Mansoor glances again at Ashif. He’s now chatting with two men at another table. Yes, his son will surely be able to help him—help their company—cut through the red tape and secure the necessary meetings at the City. There’s nothing they can’t do together. He and his son!

“Sorry I’m late.” Ashif takes a deep breath as he sets his briefcase down.

Mansoor stands to greet his son. “No problem, son. You are worth waiting for. Terrific choice, this place,” he says.

“I’m glad you like it,” Ashif says and they both sit down.

“Coffee, sir?” the waiter asks, holding a carafe over Ashif’s cup.

“Yes,” Ashif replies.

“Are you ready to order?”

“Have you looked at the menu, Pappa?”

Mansoor slips on his bifocals and reviews the menu. It is printed on thick stock and does not have many choices. He runs his finger down the list of items. Some of the items are strange and exotic: bison breakfast burger, potatoes in béchamel sauce, lobster frittata, truffled scrambled eggs. What are these things? He does not want to ask the waiter and he will definitely not ask Ashif. What will his son think—that his father knows nothing? Instead, he searches for something familiar. Thirty-eighty dollars for steak and eggs? Is it made with gold or what? Forget the price, he decides. This is a celebration and money is of no importance. Maybe later they will even have a drink. So what if it’s morning? This is Calgary. Cowboy country. It will be his chance to toast his son to their new beginning.

“I’ll have the steak and eggs, why not?” Mansoor says grandly.

“Yogurt and fruit for me.”

“Is that all, son? Have something more substantial.” Ashif needs to put on weight, build a more muscular physique. That’s the only way other businessmen will take him seriously.

“I don’t want anything heavy.”

“Okay.” Mansoor won’t say anything now, but once Ashif is under his wing, he’ll insist the boy start a healthier fitness and food regimen. Fit body, fit mind.

When the waiter leaves, Mansoor and Ashif exchange pleasantries, like businessmen at the beginning of a meeting. They discuss the weather, the business news, yesterday’s hockey game.

Mansoor taps the presentation on the chair next to him, waiting for an opening in their conversation, but it’s Ashif who draws first. He reaches into his suit pocket and retrieves an envelope. “Here,” he says, handing it to his father.

“What’s this?” Mansoor takes the envelope with his name on the front. MR. MANSOOR VISRAM. He’s impressed. His son is using “mister” to address him—clearly a sign of Ashif’s growing respect for him.

“Open it,” Ashif encourages him.

Mansoor slides a finger under the seal and lifts out a cheque in his name. An investment in the dry cleaners? What else could it be? The amount is exactly the amount he needs for his down payment. He laughs, shaking his head. “This is very generous but not necessary,” he says. He didn’t expect his son to invest money into their partnership. The family business was his birthright. He’d already booked an appointment with Abrahams & Abrahams. He is going to see them right after breakfast.