White Teeth (41 page)

Neena went and collected the teas and plonked them on the little table.

“So what's all this about a conspiracy of Chaffinches? Sounds like Hitchcock.”

Alsana explained in shorthand the situation.

Neena reached into a bag for her cigarettes, lit one up and exhaled minty smoke. “Auntie, they just sound like a perfectly nice middle-class family who are helping Millat with his studies. Is that what you dragged me from work for? I mean, it's hardly Jonestown, now, is it?”

“No,” said Clara cautiously, “no, of course not—but all your auntie is saying is that Millat and Irie spend such a lot of time over there, so we'd just like to know a bit more about what they're like, you know. That's natural enough, isn't it?”

Alsana objected. “That is
not
all I'm saying. I am saying these people are taking my son away from me! Birds with teeth! They're Englishifying him completely! They're deliberately leading him away from his culture and his family and his religion—”

“Since when have you given two shits about his religion!”

“
You,
Niece-of-Shame,
you
don't know how I sweat
blood
for that boy, you
don't know
about—”

“Well, if I don't know anything about anything, why the bloody hell have you brought me here? I've got other fucking things to do, you know.” Neena snatched her bag and made to stand up. “Sorry about this, Clara. I don't know why this always has to happen. I'll see you soon . . .”

“Sit down,” hissed Alsana, grabbing her by the arm. “Sit down, all right, point made, Miss Clever Lesbian. Look, we need you, OK? Sit down, apology, apology. OK? Better.”

“All right,” said Neena, viciously stubbing out her fag on a napkin. “But I'm going to speak my mind and for once just shut that chasm of a mouth while I do it. OK? OK. Right. Now, you just
said
Irie's doing tremendous in school, and if Millat's not doing so well, it's no great mystery—he doesn't do any
work.
At least somebody's trying to help him. And if he's seeing too much of these people, I'm sure that's
his
choice, not
theirs.
It's not exactly Happy Land in your house at the moment, is it? He's running away from himself and he's looking for something as far away from the Iqbals as possible.”

“Ah ha! But they live two streets away!” cried Alsana triumphantly.

“No, Auntie.
Conceptually
far away from you. Being an Iqbal is occasionally a little suffocating, you know? He's using this other family as a refuge. They're probably a good influence or something.”

“Or something,” said Alsana ominously.

“What are you afraid of, Alsi? He's second generation—you always say it yourself—you need to let them go their own way. Yes, and look what happened to me, blah blah blah—I may be Niece-of-Shame to you, Alsi, but I earn a good living out of my shoes.” Alsana looked dubiously at the knee-length black boots that Neena had designed, made, and was wearing. “And I live a pretty good life—you know, I live by principles. I'm just saying. He's already having a war with Uncle Samad. He doesn't need one with you as well.”

Alsana grumbled into her blackberry tea.

“If you want to worry about something, Auntie, worry about these KEVIN people he hangs around with. They're in
sane.
And there's bloody loads of them. All the ones you wouldn't expect. Mo, you know, the butcher—yes, you know—the Hussein-Ishmaels—Ardashir's side of the family. Right, well, he's one. And bloody Shiva, from the restaurant—he's converted!”

“Good for him,” said Alsana tartly.

“But it's nothing to
do
with Islam proper, Alsi. They're a political group. And some politics. One of the little bastards told me and Maxine we were going to roast in the pits of hell. Apparently we are the lowest forms of life, lower than the slugs. I gave his ball-bag a 360-degree twist.
Those
are the people you need to worry about.”

Alsana shook her head and waved Neena off with a hand. “Can't you understand? I worry about my son being taken away from me. I have lost one already. Six years I have not seen Magid.
Six years.
And I see these people, these Chaffinches—and they spend more time with Millat than I do. Can you understand that, at least?”

Neena sighed, fiddled with a button on her top, and then, seeing the tears forming in her auntie's eyes, conceded a silent nod.

“Millat and Irie often go round there for dinner,” said Clara quietly. “And Alsana, well, your auntie and I were wondering . . . if once you could go with them—you look young, and you seem young, and you could go and—”

“Report back,” finished Neena, rolling her eyes. “Infiltrate the enemy. That poor family—they've no idea who they're messing with, have they? They're under surveillance and they don't even know it. It's like the bloody
Thirty-nine Steps.
”

“Niece-of-Shame: yes or no?”

Neena groaned. “Yes, Auntie. Yes, if I must.”

“Much appreciated,” said Alsana, finishing her tea.

Now, it wasn't that Joyce was a homophobe. She liked gay men. And they liked her. She had even inadvertently amassed a little gay fan club at the university, a group of men who saw her as a kind of Barbra Streisand/Bette Davis/Joan Baez hybrid and met once a month to cook her dinner and admire her dress sense. So Joyce couldn't be homophobic. But gay women . . . something confused Joyce about gay women. It wasn't that she disliked them. She just couldn't
comprehend
them. Joyce understood why men would love men; she had devoted her life to loving men, so she knew how it felt. But the idea of women loving women was so far from Joyce's cognitive understanding of the world that she couldn't
process
it. The idea of them. She just didn't
get it.
God knows, she'd made the effort. During the seventies she dutifully read
The Well of Loneliness
and
Our Bodies, Ourselves
(which had a small chapter); more recently she had read
and
watched
Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit,
but none of it did her any good. She wasn't offended by it. She just couldn't see the
point.
So when Neena turned up for dinner, arm in arm with Maxine, Joyce just sat staring at the two of them over the first course (lentils on rye bread), utterly fixated. She was rendered dumbstruck for the first twenty minutes, leaving the rest of the family to go through the Chalfen routine minus her own vital bit part. It was a little like being hypnotized or sitting in a dense cloud, and through the mist she heard snippets of dinner conversation continuing without her.

“So, always the first Chalfen question: what do you do?”

“Shoes. I make shoes.”

“Ah. Mmm. Not the material of sparkling conversation, I fear. What about the beautiful lady?”

“I'm a beautiful lady of leisure. I wear the shoes she makes.”

“Ah. Not in college, then?”

“No, I didn't bother with college. Is that OK?”

Neena was equally defensive. “And before you ask, neither did I.”

“Well, I didn't mean to embarrass you—”

“You didn't.”

“Because it's no real surprise . . . I know you're not the most academic family in the world.”

Joyce knew things were going badly, but she couldn't find her tongue to smooth it out. A million dangerous double entendres were sitting at the back of her throat, and, if she opened her mouth even a slit (!), she feared one of them was going to come out. Marcus, who was always oblivious to causing offense, chundled on happily. “You two are terrible temptations for a man.”

“Are we.”

“Oh, dykes always are. And I'm sure certain gentlemen would have half a chance—though you'd probably take beauty over intellect, I suspect, so there go my chances.”

“You seem awfully certain of your intellect, Mr. Chalfen.”

“Shouldn't I be? I am terribly clever, you know.”

Joyce just kept looking at them, thinking:
Who relies on whom? Who teaches whom? Who improves whom? Who pollinates and who nurtures?

“Well, it's great to have another Iqbal round the table, isn't it, Josh?”

“I'm a Begum, not an Iqbal,” said Neena.

“I can't help thinking,” said Marcus, unheeding, “that a Chalfen man and an Iqbal woman would be a hell of a mix. Like Fred and Ginger. You'd give us sex and we'd give you sensibility or something. Hey? You'd keep a Chalfen on his toes—you're as fiery as an Iqbal. Indian passion. Funny thing about your family: first generation are all loony tunes, but the second generation have got heads just about straight on their shoulders.”

“Umm, look: no one calls my family loony, OK? Even if they are.
I'll
call them loony.”

“Now, you see, try to use the language
properly.
You can say ‘no one calls my family loony,' but that's not a correct statement. Because people do and will. By all means say, ‘I don't want people to, et cetera.' It's a small thing, but we can all understand each other better when we don't abuse terms and phrases.”

Then, just as Marcus was reaching into the oven to pull out the main course (chicken hotpot), Joyce's mouth opened and for some inexplicable reason this came out: “Do you use each other's breasts as pillows?”

Neena's fork, which was heading for her mouth, stopped just as it reached the tip of her nose. Millat choked on a piece of cucumber. Irie struggled to bring her lower jaw back into alliance with the upper. Maxine began to giggle.

But Joyce wasn't going to go purple. Joyce was descended from the kind of bloody-minded women who continued through the African swamps even after the bag-carrying natives had dropped their load and turned back, even when the white men were leaning on their guns and shaking their heads. She was cut of the same cloth as the frontier ladies who, armed with only a Bible, a shotgun, and a net curtain, coolly took out the brown men moving forward from the horizon toward the plains. Joyce didn't know the meaning of backing down. She was going to stand her ground.

“It's just, in a lot of Indian poetry, they talk about using breasts for pillows, downy breasts, pillow breasts. I just—just—just wondered, if white sleeps on brown, or, as one might expect, brown sleeps on white? Extending the—the—the—pillow metaphor, you see, I was just wondering which . . . way . . .”

The silence was long, broad and malingering. Neena shook her head in disgust and dropped her cutlery onto her plate with a clatter. Maxine tapped her fingers on the tablecloth, marking out a nervous “William Tell.” Josh looked like he might cry.

Finally, Marcus threw his head back, clapped his hands, and let out an enormous Chalfen guffaw. “I've been wanting to ask that all night. Well
done,
Mother Chalfen!”

And so for the first time in her life Neena had to admit that her auntie was absolutely right. “You wanted a report, so here's a full report: crazy, nutso, raisins short of a fruitcake, rubber walls, screaming-mad basket-cases. Every bloody one of them.”

Alsana nodded, open-mouthed, and asked Neena to repeat for the third time the bit during dessert when Joyce, serving up a trifle, had inquired whether it was difficult for Muslim women to bake while wearing those long black sheets—didn't the arm bits get covered in cake mixture? Wasn't there a danger of setting yourself alight on the gas burners?

“Bouncing off the walls,” concluded Neena.

But, as is the way with these things, once confirmation had arrived nobody knew quite what to do with the information. Irie and Millat were sixteen and never tired of telling their respective mothers that they were now of the legal age for various activities and could do whatever, whenever. Short of putting locks on the doors and bars on the windows, Clara and Alsana were powerless. If anything, things got worse. Irie spent more time than ever immersing herself in Chalfenism. Clara noticed her wincing at her own father's conversation, and frowning at the middlebrow tabloid Clara curled up with in bed. Millat disappeared from home for weeks at a time, returning with money that was not his and an accent that modulated wildly between the rounded tones of the Chalfens and the street talk of the KEVIN clan. He infuriated Samad beyond all reason. No, that's wrong. There was a reason. Millat was neither one thing nor the other, this or that, Muslim or Christian, Englishman or Bengali; he lived for the in between, he lived up to his middle name,
Zulfikar,
the clashing of two swords:

“How many times,” Samad growled, after watching his son purchase
The Autobiography of Malcolm X,
“is it necessary to say
thank you
in a single transaction?
Thank you
when you hand the book over,
thank you
when she receives it,
thank you
when she tells you the price,
thank you
when you sign the check,
thank you
when she takes it! They call it English politeness when it is simply arrogance. The only being who deserves this kind of thanks is Allah himself!”

And Alsana was once again caught between the two of them, trying desperately to find the middle ground. “If Magid was here, he'd sort you two out. A lawyer's mind, he'd make things straight.” But Magid wasn't here, he was there, and there was still not enough money to change the situation.

Then the summer came and with it exams. Irie came in just behind Chalfen the Chubster, and Millat did far better than anyone, including he, had expected. It could only be the Chalfen influence, and Clara, for one, felt a little ashamed of herself. Alsana just said, “Iqbal brains. In the end, they triumph,” and decided to mark the occasion with a joint Iqbal/Jones celebration barbecue to be held on Samad's lawn.

Neena, Maxine, Ardashir, Shiva, Joshua, aunties, cousins, Irie's friends, Millat's friends, KEVIN friends, and the headmaster all came and made merry (except for KEVIN, who formed a circle in one corner) with paper cups filled with cheap Spanish bubbly.