The Governor of the Northern Province by Randy Boyagoda

interest in a chance to drive. It was too much of a risk, too many questions could follow, and even one of those dazzling, juicy Fusions wasn’t worth it. He had spent too much time around that Jennifer. He wasn’t just becoming soft, he was getting greedy.
    To Bokarie’s good fortune, however, The Engine was too interested in what this black cord of a new Canadian could do for him in the here and now to wonder about the man’s life back then. He parried in plain old folksy car dealer.
    â€œLearning the Bible from a priest? My goodness, that’s a surprise. All we got around here are Frenchy Canadian Catholics, and they wouldn’t know the Bible if it hit them in their rummy noses!” Bokarie heaved and pulled his shoulders in unison with the chortling Engine, who further explained that he himself subscribed to no particular church but certainly loved his Bible and it did him no small good in getting him to the place where he was today. Grateful for the change in subject, Bokarie made his eyes wide and admiring. He leaned in to hear more about The Engine, who then had little trouble getting himself a bona fide Miss Daisy driver for his daughter’s wedding. Glenn even threw in a couple of invites to the wedding proper like they were heated seats.
    III.
    â€œPlease, can you tell me, what are these things? These butterfly kisses?” Bokarie was watching everyone watch Glenn, the Father, have his dance with Cat, the Bride. He was standing beside Austin, the Best Man, who was chewing gum furiously to mask how drunk he was. Which, by now, was beside the point. At the summit of his toast, he had started advising the Groom on the best possible approach to his pending primae noctis only to stop short and shrug, “But you’ve been there, done that, eh buddy!”
    Austin’s speech was met with the chill clinking of champagne flutes, the only sound in the hall save the slapping-meat thwack of sweaty high-fives that a fellow drunk-hearty groomsman gave the Best Man as he returned to his seat.
    Bokarie and Austin suddenly smiled and posed like old linemates for disposable-camera pictures that the latter’s engaged-to-be-engaged girlfriend took before she waddled off in search of a girlfriend, and then the tequila-cracked tuxedo shrugged a conspirational response to Bokarie’s question. “Spend a little more time around here, Shaft, and you’ll get the way things always are in this town. That dance? The usual world-revolves-around-Glenn-the-Engine bullshit. Which we all have to clap to and agree to, obviously. Because guess what this town and the new married man have in common? They’re both totally whipped. Do you get that joke from where you’re coming from? Listen hey buddy, that’s between us, eh buddy there? Never know when you’re going to need a good deal on a half-ton! Speaking of which”—now giggling himself, remembering that hulking shape from high school—“looks like your date’s here.” He staggered off for another shot and in search of a bridesmaid rumoured to be tight-lipped and on the rebound.
    Jennifer had just finished affixing a pink ribbon to the gift table. She was standing beside Bokarie, looking intently at the parquet floor. She wanted to dance, given the prospects. Think Pink. The town’s most important man was almost alone out there, and she had already cleared it with the videographer, who agreed that it would make for a beautiful image, the Bride dancing with the town’s prominent newcomer, encircled by the smiling citizenry done up in their church socks and feathered hair finery. She had already asked for a copy of the reception dance video.
    If her impending campaign for a federal seat were to have any success, she needed the riding’s most important endorsement. “Butterfly Kisses” was trailing off and the deejay was mixing in Chubby Checker. It was time to make their move. Standing in