Chapter 12

MANSOOR ARRIVES AT THE Air Canada business lounge dressed in his best business suit: a charcoal three-piece with a freshly laundered white shirt; a blue pinstriped tie, tied into a fat Windsor knot. He carries a briefcase and, in his jacket pocket, a silver-embossed card holder with his son’s initials.

The plush lounge is packed with men in smart suits, conducting business meetings. Striking deals. Exactly the kind of place he and his son should be. He straightens, feeling taller and more muscular, as if he’s taking up more space, as he strides to the host.

“Good morning!” Mansoor says enthusiastically.

The host looks up from his desk and smiles. “Good morning, sir. Are you a member?”

“No. But my son is,” Mansoor announces loudly. “Mr. Ashif M. Visram. Elite member.”

The host punches some keys on his computer keyboard. “Yes, of course.”

“That’s my son, you see. Maybe you know him?”

“Could be.”

Imagine, they know his son here.

The host steps out from behind his podium. “Please follow me, sir.”

Mansoor walks behind him. The work stations and tables are full of white men. A few wear Stetsons with their suits, like financial cowboys. Maybe he should have worn his Stetson, too. No, he looks much more distinguished than any one of them. Of course he does. He’s probably done more business than most of them will ever do. He stumbles on the thick carpet. A few tables turn to look.

The host leads him to a window table and pulls a chair out for him. Outside, morning light bathes the tarmac, and in the distance, the fields extend to the horizon and merge with the endless prairie sky. The host snaps open a napkin. Mansoor takes it from him before he can lay it on his lap. The host hands him a menu and lays another on the second setting across from him. “A waiter will be right with you, sir.”

Mansoor nods. He unlocks his briefcase and retrieves all its contents: two pens, two calculators, two copies of his business plan, a short list of properties, the silver-plated business-card holder. He arranges them on the chair next to him, setting the card holder on top. He reviews the agenda, which he typed up last night. Reading the words, so carefully arranged on the page, slows the chaotic beating of his heart.

Eight o’clock sharp and there’s Ashif walking across the room. He looks so smart with his navy-coloured suit and expensive briefcase. He watches as his son stops and says hello to a few men. My son knows these men? He feels a giddy excitement run through him. He waves. Ashif smiles, waggling two fingers in the air. “Two minutes,” he mouths. Mansoor nods, gives his son a thumbs-up.

A new thought occurs to him—maybe Ashif knows someone at City Hall. Maybe he even knows the mayor? Imagine. If not personally, then surely one of his contacts will know him. Who knew his son was on friendly terms with such top-class men? Men who push open doors with the snap of a finger. Open sesame. They get anything they want. Just like him in Uganda.