Mansoor looks up from his plate, his eyebrows raised. “Executive track?”

Ashif watches his father’s surprise turn to pride, and for a moment, he feels the warmth of his gaze spreading through him.

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier? By God, that’s great news!” Mansoor slaps the table with both hands. He pushes his chair back and shoots up to standing. “Well done, my boy! I always knew you were destined for great things. We’ve got the next Steve Jobs sitting here!”

“I’m not on the executive track. Not yet….” Why did he say it? His father is now like a runaway train. He has the urge to jump in front and force it to a screeching halt. Or just lie down on the tracks. Ashif knows better. Why can’t he control himself?

“Layla!” Mansoor calls, grabbing a bottle of Johnny Walker from the lower cabinet of the dining hutch. The bottle is tucked behind a stack of platters and casserole dishes. Layla insists that he keep his spirits out of sight. She does not want to offend her friends or her customers, all of whom are Ismaili. “Bring ice.” He pinches two tumblers out of the upper cabinet. “Layla! Are you listening?” He returns to his chair holding the bottle of whisky by the neck. “An executive, huh? Excellent news, son, most excellent.”

Layla returns to the dining room with the jug of ice water.

“Not for the water.” Mansoor twists open the bronze cap.

Layla frowns. “Oh-ho, that at this hour?” She puts the jug down on the table.

“I don’t want any,” Ashif says, though he would love a drink right now. But he wants to respect his mother’s wishes.

Layla fishes ice cubes out of the jug of water and dumps them into a bowl with a fork.

“Don’t be shy, son.” Mansoor pours several fingers of whisky in each glass. He is thrilled that the boy is pretending he doesn’t want any. It is just his way of showing his father some respect. It is not normal, after all, for a child to drink with his parents. A toast first and then he will whisk his son away to his office and show him his business-plan presentation. Make him sign the loan papers. Mansoor grabs a few ice cubes from the bowl and plunges them into the whisky. “Come on, son. We need to celebrate.”

“What is the good news?” Layla asks.

“Our son is on his way up,” Mansoor says, his eyes lit up, his voice quivering slightly. All his years of fathering had not been wasted. His boy was going to be somebody! “He’s getting a promotion.”

Layla claps her hands. “Of course he is.” Layla wraps her hands around Ashif’s face and kisses him on both cheeks. “Mumbarki, bheta.”

Ashif turns his fork upside down on his plate. “It’s not a promotion, Mummy. Not yet. Maybe in the future.”

“You mean you don’t have it on paper?” Mansoor hesitates as he hands Ashif a glass. “You should always get things on paper.”