“English, please!” Mansoor ordered in a sharp whisper as he handed him a plaque. One of Patel’s brothers was the janitor here and another, a junior salesman. The brothers often lunched together in the backroom, bringing tiffins of curries from home. The insides of their lockers were tiny altars adorned with bronze Ganeshas and incense sticks. They performed poojas there and unabashedly continued their day with red-and-yellow markings on their foreheads. Mansoor complained to Patterson about it, saying it would chase customers away. But Patterson said it didn’t matter. Most of them were just back-office staff. No one would see them anyway. But that was beside the point. Mansoor would still have to see them.

When he was done, Mansoor weaved through the cars to the front of the showroom. Patel followed with the box of plaques like a lackey. Mansoor’s colleagues gathered like penguins in their dark suits and white shirts, marching in formation, to say goodbye. Some patted him on the back and wished him luck, others shook his hand and congratulated him. But he knew that most of them were happy to see him go. No more competition.

“Stop wasting your time with goodbyes,” Patterson said, popping his head out from his office. “He’s coming back with the plaques tomorrow.”

On his way home, Mansoor stopped at Marlborough Mall and pulled in front of a row of Dumpsters at the back of the building. He unloaded the boxes from his trunk, hoisted each one up and into the bin. The plaques clanged against the metal before landing on the pile of garbage. Wall of Shame, more like it! His good name was now permanently erased from that low place. As if he had never worked there. The money he saved there had been converted, like money at a foreign exchange, into his new business. He was starting his real life, the one he was supposed to be living.

Mansoor treads across the icy parking lot to the far end of the plaza, where he unlocks the bank’s night deposit vault and drops the canvas bag of his day’s earnings inside. He decides to buy a bottle of champagne on the way home. Yes, why not? Layla doesn’t drink, but maybe tonight she’ll have a sip. She’s done it before. An image comes to him of her taking a sip of his whisky at a party then scrunching up her face before spitting it out. He laughed then as he does now. Better buy a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne, too. He doesn’t want to drink alone.

Chapter 17

AT THE HOSPITAL, ARZEEN informs Layla and the growing number of community members that the medical staff have started a series of internal tests. The results will be available soon. Mansoor’s body has responded well to the rewarming regimen.

“You doctors are top class,” a senior says, tipping his fedora to Arzeen.

“She’s not a doctor,” Almas whispers.

“She can be my doctor anytime,” he says with a wink to Arzeen.