Brick Lane (20 page)

The door swung out. A woman in a short purple skirt leaned against the doorpost. Her thighs tested the fabric, and beneath the hemline was a pair of dimpled knees. Her arms folded beneath her breasts. A cigarette burned between purple lacquered nails. She had a fat nose and eyes that were looking for a fight. Her hair was cropped close like a man's, and it was streaked with some kind of rust-coloured paint.

'Yes?' she said, in English.

'I think we have the wrong house,' Chanu muttered to Nazneen.

'Who you looking for?' said the woman, in Bengali this time.

'I beg your pardon. We were looking for Dr Azad. Would you be able to point out his house?'

'I can point it out all right,' said the woman. 'I'm standing right in it.'

CHAPTER FIVE

She showed them into the sitting room, where a pair of snarling tigers guarded a gas fire. Nazneen sank inside a large gold sofa. Chanu placed his box of kalojam on a gilded, claw-footed table and stood with his arms behind his back, as if afraid he might break something. Raqib clapped his fat hands to summon the servants who were surely lurking in the kitchen.

Mrs Azad stubbed out her cigarette in an ivory dish. She adjusted her underwear with a thumb, and a wiggle of her opulent backside. 'One minute,' she said, and strode to the hallway. 'Azad!' she screeched. 'You've got visitors.'

Nazneen exchanged a glance with her husband. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. She smothered a giggle on Raqib's cheek.

Mrs Azad climbed inside an armchair. She tucked her feet up and her skirt rode up her large brown thighs. Chanu swayed a little. Nazneen eyed the curtains: miles of velvet swagged with gold braid, enough material to wrap up a tower block. Chanu cleared his throat. Mrs Azad sighed. She tucked her fingers in her armpits and squeezed her breasts. The baby wriggled and Nazneen put him down on the thick cream carpet, where he coughed up some of his supper. Nazneen put her foot over the spot.

Gradually, Nazneen became aware that Chanu was staring at something over her shoulder. When she turned her head she saw that Dr Azad was standing in the doorway. The two men appeared to be frozen. The doctor was neat as a tailor's dummy. He held his arms smartly to his sides. White cuffs peeped out of his dark suit. His collar and tie held up his precise chin and his hair was brushed to an ebony sheen. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. Nazneen looked at Chanu. He made a poor ghost, in his broken-down shoes and oversized green anorak.

'For the love of God!' said Mrs Azad. 'Get your friends some drinks. I'm the one who's been on my feet all day.' She pushed her breasts higher up her chest. 'I'll have a beer.'

That stirred them. 'We were just passing,' Chanu explained, in a rush, as if he had just remembered his line.

Dr Azad rubbed his hands. 'I'm delighted to welcome you. I'm, ah, afraid we have already had our meal, otherwise

'You'll stay for dinner,' his wife cut in. She challenged Nazneen with her battle-hard eyes. 'We've not eaten yet.'

Dr Azad rocked on his toes. 'Not eaten as such. We've had some snacks and so forth.'

They ate dinner on trays balanced on their laps. An unidentified meat in tepid gravy, with boiled potatoes. It was like eating cardboard soaked in water. Mrs Azad switched on the television and turned the volume up high. She scowled at Chanu and her husband when they talked and held up her hand when she wished to silence them altogether. She drank a second glass of beer and belched with quiet satisfaction. Her husband had brought orange juice at first, and she jumped up in her chair as if she would strike him. Dr Azad drank two glasses of water in his exact manner. He used his knife and fork like surgical instruments. Nazneen chased the soggy mess around her plate and clenched her stomach to try to stop it growling.

'I'll join you,' said Chanu to Mrs Azad, 'in a beer.' He made the offer as if he were proposing to lend her a kidney. She shrugged and kept her eyes fixed on the screen.

My husband does not say his prayers, thought Nazneen, and now he is drinking alcohol. Tomorrow he may be eating pigs.

'Of course, all the Saudis drink,' said Chanu. 'Even the royal family. All hypocrites. Myself, I believe that a glass every now and then is not a bad thing.'

'As a medical man, I do not recommend it. As for the religious aspect, I hold no opinion.'

'You see,' said Chanu, in the voice of a man who has deliberated long and hard, 'it's part of the culture here. It's so ingrained in the fabric of society. Back home, if you drink you risk being an outcast. In London, if you don't drink you risk the same thing. That's when it becomes dangerous, and when they start so young they can easily end up alcoholic. For myself, and for your wife, there's no harm done.' He looked over at his hostess but she was engrossed in a scene of frantic and violent kissing. Chanu still had his coat on. He perched on a chair with his knees wide and his ankles crossed. He looked like the gardener who had come in to collect his wages.

Not for the first time, Nazneen wondered what it was that kept bringing Dr Azad to see Chanu. They were an ill-matched pair. Perhaps he came for the food.

'We will be in Dhaka before Ruku is in any danger. I've drawn up plans for the house, did I tell you? Very simple, very classical in design. I intend to be the architect myself.'

'Yes,' said the doctor, 'why not be an architect?'

'Exactly. What is the point of paying out to someone else?'

'Be an architect. Be a designer. Be a rocket scientist.'

Chanu looked puzzled. 'Design I could consider, but in science I confess I have very little background.' He spread his hands modestly. 'Anyway, I don't quite have sufficient funds for the house yet.'

'Ah, but when the promotion comes . . .' Dr Azad sat rigid on a stiff-backed chair. He held on to the arms as if he were trying to squeeze blood from them. Since the business with the drinks he had not looked at his wife one single time.

'I have been at the council too long. Long service counts for nothing. The local yogi doesn't get alms. But I have some things in the pipeline. One or two ventures I'm developing. The furniture trade, antiques, some ideas for import-export. They're cooking away slowly. The problem is capital. If you don't have money, what can you do?'

The doctor smiled in his peculiar way, eyebrows up, mouth down. 'Make some?'

'I don't need very much. Just enough for the Dhaka house and some left over for Ruku's education. I don't want him to rot here with all the skinheads and drunks. I don't want him to grow up in this racist society. I don't want him to talk back to his mother. I want him to respect his father.' Chanu's voice had grown impassioned. Mrs Azad tutted and held up her purple-taloned hand. Chanu assumed a loud whisper. 'The only way is to take him back home.'

A girl walked in and stood with her hands on her hips in the middle of the room. She had inherited her mother's sturdy legs, but her skirt was shorter by a good few inches. She spoke in English. Nazneen caught the words
pub
and
money.
Her mother grunted and waved towards Dr Azad. The doctor quivered. He spoke a few sharp words. His shoulders were up around his ears. Chanu shifted in his chair and coughed. The girl chewed gum. She twiddled the stud on her nostril, like a spot she was about to squeeze. Her hair was discoloured by the same rusty substance that streaked her mother's head. She repeated her request. Chanu started to hum. The back of Nazneen's neck grew warm. The doctor began to speak but his wife threw up her hands. She struggled out of her armchair and fetched a handbag.

The girl took the money. She looked at Nazneen and the baby. She looked at Chanu. The doctor gripped his seat. His feet and knees pressed together. His helmet-hair held a circle of light. He would never let go of that chair. It was the only thing holding him up. The girl tucked the money into her blouse pocket. 'Salaam Ale-Koum,' she said, and went out to the pub.

Mrs Azad switched off the television. Let's go, thought Nazneen. She tried to signal with her eyes to Chanu, but he smiled vaguely back at her. 'This is the tragedy of our lives. To be an immigrant is to live out a tragedy.'

The hostess cocked her head. She rubbed her bulbous nose. 'What are you talking about?'

'The clash of cultures.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'And of generations,' added Chanu.

'What is the tragedy?'

'It's not only immigrants. Shakespeare wrote about it.' He cleared his throat and prepared to cite his quotation.