Diaspora Dialogues

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Book 2

Saint Candice

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Huff, huff, huff, huff. Candice ran as fast as she could toward a TTC bus approaching a shelter in the distance. She ran past Chanaman Roti Stand, the Rastas pausing their meal of corn bread and pepper sauce to watch her whiz by. Huff, huff, huff, huff. She ran past Madame Quan’s Nail Salon, the smell of acrylics filling Candice’s lungs. Her legs were a wind-up toy, rhythmic and determined, until she arrived at her destination.

The doors of the bus met halfway—with Candice’s kilt in between. An animal with its tail snagged in a trap, she pulled at the grey and purple tartan hard enough to thrust her into the lap of the bus driver.

“Watch your step!” the driver said, wiping her thighs as though Candice had left a stain.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 2. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Doba

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“Red dilled tomatoes for breakfast? ”

My grandfather’s head hovered over the opening of a large glass pickling jar as he inhaled his favourite Russian delicacy. Dilled green tomatoes were normal, but red seemed to me to be eccentric. My family pickled everything, even watermelon. “It’s for any time,” my grandfather said, grunting with pleasure. Without pause to breathe, he fished out one more juicy red and popped it whole into his mouth. “Oy,” he said, as he swallowed and smacked his lips together, “it’s delicious.”

Open jars full of fleshy red tomatoes were lined up on the kitchen table. Ropes of dill sat beside each jar soaking my mother’s white embroidered tablecloth. A strong smell of garlic rolled off my grandfather. He swished around in the brine, squeezed a few tomatoes and triumphantly plucked one out.

“A beauty,” he said. “It’s perfect.”

“Who is it for? ” I asked.

Licking the juices running down his fingers, he looked up at me with a big smile and said, “Doba.”

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 2. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Correspondence

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Dear friend,

I am indeed thrilled I’ve finally found a friend I can write to, if not talk to. I hope that you don’t mind if I number my letters to keep track of them easily. I trust this letter will find you well. I’m OK too. People say that life isn’t perfect, but I have to admit that I’m really fine. I don’t have any serious health problems. I have enough monthly income to live modestly. My new place is also fine—not as big as my house in Tehran, but enough space for a widower like me. It’s a bachelor on the first floor of a lowrise building. My son says I’m lucky he’s found such a nice affordable place where I can keep my privacy. He is absolutely right. Although my son and his wife were very nice with me while I lived with them, I didn’t feel comfortable and happy. That’s what he says, and he’s right about that, too. He’s got a good head on his shoulders and he always says the right things. That’s why I didn’t say no when he said, “Dad, you’re alone in Tehran, sell the house and come to Toronto to live with us.”

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 2. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Recipes for Dirty Laundry

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Rosa knows Teresa is the pretty one: she has more problems. Today it’s the bath. Water running, Rosa knows Teresa will be pouring in some of the red bubble bath that smells like raspberries her sister always finds enough money for when it’s on sale. Sometimes Rosa uses it too, waiting patiently until all the bubbles disappear before calling for someone to take her out. Then, after Mamma or Teresa help her into a nightdress, she keeps the towel beside her, inhaling the faint scent of the berries on the cloth. Rosa only bathes on Sundays, but Teresa bathes whenever she wants.

Today the bath is a problem, Rosa can tell. Her bedroom is beside the bathroom so it’s easier for her to go in the middle of the night. She can hold on to the walls until she reaches the Virgin Mary in a light blue and white frock, eyes and hands pointing to the heavens in prayer. It is a good picture, and Rosa, in the dark of the night, always knows which door is the right one.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 2. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

The Conditions Necessary for Revolution

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Ella can’t be bought with Cracker Jacks and Coke. Itching in her woollen tights and longing to peel them off, unbuckle her Lady Oxfords and throw the whole lot of Sunday clothes down down down on the conductor’s head, she refuses to touch Mother’s peace offerings.

“Go ahead, have some,” Mother says.

“I don’t feel like it.”

“There will be consequences if I hear any L, A & S,” Mother says.

She is talking about Lip, Attitude and Sass. According to Mother and the members of the fur coat club—Ella’s private term for the Ladies’ Church Auxiliary—L, A & S threaten western civilization no less than communism and atheism, combined.

Down on the stage, the first violinists are warming up. They sound like ten cats in heat. Ella refuses to look at Mother. She contemplates the conditions necessary for revolution. They are all present in her life.

First of all, there is struggle. Before the sun rose this very morning, Mother had placed her alarm clock—ringing like an overcaffeinated town crier—directly on Ella’s pillow.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 2. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Toronto locations referenced in this piece

“Church was bad enough. But being taken straight to Massey Hall and imprisoned in Seat 6, Row C, Second Balcony will drive Ella over the top . . . ” —Massey Hall

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