Dear Infidel (19 page)

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, unable to stop his eyes from dropping. ‘You have beautiful children.’ He looked back towards Taimur and ruffled his hair. Kahina began folding her prayer mat and removing her scarf, all the while looking at Imtiaz.

‘You know, it’s not too late...’

Too late for what
? he was about to ask, but he knew. He knew. He made to say something then stopped. Picking up the chessboard, he walked over to the shelf. He placed it and felt stranded.

‘I, err, I should see what the others are up to.’

‘It’s not too late, Imtiaz.’ Her words were clear, enunciated slowly. Her gaze was not letting him go.

‘Look, Kahina, this is Eid.’

‘Why do you live on your own? It’s not healthy.’

He looked around. Both Taimur and Aaliyah were now watching him, transfixed.

‘I’m going to be thirty-five soon. It
is
too late. I don’t know what to do.’ His head was bowed.

‘You’re wrong. It’s never too late. We can help you; help you find someone.’ She approached him and he was actually trembling. She cupped the palm of her hand around his neck; he naturally leant into her touch. She looked up at him, concern in her eyes – he didn’t understand her concern. Her hand was soft and warm. He couldn’t recall when he was last touched by another and began whimpering.

‘Oh, God...’ sighed Sarah Miles’s character in
White Mischief,
whilst looking out from her colonial mansion onto clear blue African skies, ‘... it’s another fucking beautiful day.’ And with that she promptly shot herself. She was the Summer Grinch.

It’s the height of fashion to hate the winter, but for some it’s the summer that gets them down: tanned, over-exposed bodies, pavements pounded by exposed feet. Horns blaring. All those little bottles of water and arrogant sunglasses. The relentless optimism of it all. Summer just magnifies the dashed hope of a better life; one that never arrives. Where the love and laughter, festivals and fun, and long weekends with al-fresco meals? Bring on September and October, the glowing embers, the sobriety of an autumn wardrobe. Oh the relief when the hubris of summer is over, when the tyranny of the sunny day can be put to rest.

‘Come on, Aadam!’ beckoned Salman, a little impatiently.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ he blustered from upstairs. The four boys had decided to go out. There was no particular agenda; just a desire to grab some fresh air and walk around. Pasha’s idea. He stood by the opened front door with Salman and Imtiaz, ready for the off. Aadam, meanwhile, had gone upstairs to change.

‘You look fine. Why do you want to take your
sherwani
off?’ his brother had asked with annoyance as he’d scurried off.

Aadam descended the stairs taking quick, light steps; Nazneen was close behind.

‘Here, put this on,’ she suggested, handing him a scarf. He looked flustered and took it quickly. Pasha looked on with a grin and read the slogan on Aadam’s t-shirt:
There are 10 kinds of people in the world: those that understand binary, and those that don’t
.

Frigging geek
, said his silent smirk. Aadam turned to his brother who was shaking his head in solemn disapproval.
Jeans and a denim jacket. Wah!
Salman would never consider changing out of his long robes. He looked like the chief of some International Jihadi Movement, Northolt Branch.

‘Right!’ stamped Aadam, shaking off all the negative attention. He returned the compliment by checking out Pasha, who looked every bit the slippery salesman: shiny belt holding up pleated trousers; linen shirt, top bottom undone. His polished shoes were a tan brown and screamed
middle-aged!
Apart from the shoes, though, it was all just a bit too flash for a man pushing forty. Pasha smiled his salesman’s smile and Aadam was reluctant to smile back, lest his teeth be taken for deposit. Instinctively, the pair play-fought as they staggered out of the front door, soon relaxing into arms around shoulders. Salman followed close behind, sniffing the air and looking like he meant business. Imtiaz brought up the rear. His baseball cap was back on and he was wearing his long, expansive coat under which to hide: he was the Summer Grinch. Nazneen joined Kahina by the door and together they watched their men.

‘Isn’t he the most beautiful, ugly man you’ve ever seen?’ Nazneen remarked joyfully.

There was a definite chill in the air when they left, past four o’clock. 16th November 2004 was, indeed, a bleak day. And the light of the day was dying. Eid would soon be over. They walked briskly to generate warmth as much as anything, and within fifteen minutes they were in the Parade with all humanity teaming around. School kids were everywhere, looking nonchalant in their uniforms. As they passed the entrance to the Tube station they saw a Muslim man entering with a packed rucksack on his back.

‘There’s Britain’s first suicide bomber,’ Pasha stated devilishly.

‘You what?’ said a blindsided Salman.

‘Well, we’re constantly being told that it’s a matter of
when
and not
if,
for Al-Qaeda striking Britain, right? The Spanish and Australians have already been punished for siding with the Americans, so presumably it’ll be our turn next. So how would you feel?’ Salman
looked thoughtful, like he was mulling over his options. Pasha continued. ‘Imagine seeing a woman on the telly, a woman who was on the same train – the same carriage, even – giving her personal testimony.
The train was jam-packed. I nearly got on at the same entrance as him but it was impossible, so I moved along and a few minutes later I heard a scream of
Allah-u-Akbar,
then there was this huge bang, this explosion. The train came to a shuddering halt. The lights went out. I heard people screaming. There was lots of screaming. I fell down, someone fell on top of me.
How would you feel?’

‘What do you expect me to say?’ Salman bristled. ‘That I’d be happy, that I’d be proud?’

‘Many would be,’ said Pasha. ‘Many Muslims would have emotions that could be described as “mixed”.’

‘No one’s gonna feel good about ordinary people losing their lives. You’re talking rubbish,’ said Aadam.

‘Really? 9/11 sparked off all kinds of impromptu street parties across the world, didn’t you know that? I’ve seen pictures of Arabs letting off rounds of ammo in celebration!’

People were rushing in and out of the various stores and countless grocers, getting stuff for the evening and beyond.

‘Hang on,’ announced Salman. ‘I need to get some things. Anyone want to come?’ And with that Aadam joined him in a halal butcher’s whilst Pasha and Imtiaz hung back. Pasha rested up against the railings separating pavement from road, looking down the Parade. The headlights of passing vehicles were now mostly on. He struck a leisurely pose with arms outstretched, and next to him Imtiaz stood to attention. Two sassy young women came into view: all crinkly hair and prominent make-up, big round earrings and fags, handled with style. They stopped a few feet away, reading something in a newsagent’s window. One girl wore tight pink jeans, with the letters
CHEEKY
emblazoned across her behind.

‘Does that mean you’re a cheeky girl, or that you like cheeky boys?’ He threw the girls a big smile and Imtiaz looked aghast. Pasha ignored him and stayed smiling, cheekily, whilst the girls whispered.

‘You what?’ said Cheeky’s mate with a sneer.

‘You heard,’ snorted Pasha, undeterred, warming up nicely.

‘Give over – you’re old enough to be her dad!’

And with that the two exchanged derisory looks and moved on. Cheeky said nothing throughout. Pasha was stunned and shot
a look at his brother. His mute irrelevance provided some consolation.

Salman and Aadam reappeared holding bulging plastic bags. They passed the
Lahori Kebab House
and Pasha insisted they go in even though no one wanted to eat. As a compromise they ordered
lassis
and made themselves welcome at a table for four, much to the chagrin of the head waiter.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ he asked pointedly on four occasions, receiving the same blunt response each time. Of course, what he was really saying was
order something substantial or kindly fuck off
, and eventually they took the hint and left.

Night had ascended her celestial throne. Still people hustled and bustled, streaming in and out of shops, those lighted fronts like beacons.

‘Actually, I’d like to get a few things too,’ said a circumspect Pasha, belatedly wanting to spend some money.

‘What sort of things?’ asked Salman, business-like.

‘Stuff I can’t get up in Cheshire. Could I get a
kadhai
here? I’m after a proper iron one, no aluminium rubbish. And a
tawa
?’

‘Sure, you’ve come to the right place. You want to impress your missus, eh?’ Salman wore a weak smile and checked his watch. ‘Look, it’s getting late. I’ll come with you – I know where to get what around here. You two coming?’

‘Yeah, why not,’ Aadam said grudgingly.

‘Actually, I’m a bit tired,’ blurted out Imtiaz. ‘I might go into that café.’ He turned around and pointed. ‘Can you come get me on your way back?’

‘Sure,’ remarked Pasha, surprised at his brother taking a firm stance.

‘Look, on second thoughts I’ll hang back too,’ said Aadam. ‘Don’t be long – come and get us by six, OK?’

Imtiaz clasped a mug of tea as if he could die without the immediate transfer of heat. His gaze was steadfastly downwards, deep into his mug. The café furniture reminded Aadam of school: the chairs were plastic and red; kids-toy red. He shuffled backwards and was mildly surprised that it wasn’t bolted to the floor. Two men – Tamils, thought Aadam – took up seats at the next table. Dishes of dhal and meat curry were placed down without ceremony, and soon they were tearing at
rotis
and dipping pieces into steaming bowls. Aadam felt a pang of hunger. He looked back at Imtiaz, who was still avoiding eye contact.
Oh boy.
He sugared his tea in consolation, pouring rather than tipping from a spouted jar.

‘I’m glad you spoke up back there. I didn’t feel like walking about any more either.’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Imtiaz, looking up cautiously. ‘I think we’d exhausted the pleasures of Northolt by then.’ He wore a reluctant smile. Aadam responded in kind and looked around for some cream; his tea was going to have to pack an extra punch.

‘You know one thing I regret?’ remarked Pasha, inspecting two wok-like utensils. ‘My Urdu is useless now.’

‘No it’s not,’ said Salman quizzically. ‘You’ve spoken well today. It sounded fine to me.’

‘Yeah, all right, of course I can still converse but I’m talking about proper Urdu. You know, language can really expand the mind. I’ve lost that “high” Urdu.’ Salman looked at his cousin. Despite himself, he was starting to feel a real connection. This Pasha, this 2004 Pasha, was so familiar and yet so strange. ‘Your father was really into classical Urdu, and poetry.’

Salman put an arm around his cousin’s shoulder.

‘I know,
Bhai
, I know. I’m surprised you remember.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ remarked Pasha. ‘You should teach some of that to Taimur. We need to keep our culture alive.’

‘Why did you leave when we were all chatting earlier? You should have come back down.’ Aadam’s voice was soft, suggesting concern rather than anger, yet Imtiaz shifted with discomfort. ‘OK, look, forget it. I was just asking. I can’t remember when we were last together, that’s all.’

‘How long have you been married?’ Imtiaz made speculative eye contact.

‘Two years now.’

‘That’s ... great. Oh, and I did come back down but you guys looked engrossed in some big talk. Anyway, I went into the living room instead.’ His gaze dropped again and yes,
scared
. There was just no other word; the guy looked permanently fucking petrified.

‘To be honest, I’m more interested in his religious education. Urdu poetry can wait. I’ll enrol Taimur in an Islamic secondary school when the time comes.’

Pasha bit his tongue as he paid for his
kadhai
. They left the shop and Salman began marching with unnecessary haste.

‘But why? Taimur and Aaliyah are growing up in London – it’s a fantastic opportunity.’

‘Really? You sound like a politician.’

‘Things are different now. They can be proud Muslims and proud Britishers too.’

‘Oh come on, whose glossy brochure have you been reading? You live up there in Cheshire. You have no idea what it’s like for us here.’

‘Maybe, but one thing’s for sure – if you build some closed-off world for your kids, they’ll fail in this country.’ Pasha stopped for emphasis but Salman shrugged and continued. He ploughed on silently and Pasha had to canter to catch up. ‘And anyway, what exactly is your issue? Do you want to protect them from others’ prejudice, or do you just not want them mixing with these
kafirs
?’

‘You know, I see Salman and Kahina all the time. Pasha I haven’t seen since my wedding. But I honestly can’t remember when the two of us last met. I still don’t get why you didn’t make more of an effort today.’

Imtiaz sighed and swallowed hard, his prominent Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down. ‘Kahina’s really nice. Salman and her have two beautiful kids.’

‘For fuck’s sake, man, join me in conversation!’ Imtiaz jumped. The Tamils turned around but Aadam ignored them. ‘You’re not a fucking cripple, OK? Stop acting like one.’

‘Not in a traditional sense, maybe.’

Aadam waited for him to continue but he didn’t. ‘What’s wrong, for God’s sake? Why can’t you answer a simple frigging question?’

‘You know, you’re lucky.’

‘How’s that then?’

‘I ... I like Nazneen. You have a lovely wife.’

‘I know. So why don’t you get yourself a piece of the action?’

Imtiaz contemplated. ‘What do you do, Aadam? I mean, for a living.’

‘I’m a programmer. Banking software. You?’

‘I work for the local council. I help run this Communities project.’

‘So?’

‘I live in a one-bedroom flat. I’ve never lived with anyone else since leaving home. I’ve never had a girlfriend.’ His delivery was matter-of-fact and Aadam giggled nervously, waiting for a punchline.