Chapter 16 Kal
16
KAL
Miz has delegated me buyer of the wedding bands, saying I can pick anything. And I believe her, not least from all her complaining every time she was dragged along on a ring-shopping expedition as a bridesmaid. She once told me that they all look the same to her. In fact, the only wedding ring she has ever shown any interest in was her mother’s. On her second summer stay in Addis in 2001, we were enjoying a backyard bonfire, the dome of stars that Miz calls her “Ethiopia friends” twinkling above us. We watched eagerly as the cook, Zebiba, stoked the flames under a barbecue pan filled with marinated strips of lamb.
“Check it,” Miz said out of the blue, handing me her phone opened to a photo of a gold ring sitting on a bathroom countertop, worryingly close to the edge. “My mom’s wedding ring. I found it rolling around in the back of her bathroom drawer. I was looking for a safety pin. It’s identical to Dad’s.”
Following her lead, I kept my reaction casual too. “I bet it’s a Teklu Desta. In their day, that’s where everyone had their jewellery made.” She swiped to the next photo, a zoomed-in shot of the engravings along the inside of the band. I leaned in to get a closer look. “Their initials?”
“Yep.”
“I love the plus signs between the letters.”
“Those are crosses, heathen.”
“Or plus signs representing their union. Becoming one.”
“It can’t be plus signs. Do you see any equal sign? Any result?”
“The equal is implied. The love resulting. Infinity symbolized by the circularity of the ring.” I smile at her.
Miz pretended to faint and then snatched her phone away. I guess I failed at casual. “Oh my god, so sentimental. Poor Muna doesn’t know what she’s in for,” she said, jerking her head at the windows of the living room where everyone else, including Muna, was watching Love & Basketball .
On the contrary, I was the one who didn’t know what I was in for, I think, deep into the third hour of shopping for wedding rings. The task shouldn’t have taken me more than half an hour. There’s a jewellery shop at the main intersection by my house in Little Portugal, one of those old European ones that hasn’t updated their inventory since the seventies. I could’ve gone there and chosen the most inexpensive piece. But for some reason, I rode right past it and found myself downtown, at the Eaton Centre.
The rings are props, of course, but it felt wrong to not put any thought into it. I got picky, nixing every big brand store in the cavernous mall, opting instead to head west along the edgier Queen Street where unique independent businesses still held sway. I popped into every jewellery store, asking to see every ring, ignoring the salespeople’s questioning looks. Why is this man shopping for wedding rings by himself? A prospective groom should be with his best man or the maid-of-honour. I wish I could consult Silvio or Aimé, but Miz wants to keep our plan between us.
From one of the stores on Queen, I text Miz photos of truly atrocious rings. Miz must be between clients, because she replies right away.
Miz: Looks great.
I smile. Okay, let’s play. I send her a picture of a ring with a thick pink band and a heart-shaped mood stone sticking straight out of its centre, like a golf ball on a pin, from Ardene.
Miz: I’m not worthy.
She attaches a GIF of a swooning princess.
I laugh, but I know I’m the one who is not worthy—of Miz’s generosity, that is. If I can’t pay her, then I have to at least thank her adequately with some kind of gift, something I’ve been losing sleep trying to think of since that life-changing coffee date at SanRemo. Saying the words thank you is not enough. And she doesn’t want to hear one word about payment either. But I need to give her something.
An engagement ring seems the obvious answer, especially given my current undertaking, but I know she wouldn’t receive it well, and I guess, given our circumstances, it would be a weird choice. We’re not entering into a real marriage, fine, but still, I would do well to heed the maxim “Happy wife, happy life.”
Another hour later, my feet sore, my mind drained from decision fatigue, already having buyer’s remorse about the plain pair of wedding bands I’ve purchased back at the mall, I sink into one of the corridor sofas and call Eske. She’ll find out about our plan sooner or later, so there’s no point in not telling her now. Besides, I’m not getting anywhere trying to find a thank-you gift for Miz on my own.
“Kiki? Are you okay?” she says. I can hear the noise of traffic in the background—cars honking, drivers yelling, traffic whistles shrieking.
“What? Yes, I’m fine,” I say. “Why?”
“Because you never call me,” she says. “I’m always the one who calls you.”
“Oh.” I’m surprised. Is that true? Do I really never call her? “Listen, I need your help with something.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, then yells at some offending driver. “Don’t you see me here?!”
“I’m shopping for a gift.”
She taps her horn three times in quick succession. “For a woman?”
I widen my eyes. It’s as if she has a radar. “No, not for a woman. Just Miz.”
“Why?”
I decide to have a little fun with this. “She’s getting married.”
“Why are you wasting my time?” she snaps.
Right—patience was never her strength. Taking a deep breath, I tell her about my company backing out of the sponsorship. As I anticipated, she doesn’t break down into tears. Her reaction is the same as when I told her about being promised the sponsorship in the first place, the same as when I told her about each of my permits getting extended over the years: unreadable silence.
After a few moments, she surprises me by breaking the pattern. “Are you…okay?” she asks, as gently as I’ve ever heard her.
“I wasn’t. But I am now.” I pause and say a little prayer before continuing. “Miz will be my sponsor.”
I give her a moment for that to sink in, but the silence just expands. “Hello?” I check the display. The connection is still active. Then I hear the automatic window closing, the sounds of traffic from outside gradually fading, leaving us in a deep silence. When she speaks again, her voice is soft and low, reminding me of our mother’s when she was serenely leading us toward our own indictment for some misdemeanour or other.
“After all you experienced, this is how you decide to get married, Kalkidan?”
“I am not getting married . Come on, you know how this works.” I stand up and rub my face. “I need your support on this, Eske. I will need your help getting some required documentation for the application.”
“Incredible! The lengths you will go to permanently abandon your country and your family,” she says sarcastically.
Now I feel myself getting heated. “Listen, Eske, it’s either I do this or I miss the party.” I hear her sharp intake of breath, but I press on. “Leaving Canada with only a month left on my work permit is as good as locking the door behind me and throwing away the key. And I refuse to do that after how much I have invested here. This is happening, Eskedar,” I say with finality. “This is not some random—”
“If it was a random woman,” Eske says, “I would swim there and drag you home by your hair.”
No idle threat, I know, so I decide there’s no need to regale Eske with stories of the “random women” that were in the running. Maybe in the future, when this is all history.
“I don’t have hair at the moment. I shaved it for the part.”
It’s quiet again. She sighs. “I would personally deliver the prenup papers.” She huffs. “But I guess if Miz was after what’s yours, she could have had you by now. You’ve been around each other long enough.” She pauses. “Still, I’ll have to see what Aba says.”
“Not a word of this to anyone, Eske,” I say firmly. “Keep it private. You are our only trusted person.” I know this will appeal to Eske’s need to be ahead of the curve, just as she is always scouting for the next food trend to incorporate into our menu of products. If it weren’t for her, we would still be selling the original dozen varieties of bread and cookies instead of the hundred plus we have now. “Look, it’s just a couple of years. This can’t work without you,” I say, blending flattery with truth.
“You asked her, or she offered?”
“I can’t say she offered. And I can’t say I asked her, either.” I started the conversation, but Miz created the conditions for the conversation. “We met halfway,” I say. Then, remembering my culturally touchy audience, I add a proverb of our own. “Like saints whose paths cross without their planning.”
“Ha, you two, saints?” she says, with a snarky cackle.
“But,” I continue, glad that at least she’s being jocular, “I feel she deserves a proper thank-you gift.”
Eske sucks her teeth in annoyance. “What more thank you does she need when you are surrendering your heart and your inheritance with both hands!”
“In the name of God, Eske, don’t be dramatic.”
“Hmph! You would know, I guess.” I can feel her scowl through the phone. “Anyway, her fee should be enough.”
“There’s no fee.”
“She’s doing this for nothing?”
“She’s doing it for me,” I say.
A beat, then Eske lets out a long two-note whistle. “God help you two.”
I’m not sure how to interpret the whistle, but I do know now, without doubt, that Eske is invested in this, and in us. She’s not one to get casually religious.
“Thank you, from both of us,” I say, immediately proud of today’s accomplishments. Rings: done. Key collaborator: done. Only the one loose end remains. “So? A gift? Think about what would be good for her. But don’t take forever.”
“Yes, sir,” Eske says, muffling a laugh.
I decide to ignore her. “Until next time then, Sister-of—”
Click . She hangs up before I can finish speaking.
The perfect idea for Miz’s gift comes to me days later—Eske had proved incapable of suggesting anything that wasn’t cheesily engraved, embossed, or embroidered—when I am out for a long, exhausting bike ride with Silvio. We’re both slogging up Redway Road hollering our wildest post-ride recovery fantasies at each other: “A two-hour soak in a mountain hot spring while getting a massage!” “A fifteen-hour nap in a Himalayan salt sauna with an IV drip of cold beer!”…And it hits me. It may not be the biggest thank-you to put all thank-yous to shame, but it is no small thing either. I tell Silvio that we’ll need to detour on the way back. I’ll need him to act as a second opinion and product tester.