White Teeth (34 page)

Alsana inched a smear off the photo with her index finger. “You know Saraswati?”

Irie nodded. Compulsory GCSE text:
A Stitch in Time
by R. V. Saraswati. A bittersweet tale of the last days of Empire.

“Samad hates Saraswati, you understand. Calls him colonial-throwback, English licker-of-behinds.”

Irie picked a paragraph at random from the letter and read aloud.

 

As you can see, I was lucky enough to meet India's very finest writer one bright day in March. After winning an essay competition (my title: “Bangladesh—To Whom May She Turn?”), I traveled to Dhaka to collect my prize (a certificate and a small cash reward) from the great man himself in a ceremony at the university. I am honored to say he took a liking to me and we spent a most pleasant afternoon together; a long, intimate tea followed by a stroll through Dhaka's more appealing prospects. During our lengthy conversations Sir Saraswati commended my mind, and even went so far as to say (and I quote) that I was “a first-rate young man”—a comment I shall treasure! He suggested my future might lie in the law, the university, or even his own profession of the creative pen! I told him the first-mentioned vocation was closest to my heart and that it had long been my intention to make the Asian countries sensible places, where order prevailed, disaster was prepared for, and a young boy was in no danger from a falling vase (!) New laws, new stipulations, are required (I told him) to deal with our unlucky fate, the natural disaster. But then he corrected me: “Not fate,” he said. “Too often we Indians, we Bengalis, we Pakistanis, throw up our hands and cry ‘Fate!' in the face of history. But many of us are uneducated, many of us do not understand the world. We must be more like the English. The English fight fate to the death. They do not listen to history unless it is telling them what they wish to hear. We say ‘It had to be!' It does not have to be. Nothing does.” In one afternoon I learned more from this great man than—

 

“He learns nothing!”

Samad marched back into the kitchen in a fury and threw the kettle on the stove. “He learns nothing from a man who knows nothing! Where is his beard? Where is his khamise? Where is his humility? If Allah says there will be storm, there will be storm. If he says earthquake, it will be earthquake. Of course it has to be! That is the very reason I sent the child there—to understand that essentially we are weak, that we are not in control. What does Islam mean? What does the word, the very word, mean?
I surrender.
I surrender to God. I surrender to him. This is not my life, this is his life. This life I call mine is his to do with what he will. Indeed, I shall be tossed and turned on the wave, and there shall be nothing to be done. Nothing! Nature itself is Muslim, because it obeys the laws the creator has ingrained in it.”

“Don't you preach in this house, Samad Miah! There are places for that sort of thing. Go to mosque, but don't do it in the kitchen, people have to be eating in here—”

“But we, we do not automatically obey. We are tricky, we are the tricky bastards, we humans. We have the evil inside us, the free will. We must
learn
to obey. That is what I sent the child Magid Mahfooz Murshed Mubtasim Iqbal to discover. Tell me, did I send him to have his mind poisoned by a Rule-Britannia-worshiping Hindu old queen?”

“Maybe, Samad Miah, maybe not.”

“Don't, Alsi, I warn you—”

“Oh, go on, you old pot-boiler!” Alsana gathered her spare tires around her like a sumo wrestler. “You say we have no control, yet you always try to control everything! Let
go,
Samad Miah. Let the boy go. He is second generation—he was born here—naturally he will do things differently. You can't plan everything. After all, what is so awful?—so he's not training to be an Alim, but he's educated, he's clean!”

“And is that all you ask of your son? That he be clean?”

“Maybe, Samad Miah, maybe—”

“And don't speak to me of second generation! One generation! Indivisible! Eternal!”

Somewhere in the midst of this argument, Irie slipped out of the kitchen and headed for the front door. She caught an unfortunate glimpse of herself in the scratch and stain of the hall mirror. She looked like the love child of Diana Ross and Engelbert Humperdinck.

“You have to let them make their own mistakes . . .”
came Alsana's voice from the heat of battle, traveling through the cheap wood of the kitchen door and into the hallway, where Irie stood, facing her own reflection, busy tearing out somebody else's hair with her bare hands.

Like any school, Glenard Oak had a complex geography. Not that it was particularly labyrinthine in design. It had been built in two simple stages, first in 1886 as a workhouse (result: large red monstrosity, Victorian asylum) and then added to in 1963 when it became a school (result: gray monolith, Brave New Council Estate). The two monstrosities were then linked in 1974 by an enormous Perspex tubular footbridge. But a bridge was not enough to make the two places one, or to slow down the student body's determination to splinter and factionalize. The school had learned to its cost that you cannot unite a thousand children under one Latin tag (school code:
Laborare est Orare,
To Labor is to Pray); kids are like pissing cats or burrowing moles, marking off land within land, each section with its own rules, beliefs, laws of engagement. Despite every attempt to suppress it, the school contained and sustained patches, hangouts, disputed territories, satellite states, states of emergency, ghettos, enclaves, islands. There were no maps, but common sense told you, for example, not to fuck with the area between the garbage cans and the craft department. There had been casualties there (notably some poor sod called Keith, who had his head placed in a vise), and the scrawny, sinewy kids who patrolled this area were not to be messed with—they were the thin sons of the fat men with vicious tabloids primed in their back pockets like handguns, the fat men who believe in rough justice
—a life for a life, hanging's too good for them.

Across from there: the Benches, three of them in a line. These were for the surreptitious dealing of tiny tiny amounts of drugs. Things like £2.50 of marijuana resin, so small it was likely to be lost in your pencil case and confused with a shredded piece of eraser. Or a quarter of an E, the greatest use of which was soothing particularly persistent period pains. The gullible could also purchase a variety of household goods—jasmine tea, garden grass, aspirin, licorice, flour—all masquerading as Class A intoxicants to be smoked or swallowed round the back, in the hollow behind the drama department. This concave section of wall, depending where you stood, provided low teacher-visibility for smokers too young to smoke in the smokers' garden (a concrete garden for those who had reached sixteen and were allowed to smoke themselves silly—are there any schools
like this
anymore?). The drama hollow was to be avoided. These were hard little bastards, twelve-, thirteen-year-old chain-smokers; they didn't give a shit. They
really
didn't give a shit—your health, their health, teachers, parents, police—whatever. Smoking was their answer to the universe, their 42, their
raison d'être.
They were passionate about fags. Not connoisseurs, not fussy about brand, just fags, any fags. They pulled at them like babies at teats, and when they were finally finished their eyes were wet as they ground the butts into the mud. They fucking loved it. Fags, fags, fags. Their only interest outside fags was politics, or more precisely, this fucker, the chancellor, who kept on putting up the price of fags. Because there was never enough money and there were never enough fags. You had to become an expert in bumming, cadging, begging, stealing fags. A popular ploy was to blow a week's pocket money on twenty, give them out to all and sundry, and spend the next month reminding those with fags about that time when you gave them a fag. But this was a high-risk policy. Better to have an utterly forgettable face, better to be able to cadge a fag and come back five minutes after for another without being remembered. Better to cultivate a cipherlike persona, be a little featureless squib called Mart, Jules, Ian. Otherwise you had to rely on charity and fag
-sharing.
One fag could be split in myriad ways. It worked like this: someone (whoever had actually bought a pack of fags) lights up. Someone shouts “halves.” At the halfway point the fag is passed over. As soon as it reaches the second person we hear “thirds,” then “saves” (which is half a third), then “butt!,” then, if the day is cold and the need for a fag overwhelming, “last toke!” But last toke is only for the desperate; it is beyond the perforation, beyond the brand name of the cigarette, beyond what could reasonably be described as the butt. Last toke is the yellowing fabric of the roach, containing the stuff that is less than tobacco, the stuff that collects in the lungs like a time bomb, destroys the immune system, and brings permanent, sniffling, nasal flu. The stuff that turns white teeth yellow.

Everyone at Glenard Oak was at work; they were Babelians of every conceivable class and color speaking in tongues, each in their own industrious corner, their busy censer mouths sending the votive offering of tobacco smoke to the many gods above them (Brent Schools Report 1990: 67 different faiths, 123 different languages).

Laborare est Orare:

Nerds by the pond, checking out frog sex,

Posh girls in the music department singing French rounds, speaking pig Latin, going on grape diets, suppressing lesbian instincts,

Fat boys in the PE corridor, wanking,

High-strung girls outside the language block, reading murder casebooks,

Indian kids playing cricket with tennis rackets on the football ground,

Irie Jones looking for Millat Iqbal,

Scott Breeze and Lisa Rainbow in the toilets, fucking,

Joshua Chalfen, a goblin, an elder, and a dwarf, behind the science block playing
Goblins and Gorgons,

And everybody, everybody smoking fags, fags, fags, working hard at the begging of them, the lighting of them and the inhaling of them, the collecting of butts and the remaking of them, celebrating their power to bring people together across cultures and faiths, but mostly just smoking them
—gis a fag, spare us a fag—
chuffing on them like little chimneys till the smoke grows so thick that those who had stoked the chimneys here back in 1886, back in the days of the workhouse, would not have felt out of place.

And through the fog, Irie was looking for Millat. She had tried the basketball court, the smoking garden, the music department, the cafeteria, the toilets of both sexes, and the graveyard that backed on to the school. She had to warn him. There was going to be a raid, to catch all illicit smokers of weed or tobacco, a combined effort from the staff and the local constabulary. The seismic rumblings had come from Archie, angel of revelation; she had overheard his telephone conversation and the holy secrets of the Parent-Teacher Association; now Irie was landed with a burden far heavier than the seismologist, landed, rather, with the burden of the prophet, for she knew the day and time of the quake (today, two-thirty), she knew its power (possible expulsion), and she knew who was likely to fall victim to its fault line. She had to save him. Clutching her vibrating chub and sweating through three inches of Afro hair, she dashed across the grounds, calling his name, inquiring of others, looking in all the usual places, but he was not with the Cockney barrow-boys, the posh girls, the Indian posse, or the black kids. She trudged finally to the science block, part of the old workhouse and a much-loved blind spot of the school, its far wall and eastern corner affording thirty precious yards of grass, where a pupil indulging in illicit acts was entirely hidden from the common view. It was a fine, crisp autumn day, the place was full; Irie had to walk through the popular tonsil-tennis/groping championships, step over Joshua Chalfen's
Goblins and Gorgons
game (“Hey, watch your feet! Mind the Cavern of the Dead!”), and furrow through a tight phalanx of fag smokers before she reached Millat at the epicenter of it all, pulling laconically on a cone-shaped joint, listening to a tall guy with a mighty beard.

“Mill!”

“Not right now, Jones.”

“But Mill!”

“Please, Jones. This is Hifan. Old friend. I'm trying to listen to him.”

The tall guy, Hifan, had not paused in his speech. He had a deep, soft voice like running water, inevitable and constant, requiring a force stronger than the sudden appearance of Irie, stronger, maybe, than gravity, to stop it. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, a white shirt, and a green bow tie. His breast pocket was embroidered with a small emblem, two hands cupping a flame, and something underneath it, too tiny to see. Though no older than Millat, his hair-growing capacity was striking, and his beard aged him considerably.

“. . . and so marijuana weakens one's abilities, one's power, and takes our best men away from us in this country: men like you, Millat, who have natural leadership skills, who possess within them the ability to take a people by the hand and lift them up. There is an hadith from the Bukh
r
, part five, page two:
The best people of my community are my contemporaries and supporters.
You are my contemporary, Millat, I pray you will also become my supporter; there is a war going on, Millat, a war.”