Chapter 2

WHEN LAYLA WAKES, SHE finds a gold pocket watch that’s been dismantled and laid out on the kitchen table in some sort of pattern, like a half-finished puzzle. The face, the hands, the springs and coils. A tiny screwdriver and hammer, too. Maybe the watch isn’t working and Mansoor tried to fix it? She doesn’t know. But she’ll ask around or check the Ismaili phone directory to find someone who can fix it so that he won’t have to.

Layla prefers Ismailis for all her activities—whether it’s her seamstress (Habiba at Stitch-in-Time Alterations), her grocers (Sultan at Spice Village for her Indian and African goods and Poonjani at P.D. Wholesale Superstore for everything else), or her doctor (Dr. Jenny Kara at the local walk-in clinic). It isn’t a just matter of supporting her community, which, of course, is very important, but it’s also a matter of comfort—she doesn’t have to stumble along and explain what she wants. They already know. Besides, it’s a matter of budget. She receives a special discount at these establishments, just like everybody else in the community—depending on their negotiating skills. Try doing that at a regular store! Mansoor berates her for her attitude, for not “building bridges” with others. “Then what was the use of coming to this country?” he asks. But who said she wanted to come?

Layla cinches her apron tightly around her tiny waist, making it bellow out over her ample hips. She pins back her short, greying hair, then gets to work. She weaves through the house with an armful of Tupperware containers, setting them down on every available surface she can find. She starts in the kitchen with the counters, then the top of the microwave and a cart that holds onions and potatoes. Next, the dining room, where she works her way from the table and chairs to the hutch that holds her good dinnerware and glasses. Then, the living room with the deep freezer, the size of a coffin, pushed against a wall; the coffee table and side tables. She continues until every surface of her house is covered, not including the bathroom or the bedrooms, of course. A houseful of containers. A small factory for her home-cooking business that specializes in East African–Indian cuisine.

From her kitchen window, she spots her friends, Shamma and Almas, unmarried sisters who live in the townhouse across from hers. A light snow has settled on the walkways of the townhouse complex. In the dark, the tall, slim houses look like shadows that have been pulled up from the ground and erected to standing. Shamma sees her, too. She waves three fingers in the air. Layla balls her fist and rocks her arm up and down to indicate that she will join them for tea at three. She knows everyone in this complex and everyone knows her, not only because she goes to Headquarters Jamatkhana every day for evening prayers and, when she can, morning prayers, but also because she is well known by Ismailis throughout Calgary, and the country, for that matter, for her famous chicken samosas. Not that anyone has ever tasted them. That recipe is secret. It is reserved for the Imam only. The beloved Aga Khan.