married?”
“Oh, I am still, thanks to God,” the server says. “Only, it’s not comfortable to wear for work.”
“I get it. I work with my hands too,” I say. I order and pay for two baklavas and take them out to Aimé, who has escaped outside.
“Mission fail,” I say glumly, giving her one of the pastries.
“Oh,” she says, taking in my very obvious disappointment as I peel off the top layer of phyllo and crush it in my mouth. “Can I ask you something?” I nod. “Why do you need Kal to stay so much?”
The dough sticks to the roof of my mouth. “Wha—? Obviously, he deserves—”
“No, youuu ,” she says, pressing her index finger into my arm with her hand holding the pastry bag closed. “What’s it to you ?”
“It’s for him. It’s not about me.” I frown at her. “What’s with the third degree?”
She raises her free hand in surrender, backing off. We fall silent as we eat and walk toward the subway, a feeling of defeat in the air. Suddenly, she stops and points up under a sign that says Jolly Bar. “One last try?”
I smile, touched. “Thanks, boo, but oh god.” I eye the door apprehensively. Though the signage on this bar is new, I know the place intimately. I haven’t been here, in the daytime no less, since those wild days, before the epidemic of weddings started to take out my partners in crime one by one. “Too many ghosts.”
“Okay,” Aimé says, backing off again. “But bartenders are the chattiest people in hospitality… and they know a lot of people…just sayin’.”
“All right, all right,” I say, following her into the bar. What I do and the places I go for you , I say to Kal in my mind. Thankfully, it’s not even happy hour yet, so most of the no-fuss seating is empty, the three different games on as many giant flatscreens over the back bar playing for just two loners hunched under their ball caps and popped collars. “My girl will have a rum and Coke,” Aimé says to the bartender as we hop onto the barstools. “Same for me. Easy on the Coke.”
The bartender nods knowingly and begins to prepare our drinks. I like her funky, short layered haircut and sleeveless, flowy capri-length jumpsuit showing an inch of midriff. She appears older than Kal. Slight bummer, but it should help keep things strictly business, if this is a go. And I don’t see a wedding band anywhere on her person. Sweet. Unless she hides it so that it won’t affect her tips? I realize I’m staring when I feel Aimé nudge me.
Our drinks arrive quickly. I stir mine and feel tipsy just from the vapours of the double shots of rum. “Holy! This is strong.”
“Made by Hani,” the bartender says with pride. She rests her arms on the counter and studies us. “Okay. What’s the matter? Who is in trouble?”
Aimé and I look at each other in surprise. Hani laughs. “Young girls like you, in here, at this hour. In all my years, when do I see this?”
I like her already, so I decide to cut to the chase. “My friend is having serious paper problems.”
Hani gives me a sympathetic tut. “I know how it is.”
“And we are actually looking for someone to…” I almost say cooperate but trail off, suddenly terrified at the idea of her saying yes. Am I ready to hand Kal over to someone we don’t even know?
“Sign for him,” Aimé says, smooth as a single malt.
“Oh, I’m married,” Hani says with a laugh. “I just don’t wear a ring.” Like my mama, I think, and wonder if hers too is a marriage in nothing but name, held on to by both sides for who knows what reason. If her man also still wears his ring, like Dad.
“Did your friend come from America?” Hani asks me.
“From Ethiopia direct,” I say. “He’s on a work permit now, but he was a student first.”
Hani nods, impressed. Next thing I know, she’s asking all the questions—how cooperative is Kal’s family, when does his work permit expire, what would be the payment amount and payout schedule, does he have any police record or a girlfriend, is he healthy and a Christian, does he mess with drugs or alcohol? I nod and shake my head like a bobble-head doll while Aimé watches the Q&A like a table tennis game.
“Their documents will be under his address,” Hani says, winding down. “But they don’t have to live together. It’s good for the case. But not necessary. Let me see a photo.” I hesitate. This feels like another point of no return, but I don’t know why I’m tripping—this was my idea! “I must see if I’ve seen him around,” Hani adds. It doesn’t sound as if it’ll go well for Kal if she has. I move ever so slowly for my bag and root around as if I can’t find my phone. Eventually, I open to a photo I took of him on his last birthday, on my balcony at home, the sunset turning one side of his face golden, and hand it over.
Hani’s eyes sparkle. Dang, back up, lady. “Very handsome!” She asks me his name. I tell her. “Good name!” She gives me her phone to put my number in. After I do, I call myself so that my number is at the top of her recent calls. “I’m sending you some contacts,” she says, moving away to take care of a new customer.
Aimé leans in, chewing on her straw. “Third time’s a charm.”
“Amen to that,” I say, and down a big gulp.
“So…” Aimé says. “When’s Daniel coming by again?”
I almost choke. “Friday,” I say. She nods approvingly. Like Daniel, she doesn’t need to know either that, come Friday, I’ll hit him with an I had to step out unexpectedly, but I’ve left your things with Everest . None of said items will include a diamond ring, of course, thus continuing my absurd streak of finding excuses to buy myself more time until I can personally put it back in his gym bag. As much as I pray he hasn’t noticed the ring is missing, he must have. Hence why he’s all up on me.
We’re on our way to the subway station when I receive a text from Hani, with six names and numbers. Aimé laughs when she sees the list, pointing at a name. “Is that—”
“Yup.” One of the names on the list is a Muna. Just my brilliant luck that one of these contacts happens to share the same name as Kal’s ex. Lovely. “Already mentally crossed her out.”
Which leaves me with only a precious five.