"Mrs. Iqbal? It's Joyce Chalfen. Mrs. Iqbal? I can see you quite clearly. It's Joyce. I really thinkwe should talk. Could you .. . umm .. . open the door?"Yes, she could. Theoretically, she could. But in this atmosphere of extremity, with warring sonsand disparate factions, Alsana needed a tactic of her own. She'd done silence, and word-strikes andfood consumption (the opposite of a hunger-strike; one gets bigger in order to intimidate theenemy), and now she was attempting a sit-down protest.
"Mrs. Iqbal .. . just five minutes of your time. Magid's really very upset about all of this. He'sworried about Millat and so am I. Just five minutes, Mrs. Iqbal, please."Alsana didn't rise from her seat. She simply continued along the hem, keeping her eye on theblack thread as it shuttled from one cog to the next and down into the PVC, pressing the pedal ofthe Singer furiously, as if kicking the flank of a horse she wished to ride into the sunset.
"Well, you may as well let her in," said Samad wearily, emerging from the lounge, whereJoyce's persistence had disturbed his appreciation of The Antiques Roadshow. (Aside from TheEqualizer, starring that great moral arbiter Edward Woodward, it was Samad's favourite programme.
He had spent fifteen long tele visual years waiting for some cockney housewife to pull a trinket ofMangal Pande's out of her handbag. Oh, Mrs. Winterbottom, now this is very exciting. What wehave here is the barrel of the musket belonging to ... He sat with the phone under his right hand sothat in the event of such a scenario he could phone the BBC and demand the said Winterbottom'saddress and asking price. So faronly Mutiny medals and a pocket watch belonging to Havelock, but still he watched.)He peered down the hallway at the shadowy form of Joyce through the glass and scratched histesticles, sadly. Samad was in his television mode: garish V-neck, stomach swelling like a tighthot-water bottle beneath it, long moth-eaten dressing gown, and a pair of paisley boxer-shorts fromwhich two stick legs, the legacy of his youth, protruded. In his television mode action escaped him.
The box in the corner of the room (which he liked to think of as an antique of its kind, encased inwood and on four legs like some Victorian robot) sucked him in and sapped all energy.
"Well, why don't you do something, Mr. Iqbal? Make her go away. Instead of standing therewith your flabby gut and your tiny willy on display."Samad grunted and tucked the cause of all his troubles, two huge hairy balls and adefeated-looking limp prick, back into the inner lining of his shorts.
"She won't go away," he murmured. "And if she does, she will only return withreinforcements.""But why? Hasn't she caused enough trouble?" said Alsana loudly, loud enough for Joyce. "Shehas her own family, no? Why does she not go and for a change mess them up? She has boys, fourboys? How many boys does she want? How bloody many?"Samad shrugged, went into the kitchen drawer and fished out the earphones that could beplugged into the television and thus short-circuit the outside world. He, like Marcus, haddisengaged. Leave them, was his feeling. Leave them to their battles.
"Oh thank you," said Alsana caustically, as her husband retreated to his Hugh Scully and hispots and guns. "Thank you, Samad Miah, for your oh so valuable contribution. This is what themen do. They make the mess, the century ends, and they leave the women to clear up the shit.
Thank you, husband!"She increased the speed of her sewing, dashing out the seam,progressing down the inner leg, while the Sphinx of the letterbox continued to askunanswerable questions.
"Mrs. Iqbal.. . please can we talk? Is there any reason why we shouldn't talk? Do we have tobehave like children?"Alsana began to sing.
"Mrs. Iqbal? Please. What can this possibly achieve?"Alsana sang louder.
"I must tell you," said Joyce, strident as ever, even through three panels of wood and doubleglazing, "I'm not here for my health. Whether you want me to be involved or not, I am, you see? I am."Involved. At least that was the right word, Alsana reflected, as she lifted her foot off the pedal,and let the wheel spin a few times alone before coming to a squeaky halt. Sometimes, here inEngland, especially at bus-stops and on the daytime soaps, you heard people say "We're involvedwith each other," as if this were a most wonderful state to be in, as if one chose it and enjoyed it.
Alsana never thought of it that way. Involved happened over a long period of time, pulling you inlike quicksand. Involved is what befell the moon-faced Alsana Begum and the handsome SamadMiah one week after they'd been pushed into a Delhi breakfast room together and informed theywere to marry. Involved was the result when Clara Bowden met Archie Jones at the bottom of somestairs. Involved swallowed up a girl called Ambrosia and a boy called Charlie (yes, Clara had toldher that sorry tale) the second they kissed in the larder of a guest house. Involved is neither good,nor bad. It is just a consequence of living, a consequence of occupation and immigration, ofempires and expansion, of living in each other's pockets .. . one becomes involved and it is a longtrek back to being uninvolved. And the woman was right, one didn't do it for one's health. Nothingthis late in the century was done with health in mind. Alsana was no dummy when it came to theModern Condition. She watched the talk shows, all day long she watched the talk shows My wifeslept with my brother, My mother won't stay out of my boyfriend's lifeand the microphone holder, whether it be Tanned Man with White Teeth or Scary MarriedCouple, always asked the same damn silly question: But why do you feel the need .. . ? Wrong!
Alsana had to explain it to them through the screen. You blockhead; they are not wanting this, theyare not willing it they are just involved, see? They walk IN and they get trapped between therevolving doors of those two v's. Involved. The years pass, and the mess accumulates and here weare. Your brother's sleeping with my ex-wife's niece's second cousin. Involved. Just a tired,inevitable fact. Something in the way Joyce said it, involvedwearied, slightly acid suggested to Alsana that the word meant the same thing to her. Anenormous web you spin to catch yourself.
"OK, OK, lady, five minutes, only. I have three cat suits to do this morning come hell or high water."Alsana opened the door and Joyce walked into the hallway, and for a moment they surveyedtheir opposite number, guessing each other's weight like nervous prize fighters prior to mountingthe scales. They were definitely a match for Teach other. What Joyce lacked in chest, she made upin bottom. Where Alsana revealed a weakness in delicate features a thin and pretty nose, lighteyebrows she compensated with the huge pudge of her arms, the dimples of maternal power. For,after all, she was the mother here. The mother of the boys in question. She held the trump card,should she be forced to play it.
"Okey-do key then," said Alsana, squeezing through the narrow kitchen door, beckoning Joyceto follow.
"Is it tea or is it coffee?""Tea," said Joyce firmly. "Fruit if possible.""Fruit not possible. Not even Earl Grey is possible. I come from the land of tea to this godawfulcountry and then I can't afford a proper cup of it. P.G. Tips is possible and nothing else."Joyce winced. "P.G. Tips, please, then.""As you wish."The mug of tea plonked in front of Joyce a few minutes later was grey with a rim of scum andthousands of little microbes flitting through it, less micro than one would have hoped. Alsana gaveJoyce a moment to consider it.
"Just leave it for a while," she explained gaily. "My husband hit a water pipe when digging atrench for some onions. Our water is a little funny ever since. It may give you the running shits or itmay not. But give it a minute and it clears. See?" Alsana gave it an unconvincing stir, sending yetlarger chunks of unidentified matter bubbling up to the surface. "You see? Fit for Shah Jahan himself!"Joyce took a tentative sip and then pushed it to one side.
"Mrs. Iqbal, I know we haven't been on the best of terms in the past, but-'
"Mrs. Chalfen," said Alsana, putting up her long forefinger to stop Joyce speaking. "There aretwo rules that everybody knows, from PM to jinrickshaw-wallah. The first is, never let yourcountry become a trading post. Very important. If my ancestors had followed this advice, mysituation presently would be very different, but such is life. The second is, don't interfere in otherpeople's family business. Milk?""No, no, thank you. A little sugar .. ."Alsana dumped a huge heaped tablespoon into Joyce's cup.
"You think I am interfering?""I think you have interfered.""But I just want the twins to see each other.""You are the reason they are apart.""But Magid is only living with us because Millat won't live with him here. And Magid tells meyour husband can barely stand the sight of him."Alsana, little pressure-cooker that she was, blew. "And why can't he? Because you, you andyour husband, have involved Magid in something so contrary to our culture, to our beliefs,that we barely recognize him! You have done that! He is at odds with his brother now.
Impossible conflict! Those green bow-tied bastards: Millat is high up with them now. Very involved.
He doesn't tell me, but I hear. They call themselves followers of Islam, but they are nothing butthugs in a gang roaming Kilburn like all the other lunatics. And now they are sending out the whatare they called folded-paper trouble.""Leaflets?""Leaflets. Leaflets about your husband and his ungodly mouse. Trouble brewing, yes sir. Ifound them, hundreds of them under his bed." Alsana stood up, drew a key out of her apron pocketand opened a kitchen cupboard stacked full of green leaflets, which cascaded on to the floor. "He'sdisappeared again, three days. I have to put them back before he finds out they are gone. Take some,go on, lady, take them, go and read them to Magid. Show him what you have done. Two boysdriven to different ends of the world. You have made a war between my sons. You are splittingthem apart!"A minute earlier Millat had turned the key ever so softly in the front door. Since then he hadbeen standing in the hallway, listening to the conversation and smoking a fag. It was great! It waslike listening to two big Italian matriarchs from opposing clans battle it out. Millat loved clans. Hehad joined KEVIN because he loved clans (and the outfit and the bow tie), and he loved clans atwar. Marjorie the analyst had suggested that this desire to be part of a clan was a result of being,effectively, half a twin. Marjorie the analyst suggested that Millat's religious conversion was morelikely born out of a need for sameness within a group than out of any intellectually formulatedbelief in the existence of an all-powerful creator. Maybe. Whatever. As far as he was concerned,you could analyse it until the cows came home, but nothing beat being all dressed in black,smoking a fag, listening to two mammas battle it out over you in operatic style:
"You claim to want to help my boys, but you have done nothing but drive a wedge betweenthem. It is too late now. I have lost my family. Why don't you go back to yours and leave us alone?""You think it's paradise over at my house? My family has been split by this too. Joshua isn'tspeaking to Marcus. Did you know that? And those two were so close .. Joyce looked a bit weepy,and Alsana reluctantly passed her the kitchen roll. "I'm trying to help all of us. And the best way tostart is to get Magid and Millat talking before this escalates any further than it has. I think we canboth agree on that. If we could find some neutral place, some ground where they both felt nopressures or outside influence"But there are no neutral places any more! I agree they should meet, but where and how? Youand your husband have made everything impossible.""Mrs. Iqbal, with all due respect, the problems in your family began long before either myhusband or I had any involvement.""Maybe, maybe, Mrs. Chalfen, but you are the salt in the wound, yes? You are the one extrachilli pepper in the hot sauce."Millat heard Joyce draw her breath in sharply.
"Again, with respect, I can't believe that it is the case. I think this has been going on for a verylong time. Millat told me that some years ago you burnt all his things. I mean, it's just an example,but I don't think you understand the trauma that kind of thing has inflicted on Millat. He's very damaged.""Oh, we are going to play the tit for the tat. I see. And I am to be the tit. Not that it is any ofyour big-nose business, but I burnt those things to teach him a lesson to respect other people's lives!""A strange way of showing it, if you don't mind me saying.""I do mind! I do mind! What do you know of it?""Only what I see. And I see that Millat has a lot of mental scars. You may not be aware, but I'vebeen funding sessions for Millat with my analyst. And I can tell you, Millat's inner life his karma,Magid, Mil Ut and Marcus 1992, 1999I suppose you might call it in Bengali the whole world of his subconscious shows serious illness."In fact, the problem with Millat's subconscious (and he didn't need Marjorie to tell him this)was that it was basically split-level. On the one hand he was trying real hard to live as Hifan andthe others suggested. This involved getting his head around four main criteria.
1. To be ascetic in one's habits (cut down on the booze, thespliff, the women).
2. To remember always the glory of Muhammad (peace be upon Him!) and the might of the Creator.
3. To grasp a full intellectual understanding of KEVIN and the Qur'an.
4. To purge oneself of the taint of the West.
He knew that he was HE VIN 's big experiment, and he wanted to give it his best shot. In thefirst three areas he was doing fine. He smoked the odd fag and put away a Guinness on occasion(can't say fairer than that), but he was very successful with both the evil weed and the temptationsof the flesh. He no longer saw Alexandra Andrusier, Polly Houghton or Rosie Dew (though he paidoccasional visits to one Tanya Chapman, a very small redhead who understood the delicate natureof his dilemma and would give him a thorough blow job without requiring Millat to touch her at all.
It was a mutually beneficial arrangement: she was the daughter of a judge and delighted inhorrifying the old goat, and Millat needed ejaculation with no actual active participation on hisside). On the scriptural side of things, he thought Muhammad (peace be upon Him!) was a rightgeezer, a great bloke, and he was in awe of the Creator, in the original meaning of that word: dread,fear, really shit-scared and Hifan said that was correct, that was how it should be. He understoodthis idea that his religion was not one based on faith not likethe Christians, the Jews, et al. but one that could be intellectually proved by the best minds. Heunderstood the idea. But, sadly, Millat was far from possessing one of the best minds, or even areasonable mind; intellectual proof or disproof was beyond him. Still, he understood that to rely onfaith, as his own father did, was contemptible. And no one could say he didn't give one hundred percent to the cause. That seemed enough for HE VIN. They were more than happy with his real forte,which was the delivery of the thing. The presentation. For instance, if a nervous-looking womancame up to the KEVIN stall in Willesden Library and asked about the faith, Millat would lean overthe desk, grab her hand, press it and say: Not faith, Sister. We do not deal in faith here. Spend fiveminutes with my Brother Rakesh and he will intellectually prove to you the existence of the Creator.
The Qur'an is a document of science, a document of rational thought. Spend five minutes, Sister, ifyou care for your future beyond this earth. And to top it off, he could usually sell her a few tapes(Ideological Warfare or Let the Scholars Beware), two quid each. Or even some of their literature,if he was on top form. Everyone at KEVIN was mightily impressed. So far so good. As forKEVIN's more unorthodox programmes of direct action, Millat was right in there, he was theirgreatest asset, he was in the forefront, the first into battle come jihad, cool as fuck in a crisis, a manof action, like Brando, like Pacino, like Liotta. But even as Millat reflected on this with pride in hismother's hallway, his heart sank. For therein lay the problem. Number four. Purging oneself of the West .
Now, he knew, he knew that if you wanted an example of the moribund, decadent, degenerate,over-sexed, violent state of Western capitalist culture and the logical endpoint of its obsession withpersonal freedoms (Leaflet: Way Out West), you couldn't do much better than Hollywood cinema.
And he knew (how many times had he been through it with Hifan?) that the 'gangster' movie, theMafia genre, was the worst example of that. And yet ... it was thehardest thing to let go. He would give every spliff he'd ever smoked and every woman he'd everfucked to retrieve the films his mother had burnt, or even the few he had purchased more recentlywhich Hifan had confiscated. He had torn up his Rocky Video membership and thrown away theIqbal video recorder to distance himself from direct temptation, but was it his fault if Channel 4 rana De Niro season? Could he help it if Tony Bennett's "Rags to Riches' floated out of a clothes shopand entered his soul? It was his most shameful secret that whenever he opened a door a car door, acar boot, the door of KEVIN's meeting hall or the door of his own house just now the opening ofGoodFdlas ran through his head and he found this sentence rolling around in what he presumed washis subconscious:
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.
He even saw it like that, in that font, like on the movie poster. And when he found himselfdoing it, he tried desperately not to, he tried to fix it, but Millat's mind was a mess and more oftenthan not he'd end up pushing upon the door, head back, shoulders forward, Liotta style, thinking:
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a Muslim.
He knew, in a way, this was worse, but he just couldn't help it. He kept a white handkerchief inhis top pocket, he always carried dice, even though he had no idea what a crap game actually was,he loved long camel jackets and he could cook a killer seafood linguine, though a lamb curry wascompletely beyond him. It was all hara am he knew that.
Worst of all was the anger inside him. Not the righteous anger of a man of God, but the seething,violent anger of a gangster, ajuvenile delinquent, determined to prove himself, determined to run the clan, determined to beatthe rest. And if the game was God, if the game was a fight against the West, against thepresumptions of Western science, against his brother or Marcus Chalfen, he was determined to winit. Millat stubbed his fag out against the bannister. It pissed him off that these were not piousthoughts. But they were in the right ball park, weren't they? He had the fundamentals, didn't he?
Clean living, praying (five times a day without fail), fasting, working for the cause, spreading themessage? And that was enough, wasn't it? Maybe. Whatever. Either way, there was no going backnow. Yeah, he'd meet Magid, he'd meet him .. . they'd have a good face-off, he'd come out of it thestronger; he'd call his brother a little cock-a-roach, and walk out of that tete-a-tete even moredetermined to fulfill his destiny. Millat straightened his green bow-tie and slunk forward like Liotta(all menace and charm) and pushed open the kitchen door (Ever since I can remember.. . ), waitingfor two pairs of eyes, like two of Scorsese's cameras, to pan on to his face and focus.
"Millat!""Amma.""Millat!""Joyce."(Great, supwoib, so we all know each other, went Millat's inner monologue in Paul Sorvino'svoice, Now let's get down to business.)"All right, gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed. It is simply my son. Magid, Mickey.
Mickey, Magid."O'ConnelTs once more. Because Alsana had eventually conceded Joyce's point, but did not careto dirty her hands. Instead, she demanded Samad take Magid 'out somewhere' and spend an eveningpersuading him into meeting with Millat. But the only 'out' Samad understood was O'Connell's andthe prospect oftaking his son there was repellent. He and his wife had a thorough wrestle in the garden to settlethe point, and he was confident of success until Alsana fooled him with a dummy trip, then anarmlock-knee-groin combination. So here he was: O'Connell's, and it was as bad a choice as he'dsuspected. When he, Archie and Magid walked in, trying to make a low-key entrance, there hadbeen widespread consternation amongst both staff and clientele. The last stranger anybodyremembered arriving with Arch and Sam was Samad's accountant, a small rat-faced man who triedto talk to people about their savings (as if people in O'Connell's had savings!) and asked not oncebut twice for blood pudding, though it had been explained to him that pig was unavailable. Thathad been around 1987 and nobody had enjoyed it. And now what was this? A mere five years laterand here comes another one, this time all dressed in white insultingly clean for a Friday evening inO'ConnelTs and way below the unspoken minimum age requirement (thirty-six). What was Samadtrying to do?
"Whattareya tryin' to do to us, Sammy?" asked Johnny, a mournful-looking stick of anex-Orangeman, who was leaning over the hot plate to collect some bubble and squeak. "Overrun us,are ya or sum thing"Oo 'im?" demanded Denzel, who had not yet died.
"Your batty bwoy?" inquired Clarence, who was also, by God's grace, hanging on in there.
"All right, gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed. It is simply my son. Magid, Mickey.
Mickey, Magid."Mickey looked a little dumbfounded by this introduction, and just stood there for a minute, asoggy fried egg hanging off his spatula.
"Magid Mahfooz Murshed Mubtasim Iqbal," said Magid serenely. "It is a great honour to meetyou, Michael. I have heard such a great deal about you."Which was odd, because Samad had never told him a thing.
Mickey continued to look over Magid's shoulder to Samad for confirmation. "You what? Youmean the one you, er, sent back 'ome? This is Magid?""Yes, yes, this is Magid," replied Samad rapidly, pissed off by all the attention the boy wasgetting. "Now, Archibald and I will have our usuals and'
"Magid Iqbal," repeated Mickey slowly. "Well, I bloody never. You know you'd never guessyou was an Iqbal. You've got a very trusting, well, kind of sympathetic face, if you get me.""And yet I am an Iqbal, Michael," said Magid, laying that look of total empathy on Mickey andthe other dregs of humanity huddled around the hot counter, 'though I have been gone a long time.""Say that again. Well, this is a turn-up for the books. I've got your .. . wait a minute, let me getthis right .. . your great-great-grandfather up there, see?""I noticed it the moment I came in, and I can assure you, Michael, my soul is very grateful forit," said Magid, beaming like an angel. "It makes me feel at home, and, as this place is dear to myfather and his friend Archibald Jones I feel certain it shall also be dear to me. They have broughtme here, I think, to discuss important matters, and I for one can think of no better place for them,despite your clearly debilitating skin condition."Mickey was simply bowled over by that, and could not conceal his pleasure, addressing hisreply both to Magid and the rest of O'Connell's.
"Speaks fuckin' nice, don't he? Sounds like a right fuckin' Olivier. Queen's fucking English andno mistake. What a nice fella. You're the kind of clientele I could do wiv in here, Magid, let me tellyou. Civilized and that. And don't you worry about my skin, it don't get anywhere near the food andit don't give me much trouble. Cor, what a gentleman. You do feel like you should watch yourmouth around him, dontcha?""Mine and Archibald's usual, then, please, Mickey," said Samad.
Till leave my son to make up his mind. We will be over by the pinball." J|"Yeah, yeah," said Mickey, not bothering or able to tun his *5i gaze from Magid's dark eyes. IB"Dat a lovely suit you gat dere," murmured Denzel, stroking "IH the white linen wistfully.
"Dat's what de Englishmen use taw ear back home in Jamaica, remember dat, Clarence:1'
Clarence nodded slowly, dribbling a little, struck by the beatific.
"Go on, get out of it, the pair of you," grumbled Mickey, shooing them away, Till bring it over,all right? I want to talk to Magid here. Growing boy, he's got to eat. So: what is it I can get you,Magid?" Mickey leant over the counter, all concern, lite an over-attentive shop girl "Eggs?
Mushrooms? Beans? Fried sice?""I think," replied Magid, slowly surveying the dusty chalkboard menus on the wall, and thenturning back to Mickey, his face illumined, "I should like a bacon sandwich. Yes, that is it. I wouldlove a juicy, yet well-done, tomato ketchup-ed bacon sandwich. On brown."Oh, the struggle that could be seen on Mickey's kisser at that moment! Oh, the gargoyliancontortions! It was a battle between the favour of the most refined customer he had ever had andthe most hallowed, sacred rule of O'Connell's Pool House. no pork.
Mickey's left eye twitched.
"Don't want a nice plate of scrambled? I do a lovely scrambled eggs, don't I, Johnny?""I'd be a liar if I said ya didn't," said Johnny loyally from his table, even though Mickey's eggswere famously grey and stiff, I'd be a terrible liar, on my mother's life, I would."Magid wrinkled his nose and shook his head.
"All right what about mushrooms and beans? Omelette and chips? No better chips in theFinchley Road. Come on, son," he pleaded, desperate. "You're a Muslim, int ya? You don't want tobreak your father's heart with a bacon sandwich.""My father's heart will not be broken by a bacon sandwich. Itis far more likely that my father's heart will break from the result of a build-up of saturated fatwhich is in turn a result of eating in your establishment for fifteen years. One wonders," said Magidevenly, 'if a case could be made, a legal case, you understand, against individuals in the foodservice industry who fail to label their meals with a clear fat content or general health warning. Onewonders."All this was delivered in the sweetest, most melodious voice, and with no hint of threat. PoorMickey didn't know what to make of it.
"Well, of course," said Mickey nervously, 'hypothetically that is an interesting question. Veryinteresting.""Yes, I think so.""Yeah, definitely."Mickey fell silent and spent a minute elaborately polishing the top of the hot plate, an activityhe indulged in about once every ten years.
"There. See your face in that. Now. Where were we?""A bacon sandwich."At the sound of the word 'bacon', a few ears began to twitch at the front tables.
"If you could keep your voice down a little"A bacon sandwich," whispered Magid.
"Bacon. Right. Well, I'll have to nip next door, 'cos I ain't got none at present .. . but you just sitdown wiv your dad and I'll bring it over. It'll cost a bit more, like. What wiv the extra effort, youknow. But don't worry, I'll bring it over. And tell Archie not to worry if he ain't got the cash. ALuncheon Voucher will do.""You are very kind, Michael. Take one of these." Magid reached into his pocket and pulled outa piece of folded paper.
"Oh, fuck me, another leaflet? You can't fucking move pardon my French but you can't movefor leaflets in Norf London these days. My brother Abdul-Colin's always loading me wiv 'em an' all.
But seem' as it's you ... go on, hand it over.""It's not a leaflet," said Magid, collecting his knife and fork from the tray. "It is an invitation toa launch.""You what?" said Mickey excitedly (in the grammar of his daily tabloid, launch meant lots ofcameras, expensive-looking birds with huge tits, red carpets). "Really?"Millat passed him the invite. "Incredible things are to be seen and heard there.""Oh," said Mickey, disappointed, eyeing the expensive piece of card. "I've heard about thisbloke and his mouse." He had heard about this bloke and his mouse in this same tabloid; it was akind of filler between the tits and the more tits and it was underneath the byline: one bloke and hismouse.
"Seems a bit dodgy to me, messing wiv God an' all that. "Sides I ain't that scientifically minded,you see. Go right over my head.""Oh, I don't think so. One just has to look at the thing from a perspective that interests youpersonally. Take your skin, for example.""I wish somebody would fuckin' take it," joked Mickey amiably. "I've 'ad a-fucking-nuff of it."Magid did not smile.
"You suffer from a serious endocrine disorder. By which I mean, it is not simply adolescentacne caused by the over-excretion of sebum, but a condition that comes from a hormonal defect. Ipresume your family share it?""Er .. . yeah, as it happens. All my brothers. And my son, Abdul-Jimmy. All spotty bastards.""But you would not like it if your son were to pass on the condition to his sons.""Obviously, no. I 'ad terrible trouble in school. I carry a knife to this day, Magid. But I can't seehow that can be avoided, to be honest with you. Been goin' on for decades.""But you see," said Magid (and what an expert he was at the personal interest angle!), 'it cancertainly be avoided. It would beperfectly simple and much misery would be saved. That is the kind of thing we will bediscussing at the launch.""Oh, well, if that's the case, you know, count me in. I thought it was just some bloodymutant-mouse or som mink you see. But if that's the case .. .""Thirty-first of December," said Magid, before walking down the aisle to his father. "It will bewonderful to see you there"You took your time," said Archie, as Magid approached their table.
"Did you come by way of the Ganges?" inquired Samad irritably, shifting up to make space forhim.
"Pardon me, please. I was just speaking with your friend, Michael. A very decent chap. Oh,before I forget, Archibald, he said that it would be perfectly acceptable to pay in LuncheonVouchers this evening."Archie almost choked on a little toothpick he was chewing on. "He said what"? Are you sure?""Quite sure. Now, Abba, shall we begin?""There's nothing to begin," growled Samad, refusing to look him in the eye. "I am afraid we arealready far into whatever diabolic plot fate has in store for me. And I want you to know, that I amnot here of my own volition but because your mother begged me to do this and because I havemore respect for that poor woman than either you or your brother ever had."Magid released a wry, gentle smile. "I thought you were here because Amma beat you in thewrestling."Samad scowled. "Oh yes, ridicule me. My own son. Do you never read the Qur'an? Do you notknow the duties a son owes to his father? You sicken me, Magid Mubtasim.""Oi, Sammy, old man," said Archie, playing with the ketchup, trying to keep things light.
"Steady on.""No, I will not steady on! This boy is a thorn in my foot.""Surely "side"?""Archibald, stay out of this."Archie returned his attention to the pepper and salt cellars, IBtrying to pour the former into the latter. tj|j"Right you are, Sam." 3"I have a message to deliver and I will deliver it and no more. *BMagid, your mother wants you to meet with Millat. The woman Chalfen will arrange it. It istheir opinion that the two of you must talk"And what is your opinion, Abba?""You don't want to hear my opinion.""On the contrary, Abba, I would very much like to hear it.""Simply, I think it is a mistake. I think you two can do no possible good for each other. I thinkyou should go to opposite corners of the earth. I think I have been cursed with two sons moredysfunctional than Mr. Cain and Mr. Abel.""I am perfectly willing to meet with him, Abba. If he will meet with me.""Apparently he is willing, this is what I am told. I don't know. I don't talk with him any morethan I talk with you. I am too busy at the moment trying to make my peace with God.""Er.. ." said Archibald, crunching on his toothpick out of hunger and nerves, and because Magidgave him the heebiejeebies, Till go and see if the food is ready, shall I? Yes. I'll do that. What am Ipicking up for you, Madge?""A bacon sandwich, please, Archibald.""Bac -? Er .. . right. Right you are."Samad's face blew up like one of Mickey's fried tomatoes. "So you mean to mock me, is that it?
In front of my face you wish to show me the kaffir that you are. Go on, then! Munch on your pig infront of me! You are so bloody clever, aren't you? Mr. Smarty-pants. Mr. white-trouseredEnglishman with his stiff upper-lip and his big white teeth. You know everything, even enough toescape your own judgement day.""I am not so clever, Abba.""No, no, you are not. You are not half as clever as you think. Idon't know why I bother to warn you, but I do: you are on a direct collision course with yourbrother, Magid. I keep my ear to the ground, I hear Shiva talking in the restaurant. And there areothers: Mo Hussein-Ishmael, Mickey's brother, Abdul-Colin, and his son, Abdul-Jimmy these areonly a few, there are many more, and they are organizing against you. Millat is with them. YourMarcus Chalfen has stirred a great deal of anger and there are some, these green-ties, who arewilling to act. Who are crazy enough to do what they believe is right. Crazy enough to start a war.
There aren't many people like that. Most of us just follow along once war has been announced. Butsome people wish to bring things to a head. Some people march on to the parade ground and firethe first shot. Your brother is one of them."All through this, as Samad's face contorted from anger, to despair, to near-hysterical grins,Magid had remained blank, his face an unwritten page.
"You have nothing to say? This news does not surprise you?""Why don't you reason with them, Abba," said Magid after a pause. "Many of them respect you.
You are respected in the community. Reason with them.""Because I disapprove as strongly as they do, for all their lunacies. Marcus Chalfen has no right.
No right to do as he does. It is not his business. It is God's business. If you meddle with a creature,the very nature of a creature, even if it is a mouse, you walk into the arena that is God's: creation.
You infer that the wonder of God's creation can be improved upon. It cannot. Marcus Chalfenpresumes. He expects to be worshipped when the only thing in the universe that warrants worshipis Allah. And you are wrong to help him. Even his own son has disowned him. And so," said Samad,unable to suppress the drama queen deep within his soul, "I must disown you.""Ah, now, one chips, beans, egg and mushroom for you, Sammy-my-good-man," said Archibald,approaching the table and passing the plate. "And one omelette and mushrooms for me .. .""And one bacon sandwich," said Mickey, who had insisted on breaking fifteen years of traditionin bringing this one dish over himself, 'for the young professor.""He will not eat that at my table.""Oh, come on, Sam," began Archie gingerly. "Give the lad a break.""I say he will not eat that at my table!"Mickey scratched his forehead. "Stone me, we're getting a bit fundamentalist in our old age,ain't we?""I said '
"As you wish, Abba," said Magid, with that same infuriating smile of total forgiveness. He tookhis plate from Mickey, and sat down at the adjacent table with Clarence and Denzel.
Denzel welcomed him with a grin, "Clarence, look see! It de young prince in white. "Im cometo play domino. I jus' look in his eye and I and I knew 'im play domino. "Im an hex pert"Can I ask you a question?" said Magid.
"Def-net-lee. Gwan.""Do you think I should meet with my brother?""Hmm. I don' tink me can say," replied Denzel, after a spell of thought in which he laid down afive-domino set.
"I would say you look like a young fellow oo can make up 'im own mind," said Clarencecautiously.
"Do I?"Magid turned back to his previous table, where his father was trying studiously to ignore him,and Archie was toying with his omelette.
"Archibald! Shall I meet with my brother or not?"Archie looked guiltily at Samad and then back at his plate.
"Archibald! This is a very significant question for me. Should I or not?""Go on," said Samad sourly. "Answer him. If he'd rather advice from two old fools and a manhe barely knows than from his own father, then let him have it. Well? Should he?"Archie squirmed. "Well... I can't... I mean, it's not for me to say ... I suppose, if he wants .. . butthen again, if you don't thinkSamad thrust his fist into Archie's mushrooms so hard the omelette slithered off the platealtogether and slipped to the floor.
"Make a decision, Archibald. For once in your pathetic little life, make a decision.""Urn .. . heads, yes," gasped Archie, reaching into his pocket for a twenty pence piece. "Tails,no. Ready?"The coin rose and flipped as a coin would rise and flip every time in a perfect world, flashing itslight and then revealing its dark enough times to mesmerize a man. Then, at some point in itstriumphant ascension, it began to arc, and the arc went wrong, and Archibald realized that it wasnot coming back to him at all but going behind him, a fair way behind him, and he turned with theothers to watch it complete an elegant swoop towards the pinball machine and somersault straightinto the slot. Immediately the huge old beast lit up; the ball shot off and began its chaotic, noisycourse around a labyrinth of swinging doors, automatic bats, tubes and ringing bells, until, with noone to assist it, no one to direct it, it gave up the ghost and dropped back into the swallowing hole.
"Bloody hell said Archibald, visibly chuffed. "What are the chances of that, eh?"A neutral place. The chances of finding one these days are slim, maybe even slimmer thanArchie's pinball trick. The sheer quantity of shit that must be wiped off the slate if we are to startagain as new. Race. Land. Ownership. Faith. Theft. Blood. And more blood. And more. And notonly must the place be neutral, but the messenger who takes you to the place, and the messengerwho sends the messenger. There are no people or places like thatleft in North London. But Joyce did her best with what she had. First she went to Clara. InClara's present seat of learning, a red-brick university, South-West by the Thames, there was a roomshe used for study on Friday afternoons. A thoughtful teacher had loaned her the key. Always emptybetween three and six. Contents: one blackboard, several tables, some chairs, two angle poise lamps,an overhead projector, a filing cabinet, a computer. Nothing older than twelve years, Clara couldguarantee that. The university itself was only twelve years old. Built on empty waste land no Indianburial grounds, no Roman viaducts, no interred alien spacecraft, no foundations of a long-gonechurch. Just earth. As neutral a place as anywhere. Clara gave Joyce the key and Joyce gave it toMe.
"But why me? I'm not involved.""Exactly, dear. And I'm too involved. But you are perfect. Because you know him but you don'tknow him," said Joyce cryptically. She passed Irie her long winter coat, some gloves and a hat ofMarcus's with a ludicrous bobble on the top. "And because you love him, though he doesn't loveyou.""Yeah, thanks, Joyce. Thanks for reminding me.""Love is the reason, Me." "No, Joyce, Love's not the fucking reason." Irie was standing on theChalfen doorstep, watching her own substantial breath in the freezing night air. It's a four-letterword that sells life insurance and hair conditioner. It's fucking cold out here. You owe me one.""Everybody owes everybody," agreed Joyce and closed the door.
Irie stepped out into streets she'd known her whole life, along a route she'd walked a milliontimes over. If someone asked her just then what memory was, what the purest definition of memorywas, she would say this: the street you were on when you first jumped in a pile of dead leaves. Shewas walking it right now. With every fresh crunch came the memory of previous crunches.
She was permeated by familiar smells: wet wood chip and gravel around the base of the tree,newly laid turd underneath the cover of soggy leaves. She was moved by these sensations. Despiteopting for a life of dentistry, she had not yet lost all of the poetry in her soul, that is, she could stillhave the odd Proustian moment, note layers upon layers, though she often experienced them inperiodontal terms. She got a twinge as happens with a sensitive tooth, or in a 'phantom tooth', whenthe nerve is exposed she felt a twinge walking past the garage, where she and Millat, aged thirteen,had passed one hundred and fifty pennies over the counter, stolen from an Iqbal jam-jar, in adesperate attempt to buy a packet of fags. She felt an ache (like a severe malocclusion, the pressureof one tooth upon another) when she passed the park where they had cycled as children, where theysmoked their first joint, where he had kissed her once in the middle of a storm. Me wished shecould give herself over to these past-present fictions: wallow in them, make them sweeter, longer,particularly the kiss. But she had in her hand a cold key, and surrounding her lives that werestranger than fiction, funnier than fiction, crueller than fiction, and with consequences fiction cannever have. She didn't want to be involved in the long story of those lives, but she was, and shefound herself dragged forward by the hair to their denouement, through the high road Mali'sKebabs, Mr. Cheungs, Raj's, Malkovich Bakeries she could reel them off blindfold; and then downunder pigeon-shit bridge and that long wide road that drops into Gladstone Park as if it's falling intoa green ocean. You could drown in memories like these, but she tried to swim free of them. Shejumped over the small wall that fringed the Iqbal house, as she had a million times over, and rangthe doorbell. Past tense, future imperfect.
Upstairs, in his bedroom, Millat had spent the past fifteen minutes trying to get his head aroundBrother Hifan's written instructions concerning the act of prostration (leaflet: Correct Worship):
SAJDA: prostration. In the sajda, fingers must be closed, pointing towards the qibla in line withthe ears, and the head must be between hands. It is hard to put the forehead on something clean,such as a stone, some earth, wood, cloth, and it is said (by savants) that it is wa jib to put the nosedown, too. It is not permissible to put only the nose on the ground without a good excuse. It ismakruh to put only the forehead on the ground. In the sajda you must say Subhana rabbiyal-ala atleast thrice. The Shiis say that it is better to make the sajda on a brick made from the clay ofKarbala. It is either fard or wa jib to put two feet or at least one toe of each foot on the ground.
There are also some savants who say that it is sun That That is, if two feet are not put on the ground,nam az will either not be accepted or it will become makruh. If, during the sajda, the forehead, noseor feet are raised from the ground for a short while, it will cause no harm. In the sajda, it is sun Thatto bend the toes and turn them towards the qibla. It is written in Raddulmukhtar that those who sayThat's as far as he got, and there were three more pages. He was in a cold sweat from trying torecall all that was hal al or hara am fard or sun That makruh-tahrima (prohibited with much stress)or makruh-tanzihi (prohibited, but to a lesser degree). At a loss, he had ripped off his t-shirt, tied aseries of belts at angles over his spectacular upper body, stood in the mirror and practised adifferent, easier routine, one he knew in intimate detail:
You lookin' at me? You lookin' at me?
Well, who the fuck else are you looking at, huh?
I can't see anybody else in here.
You lookin' at me?
He was in the swing of it, revealing his invisible sliding guns and knives to the wardrobe door,when Me walked in.
"Yes/ said Me, as he stood there sheepish. Tm looking at you." Quickly and quietly sheexplained to him about the neutralplace, about the room, about the date, about the time. She made her own personal plea forcompromise, peace and caution (everybody was doing it) and then she came up close and put thecold key in his warm hand. Almost without meaning to, she touched his chest. Just at the pointbetween two belts where his heart, constricted by the leather, beat so hard she felt it in her ear.
Lacking experience in this field, it was natural that Irie should mistake the palpitations that comewith blood restriction for smouldering passion. As for Millat, it had been a very long time sinceanybody touched him or he touched anybody. Add to that the touch of memory, the touch oftenyears of love unreturned, the touch of a long, long history the result was inevitable.
Before long their arms were involved, their legs were involved, their lips were involved, andthey were tumbling on to the floor, involved at the groin (hard to get more involved than that),making love on a prayer mat. But then as suddenly and feverishly as it had begun it was over; theyreleased each other in horror for different reasons, Irie springing back into a naked huddle by thedoor, embarrassed and ashamed because she could see how much he regretted it; and Millatgrabbing his prayer mat and pointing it towards the Kaba, ensuring the mat was no higher thanfloor level, resting on no books or shoes, his fingers closed and pointing to the quibla in line withhis ears, ensuring both forehead and nose touched the floor, with two feet firmly on the ground butensuring the toes were not bent, prostrating himself in the direction of the Kaba, but not for theKaba, but for Allahu ta'ala alone. He made sure he did all these things perfectly, while Irie wept anddressed and left. He made sure he did all these things perfectly because he believed he was beingwatched by the great camera in the sky. He made sure he did all these things perfectly because theywere fard and 'he who wants to change worships becomes a disbeliever' (leaflet: The Straight Path).
Hell hath no fury et cetera, et cetera. Irie walked hot-faced from the Iqbal house and headedstraight for the Chalfens with revenge on her mind. But not against Millat. Rather in defence ofMillat,for she had always been his defender, his blacky-white knight. -=jYou see, Millat did not love her. And she thought Millat didn't --'
love her because he couldn't. She thought he was so damaged,he couldn't love anybody any more. She wanted to find whoever had damaged him like this,damaged him so terribly; she wanted to find whoever had made him unabk to love her.
It's a funny thing about the modern world. You hear girls in the toilets of clubs saying, "Yeah,he fucked off and left me. He didn't love me. He just couldn't deal with love. He was too fucked upto know how to love me." Now, how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century thatconvinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as a people, as a species? What madeus think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? Andparticularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabattaroll then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness ofourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be somethingmore worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greetings cards routinely tell us everybodydeserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.
Millat didn't love Irie, and Irie was sure there must be somebody she could blame for that. Herbrain started ticking over. What was the root cause? Millat's feelings of inadequacy. What was theroot cause of Millat's feelings of inadequacy? Magid. He had been born second because of Magid.
He was the lesser son because of Magid.
Joyce opened the door to her and Irie marched straight upstairs, maliciously determined tomake Magid the second-son for once, this time by twenty-five minutes. She grabbed him, kissedhimand made love to him angrily and furiously, without conversation or affection. She rolled himaround, tugged at his hair, dug what fingernails she had into his back and when he came she wasgratified to note it was with a little sigh as if something had been taken from him. But she waswrong to think this a victory. It was simply because he knew immediately where she had been, whyshe was here, and it saddened him. For a long time they lay in silence together, naked, the autumnlight disappearing from the room with every minute that passed.
"It seems to me," said Magid finally, as the moon became clearer than the sun, 'that you havetried to love a man as if he were an island and you were shipwrecked and you could mark the landwith an X. It seems to me it is too late in the day for all that."Then he gave her a kiss on the forehead that felt like a baptism and she wept like a baby.
3 p.m." 5 November 1992. The brothers meet (at last) in a blank room after a gap of eight yearsand find that their genes, those prophets of the future, have reached different conclusions. Millat isastounded by the differences. The nose, the line of the jaw, the eyes, the hair. His brother is astranger to him and he tells him so.
"Only because you wish me to be," says Magid with a crafty look.
But Millat is blunt, not interested in riddles, and in a single shot asks and answers his ownquestion. "So you're going through with it, yeah?"Magid shrugs. "It is not mine to stop or start, brother, but yes, I intend to help where I can. It isa great project.""It is an abomination." (leaflet: The Sanctity of Creation)Millat pulls out a chair from one of the desks and sits on it backwards, like a crab in a trap, legsand arms splayed either side.
"I see it rather as correcting the Creator's mistakes.""The Creator doesn't make mistakes.""So you mean to continue?""You're damn right.""And so do I.""Well, that's it, then, isn't it? It's already been decided. KEVIN will do whatever is necessary tostop you and your kind. And that's the fucking end of it."But contrary to Millat's understanding, this is no movie and there is no fucking end to it, just asthere is no fucking beginning to it. The brothers begin to argue. It escalates in moments, and theymake a mockery of that idea, a neutral place; instead they cover the room with history past, presentand future history (for there is such a thing) they take what was blank and smear it with the stinkingshit of the past like excitable, excremental children. They cover this neutral room in themselves.
Every gripe, the earliest memories, every debated principle, every contested belief.
Millat arranges the chairs to demonstrate the vision of the solar system which is so clearly andremarkably described in the Qur'an, centuries before Western science (leaflet: The Qur'an and theCosmos); Magid draws Pande's parade ground on one blackboard with a detailed reconstruction ofthe possible path of bullets, and on the other board a diagram depicting a restriction enzyme cuttingneatly through a sequence of nucleotides; Millat uses the computer as television, a chalk rubber asthe picture of Magid-and-goat, then single-handedly impersonates every dribbling babba, great auntand cousin's accountant who came that year for the blasphemous business of worshipping an icon;Magid utilizes the overhead projector to illuminate an article he has written, taking his brotherpoint-by-point through his argument, defending the patents of genetically altered organisms; Millatuses the filing cabinet as a substitute for another one he despised, fills it with imaginary lettersbetween a scientist Jew and anunbelieving Muslim; Magid puts three chairs together and shines two angle poise lamps andnow there are two brothers in a car, shivering and huddled together until a few minutes later theyare separated for ever and a paper plane takes off.
It goes on and on and on.
And it goes to prove what has been said of immigrants many times before now; they areresourceful; they make do. They use what they can when they can.
Because we often imagine that immigrants are constantly on the move, footloose, able tochange course at any moment, able to employ their legendary resourcefulness at every turn. Wehave been told of the resourcefulness of Mr. Schmutters, or the foot loosity of Mr. Banajii, who sailinto Ellis Island or Dover or Calais and step into their foreign lands as blank people, free of anykind of baggage, happy and willing to leave their difference at the docks and take their chances inthis new place, merging with the oneness of this greenandpleasantlibertarianlandofthefree.
Whatever road presents itself, they will take, and if it happens to lead to a dead end, well then,Mr. Schmutters and Mr. Banajii will merrily set upon another, weaving their way through HappyMulticultural Land. Well, good for them. But Magid and Millat couldn't manage it. They left thatneutral room as they had entered it: weighed down, burdened, unable to waver from their course orin any way change their separate, dangerous trajectories. They seem to make no progress. Thecynical might say they don't even move at all that Magid and Millat are two of Zeno's head fuckarrows, occupying a space equal to themselves and, what is scarier, equal to Mangal Pande's, equalto Samad Iqbal's. Two brothers trapped in the temporal instant. Two brothers who pervert allattempts to put dates to this story, to track these guys, to offer times and days, because there isn't,wasn't and never will be any duration. In fact, nothing moves.
Nothing changes. They are running at a standstill. Zeno's Paradox.
But what was Zeno's deal here (everybody's got a deal), what was his angle"? There is a body ofopinion that argues his paradoxes are part of a more general spiritual programme. To(a) first establish multiplicity, the Many, as an illusion, and (b) thus prove reality a seamless,flowing whole. A single, indivisible One.
Because if you can divide reality inexhaustibly into parts, as the brothers did that day in thatroom, the result is insupportable paradox. You are always still, you move nowhere, there is noprogress.
But multiplicity is no illusion. Nor is the speed with which those-in-the-simmering-melting-potare dashing towards it. Paradoxes aside, they are running, just as Achilles was running. And theywill lap those who are in denial just as surely as Achilles would have made that tortoise eat his dust.
Yeah, Zeno had an angle. He wanted the One, but the world is Many. And yet still that paradox isalluring. The harder Achilles tries to catch the tortoise, the more eloquently the tortoise expressesits advantage. Likewise, the brothers will race towards the future only to find they more and moreeloquently express their past, that place where they have just been. Because this is the other thingabout immigrants ('fugees, emigres, travellers): they cannot escape their history any more than youyourself can lose your shadow.
| 欢迎访问英文小说网http://novel.tingroom.com |