I Love Your Teeth

Daoud was a Somalian Arab doctor who had married a Canadian nurse on the staff at the hospital in Tripoli, Libya where he was the chief medical officer. The sensible nurse had insisted that Daoud first get a divorce. I have always had a suspicion that my friend just packed his former wife and four children back to his tribe rather than follow the tortuous path of divorce in a foreign country. I met him when Monica and I were living in Tripoli thirty years ago and we became close friends. He had been there for a few years before us and helped us settle in the land where customs were, to say the least, different. There were several factors which had brought our families closer. Both couples were interracial and the white wives had a lot in common. For one thing both were expecting their first babies within a week of each other. Also, there were no close or even distant families within a thousand miles and expatriates in similar circumstances became proxies for siblings. I came to know him quite well during our frequent lunches of shish kabob followed by baklava with espresso coffee in a restaurant with a view of sparkling azure Mediterranean and a bright blue sky. I don’t know why I am saying all this because it has nothing to do with the story I am about to tell. What is relevant though is that both families ended up in Calgary and the relationship was maintained. As often happens some distance grew between Daoud and me because of our diverse interests. But we continued to meet for lunch once every few weeks. Just as in old days at Tripoli harbour, our menu was fixed but due to changed circumstances it had become wiener schnitzel and cheese cake with cappuccino and our view was the paintings of lakes and peaks of Rocky Mountains on walls covered with lustrous gold wallpaper. We exchanged notes about our wives, our children and grandchildren although his wife in Somalia was never mentioned. He bragged about his progeny and I nodded to show my appreciation.

I don’t know why but I was a little nervous this morning about the prospect of spending an hour or more on lunch with Daoud. Perhaps the stories about his family and the demanding patients were becoming tiresome. But the gods smiled at me for a change and the lunch turned out to be a lot of fun. It began just like our previous lunches did. We ordered our drinks, French red wine for his cultured taste buds and Okanagan white for my uncultivated palate. He then asked me how my family was. However, instead of the usual ‘OK, nothing changes with me, you know. How about yours?’ I said something quite different.
“You have met Suresh at one of our gatherings. That short, fat, bald brownie with a really elegant wife.”
“Yes, I have. I remember him very well. He pulled a fast one on me the first time we met.”
“Did he? What happened?”
“When I asked him what he did for a living, whether he was a doctor like Monica or a professor like you he replied with a straight face that he was a cab driver. In spite of his smart suite his face reminded me of one who took me to the airport last month and I believed him. To tell you the truth I was acutely embarrassed when Monica set me right, having been confused in that way myself.”
“That is so like him. He does have a weird sense of humour. He plays tricks of that kind with every one. Still, he is a likeable sort. He has some fine qualities and some very annoying habits. His life is an odd mixture of good things and bad. One doesn’t know whether to pity him or to envy him.”
“This is turning out to be interesting. May be there is a story in it,” Daoud encouraged me to carry on. He adopted the manner of a celebrated author although, as far as I knew, none of his stories had ever been published and not even his family looked at his ‘literary’ blog.
“Suresh is a strange bird. He has a doctorate from an Ivy League college in Philosophy. But apart from some post-doctoral work here in Calgary when Diane, his wife, was studying law, he never did any work to earn a living. He never felt any need. Diane is a renowned criminal defence lawyer and money is one thing that family is not short on. However, Suresh has no idea how rich they are. Diane manages her savings through a chain of financial advisers and does not discuss financial matters with her husband. It is not that she does not trust him just that it is not his business. She does make him a reasonable allowance and he is always dressed in the latest style, lunches in high end restaurants where he insists on picking the tab and showers her and his friends with expensive gifts.”
“That is odd. All the successful women I know have equally successful partners.”
“When Diane married Suresh he was a rising star on the horizon. Somehow the star crashed somewhere on the way up. There was no blinding flash of light, but crash it was. Soon after Diane won her first case by getting a big name client off the hook for murder he had probably committed, he gave up his position and focused on making his dear wife’s life pleasant in any way he could. He woke up half an hour before the time she specified for the wake up call and served her a cup of tea in bed with the first kiss of the day, had dinner ready when she called to let him know she was on her way, massaged her legs if she had been on her feet all day pleading for some gangster or the other. He relieved his beloved wife of any worries about bringing up their son and made sure she heard several times during the day how wonderful, how loveable, how cherished, how competent, you get the idea, she was. She was all of these things and she knew that. And she was sure that her husband believed them as indeed he did. That is why she liked these compliments and in return, you can call it a tip if you are that churlish, she made sure he lacked for nothing.”
“I envy the guy. I wish I had a wife like Diane, not just a nurse who only worked part time and that too under protest. I would also shower her with all the praise if it provided such healthy return.”
“Daoud, keep investment terminology out of my friend’s affairs,” I mildly rebuked Daoud and added, “I do envy him when Monica complains about us not being able to afford a new set of living room furniture she would like to have. But I pity him more. Just imagine having to swallow your pride and flatter your wife when you would rather be mad because it is your bad week. Men have menopause too, you know.”
“Well, I grant you there is time to be mad and time to be sweet. It is the combination that makes life worthwhile. You got to have wiener schnitzel if you want to enjoy the cheese cake as it should be enjoyed,” Daoud pontificated before putting a large piece of the former in his mouth.
I continued, “As I was saying, Suresh brought up their son Mitch almost on his own. He helped with home work, encouraged him when he had trouble with biology, drove him to swimming and piano lessons, kept him off the bad company when he was a teenager and guided him towards a lucrative profession; dentistry. Mitch has worked as a locum since his graduation and now he is setting up his own practice.”
Daoud had some experience in this direction. Being a healthcare professional himself he had some support for Mitch although his own children, with the nurse of course - he never mentioned his children in Africa, chose business management. He now told me what I should have known but did not, “When I came to this blessed country I did locums for a few years. It was tough although things have changed since the walk-ins opened in every shopping centre. Dentists do not have walk-ins, not yet anyway, and it must have been hard for Mitch.”
“Suresh says that Mitch was happy in both practices he worked at. He thinks that he is now ready to be his own man and he is working hard at setting up the clinic the way he wants it. Suresh is helping him with advice whenever he gets the chance. As an expression of his gratitude Mitch asked his parents to be the first patients in his clinic. Diane expects to be in court but Suresh agreed with alacrity. He showed me the letter from Mitch setting the appointment date and time. An official card printed on the computer stated in bold letters, “A week’s notice is required for cancellation and $200 fee is charged for no show.” On it there was a hand-written note in green ink, ‘I love you and love your teeth, xxx Mitch.’”
Daoud smiled, “Patients put food on our table and we all love them. Dentists much more so than us poor doctors because each patient hands them a thick bundle while we get a pittance from Healthcare.”
I disregarded the appeal for sympathy and carried on. “Suresh told me that Mitch had pulled out two of his teeth a couple of years ago and has saved them in a box which he keeps in the drawer next to his check book. Suresh was more touched than most men would have been by the love behind the simple act of Mitch.”
I looked at Daoud to sense his reaction. His eyes narrowed and he said in a worried tone. “Suresh needs to watch that Mitch’s love for his teeth stays within reasonable bounds. When I love something I want to make sure it is at its best at all times and I keep it in a safe place. Mitch might love his father’s teeth so much he may want them in his locked drawer before they wear out any more and before Suresh is ready to part with them.”
“Good point. We need to warn Suresh. Will you call him? Here is his number.”
He took the card and placed it carefully in his wallet. Then he burst out laughing and ploughed into the cheesecake.

Comment:

The idea that every one should drink filtered, fluoridated, chlorinated and otherwise treated water supplied through expensive pipes is a gross violation of our democratic rights. Every one should be able to get the water they wish – from the rain barrel, stream, a well on their property or in the community. The way our governments are going, I dread the day when all our food will be delivered in the form of gruel through another system of pipes in the name of nutrition and hygiene, its taste determined by a committee in Edmonton or Ottawa consisting of ‘experts’ bursting with the knowledge of what makes us healthy and with no taste buds and with no idea of fun.