Dear Infidel Page 6

  ‘So would you agree that the “challenges” are all but insurmountable? That Islam cannot co-exist here, in secular, pluralistic, democratic Britain?’

  ‘I would say, Ms Petiffer, that theory and practice are often two different things. In theory Islam demands that adherents live loyally by their land, which is wherever they choose to make their homes. No buts, no exceptions. Furthermore one should work hard to contribute, so much so that others see you as an asset and would not want you to leave. None of this is new. This isn’t a bolt-on, grudgingly applied to appease you; these are the immutable laws of Islam, of year-zero Islam. But as mentioned, theory and practice are so often very different. No one is listening anymore: not those kids, and not you. Entropy.’

  The broadcaster cleared his throat.

  ‘So in conclusion, Dr Qasim, would you say that Islam does or does not have anything to contribute to this country? Can it add positively to Britain’s rich Greco-Roman and Judeo-Christian heritage?’

  ‘Sir, I must tell you that however proud you rightly are of your heritage, your country today has little to do with either aforementioned axis. Socrates in his day would be what you now call a celebrity. A student of his, Alcibiades, often spoke of the extraordinary effect his words had on him. He once wrote that “From the moment I hear him speak, I am smitten with a kind of sacred frenzy. And my heart jumps into my mouth and the tears start into my eyes.” Today throngs swoon similarly in front of TV personalities and pop-stars, people whose every move – indeed whose every word – is carefully crafted for them. Socrates demanded that his pupils look into themselves and transform their lives for the better. Celebrities ask you to buy products, which their accountants select for them to endorse. Therefore I say to you, sir, Ms Pettifer and listeners, that there are certain points between my world and yours at which I would politely decline any invitation to connect. However there are others – many, many others – where I’m crying out to be met half way. The rest is up to you.’

  The match is over. Pakistan are the Cricket World Cup Champions of 1992. Despite some lusty blows struck by the remaining England batsmen, their contribution wasn’t telling; just the last, proud stand of a dying animal. It was fitting that the final wicket fell to Imran – the closing act of a long, illustrious career. Ramiz took the catch, another running effort, and he almost took off as he kept on running. Imran the Leader just stood his ground, savouring the fruits of his life’s work. Some fell to the earth and kissed the turf whilst others began dancing. The rest looked dazed, unable to absorb what they had just achieved.

  As they make their way off the pitch, Imtiaz begins leading an impromptu bhangra jig. He is a great mover, is Imtiaz, one of that select band of men with natural rhythm. He steps in front of the whole team and begins dancing and singing: arms here, hips there. Some join in and others just watch, clapping and laughing. Imtiaz is such a joker, such an entertainer – everyone has fun when Imtiaz is around.

  Outside the flat fireworks went off. First it was just one or two but soon there was a volley of bangs. Eid had begun.

  Imran is handed the trophy; a crystal globe on a cubic base. The podium is hastily erected and dignitaries roll out from their executive boxes. Interviews are conducted and commiserations and congratulations offered liberally. Speeches are given and Wasim is made Man of the Match. At the precise moment that Imran holds aloft the trophy, fireworks are let off. The Melbourne sky becomes a riot of colours, exploding into the night. Imtiaz has of course seen fireworks before, but this was something else. He points one out to Wasim standing next to him, and the two friends savour the display. It’s for them, all for them.

  Bang! More fireworks. Fireworks inside, fireworks outside. Fantasy met reality. Imtiaz woke up.

  8

  ‘Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!’ - The Nigerian takes to the pitch. He’s coming on as substitute and being greeted by a chorus of monkey chants. It wasn’t an uncommon experience for the player, or for English clubs in general, when competing in Europe.

  The audio clip from the Santiago Bernabéu Stadium ended, and the broadcaster began interviewing the commentator from last night’s game.

  ‘Well, that’s just utterly despicable,’ roared the Englishman, his lungs stoked with outrage. ‘Was it like that throughout the match?’

  ‘In the first half we couldn’t be sure,’ began the Five Live chump. ‘We got reports of some of the other black players already on the pitch being subjected to taunts, but we couldn’t be certain ourselves. But when the Nigerian, Francis, came on in the second-half, the monkey chants could be heard from all around the ground. Why Francis should be singled out for the worst of the abuse, I don’t know. It was just deplorable.’ He was sounding both meek and aggressive, and in so doing was setting the mood for the item, the radio station, indeed the whole damn nation. Everyone fell into line, everyone knew their role: pundits and politicians queued up for a slice of the action, eager for the free brownie-points on offer. Pasha’s nostrils flared. He hadn’t got time for this. He loved his radio but today he only wanted a background noise, a wall of sound. Yet now it had penetrated his foreground and displaced his pre-occupation: Eid. Pasha was already late and playing catch-up, before he’d even started. He’d cursed himself on waking, when he turned to see that it was 8.30. It was far too late when he had to be at his mother’s in London by 1.00. And that was just the time that everyone else would start arriving. He had planned on being the first one there, to have some time alone with her before the others arrived. Why did I fall back asleep?

  A procession of the disgusted followed: the captain was interviewed and said it was shameful. The coach was angry, the sports minister appalled and everyone called for an enquiry. The Spanish should do this, UEFA should do that. The nation coalesced, unified by victim-hood. The previous night’s commentator was wheeled out again and repeated his incomprehension as to why Francis got the brunt of the abuse. “Because he’s the blackest of the black players, you dick,” muttered Pasha, getting increasingly wound up.

  Listeners’ texts were read out: I taped the game for my seven-year-old son, and had to tell him this morning that I couldn’t let him watch it. He’s in tears now. What should I say to him?’

  Pasha was close to throwing up. Everyone has their blacks, he mused, furiously retuning the radio. And the Spanish, being more traditional folk, had simply stuck to the tried-and-tested. The English, however, had moved on. What was their anthem, for when they played Turkey? “Oh I’d rather be a Paki than a Turk, oh I’d rather be a Paki than a Turk, oh I’d rather be a Paki, rather be a Paki, rather be a Paki than a Turk.” Pasha considered the contrast in reaction ... We’re your niggers now. But then again, the Pakis couldn’t just throw their hands up in the air and play the uncomplicated victim. They had a responsibility, a part to play, and they blew it. They? We? Exactly who was he?

  He slammed the radio down by the bathroom sink and patted his face dry with a towel. He’d just finished shaving and was stretching his face, making ‘O’s, appreciating the cool sensation on his cheeks. Pasha reached up for a bottle of aftershave. Resting it against the basin he began unscrewing the top, but in his haste it set off into a spin. It took clean off, bouncing on the basin’s edge before coming to rest somewhere underneath the toilet. He cursed again and fell to his hands and knees, contorting himself within the space available. Unable to spot it he ran a couple of fingers along the toilet’s base, where they met the thickly piled rug. He collected dust, pubic hair and toenail clippings, the assorted muck on his fingertips making his blood boil. He used to take so much care of this place when he first moved in, all those years ago. Then it was his pride and joy. It still was, but he just couldn’t manage the domestic chores like he used to. It frustrated him, knowing that his standards had slipped. Maybe I should get a maid, he thought, without being convinced that it was the answer.

  Sitting back on his heels his eyes swept across the rug, one of the set of mats that Imtiaz had bought him as a housewarming present.
Functional but soulless, the rugs and his brother, he concluded neatly. Contempt was frothing in his stomach. Whilst the pile was still long, it had now lost its lift, its previous restitution, and it looked lank and lifeless. His face stayed spoilt as he considered the imminent prospect of his brother’s company. What a dullard. And then there was Salman. Fucking hell. His innate effervescence, his once indefatigable joie de vivre, was dampening fast. It had become more vulnerable these days. A sign of age, he conceded, trying not to dwell on his fast approaching thirty–ninth birthday.

  Predictably enough he soon found the top and he screwed it back on, without dispensing any of the Cool Water inside. This was expensive, quality stuff – to be applied only when in company. Female company. He felt sexy when he put this on, or rather it confirmed to him that he was sexy – big difference. Either way today was not such a day, and he reluctantly put it back, holding onto the bottle a moment longer than necessary. He needed to reassure himself, and the Cool Water, that normal service would be resumed soon.

  9

  Returning from Eid morning prayers, Aadam pulled up outside his house. Sighing deeply he decided to be gentle with himself – the day may indeed have just begun but the month gone by had been long. He was exhausted, but his fatigue ran deeper than the physical.

  Outside an ill wind blew hollow, hitting discordant notes. Leaves rustled and tin cans rattled, protesting their violent displacement. Aadam adjusted the mirror ... His face bore a sobriety unbecoming of his thirty-two years. He rubbed his jaw line, trying to stimulate his pallid skin, but gave up: a massage was not the answer. Work, friends, London life – none of it really captured him any more. He’d drifted from a lot of people and others had drifted from him. He didn’t like it, but anyway, Nazneen was it – his one silver lining.

  He remembered when he first laid eyes on her – in a gym of all places – with her cranking up the pace on a treadmill. Her hair had been tied back in a simple ponytail, bobbing up and down, up and down, up and down ... And her skin shimmered with the hollow of her neck – a teardrop; hues dancing like sunshine on olive oil. He recalled sitting down on a nearby workbench, hunger tugging at his soul, and thanking the Lord for the miracle of lycra.

  But that was yesteryear. He still loved her, of course, beyond question, but he felt like he was at war – in a state of standing revolution. He wanted to leave the country but his ideas were vague: difficult to share, reluctant to communicate. And besides, he was the man – this was his burden.

  He turned towards his modest home. What had been a generously-sized four-bedroom, post-war, detached property had been converted into two less-than-generous flats. It was cramped and a bit rough round the edges, but it was theirs. He checked his watch. The day was still young; they could have a good couple of hours alone together, before they’d have to leave for Arwa Aunty’s. It was time to have his furrowed brow smoothed out.

  He walked delicately towards the front door, hoping that Nazneen hadn’t spotted the car from their bedroom window. Inserting the key slowly, he measured its progress click-by-click, until fully in. Again there was precision in how he turned it, and he negotiated the resistance to minimise noise. Aadam pushed and the light door swung silently. He heard the muffled, tinny noise of the radio coming from the kitchen – the sound of home. Picking up some letters, he began climbing the stairs, distributing his weight so as to avoid creaking. Which room was she in? He could still hear the radio, so bereft of any other clues he headed for the kitchen.

  She stood with her back to him. Jagjit Singh was singing, crying Ghalib’s poetry, and Nazneen was evidently lost in the lament. Picture perfect. Wearing an old short-sleeved shalwar kameez, her pale wheaten arms shimmered under winter sunlight, streaming in through the window. He gently placed his belongings by the foot of the door and moved swiftly. Once upon her he pressed right up from behind, sweeping arms across her waist and torso. Tea spilt as she knocked a mug, buckling under the force.

  ‘Hello beautiful,’ whispered a voice by her ear. She inhaled greedily and twisted round.

  ‘Aadam, don’t ever do that again!’ She half-screamed, half-coughed her protest and attempted a slap, but was encased in his embrace. His face was now buried in her neck, lips running against soft skin, his nose inhaling a delicate scent.

  ‘Aadam, you really ... Don’t do it again – it wasn’t funny.’

  He pulled away slightly, his arms still embracing her. Cupping her face, he kissed her on the third eye, his lips lingering. He gazed down, drinking in her royal features.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ he sighed again, wearing an almost pained expression. With eyes closed, his focus shifted: the feel of her breasts, the vibrations of her beating heart. His greedy hands swept over her, up to her warm, sticky-soft neck, touching, smearing lips, and then plummeting down, down to find the rise of her smooth curve. Nazneen made to protest but she was now giggling, declaring too easily that her resistance was fake. Easy prey. With her back to him, he squeezed with some force, nuzzling against her, working into her crevice. His hands dived underneath her tunic, negotiating their way around her layers. Done. Skin on skin. And then the doorbell rang.

  ‘Leave it,’ Nazneen immediately ordered, but an invisible cord had been snapped. The bell was no gentle ding-dong; no excuse me, but a heavy, monotonous drill. Forget simply hearing it; they actually felt it from where they stood. But what should I do? Who can it be? The postman? If so, the package could be important; work-related. Someone else? His brother? Had there had been a problem? He resisted the temptation until the bell rang a second time. Muttering something, he let go and hastily made his way out, deliberately avoiding the eye contact Nazneen was trying to make.

  ‘Eid Mubarak, Bhai!’ said Kishore on the doorstep, doing his best to sound full of festive cheer. Aadam looked his friend up and down, a big grin jarring with his appearance. This he wasn’t expecting. Sensing his friend’s alarm, Kishore began explaining, whilst Aadam bent down to play with Bina, Kishore’s little girl. ‘Kirti’s away on a week-long conference so I decided to go out on the lash.’

  ‘On a Monday frigging night? Bloody hell, Kishu, couldn’t you at least wait until midweek? And anyway, what about this little one?’ He spoke whilst unzipping the waterproof covering of the buggy.

  ‘She’s staying at her granny’s so I decided to take advantage. I never bloody learn. I’m getting too old for this. I felt so rough this morning I phoned in sick. I was just moping around so I decided to go for a walk, help clear my head.’

  ‘And then you picked up Bina from her nani-ma’s’?

  ‘Yeah, I needed quality time with my daughter. I work like a dog.’

  ‘And pushing her around on a November morning whilst you nurse a hangover, counts as quality time?’

  Kishore flinched.

  ‘Look, I just needed to see my daughter, OK? I don’t claim to be perfect.’ He paused for a moment and looked genuinely vulnerable. ‘Kirti’s mum lives two streets away. It’s sometimes a good thing but...’

  ‘But mostly a bad thing. I know, Bhai, I know the score.’ Aadam swept Bina up in his arms, having finally dealt with every zip, fastener and buckle. ‘You been looking after Daddy, then?’ he enquired of the little one, tickling her on the tummy. Bina beamed and nodded exaggeratedly, glowing at being made to feel so important.

  ‘Anyway, let’s not chat on the porch. It’s freezing out here.’ And, rubbing his hands, he moved to step into the flat.

  ‘Whoa, one second Kishu. We’re going to an Eid function shortly. You’ve picked a really bad day to turn up unannounced.’

  ‘Come on, Aadam. Are you going right now? You don’t look dressed. Just half an hour. I just want to get out of this cold, have a cup of chai. I’ve even brought the chappu,’ he added, producing the day’s newspaper from a pouch on the buggy. It was crisp and clearly unread. He must have bought it with this visit in mind. Aadam’s will was relenting. ‘What do you say, Bhai? Do you have any chai masala?’ And he smiled a smile tha
t said help me out. I’m but a poor boy from a poor family, which was untrue on both counts. Aadam held Kishore’s gaze warmly, sharing an unspoken moment with his Hindu friend. Kishore completed that step.

  Nazneen, thought Aadam. He hastened his climb, hoping to inform her before Kishore came into view. He entered the kitchen carrying Bina. Nazneen blinked hard, trying to control her reaction.

  ‘Look who’s here, darling. Kishore and Bina have popped by.’ Aadam spoke louder than necessary and with an intonation more appropriate when talking to a child. She got up and tickled Bina on the calf before turning towards Kishore.

  ‘Hi, Nazneen,’ he said. ‘Oh, and Eid Mubarak.’

  ‘Thank you, Kishore.’ She nodded stiffly before turning to Aadam, straining to maintain composure. ‘Darling, we haven’t got time for this. We’ve got to leave for your Aunty’s soon.’

  ‘I know that my dear, but I thought Kishore could stay a while – just half an hour. We’ll go soon.’

  Nazneen condemned him in silence, her eyes sparing him no mercy.

  ‘I’m off out,’ she offered simply. ‘Your tea is cold.’

  ‘Does it have masala in it?’ asked Kishore.

  ‘No.’

  Aadam stood still and listened to her walk into the bedroom. There was silence before she came back out and cantered down the stairs. The front door shut with a bang.

  10

  Imtiaz woke abruptly. He’d been sleeping on his back and he rotated to face the clock radio – 1.36 am declared the luminous green dial, staring back impassively. His nose was blocked, his mouth bone dry. The pillow under his cheek felt cold, though instead it was damp; saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth. He felt so drained. The radio had been on all night but it wasn’t the broadcaster that had woken him, but the fireworks. Fireworks? Of course: Eid. Dragging himself out of bed, he put his glasses on and shuffled to the window but his vantage point was not ideal. A thin fog hung in the air, but from his first floor flat it was irrelevant – he simply wasn’t high up enough. He couldn’t see anything but each rocket’s last moments of life.