Dear Infidel Page 9

  You wanna look at me? Look all you want, baby. I’m so young, I’m so fine. You like my hair, my Little Bo Peep plaits? And the rest of me? Do you like my shirt, my school shirt done up like that, all turned up like it’s a crop-top? I think crop-tops are sooo cool. My stomach’s nice and smooth, huh? I know you like me in my uniform. When you’re off to work tomorrow, will you think of me when you see all those schoolgirls on the streets? Their skirts are short but not as short as mine. Here, let me turn around. Look at my behind. No, REALLY look at my behind. Isn’t that the peachiest peach you’ve ever seen? Can you imagine? Are you imagining? You are, aren’t you? That’s OK, I won’t tell. Hit Me Baby, One More Time.

  ‘Britney Spears is fucking hot, man,’ blustered Kishore, releasing a shiver as blood flowed to his extremities.

  ‘Yeah, but she’s not a patch on that Christina woman. That girl’s so dirty, it’s a compliment.’

  ‘Filthy and cute, man, filthy and cute,’ came the refrain in unison as the pair burst out laughing.

  ‘Hey, look at this!’ said Kishore as the next video started. His eyes were wide and his smile pure, and Aadam couldn’t help but catch his friend’s excitement.

  It was the Spice Girls, a bunch of has-beens looking so eager in their Wannabe days. ‘That one was Posh Spice, right?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ said Aadam, and they watched the pretty little thing slink across the set. Pow! Another of the gang introduced her identikit identity to the world with a high-kick: Sporty Spice, and they both grinned, warming to the theme. A third member took her turn, beckoning the viewers towards her before running away. The frigging tease.

  ‘And this one? Who the hell was this one?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ sighed Aadam, losing interest in the guessing game. ‘Make-an-old-man-very-happy, Spice?’ Kishore began laughing but stopped. Aadam was still fixed on the screen, an easy contempt spoiling his face.

  ‘You know, Kishu.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The worlds of pop and porn have a lot in common.’

  ‘How’s that, then?’

  ‘They both need a constant supply of fresh meat.’ Aadam went back to the newspaper, leaving Kishore to channel surf alone.

  ‘Mother of God!’ said Aadam. With head down he continued reading, though, and Kishore let it go.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he spat shortly afterwards. He looked up and Kishore gestured for detail, whilst still watching TV.

  ‘Get this. There’s this article here on the rewriting of history in Indian schools. They’ve reprinted this question, from some state’s elementary maths exam: “If one kar sevak can destroy four mosques, how many kar sevaks will be required to destroy twenty mosques?” I mean, what the fuck is going on? Can you imagine being a little Muslim boy and sitting that paper, and coming across that question? How would you feel?’

  He looked at Kishore who stared back but said nothing.

  ‘Well? How the fuck would you feel?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The answer’s five.’

  Kishore kept on staring and Aadam turned away. He went into the kitchen, leaving Kishore sitting alone in silence, stung by his own venom.

  ‘Hey, Bhai, you seen “Devdas” yet? That Aishwarya Rai – God, now that’s a woman!’ After a minute Kishore had followed Aadam into the kitchen and found him over the sink, rinsing some dishes. He put an arm on his shoulder, tenderly.

  ‘No, Kishu. Actually, I saw five minutes the other night. One of Nazneen’s friends brought it along. I got bored pretty quickly.’ He moved to stack plates, deliberately brushing off Kishore’s hand.

  ‘Really? But that Aishwarya Rai – come on, man...’

  ‘For God’s sake, why is everyone so gaga about her?’

  ‘Cause she’s a stunning beauty – why else?’

  ‘Oh come on, there are plenty of others just as classy.’

  ‘No, no. Not in her league. She’s stand-out.’

  ‘Yeah? Course you know why she really does stand out.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘‘Cause she doesn’t look Indian.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aishwarya Rai is attractive, but you Indians have only gone so dizzy cause she doesn’t look like a bloody Indian.’

  ‘What the fuck? You don’t know what you’re talking about – India is a huge place, one billion people. Not everyone has dark brown skin. There are so many looks: Tamils, Goans, Bengalis, Gujaratis, Punjabis. None of them look the same.’

  ‘Too right they don’t. And Aishwarya Rai’s appeal is precisely that she looks like none of them.’

  ‘Oh fuck off,’ Kishore spat, turning his head away. Aadam laughed.

  ‘You know I’m right. Look at the crop of current actresses. Sure, they’re all beautiful, but that’s not the point. Their features, Kishu: very fair skin, green eyes. What does it say about India that the idea of feminine beauty excludes ninety per cent of the nation’s women, on ethnic grounds alone?’

  ‘You tell me, then?’ asked Kishore; dared Kishore. He was looking Aadam full in the face, just willing him to throw one more insult.

  ‘Look, Bhai, let’s not fight. We’ve known each other too long. It’s an interesting observation, that’s all I’m saying. Draw your own conclusions.’ Aadam stacked the last of the dishes and Kishore stepped back, sorrow reshaping his features.

  ‘What’s happening to us?’ his voice was breaking, suddenly soft. He sounded defeated.

  ‘Perhaps we’re just getting old, Kishu,’ Aadam replied, knowing full well that age had nothing to do with it.

  Aadam closed the front door and went back upstairs. From his bedroom window he watched Kishore trundle down the street until out of sight, pushing Bina in her buggy. He never looked back, not even once. Aadam wondered if Bina would have any Muslim friends when she grew up.

  14

  Nazneen drove, the heat of her rage bleeding into space. Her burning eyes sought not to separate the innocent from the guilty; her tongue flickered only to taste revenge. She’d really wanted, needed him, to confirm, cement, eliminate all doubt: Husband and Wife – till death us do part. How can he prefer to spend time with that idiot, rather than be with me? Her mind reeled at the insult, unable to get a handle. What kind of man is he? But this cold November day remained unimpressed: the pallid sky did not stir with her dark thoughts, and no passer-by shrank back in dread. Impotence returned her to the present.

  Choking back tears she took a sharp turn, attracting a horn plus a volley of abuse. Why didn’t I see this side of him earlier? Why was I so hasty? A dancing Scooby Doo air freshener fell onto her lap, the stickiness of the base all gone. Without slowing down she picked it up. Scooby Doo. They were together when Aadam had bought it. Halfords, some Saturday afternoon. How the hell has it come to this, spending Saturdays in Halfords? He’d liked it straight away. Funny, quirky, cute, he’d said. She’d said it was stupid, childish. He bought it anyway, along with an in-car coat-hanger or travel valet, as he’d called it, without any sense of humour or even noticing that she didn’t want to be in fucking Halfords on a fucking Saturday. It was on his list, he’d said. He had to get it, he’d said, so he could cross it off. THE GUY MADE LISTS. Surely he should have declared such anal-retentiveness, prior to marriage? Did this not constitute breach of contract or something? Must get in-car coat hanger. CHECK. Must get car air freshener. CHECK. Must make wife cum... Forgot to put that on your list, eh? EH?? YOU RETARD. I’LL SHOW YOU SCOOBY FUCKING DOO. She took another loose, fast turn into a residential street. She was eyeing the Scooby Doo repeatedly, pouring hate into Aadam by proxy. A boy was crossing the road. She didn’t see him. She still didn’t see him. She saw him ... She floored the brake pedal and tyres screeched on biting tarmac. The car stalled. The wail of burning rubber crescendoed then died. The boy was standing, his hand on the bonnet. He was staring straight at Nazneen but not really seeing her, his face framed by shock. Voices rushed in. Foreign tongues
. It woke him and he banged on the bonnet, his look suddenly aggressive. Nazneen was frozen. There was a bang on her window and she jumped to her side: another lad was gesturing wildly, also shouting in a foreign tongue. A third lad, tall and sinewy, rushed in. He kicked the driver-side door and tried to open it. Nazneen was yet to respond – no words, no action, no gesture. The oldest lad spat and translucent dribble slid slowly downwards, leaving a mucus trail. A woman approached, pushing a buggy. She barked and the three lads reluctantly moved on, each holding a stare. Nazneen darted nervously from one to the other before the woman shouted from up close. A portion of her face was obscured by the sliding spittle. She was wearing a flowing burkha which even covered her hands, and when she banged the window the sound was dampened.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Nazneen finally spluttered, but there was no look of forgiveness in those spittle-veiled eyes.

  She turned the ignition and the car jolted as the engine revved. Scooby Doo promptly toppled over on the dashboard, his fixed grin now seeming sinister. She remembered when they first met, in the gym of all places: her and the skinny Asian guy, sitting on a bench and watching her on a treadmill. He thought he was being discreet, the silly sod. Still, he at least had the guts to follow after her, and he seemed kind of all right. Cute. A cute boy. But six weeks earlier she’d been with Martin. Martin. Their dates were certainly different: Aadam liked holding hands in Kew Gardens; Martin liked taking her to Sandbanks harbour after dark, finding an unlocked yacht and soiling a millionaire’s bed sheets. But all that ended so suddenly. Sure, it was all her doing, but still – his absence left such a hole. And she felt unsteady, unbalanced, in need of anchoring.

  She remembered when Aadam proposed. A beautiful summer’s day. Hyde Park. They’d lunched under glorious sunshine; the air unburdened, soft, and lilting with notes of freshly cut grass. He talked and she’d listened, his words caressing, reassuring. They’d taken shade under a large tree, him up against the trunk and her inside him. And he was wrapping her; her arms, her legs, her whole being encased by him. And his touch: delicate, restrained, thumbs exploring, lips brushing skin. And it did nothing for her. Absolutely nothing. She’d wanted it to – part of her was desperate to get swept away, to have faith in his quiet yearning. But as Aadam caressed her, like a blind man trying to make sense of a masterpiece, she couldn’t stop thinking of Martin, always making her forget the world. But Aadam was so, decent. And smart, responsible and driven. And Muslim. Whereas Martin was ... The very promise of summer lay in his smile but summer had to end, right? Only today, forget tomorrow, he’d often say. This was all there was for him: seeing it, tasting it, touching it. This strange gift, this sliver of time. This Life. She’d started to dislike the very things that she’d first found so exciting. Because it wasn’t just about today, was it? But for him there would never be anything else – just this bizarre gift. The banquet was prepared and there was no need to fast, only feast. But then Ramazan came and suddenly she did want to fast. She hadn’t previously – not the year before or two years before, or indeed ever. But that year she did. A voice deep inside, whispering secrets. And she heard, she understood, but she didn’t obey; couldn’t obey. After all, what words could explain that the feast couldn’t go on? And so she walked out, finding excuses, but she never lost her jungle instinct. But Aadam had no edge, no hunger. Where was the maniac inside? She couldn’t remember the last time he’d been reckless, thrown the dice, been spontaneous. Sex was OK, but he had no ... animal. Whereas Martin was animal. Raw, unrefined, moving on instinct. Oh Martin, me and Martin. I wanna go back. Take me, take me away to Red Rocks, Colorado.

  Martin. Yeah. He’ll be back in our room by now, she thought.

  They came out here on a working holiday, at the end of their first year at uni. Whilst everyone else was downing Snakebite and Black and bopping along to Dancing Queen for the three-hundredth time, Martin and Nazneen headed off to Keystone, Colorado. Three whole months to work and play like never before. They’d found employment at a lakeside resort, Martin joining the landscape gardening team and Nazneen becoming a maid. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to be handling industrial-strength toilet cleaner daily, especially when Martin got to do fun things like plant trees, but it was only for a few hours a day. And then they’d go swimming and canoeing, or ride mountain bikes up and down the surrounding foothills. And when time allowed they’d take trips out to Red Rocks Mountain Park, along the eastern slope of the Rockies. With its Mars-like geology it hypnotised, as they hiked through rifts and creeks, surrounded by 400-foot red sandstone monoliths formed 290 million years ago. What does such time mean? Nazneen once pondered as they gazed across the Great Plains, spread out under a vast blue sky. They’d be going back there today – one last time.

  Nazneen finishes off the last room on her rota and heads back to the village, where all the seasonal workers stay. She’s disappointed to find that Martin isn’t back yet, and so busies herself by putting together whatever food is left for their final meal in their summer digs. She peers into the fridge and inspects the few scattered items suspiciously. The milk has gone off and the salad is now way beyond limp, but the quiche looks good and she opens the last can of beans to accompany it. As she does she hears a group of Americans arriving next door. A gaggle of excited voices compete to be heard over each other, and Nazneen struggles to latch onto the conversation. But soon she picks up the thread. Of course. The snow’s coming. They’re here for the winter, replacing the Brits who came for the summer, and the talk is about only one thing: “Aspen are predicting a big one this year. Yeah, I hear the slopes of Powderhorn are already getting white.” Powderhorn, Beaver Creek, Copper Mountain and Arapahoe Basin. Nazneen has never been to any of these places, but just the names make her tingle. Colorado was too good. She resolves to come back one day, and in winter. Arapahoe Basin – that sounds the most exciting. She’ll hang out there. One day.

  Nazneen puts out a couple of plates and some cutlery, and chides herself for becoming wistful. Have I forgotten the last three months already? Never. Tomorrow they pack up, put on an extra layer, and begin the long journey home. But for the rest of today, tonight, well this is her High Noon, and the gods will worship at her altar.

  Part Two

  O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us

  To see oursels as others see us

  ROBERT BURNS

  15

  Arwa Walayat swung open her front door. Her first-born, Ibrahim Pasha Walayat was standing on the porch, his hand still on the doorbell. For a second, mother and son simply gazed at each other. Her first thought? My Ibrahim, my son. And her second? He has some grey in his hair now. He’s wasted his youth.

  Pasha thought his mother looked even smaller than before. Her billowing scarf covered her head and shoulders and hung loose, momentarily hiding the peeling Minnie Mouse motif on her apron. Her smile was tender, full of yearning – and her face and head seemed shrunken, her body amorphous. He was convinced that Death had been claiming her by stealth for years, rather than extinguishing her in an instant. He couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t busy, slowly dying. Pasha fell into his mum’s arms.

  ‘Ibrahim, my Ibrahim,’ she said softly, smoothing his head with her hands. He stood a good foot taller but it looked so natural. ‘Ibrahim, my Ibrahim.’ Those words, that name, her voice. Pasha didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything; he was trembling in her embrace.

  Pasha was delighted to learn that he was, after all, the first to arrive. He’d made great time in travelling down and hadn’t hit even one patch of traffic. After fetching presents, his attention was caught by noise from the living room: the sounds of a Bollywood movie gate-crashing his welcome home. He entered and was greeted by an enduring image: his father in front of the telly, doped up on his drug of choice – Hindi movies, Hindi songs, Hindi life. Pasha looked at the screen and wondered how a nation with such a proud intellectual history as India, could be responsible for such a thing.

  ‘Oh hello, son!’ his fa
ther exclaimed rather weakly, prising himself out from his favourite chair. He was smiling and extending his arms but Pasha knew it was a little bit put on. It’s not that he wasn’t happy to see his son, it’s just that his viewing pleasure had been disturbed. All Zakir Walayat really needed from life was pretty girls on the box, jangling their bits to a Hindi soundtrack. Seeing his father now, though, so clearly an old man, he for the first time found it amusing.

  * * *

  Pasha stirred a vat of soup.

  ‘Keep it constant, Beta, or it will burn at the bottom.’ He was thirty-eight years old and his mother was still calling him child.

  ‘Sure, Mum,’ he replied with a measured tone, not wanting to make a thing of it. He was stirring slowly, making a spiral from outside in. It smelled nice but was hardly traditional.

  ‘What was the traffic like, Beta?’

  ‘Fine, very smooth. But what’s in this soup?’

  ‘Leek and potato. I got the recipe from a magazine.’ Arwa went to the adjoining utility room and returned with an A4-sized folder, which Pasha instantly recognised. She opened it at the last page to show her son the cut-out recipe. She smiled, clearly wanting his approval. Pasha put a hand on her shoulder. He wanted to tell her that this is Eid, and that leek and potato soup wasn’t appropriate, and that she should have realised it wouldn’t work with the menu as a whole. Instead he just left his hand on her shoulder.

  Not having seen the folder for so long, Pasha began flicking backwards through the plastic leaves. It had all been lovingly preserved, so much so that when he reached a recipe near the front – a magazine cut-out dated 1970 – it was in very good condition. He carefully removed it and held it up close. The colours had faded and the paper felt a little brittle, but it was still intact. On it was a recipe for chocolate cake, with a big picture accompanying the text, the font of which Pasha thought was now dated. But what really interested him was a small photo attached to the corner, which he lifted out from under a paperclip. It was of him and his mum in the back garden on this very same house. He was standing behind a stall on top of which a chocolate cake was perched, bearing three lit candles, and his excited little face was just making it over them. His mum was kneeling down beside him, holding him, and wearing the very same apron as today – he recognised the Minnie Mouse. Pasha was shocked; shocked to see what his mother looked like as a young woman. He just couldn’t see any relation between the person in the photo and the one standing next to him. He was unable to project from lustreless grey hair to the shiny locks that once crowned the same head. Or transpose firm skin onto the same frame, and thus visualise the finer features that time had taken away. And his mum was only sixty-three, not eighty-five – it really shouldn’t have been that hard. But he couldn’t do it. She looked so beautiful, holding her Birthday Boy. He clenched his jaw and silently put the photo back.