White Teeth (65 page)

“. . . and when we consider that the human significance of this technology . . . which will prove, I believe, the equal of this century's discoveries in the field of physics: relativity, quantum mechanics . . . when we consider the choices it affords us . . . not between a blue eye and a brown eye, but between eyes that would be blind and those that might see . . .”

But Irie now believes there are things the human eye cannot detect, not with any magnifying glass, binoculars, or microscope. She should know, she's tried. She's looked at one and then the other, one and then the other—so many times they don't seem like faces anymore, just brown canvases with strange protrusions, like saying a word so often it ceases to make sense. Magid and Millat. Millat and Magid. Majlat. Milljid.

She's asked her unborn child to offer some kind of a sign, but nothing. She's had a lyric from Hortense's house going through her head—Psalm 63
—early will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee . . .
But it asks too much of her. It requires her to go back, back, back to the root, to the fundamental moment when sperm met egg, when egg met sperm—so early in this history it cannot be traced. Irie's child can never be mapped exactly nor spoken of with any certainty. Some secrets are permanent. In a vision, Irie has seen a time, a time not far from now, when roots won't matter anymore because they can't because they mustn't because they're too long and they're too tortuous and they're just buried too damn deep. She looks forward to it.

“He who would valiant be 'gainst all disaster . . .”

For a few minutes now, beneath Marcus's talk and the shutters of cameras, another sound (Millat in particular has been attuned to it), a faint singing sound, has been audible. Marcus is doing his best to ignore it and continue, but it has just got considerably louder. He has begun to pause between his words to look around, though the song is clearly not in the room.

“Let him with constancy follow the Master . . .”

“Oh God,” murmurs Clara, leaning forward to speak in her husband's ear. “It's Hortense. It's
Hortense.
Archie, you've
got
to go and sort it out.
Please.
It's easiest for you to get out of your seat.”

But Archie is thoroughly enjoying himself. Between Marcus's talk and Mickey's commentary, it's like watching two TVs at once. Very informative.

“Ask Irie.”

“I can't. She's too far in to get out.
Archie,
” she growls, lapsing into a threatening patois, “you kyan jus leddem sing trew de whole ting!”

“Sam,” says Archie, trying to make his whisper travel, “Sam, you go. You don't even want to be
in
here. Go on. You know Hortense. Just tell her to keep it down. 'Sjust I'd quite like to listen to the rest of this, you know.
Very informative.
”

“With pleasure,” hisses Samad, getting out of his seat abruptly, and not troubling to excuse himself as he steps firmly on Neena's toes. “No need, I think, to save my place.”

Marcus, who is now a quarter of the way through a detailed description of the mouse's seven years, looks up from his paper at the disturbance, and stops to watch the disappearing figure with the rest of the audience.

“I think somebody realized this story doesn't have a happy ending.”

As the audience laughs lightly and settles back into silence, Mickey nudges Archibald in his ribs. “Now you see, that's a bit more like it,” he says. “A bit of a comic touch—liven things up a bit. Layman's terms, innit? Not everybody went to the bloody Oxbridge. Some of us went to the—”

“University of Life,” agrees Archie, nodding, because they were both there, though at different times. “Can't beat it.”

Outside: Samad feels his resolve, strong when the door slammed behind him, weaken as he approaches the formidable Witness ladies, ten of them, all ferociously bewigged, standing on the front steps, banging away at their percussion as if they wish to beat out something more substantial than rhythm. They are in full voice. Five security guards have already admitted defeat, and even Ryan Topps seems slightly in awe of his choral Frankenstein, preferring to stand at a distance on the pavement, handing out copies of the
Watchtower
to the great crowd heading for Soho.

“Do I get a concession?” inquires one drunken girl, inspecting the kitschy painting of heaven on the cover, adding it to her handful of New Year club flyers. “Has it got a dress code?”

With misgivings, Samad taps the triangle player on her rugby-forward shoulders. He tries the full range of vocabulary available to an Indian man addressing potentially dangerous elderly Jamaican women (
ifIcouldpleasesorrypossiblypleasesorry—
you learn it at bus stops), but the drums proceed, the kazoo buzzes, the cymbals crash. The ladies continue to crunch their sensible shoes in the frost. And Hortense Bowden, too old for marching, continues to sit on a folding chair, resolutely eyeballing the mass of dancing people in Trafalgar Square. She has a banner between her knees that states, simply,

 

THE TIME IS AT HAND
—
Rev. 1:3

 

“Mrs. Bowden?” says Samad, stepping forward in a pause between verses. “I am Samad Iqbal. A friend of Archibald Jones.”

Because Hortense does not look at him or betray any twinge of recognition, Samad feels bound to delve deeper into the intricate web of their relations. “My wife is a very good friend of your daughter; my step-niece also. My sons are friends with your—”

Hortense kisses her teeth. “I know fe who you are, man. You know me, I know you. But at dis point, dere are only two kind of people in de world.”

“It is just that we were wondering,” Samad interrupts, spotting a sermon and wanting to sever it at the root, “if you could possibly reduce the noise somewhat . . . if only—”

But Hortense is already overlapping him, eyes closed, arm raised, testifying to the truth in the old Jamaican fashion: “Two kind of people: dem who sing for de Lord and dem who rejeck 'im at de peril of dem souls.”

She turns back. She stands. She shakes her banner furiously in the direction of the drunken hordes moving up and down as one in the Trafalgar fountains, and then she is asked to do it again for a cynical photo-journalist with a waiting space to fill on page six.

“Bit higher with the banner, love,” he says, camera held up, one knee in the snow. “Come on, get angry, that's it. Lovely Jubbly.”

The Witness women raise their voices, sending song up into the firmament.
“Early will I seek thee,”
sings Hortense.
“My soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is . . .”

Samad watches it all and finds himself, to his surprise, unwilling to silence her. Partly because he is tired. Partly because he is old. But mostly because he would do the same, though in a different name. He knows what it is to seek. He knows the dryness. He has felt the thirst you get in a strange land—horrible, persistent—the thirst that lasts your whole life.

Can't say fairer than that,
he thinks,
can't say fairer than that.

Inside: “But I'm still waiting for him to get to the bit about my skin. Ain't heard nothing yet, have you, Arch?”

“No, nothing yet. I 'spect he's got a lot to get through. Revolutionary, all this.”

“Yeah, naturally . . . But you pays your money, you gets your choice.”

“You didn't pay for your ticket, did you?”

“No. No, I didn't. But I've still got
expectations.
The principle's the same, innit? Oi-oi, shut it a minute . . . I thought I heard
skin
just then . . .”

Mickey did hear
skin.
Papillomas on the skin, apparently. A good five minutes' worth. Archie doesn't understand a word of it. But at the end of it, Mickey looks satisfied, as if he's got all the information he's been looking for.

“Mmm, now that's why I came, Arch. Very interesting. Great medical breakthrough. Fucking miracle workers, these doctors.”

“. . . and in this,” Marcus is saying, “he was elemental and indispensable. Not only is he a personal inspiration, but he laid the foundations for so much of this work, particularly in his seminal paper, which I first heard in . . .”

Oh, that's nice. Giving the old bloke some credit. And you can tell, he's chuffed to hear it. Looks a bit tearful. Didn't catch his name. Still, nice not to take all the glory for yourself. But then again, you don't want to overdo it. The way Marcus is going on, sounds like the old bloke did everything.

“Blimey,” says Mickey, thinking the same thing, “fulsome praise, eh? I thought you said it was this Chalfen who was the Mr. Big.”

“Maybe they're partners in crime,” suggests Archie.

“. . . pushing the envelope, when work in this area was seriously underfunded and looked to remain in the realms of science fiction. For that reason alone he has been the guiding spirit, if you like, behind the research group, and is, as ever, my mentor, a position he has filled for twenty years now . . .”

“You know who my mentor is?” says Mickey. “Muhammad Ali. No question. Integrity of mind, integrity of spirit, integrity of body. Top bloke. Wicked fighter. And when he said he was the greatest, he didn't just say ‘the greatest.' ”

Archie says, “No?”

“Nah, mate,” says Mickey, solemn. “He said he was the
greatest of all times.
Past, present, future. He was a cocky bastard, Ali. Definitely my mentor.”

Mentor . . . thinks Archie. For him, it's always been Samad. You can't tell Mickey that, obviously. Sounds daft. Sounds queer. But it's the truth. Always Sammy. Through thick and thin. Even if the world were ending. Never made a decision without him in forty years. Good old Sam. Sam the man.

“. . . and so if any one person deserves the lion's share of recognition for the marvel you see before you, it is Dr. Marc-Pierre Perret. A remarkable man and a very great . . .”

Every moment happens twice: inside and outside, and they are two different histories. Archie does recognize the name, faintly, somewhere inside, but he is already twisting in his seat by then, trying to see if Samad is returning. He can't see Samad. Instead he spots Millat, who looks funny. Who looks decidedly funny. Peculiar rather than ha-ha. He's swaying ever so slightly in his seat, and Archie can't catch his eye for a you-all-right-mate look because his eyes are locked on to something and when Archie follows the path of this stare, he finds himself looking at the same peculiar thing: an old man weeping tiny tears of pride. Red tears. Tears Archie recognizes.

But not before Samad recognizes them;
Captain Samad Miah,
who has just stepped soundlessly through the modern door with its silent mechanism;
Captain Samad Miah,
who pauses for a moment on the threshold, peers through his reading glasses, and realizes that he has been lied to by his only friend in the world for fifty years. That the cornerstone of their friendship was made of nothing more firm than marshmallow and soap bubbles. That there is far, far more to Archibald Jones than he had ever imagined. He realizes everything at once like the climax of a bad Hindi musical. And then, with a certain horrid glee, he gets to the fundamental truth of it, the anagnorisis:
This incident alone will keep us two old boys going for the next forty years.
It is the story to end all stories. It is the gift that keeps on giving.

“Archibald!” He turns from the doctor toward his lieutenant and releases a short, loud, hysterical laugh; he feels like a new bride looking at her groom with perfect recognition just at the moment when everything between the two of them has changed. “You two-faced buggering bastard trickster misa¯ ma¯ta¯, bhainchute, shora-baicha, syut-mora¯ni, haraam jadda¯ . . .”

Samad tumbles into the Bengali vernacular, so colorfully populated by liars, sister-fuckers, sons and daughters of pigs, people who give their own mothers oral pleasure . . .

But even before this, or at least simultaneous with this, while the audience looks on, bemused by this old brown man shouting at this old white man in a foreign tongue, Archie senses something else going on, some movement in this space, potential movement all over the room (the Indian guys at the back, the kids sitting near Josh, Irie looking from Millat to Magid, Magid to Millat, like an umpire) and sees that Millat will get there first; and Millat is reaching like Pande; and Archie has seen TV and he has seen real life and he knows what such a reach means, so he stands. So he moves.

So as the gun sees the light, he is
there,
he is there with no coin to help him, he is there before Samad can stop him, he is there with no alibi, he is there between Millat Iqbal's decision and his target, like the moment between thought and speech, like the split-second intervention of memory or regret.

At some point in the darkness, they stopped walking through the flatlands and Archie pushed the doctor forward, made him stand just in front, where he could see him.

“Stay there,” he said, as the doctor stepped inadvertently into a moonbeam. “Stay right bloody there.”

Because he wanted to see evil, pure evil; the moment of the great recognition, he
needed
to see it—and then he could proceed as previously arranged. But the doctor was stooping badly and he looked weak. His face was covered in pale red blood as if the deed had already been done. Archie'd never seen a man so crumpled, so completely vanquished. It kind of took the wind out of his sails. He was tempted to say
You look like I feel,
for if there was an embodiment of his own pounding headache, of the alcoholic nausea rising from his belly, it was standing opposite him now. But neither man spoke; they just stood there for a while, looking at each other across the loaded gun. Archie had the funny sensation that he could
fold
this man instead of killing him. Fold him up and put him in his pocket.