LITMIR.BIZ

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just the right shade of petulance in his voice.

      Jinnah choked down his frustration. His heart was pounding faster than the muffled beat that could be felt emanating from within the abandoned church. He was a mass of anxieties and fears. It was getting on to eleven o’clock. The rave officially ended at 1:00 a.m. Manjit would stay behind to help the rest of the health officials pack up. That gave them less than two hours to get in, get the goods, and get home without Manjit being the wiser.

      “And if you should see your mother —” Jinnah began for the tenth time.

      “I know, I know,” Saleem cut him off. “Lie.”

      “I am not telling you to lie to your mother,” said Jinnah, whining only slightly. “It’s called plausible deniability.”

      “Why don’t I get plausible deniability?”

      “Because I’m the president of this operation. Just avoid her at all costs and if you get caught, you snuck out of the house while I was out, right?”

      “Thanks, Mr. President.”

      There were a handful of youths at the doors, smoking. They were from a cross-section of ethnic backgrounds and a wide variety of social circumstances, but had one thing in common: they were all about Saleem’s age. Jinnah was easily the oldest person there by two decades. An insolent silence settled over them as Jinnah approached the doorman.

      “Two, please.”

      The doorman was stocky, with a weightlifter’s torso and legs that were just a little too short for him. His face was broad, his hair was short, and Jinnah was reminded of the drill sergeant he had been forced to listen to for several weeks while doing his compulsory service back in Kenya. The doorman cleared his throat. “Two? You don’t quite fit the demographic, do you, pop?”

      His voice was pleasant enough, but Jinnah’s hackles went up anyway. “It’s my right as a taxpayer to be allowed in!” he thundered. “And as a parent!”

      The youths were now staring at them curiously. Saleem looked like he wanted to crawl under the floorboards of the porch. The doorman laughed. “You want to go inside and check things out? Make sure it’s safe for your kid?”

      “Absolutely,” said Jinnah. “Listen, my friend, don’t try and stop me —”

      “Go right ahead,” said the doorman, offering them two tickets. “It’s a clean rave, friend. It’s about peace and openness, not secrecy and suspicion. That’ll be forty bucks.”

      “Forty bucks!” squealed Jinnah, at which point Saleem found the courage to elbow him in the ribs, dislodging his wallet and gaining them access to the rave.

      Once inside, Jinnah had hoped to give Saleem one last pep talk, but it was useless. The music was so loud, even in the foyer, that he had to shout to hear himself speak. Once they were through the main doors, they were assaulted by a wall of sound. Jinnah felt he was being rocked back and forth by the music. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he was startled by the action on the dance floor. Dozens of teens were dancing and writhing, packed in so tightly it was amazing they could move at all. It looked more like a huge rugby scrum than anything else. Jinnah’s nose quivered with the warm aroma of human sweat and teen hormones. And the stench of his own fear for his son.

      “Live in the present moment. Put peace in this moment. Put love in this moment. Put yourself in the centre. The centre is everywhere….”

      Jinnah wrenched his eyes from the floor to the stage. Strobe lights flashed in time to the heartbeat rhythm of the music. There was a lone figure, lit up every half second by the pounding lights: tall, slender, dressed in black silk, his head partly covered by a golden scarf. Lionel Simons, in mid rap homily. Jinnah studied the Rave Messiah’s face. He’d never been able to place Simons exactly. He was of mixed race, and could have passed for anything from an Indian yogi to a Tibetan monk. Right now, the former shock-rocker was belting out a gospel rock with a danceable World Beat.

      Jinnah felt rather than heard Saleem talking at his side. He turned to see Saleem chatting with a small circle of teens who had surrounded them. Several of them were Indo-Canadians whom Saleem seemed to know. In an instant, they had whisked Saleem onto the dance floor. Jinnah lost sight of them almost immediately. Shit. He moved with difficulty along the wall, pushing past people, trying to catch a glimpse of his son. Just ahead of him, the crowd seemed to thin, promising a vantage point. Jinnah was about to wriggle his way through when he saw a familiar face not ten feet ahead.

      Manjit. Handing out water to teenagers.

      Jinnah hastily ducked behind a young couple, turned, and headed the other direction. His head was throbbing like the speakers and he was having trouble breathing. He felt claustrophobic, slightly panicked. Head down, he fumbled in his pockets for a couple of tranquilizers, meaning to pop them into his mouth and swallow them without water — definitely without water — and with that he cast a glance back at Manjit. Oh, God, no. She’s staring at the dance floor. That’s not a look of professional concern on her face either. Jinnah followed her gaze. Well, at least he had found Saleem. The little bastard didn’t look like he’d done a lot of talking. Gyrating, yes. He was considering trying to haul Saleem off the dance floor when a new problem presented itself. Manjit was moving in his direction. Keeping one eye on Saleem and another on his wife, Jinnah tried to make good his escape along the wall and ran headlong into a young woman, who doubled over.

      “I am sorry!” Jinnah shouted above the din, helping her straighten out.

      “S’okay,” the woman gasped.

      She stood up and looked at Jinnah. In that moment, a spark of recognition leapt between them. Although she was young, she was definitely a little old for this crowd, being in her mid-twenties. Her hair was a long, jet-black mane and her face still had the grace and beauty of a princess carved in the stone temple of Konarak. She was, admittedly, a few pounds heavier than when Jinnah had first seen her, but she was still stunning. He could not help but wonder what she would look like in a sari, but then, even the jeans and white cotton blouse she wore was an improvement over her wardrobe during their first encounter, when she had been totally nude.

      “Jassy Singh!” he cried.

      It was not until Jassy’s tight little mouth set and her soft, brown eyes hardened that Jinnah also recalled that they had not, strictly speaking, parted on the best of terms.

      “Jinnah, you son of a bitch!” Jassy screamed above the music. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

      Jinnah’s memory had finally located the file marked “Singh, Jassy.” Interview subject eight years previous. Story: Simons’s first mass, nude baptism on Wreck Beach. Subject had been eloquent in defence of the MiMis. Wardrobe consisted of flowers in her hair. Had reminded the reporter of a wild pony revelling in new-found freedom. How could she have taken offence at that?

      “How have you been, Jassy?” shouted Jinnah. “I must say, you look fantastic.”

      “Don’t give me that shit!” said Jassy, hands on her hips. “Do you think I’ve forgotten what you wrote about me?”

      Jinnah had, actually. He did remember the photos, of course. Most of which could not be used in a family newspaper like the Tribune.

      “I’m sure it was nothing but flattery for one so young and beautiful,” Jinnah said, resorting to evasive tactics.

      “Flattery! You called me a besotted teenage zombie!”

      “It was meant in a nice way,” Jinnah protested.

      “You totally distorted what I said! You completely twisted everything to make me look like I was some … some Moonie or something. And you called us a cult! The MiMis aren’t a cult, we’re a service organization!”

      “I thought I painted a charming portrait of a new generation of flower children,” Jinnah riposted, still trying to remember the exact tone of the article.

      “Depraved nude revels. Brainwashed automatons

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