Beauty (18 page)

Peter spotted Beauty in Dunstall Road on his way home from work. He pulled into Prole Street, parked outside his house and waited for her. An idea had formed since he’d last seen her. Something that might help them both. If she agreed, it would keep him entertained for a good while and away from the internet, while the benefits for Beauty were obvious, weren’t they? How would that primitive next door ever help her? How long could she live with the offensive smell which came from his house? And where would Beauty meet an interesting and good-looking chap like himself?

But he recalled the onan-athon of the previous evening with a twinge of shame at the potentially disturbing turn his online searches had taken:
Ass-filled-Arab-Chicks.com
– dead-eyed Moroccan women oblivious to their mock-tent surroundings and the prodding males;
Headscarf Hotties
fellating hirsute Middle Easterners;
Burka Babes
. Exciting while he lasted, the post-orgasm clean-up was depressing; the image of the bruised skin of Casablancan heroin addicts remained with him as he lay in bed exhausted. More alarming had been his unsuccessful attempt to find pictures of educated Iranian women doctors in degrading poses.

Peter checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, ruffled his hair and undid another button of his shirt.

Never again, he promised himself, and so far he had managed to avoid the psychological implications of his fantasies. He was embarking on a noble project. It was up to him to save Beauty, to drag her from the darkness of religious superstition. Only then would she be free.

Beauty walked quickly, her head down. As she approached the house a car door opened in front of her, blocking the pavement.

Peter James Hemmings put out a well-polished half-brogue and a beige moleskin-trousered leg.

Beauty didn’t look up and moved round the obstacle.

‘Hi!’ Peter said, appraising the tight-fitting kameez under her jacket and the … headscarf. ‘I didn’t see you there. How are things?’

The leather soles of his shoes crunched grit on the pavement.

Beauty stopped. ‘Yeah, I’m all right,’ she said. Across the street she watched a car reverse into a space, the engine racing noisily. A Pakistani woman got out to lift her young daughter from the back seat and noticed her
talking to a white bloke
. The child stared at Beauty over her mother’s shoulder. Beauty stared back, and thanked Allah they weren’t nosy Bengalis.

Yes, she said, loud enough for the woman to hear, she would accept Peter’s offer of a cup of tea. She poked her tongue out at the child.

Let the Paki neighbours think what they wanted. Were they so holy inside?

Peter went into the kitchen to make tea.

Beauty stood in his front room. Through the net curtains, she watched the Pakistani woman emptying shopping bags from her car and wished she hadn’t come.
Asians seeing you go into two different white blokes’ houses wasn’t good.

Why? What are we doing? Just talking.

And she didn’t mind that part. Weren’t there things she wanted and needed to know about? Like what else white people thought if they didn’t believe in God.

Toba, toba astaghfirullah.

Anyway, nothing this bloke could say would change her mind.

But if you sit in a man’s house he’s gonna get the wrong idea, aynit.

Peter poured the tea in silence and passed Beauty a side-plate across the table. He watched her chew a small piece of biscuit, her hand in front of her mouth, and wondered how to begin. He needed to enthral her with his interesting and handsomely earnest conversation, not scare her again with his godlessness. Her lack of exposure to the light of reason made her a delicate flower. Too much sun, and she might wither.

‘How is everything?’ he asked.

‘OK, I guess.’

‘The work placement?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘How’s Mark?’

How was she supposed to know?

‘He’s fine, I guess.’

‘Your brothers?’

‘I aynt seen them.’

‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

The image of her two brothers faded, and Beauty looked at the white man in his smart clothes.

*

Peter searched for another opening. Wouldn’t she want to explore life, study something, discover a talent she never knew she had, make friends and meet a nice man … like him? Perhaps it was time for Stage One of his plan.

‘Well, I’m glad I bumped into you,’ he said.

Beauty touched her scarf.

Why?

‘If I bought the ingredients one day,’ he continued, ‘would you show me how to make a real Bangladeshi home-cooked dish and … have dinner with me?’

He avoided saying ‘curry’ in case it was a stereotype.

Beauty’s stomach cramped with hunger. It was impossible to cook at Mark’s. He’d cleaned up, but she didn’t trust the pots. Chips, kebabs and packets of biscuits from the shop was all she had eaten since she’d left home. She wanted rice, and to suck the
bitorhadi
from inside the sheep bone. Or better still,
hutki sheera
! Stinkyfish!

She looked to see if he was making fun of her, but his face seemed honest. Would he like her curry? White people only ate Indian food from restaurants.

‘You aynt gonna like it,’ she said.

Peter was relieved to see her smile for the first time. The frown passed from her brow, and her lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘There’s lots of chillies.’

‘That’s OK. I like hot food.’

Beauty covered her smile behind the teacup. Boy, would she show him! She’d make him a proper one, hot like the old man always wanted it. Just in case this good-looking bloke did get the wrong idea. But was it right to come here? What did ‘have dinner with me’ mean?

You can’t cook for an unmarried man in his own house.

Why not? What was wrong with it? And hadn’t she
come to find out things so as not to look dumb everywhere she went?

‘Can I arx you something?’ she said, surprised by her boldness.

Peter poured more tea for them. ‘Of course.’ Stay as long as you like, he wanted to say.

‘What you said last night? If there’s … no God?’

Toba, toba …

Peter noticed that she touched her cheeks with the tip of a finger while pretending to wipe her lips. Was it some medieval gesture to ward off the evil eye? Christ! This was backward stuff.

‘Uh-huh,’ he encouraged.

‘… then what do … white people think happens when you die?’

She raised the cup to her mouth and avoided the man’s eye.

Peter marvelled at being party to someone’s first atheist conversation, although he was wary of scaring her off again. Could she handle humour with her religion?

‘Well, no one’s ever come back to tell us what it’s like, so it must be good,’ he said.

She didn’t laugh.

‘Look, I don’t know what happens when you die,’ he added. ‘Nothing, probably.’

The fine lines of her eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Is that what people think?’ Beauty asked.

There was more she wanted to know, like if there was no God and no hell, how did bad people get punished? But she knew her questions might sound simple, until she’d had time to think about them.

She stood up and thanked him for the tea.

So, would she come to dinner, Peter asked her at the front door. He’d cook if she showed him how.

Beauty looked into his eyes to see if there was some bad thought behind them. He fancied himself too much but he wasn’t the dangerous type, she decided. Yes, she would, she said.

She stepped past him into the street and cast a quick glance at the parked cars to make sure they were empty.

Peter watched her go and closed the door, glad she hadn’t fled this time.

Beauty felt his eyes on her as she walked the few steps to the other house. She was pleased with herself for having discovered something without looking stupid, and with the thought of having some proper food.

What’s he gonna think if I eat with my fingers?

Beauty looked down from the bedroom window. The backyard was tidy and the dogs quiet. How long would she be here? A week? A month? Where would she be in a year from now? Since she’d left home she had only been able to think about the next day. Two at the most. With no
kishmut
, no destiny, nothing written beforehand, like the white bloke said, the future seemed even darker. Would she still be living in this town, near her family? Would she ever see them again?

Yes. I will. I will.

She’d make her own future. She’d work, and have enough money to rent a house. Sharifa would be able to bunk off school, and come and play with the cat. She’d cook her little sister’s favourite food:
kurma
and
aloo
,
halazam
,
rasmallai
,
ladhu
and
zilafi
sweets, and plant onions and coriander in the small back garden which no one could look into. She’d go to work every day and look after the
buddhi
in the care home. Maybe, one day, her brothers would find out she wasn’t doing anything bad.

They’ll say you’re going to pubs.

And taking drugs.

And sleeping with different men.

So what if they do? I won’t see them.

I could go and see Ama on Fridays when the old man’s
at the Masjid. Bhai-sahb sleeps and the kids’ll be at school.

Dulal would know you was there. He’d wake up.

What if Mum doesn’t want to see me?

The phone rang.

‘Bew-tee?’

‘Ama!’

‘Bew-tee!
Ai yo!
’

‘Farr tam nai.’

I can’t go back.

‘Bew-tee,
ami bé marr!
’

‘Did you go to the Doctor?’

‘
Na, na.
Bew-tee!’

‘Ama!’

‘Torr abhai mair horra torr Bhaien tologhé!’

The old man’s fighting with the boys!

‘Ama!’

‘
Ami echhla!
’

There’s nobody to help her.

‘Ama!’

‘BYAR MAHT AISSÉ – HOMLA FUAA.’

‘
Hheé?
Ama! Ama?’

Her mother had put down the phone. Beauty sat on the bed.

Wedding talk.

‘Who?’

Homla, her mum’s cousin-sister’s brother’s wife, wanted to come and see her.

She wants me for her son.

Hadn’t the old man told Homla she was married to the mullah? Or did everyone know she hadn’t let him touch her? Maybe people thought she could get a divorce easily.
Talaq, talaq, talaq
over the phone.

Why don’t they give up?

Cuz they know I aynt married here. Just Muslim way. And everyone knows we never …

She lay down, closed her eyes and heard her mother’s voice and her choked sobs.

She’s ill.

There’s no one to cook.

Bhai-sahb and the little one are fighting with the old man.

Wedding talk’s come up!

Would the old man let it happen? Would he give up on bringing mullah Choudhury here?

Maybe that’s why they’re fighting.

Dulal doesn’t care who it is. He wants me married so he can start looking for a wife.

Beauty stood up and went to the window. It was almost dark. Lights had come on in the windows of the houses beyond the trees.

What they gonna say if Homla phones again? I’m nearly twenty. The old man can’t say no for ever. Everyone knows I never married the mullah properly.

Habib Choudhury had waited a long time to make their Muslim wedding in Bangladesh right. She’d walked into the room five years ago under her red wedding scarf and sat down next to him.
Shorbot habani
. And held the cup to his lips. Her cheek was swollen and her right eye closed from the slaps of the night before.

I was fourteen.

She’d stared at each one of their faces in turn and sworn never to forget what they’d done: the mullah, her old man, the mullah’s witch-mother. She’d cried when she said
hobbul
… I do. Afterwards, she got beaten badly.

The mullah had brought her a few pieces of his mother’s jewellery. In the night, he’d tried to lie on top of her but she’d screamed until he returned to his side of
the bed. People told him to give it time, and he went back to live with his mother without her. For one night, she had slept in the same bed as him.

Beauty sat back down on the bed and took her make-up bag from the bedside cabinet. She squeezed some moisturising cream on to a cotton pad and began wiping off her eyeliner.

Let them think of something to say to this new wanker. They can tell him I’m still mad.

People will find out you aynt at home.

So what?

Thass scandal. The big one will never get married.

Yes, he will.

Not in this country.

Let him go to Bangladesh and find a wife.

Al-l
h! Why now? Ama! She’s suffering. This aynt her fault.

No one’s gonna think bad of her.

They will. The old man will blame her. And the big one aynt gonna find a wife.

Beauty took the hand mirror from the pink bag and checked that the make-up had all gone. Her eyes looked tired.

Maybe it was all a trick. Beauty’s mum’s cousin-sister’s brother and his wife would come from London. And the mullah’s brother. That pervert. He’d want to stick his nose in. Then they’d tell her to go back to London with them. Just for a few days.

They know I aynt gonna fall for it again.

I can’t go back. What if Homla’s son is really there and he wants to marry me?

Is the old man gonna say yes?

That’s why the big one’s fighting, aynit? He wants me to get married.

What am I supposed to do?

If it’s not him, it’ll be someone else.

They aynt never gonna give up.

Unless I was …

You can’t do that!

Al-l
h amarray shai jo horro!

Help me!

Mark ran up the stairs and knocked on the door.

‘BEAUTY! YOU IN?’