The stranger who wanders into O'Connell's Pool House at random, hoping for the soft rise andfall of his grandfather's brogue, perhaps, or seeking to rebound a red ball off the side cushion andinto the corner pocket, is immediately disappointed to find the place is neither Irish nor a poolhouse. He will survey the carpeted walls, the reproductions of George Stubbs's racehorse paintings,the framed fragments of some foreign, Eastern script, with not a little confusion. He will look for asnooker table and find instead a tall, brown man with terrible acne standing behind a counter, fryingup eggs and mushrooms. His eye will land with suspicion upon an Irish flag and a map of the ArabEmirates knotted together and hung from wall to wall, partitioning him from the rest of thecustomers. Then he will become aware of several pairs of eyes upon him, some condescending,some incredulous; the hapless stranger will stumble out, warily, backwards, knocking over thelife-size cut-out of Viv Richards as he goes. The customers will laugh. O'Connell's is no place forstrangers.

　　O'Connell's is the kind of place family men come to for a different kind of family. Unlike bloodrelations, it is necessary here to earn one's position in the community; it takes years of devotedfucking around, time-wasting, laying-about, shooting the breeze, watching paint dry far morededication than men invest in the careless moment of procreation. You need to know the place. Forexample, there are reasons why O'Connell's is an Irish pool house run by Arabs with no pool tables.

　　And there are reasons why the pustule-covered Mickey will cook you chips, egg and beans, or egg,chips and beans, or beans, chips, eggs andmushrooms but not, under any circumstances, chips, beans, eggs and bacon. But you need tohang around for that kind of information. Well get into that later. For now, suffice to say this isArchie's and Samad's home from home; for ten years they have come here between six (the timeArchie finishes work) and eight (the time Samad starts) to discuss everything from the meaning ofRevelation to the prices of plumbers. And women. Hypothetical women. If a woman walked pastthe yolk-stained window of O'Connell's (a woman had never been known to venture inside) theywould smile and speculate depending on Samad's religious sensibilities that evening on matters asfar reaching as whether one would kick her out of bed in a hurry, to the relative merits of stockingsor tights, and then on, inevitably, to the great debate: small breasts (that stand up) vs big breasts(that flop to the sides). But there was never any question of real women, real flesh and blood andwet and sticky women. Not until now. And so the unprecedented events of the past few monthscalled for an earlier O'Connell's summit than usual. Samad had finally phoned Archie andconfessed the whole terrible mess: he had cheated, he was cheating; he had been seen by thechildren and now he was seeing the children, like visions, day and night. Archie had been silent fora bit, and then said, "Bloody hell. Four o'clock it is, then. Bloody hell." He was like that, Archie.

　　Calm in a crisis.

　　But come 4.15 and still no sign of him, a desperate Samad had chewed every fingernail hepossessed to the cuticle and collapsed on the counter, nose squished up against the hot glass wherethe battered burgers were kept, eye to eye with a postcard showing the eight different local charmsof County Antrim.

　　Mickey, chef, waiter and proprietor, who prided himself on knowing each customer's name andknowing when each customer was out of sorts, prised Samad's face off the hot glass with an eggslice.

　　"Oi.""Hello, Mickey, how are you?""Same old, same old. But enough about me. What's the fucking matter wiv you, mate. Eh? Eh?

　　I've been watching you, Sammy, since the minute you stepped in here. Face as long as shit. Tellyour uncle Mickey."Samad groaned.

　　"Oi. No. None of that. You know me. I'm the sympathetic side of the service industry, I'mservice with a fucking smile, I'd wear a little red tie and a little red hat like them fuck wits in Mr.

　　Burger if my fuckin' head weren't so big."This was not a metaphor. Mickey had a very large head, almost as if his acne had demandedmore room and received planning permission.

　　"What's the problem?"Samad looked up at Mickey's big red head.

　　"I am just waiting for Archibald, Mickey. Please, do not concern yourself. I will be fine.""Shit early, in nit "Pardon?"Mickey checked the clock behind him, the one with the palaeolithic piece of encrusted egg onthe dial. "I say "Shit early, in nit For you and the Archie-boy. Six is when I expect you. One chips,beans, egg and mushroom. And one omelette and mushrooms. With seasonal variations, naturally."Samad sighed. "We have much to discuss."Mickey rolled his eyes. "You ain't starting on that Mangy Pandy whateverthefuckitis again, areyou? Who shot who, and who hung who, my gran dad ruled the Pakis or whateverthefuckitwas, asif any poor fucker gives a flying fuck. You're driving the custom away. You're creating' Mickeyflicked through his new bible, Food for Thought: A Guideline for Employers and EmployeesWorking in the Food Service Industry Customer Strategy and Consumer Relations. "You're creatinga repetitive syndrome that puts all these buggers off their culinary experience.""No, no. My great-grandfather is not up for discussion today. We have other business.""Well, thank fuck. Repetitive syndrome is what it is." Mickey patted his book, affectionately.

　　"Sail in 'ere, mate. Best four ninety-five I ever spent. Talking of moolah, you 'having a fluttertoday?" asked Mickey, signalling downstairs.

　　"I am a Muslim, Mickey, I don't indulge any more"Well, obviously, yeah, we're all Brothers but a man's gotta live, now. Hasn't he? I mean, hasn't he?""I don't know, Mickey, does he?"Mickey slapped Samad firmly on the back. "Course he does! I was saying to my brother Abdul '

　　"Which Abdul?"It was a tradition, both in Mickey's wider and nuclear family, to name all sons Abdul to teachthem the vanity of assuming higher status than any other man, which was all very well and goodbut tended to cause confusion in the formative years. However, children are creative, and all themany Abduls added an English name as a kind of buffer to the first.

　　"AbdulColin.""Right.""So, you know Abdul-Colin went a bit fundamental EGGS, BEANS, CHIPS, TOAST bigracking beard, no pig, no drink, no pussy, the fuckin' works, mate there you are, guvnor."Abdul-Mickey pushed a plate of festering carbohydrate to a sunken old man whose trouserswere so high up his body they were gradually swallowing him whole.

　　"Well, where do you think I slap eyes on Abdul-Colin last week? Only in the Mickey Finn,down Harrow Road way, and I says, "Oi, Abdul-Colin, this is a fucking turn-up for the fuckingbooks" and he says, all solemn, you know, all fully bearded, he says'

　　"Mickey, Mickey do you mind very much if we leave the story for later ... it is just that.. .""No, fine, fine. Wish I knew why the fuck I bother.""If you could possibly tell Archibald I am sitting in the booth behind the pinball when he comesin. Oh, and my usual.""No problemo, mate."About ten minutes later the door went and Mickey looked up from Chapter 6, There's a Fly inMy Soup: Dealing with Frameworks of Hostility Regarding Health Issues', to see Archibald Jones,cheap suitcase in hand, approaching the counter.

　　"All right, Arch. How's the folding business?""Oh, you know. Comme si, comme sar. Samad about?""Is he about? Is he about"? He's been hanging round like a bad fucking smell for half a fuckinghour. Face as long as shit. Someone wants to get a Poop-a-Scoop and clean him up."Archie put his suitcase on the counter and furrowed his brow. "In a bad way, is he? Betweenyou and me, Mickey, I'm really worried about him.""Go tell it to the fucking mountain," said Mickey, who had been aggravated by Chapter 6'sassertion that you should rinse plates in piping hot water. "Or, alternatively, go to the booth behindthe pinball.""Thanks, Mickey. Oh, omelette and '

　　"I know. Mushrooms."Archie walked down the lino aisles of O'ConnelTs.

　　"Hello, Denzel, evening, Clarence."Denzel and Clarence were two uniquely rude, foul-mouthed octogenarian Jamaicans. Denzelwas impossibly fat, Clarence was horribly thin, their families had both died, they both wore trilbies,and they sat in the corner playing dominoes all the hours that were left to them.

　　"What dat bambaclaat say?" "Im say evenin'.""Can'tim see me playin' domino?""No man! "Im 'ave a pussy for a face. How you expec' 'im to see any little ting?"Archie took it on the chin as it was meant and slipped into the booth, opposite Samad. "I don'tunderstand," said Archie, picking up immediately where their phone conversation had terminated.

　　"Are you saying you're seeing them there in your imagination or you're seeing them there in real life?""It is really very simple. The first time, the very first time, they were there. But since thenArchie, these past few weeks, I see the twins whenever I am with her like apparitions! Even whenwe are ... I see them there. Smiling at me.""Are you sure you're not just overworked.""Listen to me, Archie: I see them. It is a sign.""Sam, let's try and deal with the facts. When they really saw you what did you do?""What could I do? I said, "Hello, sons. Say hello to Miss Burt Jones"And what did they say?""They said hello.""And what did you say?""Archibald, do you think I could simply tell you what occurred without this constant inaneinterjection?""CHIPS, BEANS, EGG, TOMATO "AND MUSHROOM!""Sam, that's yours.""I resent that accusation. It is not mine. I never order tomato. I do not want some poor peeledtomato boiled to death, then fried to death"Well, it's not mine. I asked for omelette.""Well, it is not mine. Now: may I continue?""With pleasure.""I looked at my boys, Archie ... I looked at my beautiful boys . and my heart cracked no, morethan this it shattered. It shattered into so many pieces and each piece stabbed me like a mortalwound. I kept thinking: how can I teach my boys anything,how can I show them the straight road when I have lost my own bearings?""I thought," began Archie haltingly, 'that the problem was the woman. If you really don't knowwhat to do about her, well.. . we could flip this coin, heads you stay, tails you go at least you'd have made a -'

　　Samad slammed his good fist on the table. "I don't want to flip a bloody coin! Besides, it is toolate for that. Can't you see? What is done is done. I am hell-bound, I see that now. So I mustconcentrate on saving my sons. I have a choice to make, a choice of morality." Samad lowered hisvoice, and even before he spoke Archie knew to what he was about to refer. "You have made hardchoices yourself, Archie, many years ago. You hide it well, but I know you have not forgotten whatit is like. You have a bit of bullet in the leg to prove it. You struggled with him. You won out. I havenot forgotten. I have always admired you because of it, Archibald."Archie looked at the floor. "I'd rather not '

　　"Believe me, I take no pleasure from dragging up that which is distasteful to you, my friend.

　　But I am just trying to make you understand my situation. Then, as now, the question is always:

　　What kind of a world do I want my children to grow up in? You took action on that matter once.

　　And now it is my turn."Archie, making no more sense of Samad's speeches than he had forty years ago, played with atoothpick for a moment.

　　"Well.. . why don't you just stop, well, seeing her.""I try ... I try.""That good is it?""No, well, that is not strictly .. . what I mean to say is, it is nice, yes .. . but it is not debauched ...

　　we kiss, we embrace.""But no '

　　"Not strictly speaking, no.""But some '

　　"Archibald, are you concerned about my sons or my sperm?""Sons," said Archie. "Definitely sons.""Because there is rebellion in them, Archie. I can see it it is small now but it is growing. I tellyou, I don't know what is happening to our children in this country. Everywhere you look, it is thesame. Last week, Zinat's son was found smoking marijuana. Like a Jamaican!"Archie raised his eyebrows.

　　"Oh, I meant no offence, Archibald.""None taken, mate. But you shouldn't judge before you've tried it. Being married to a Jamaicanhas done wonders for my arthritis. But that's by the by. Carry on.""Well, take Alsana's sisters all their children are nothing but trouble. They won't go to mosque,they don't pray, they speak strangely, they dress strangely, they eat all kinds of rubbish, they haveintercourse with God knows who. No respect for tradition. People call it assimilation when it isnothing but corruption. Corruption!"Archie tried to look shocked and then tried disgusted, not knowing what to say. He liked peopleto get on with things, Archie. He kind of felt people should just live together, you know, in peace orharmony or something.

　　"CHIPS, BEANS, EGG, MUSHROOM! OMELETTEAND MUSHROOMS!"Samad raised his hand and turned to the counter. "AbdulMickey!" he yelled, his voice assuminga slight, comic, cockney twinge. "Over here, my guvnor, please."Mickey looked at Samad, leant on the counter, and wiped his nose with his apron.

　　"Now you know better than that. It's self-service around here, gentlemen. This ain't the fuckingWaldorf.""I'll get it," said Archie, sliding out of his seat.

　　"How is he?" asked Mickey under his breath, as he pushed the plate towards Archie.

　　Archie frowned. "Dunno. He's on about tradition again. He's worried about his sons, you see.

　　Easy for children to go off the rails in this day and age, you know. I don't really know what to sayto him.""Don't have to tell me, mate," said Mickey, shaking his head. "I wrote the fucking book, didn't I?

　　Look at my littlest, Abdul Jimmy. Up in juvenile court next week for swiping fucking VWmedallions. I says to 'im, you fucking stupid or som mink What the fuck is the point of that? Atleast steal the fucking car, if that's the way you feel about it. I mean, why? "E says it's som mink todo wiv some fucking Beetle Boys or some such bollocks. Well, I says to him, that lot are dead asshit if I get hold of 'em, and I can tell you that for fucking nothing. No sense of tradition, nofucking morality, is the problem."Archie nodded and picked up a wad of napkins with which to handle the hot dishes.

　　"If you want my advice and you do, 'cos that's part of the special relationship between cafeowner and cafe customer you tell Samad he has two options. He can either send them back to theold country, back to India'

　　"Bangladesh," corrected Archie, nicking a chip from Samad's meal.

　　"Whereverthefuckitis. He can send 'em back there and have 'em brought up proper, by theirgranddads and grand mums have 'em learn about their fucking culture, have 'em grow up with somefucking principles. Or one minute CHIPS,BEANS, PAT TIE AND MUSHROOMS! FOR TWO!"Denzel and Clarence ever so slowly sidled up to the hot plates.

　　"Dat pat tie look strange," said Clarence.

　　"Im try to poison us," said Denzel.

　　"Dem mushroom look peculiar," said Clarence.

　　"Im try to infiltrate a good man with de devil's food," said Denzel.

　　Mickey slapped his egg slice down on Denzel's fingers, "Oi.

　　Morecambe and fucking Wise. Get a new fucking routine, all right?""Or what?" persisted Archie.

　　"Im tryin' to kill an 'of man. An 'of, weak man," muttered Denzel, as the two of them shuffledback to their seats.

　　"Fucking 'ell, those two. They're only alive 'cos they're too stingy to pay for the fucking cremation.""Or what?""What?""What's the second option?""Oh, yeah. Well, second option's obvious, in nit"Is it?""Accept it. He'll have to accept it, won't he. We're all English now, mate. Like it or lump it, asthe rhubarb said to the custard. And that'll be two fifty, Archibald, my good man. The golden age ofLuncheon Vouchers is over."The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers ended ten years ago. For ten years Mickey had beensaying, "The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over." And that's what Archie loved aboutO'Connell's. Everything was remembered, nothing was lost. History was never revised orreinterpreted, adapted or whitewashed. It was as solid and as simple as the encrusted egg on the clock.

　　When Archie returned to table eight, Samad was like Jeeves: if not exactly disgruntled, thensome way from being grunt led"Archibald, did you take a wrong turn at the Ganges? Weren't you listening to my dilemma? Iam corrupt, my sons are becoming corrupt, we are all soon to burn in the fires of hell. These areproblems of some urgency, Archibald."Archie smiled serenely and stole another chip. "Problem solved, Samad, mate.""Problem solved?""Problem solved. Now, the way I see it, you have two options ..."Around the beginning of this century, the Queen of Thailand was aboard a boat, floating alongwith her many courtiers, manservants, maids, feet-bathers and food tasters, when suddenly the sternhit a wave and the Queen was thrown overboard into the turquoise waters of the Nippon-Kai where,despite her pleas for help, she drowned, for not one person on that boat went to her aid. Mysteriousto the outside world, to the Thai the explanation was immediately clear: tradition demanded, as itdoes to this day, that no man or woman may touch the Queen.

　　If religion is the opium of the people, tradition is an even more sinister analgesic, simplybecause it rarely appears sinister. If religion is a tight band, a throbbing vein and a needle, traditionis a far homelier concoction: poppy seeds ground into tea; a sweet cocoa drink laced with cocaine;the kind of thing your grandmother might have made. To Samad, as to the people of Thailand,tradition was culture, and culture led to roots, and these were good, these were untainted principles.

　　That didn't mean he could live by them, abide by them or grow in the manner they demanded, butroots were roots and roots were good. You would get nowhere telling him that weeds too havetubers, or that the first sign of loose teeth is something rotten, something degenerate, deep withinthe gums. Roots were what saved, the ropes one throws out to rescue drowning men, to Save TheirSouls. And the further Samad himself floated out to sea, pulled down to the depths by a sirennamed Poppy Burt Jones the more determined he became to create for his boys roots on shore, deeproots that no storm or gale could displace. Easier said than done. He was in Poppy's poky little flat,going through his own household accounts, when it became obvious to him that he had more sonsthan money. If he was to send them back, he would need two dowries for the grandparents, twoamounts for the schooling, two amounts for the clothes. As it was he could barely cover both airfares. Poppy had said: "What about your wife? She's from a rich family isn't she?" But Samadhad not yet revealed his plan to Alsana. He had only tested the water, mentioning it in a passing,hypothetical way to Clara while njj| she did her gardening. How would she react if someone, acting "in Trie's best interest, took the child away to a better life? Clara *rose from her flower bed and stared at him in silent concern, and (tm)then laughed long and loud. The man who did that, she said finally, brandishing a large pair ofgarden shears inches from his crotch, chop, chop. Chop, chop, thought Samad; and it became clearto him what he was going to do.

　　"One of them?"O'Connell's again. 6.25. One chips, beans, egg and mushroom. And one omelette andmushrooms with peas (seasonal variation).

　　"Just one of them?""Archibald, please keep your voice down.""But -just one of them?"That is what I said. Chop, chop." He divided the fried egg on his plate down the middle. "Thereis no other way.""But-'

　　Archie was thinking again, as best he could. The same old stuff. You know, why couldn't peoplejust get on with things, just live together, you know, in peace or harmony or something. But hedidn't say any of that. He just said, "But' And then, "But-'

　　And then finally, "But which one?"And that (if you're counting air fare, dowry, initial schooling fee) was the three thousand, twohundred and forty-five quid question. Once the money was sorted yes, he remortgaged the house,he risked his land, the greatest mistake an immigrant can make it was simply a matter of choosingthe child. For the first week it was going to be Magid, definitely Magid. Magid had the brains,Magid would settle down quicker, learn the language quicker, and Archie had a vested interest inkeeping Millat in thecountry because he was the best striker Willesden Athletic FC (under fifteens) had seen indecades. So Samad began stealing Magid's clothes away for surreptitious packing, arranged aseparate passport (he would be travelling with auntie Zinat on 4 November) and had a word in theear of the school (long holiday, could he be given some homework to take with him, etc.).

　　But then the next week there was a change of heart and it was Millat, because Magid was reallySamad's favourite, and he wanted to watch him grow older, and Millat was the one more in need ofmoral direction anyway. So his clothes were pilfered, his passport arranged, his name whisperedinto the right ears.

　　The following week it was Magid until Wednesday and then Millat because Archie's old pen palHorst Ibelgaufts wrote the following letter, which Archie, familiar now with the strangely propheticnature of Horst's correspondence, brought to Samad's attention:

　　September 1984 Dearest Archibald,It is some time since my last letter, but I felt compelled to write to you about a wonderfuldevelopment in my garden which has brought me no little pleasure these past few months. To makea long story shorter and sweeter, I have finally gone for the chop and removed that old oak treefrom the far corner and I cannot begin to describe to you the difference it has made! Now theweaker seeds are receiving so much more sun and are so healthy I am able even to make cuttingsfrom them -for the first year in my memory each of my children has a vase of peonies on theirwindowsill. I had been suffering under the misapprehension all these years that I was simply anindifferent gardener when all the time it was that grand old tree, taking up half the garden with itsroots and not allowing anything else to grow.

　　The letter went on, but Samad stopped there. Irritably he said, "And I am meant to divine fromthis precisely .. . what?"Archie tapped the side of his nose knowingly. "Chop, chop. It's got to be Millat. An omen, mate.

　　You can trust Ibelgaufts."And Samad, who usually had no time for omens or nose tapping, was nervous enough to takethe advice. But then Poppy (who was acutely aware that she was fading from Samad's mind incomparison with the question of the boys) suddenly took an interest, claiming to have just sensed ina dream that it should be Magid and so it was Magid once more. Samad, in his desperation, evenallowed Archie to flip a coin, but the decision was hard to stick by best out of three, best out of fiveSamad couldn't trust it. And this, if you can believe it, was the manner in which Archie and Samadwent about playing lottery with two boys, bouncing the issue off the walls of O'Connell's, flippingsouls to see which side came up.

　　In their defence, one thing should be made clear. At no point was the word kidnap mentioned.

　　In fact had this been offered as terminology for what he was about to do, Samad would have beenappalled and astounded, would have dropped the whole thing like the somnambulist who wakes upto find himself in the master bedroom with a bread knife in his hand. He understood that he had notyet informed Abana. He understood that he had booked a3 a.m. flight. But it was in no wayself-evident to him that these two facts were related or would combine to spell out kidnap. So itwas with surprise that Samad greeted the vision of a violently weeping Alsana, at 2 a.m. on 31October, hunched over the kitchen table. He did not think, Ah, she has discovered what I am to dowith Magid (it was finally and for ever Magid), because he was not a moustachioed villain in aVictorian crime novel and besides which he was not conscious of plotting any crime. Rather hisfirst thought was, So she knows about Poppy, and in response to this situation he did what everyadulterous man does out of instinct: attack first.

　　"So I must come home to this, must I?" slam down bag for effect "I spend all night in thatinfernal restaurant and then I am having to come back to your melodramatics?"Alsana convulsed with tears. Samad noticed too that a gurgle sound was emanating from herpleasant fat which vibrated in the gap between her said; she waved her hands at him and then putthem over her ears.

　　"Is this really necessary?" asked Samad, trying to disguise his fear (he had expected anger, hedidn't know how to deal with tears). "Please, Alsana: surely this is an overreaction."She waved her hand at him once more as if to dismiss him and then lifted her body a little andSamad saw that the gurgling had not been organic, that she had been hunched over something. A radio.

　　"What on earth'

　　Alsana pushed the radio from her body into the middle of the table and motioned for Samad toturn it up. Four familiar beeps, the beeps that follow the English into whatever land they conquer,rang round the kitchen, and then in Received Pronunciation Samad heard the following:

　　This is the BBC World Service at 03.00 hours. Mrs. Indira Gandhi, Prime Minister of India, wasassassinated today, shot down by her Sikh bodyguards in an act of open mutiny as she walked inthe garden of her New Delhi home. There is no doubt that her murder was an act of revenge for"Operation Blue Star', the storming of the Sikhs' holiest shrine at Amritsar last June. The Sikhcommunity, who feel their culture is being attacked by "Enough," said Samad, switching it off.

　　"She was no bloody good anyway. None of them is any bloody good. And who cares what happensin that cesspit, India. Dear me ..." And even before he said it, he wondered why he had to, why hefelt so malevolent this evening. "You really are genuinely pathetic. I wonder: wherewould those tears be if / died? Nowhere you care more about some corrupt politician you nevermet. Do you know you are the perfect example of the ignorance of the masses, Alsi? Do you knowthat?" he said, talking as if to a child and holding her chin up. "Crying for the rich and mighty whowould disdain to piss upon you. Doubtless next week you will be bawling because Princess Dianabroke a fingernail."Alsana gathered all the spit her mouth could accommodate and launched it at him.

　　"Bhainchute! I am not crying for her, you idiot, I am crying for my friends. There will be bloodon the streets back home because of this, India and Bangladesh. There will be riots knives, guns.

　　Public death, I have seen it. It will be like Mahshar, Judgement Day people will die in the streets,Samad. You know and I know. And Delhi will be the worst of it, is always the worst of it. I havesome family in Delhi, I have friends, old lovers '

　　And here Samad slapped her, partly for the old lovers and partly because it was many yearssince he had been referred to as a bhainchute (translation: someone who, to put it simply, fuckstheir sisters).

　　Alsana held her face, and spoke quietly. "I am crying with misery for those poor families andout of relief for my own children! Their father ignores them and bullies them, yes, but at least theywill not die on the streets like rats."So this was going to be one of those rows: the same positions, the same lines, samerecriminations, same right hooks. Bare fists. The bell rings. Samad comes out of his corner.

　　"No, they will suffer something worse, much worse: sitting in a morally bankrupt country witha mother who is going mad. Utterly cuckoo. Many raisins short of the fruitcake. Look at you, lookat the state of you! Look how fat you are!" He grabbed a piece of her, and then released it as if itwould infect him. "Look how you dress. Running shoes and a said? And what is that?"It was one of Clara's African head scarfs a long, beautiful pieceof orange Kenti cloth in which Alsana had taken to wrapping her substantial mane. Samadpulled it off and threw it across the room, leaving Alsana's hair to crash down her back.

　　"You do not even know what you are, where you come from. We never see family any more Iam ashamed to show you to them. Why did you go all the way to Bengal for a wife, that's what theyask. Why didn't you just go to Putney?"Alsana smiled ruefully, shook her head, while Samad made a pretence of calm, filling theirmetal kettle with water and slamming it down on the stove.

　　"And that is a beautiful lungi you have on, Samad Miah," she said bitterly, nodding in thedirection of his blue-to welling jogging suit topped off with Poppy's LA Raiders baseball cap.

　　Samad said, "The difference is what is in here," not looking at her, thumping just below his leftbreast bone. "You say you are thankful we are in England, that's because you have swallowed itwhole. I can tell you those boys would have a better life back home than they ever'

　　"Samad Miah! Don't even begin! It will be over my dead body that this family moves back to aplace where our lives are in danger! Clara tells me about you, she tells me. How you have asked herstrange things. What are you plotting, Samad? I hear from Zinat all this about life insurance .. . whois dying? What can I smell? I tell you, it will be over my dead body '

　　"But if you are already dead, Alsi '

　　"Shut up! Shut up! I am not mad. You are trying to drive me mad! I phoned Ardashir, Samad.

　　He is telling me you have been leaving work at eleven thirty. It is two in the morning. I am notmad!""No, it is worse. Your mind is diseased. You call yourself a Muslim'

　　Alsana whipped round to face Samad, who was trying to concentrate his attention on thewhistling steam emerging from the kettle.

　　"No, Samad. Oh no. Oh no. I don't call myself anything. I 'just don't make claims. You callyourself a Muslim. You make them| deals with Allah. You are the one he will be talking to, comeam Mahshar. You, Samad Miah. You, you, you." *1Second round. Samad slapped Alsana. Alsana right hooked him in the stomach and thenfollowed up with a blow to the left cheekbone. She then made a dash to the back door, but Samadcaught her by the waist, rugby-tackled her, dragged her down and elbowed her in the coccyx.

　　Alsana, being heavier than Samad, knelt up, lifting him; flipped him over and dragged him out intothe garden, where she kicked him twice as he lay on the floor two short, fierce jabs to the foreheadbut the rubber-cushioned sole did little damage and in a moment he was on his knees again. Theymade a grab for each other's hair, Samad determined to pull until he saw blood. But this leftAlsana's knee free and it connected swiftly with Samad's crotch, forcing him to release the hair andswing a blind flier meant for her mouth but catching her ear. Around this time, the twins emergedhalf awake from their beds and stood at the long glass kitchen window to watch the fight, while theneighbours' security lights came on, illuminating the Iqbal garden like a stadium.

　　"Abba," said Magid, after surveying the state of play for a moment. "Definitely Abba.""Cha, man. No way," said Millat, blinking in the light. "I bet you two orange lollies Amma'sgoing to kick the shit out of him.""Ooooooo!" cried the twins in unison, as if it were a firework display, and then, "Aaaaaah!"Alsana had just ended the fight with a little help from the garden rake.

　　"Now maybe some of us, who have to work in the morning, can get a decent night's kip BloodyPakis," shouted a neighbour.

　　A few minutes later (because they always held each other after these fights, a hug somewherebetween affection and collapse)Samad came in from the garden, still mildly concussed and said, "Go to bed," before brushing ahand through each son's thick black hair.

　　As he reached the door, he stopped. "You'll thank me," he said, turning to Magid, who smiledfaintly, thinking maybe Abba was going to get him that chemistry set after all. "You'll thank me inthe end. This country's no good. We tear each other apart in this country."Then he walked up the stairs and phoned Poppy BuitJones, waking her up to tell her therewould be no more kisses in the afternoon, no more guilty walks, no more furtive taxis. End ofaffair.

　　Maybe all the Iqbals were prophets because Alsana's nose for trouble was more right than it hadever been. Public decapitations, families cremated in their sleep, hanging bodies outside theKashmir gate, people stumbling around dazed missing pieces of themselves; body parts taken fromMuslim by Sikh, from Sikh by Hindu; legs, fingers, noses, toes and teeth, teeth everywhere,scattered throughout the land, mingling with the dust. A thousand people had died by 4 Novemberwhen Alsana emerged from under the bathwater to hear the crackling voice of Our Man in Delhitelling her about it from the top of the medicine cabinet.

　　Terrible business. But, as Samad saw it, some of us have the luxury of sitting in the bath andlistening to the foreign news while some of us have a living to make, and an affair to forget, and achild to abduct. He squeezed into the white flares, checked the air ticket, phoned Archie to go overthe plan, and left for work.

　　On the tube there was a youngish, prettyish girl, dark, Spanish looking, mono-browed, crying.

　　Just sitting opposite him, in a pair of big, pink leg-warmers, crying quite openly. Nobody saidanything. Nobody did anything. Everybody hoped she was getting off at Kilburn. But she kept onlike that, just sitting, crying;West Hampstead, Finchley Road, Swiss Cottage, St. John's Wood. Then at Bond Street shepulled a photo of an unpromising-looking young man out of her rucksack, showed it to Samad andsome of the other passengers.

　　"Why he leave? He break my heart.. . Neil, he say his name, Neil. Neil, Neil."At Charing Cross, end of the line, Samad watched her cross the platform and get the train goingstraight back to Willesden Green. Romantic, in a way. The way she said "Neil' as if it were a wordbursting at the seams with past passion, with loss. That kind of flowing, feminine misery. He hadexpected something similar of Poppy, somehow; he had picked up the phone expecting gentle,rhythmic tears and later on letters, maybe, scented and stained. And in her grief he would havegrown, as Neil was probably doing at this moment; her grief would have been an epiphany bringinghim one step closer to his own redemption. But instead he had got only, "Fuck you, you fuckingfuck.""Told you," said Shiva, shaking his head and passing Samad a basket of yellow napkins to beshaped like castles. "I told you not to fuck with that business, didn't I? Too much history there, man.

　　You see: it ain't just you she's angry with, is it?"Samad shrugged and began on the turrets.

　　"No, man, history, history. It's all brown man leaving English woman, it's all Nehru sayingSee-Ya to Madam Britannia." Shiva, in an effort to improve himself, had joined the OpenUniversity. "It's all complicated, complicated shit, it's all about pride. Ten quid says she wanted youas a servant boy, as a wallah peeling the grapes.""No," protested Samad. "It wasn't that way. This is not the dark ages, Shiva, this is 1984.""Show's how much you know. From what you've told me, she's a classic case, mate, classic.""Well, I have other concerns now," muttered Samad (privatelycalculating that his children would by now be safely tucked in at the Joneses' sleepover, that itwas two more hours before Archie would need to wake Magid, leaving Millat to sleep on). "Familyconcerns.""No time!" cried Ardashir, who had crept up from behind, imperceptibly as ever, to examine thebattlements of Samad's castles. "No time for family concerns, cousin. Everyone's concerned,everybody's trying to get their family out of that mess back home I myself am forking out onethousand big ones for a ticket for my big-mouth sister but I still have to come to work, I still haveto get on with things. Busy night tonight, cousin," called Ardashir, as he exited the kitchen to pacearound the restaurant floor in a black tuxedo. "Don't let me down."http://www.en8848.com.cn/『原版英语』It was the busiest night in the week, Saturday, the night when the crowds come in waves:

　　pre-theatre, post-theatre, post-pub, post-club; the first polite and conversational, the secondhumming show-tunes, the third rowdy, the fourth wide-eyed and abusive. The theatre crowds werenaturally the favourite of the waiters; they were even tempered and tipped big and inquired after thegeography of the food its Eastern origin, its history all of which would be happily fabricated by theyounger waiters (whose furthest expedition East was the one they made daily, back home toWhitechapel, Smithfield's, the Isle of Dogs) or rendered faithfully and proudly by the elders inblack biro on the back of a pink napkin.

　　I'll Bet She Is! was the show at the National these past few months, a rediscovered mid fiftiesmusical set in the thirties. It was about a rich girl who runs away from her family and meets a poorboy on the road, who is himself off to fight the Civil War in Spain. They fall in love. Even Samad,who had no particular ear for a tune, picked up enough discarded programmes and heard enoughtables burst into song to know most of the songs; he liked them, in fact they took his mind off thedrudgery (even better tonight they were sweet relief from worrying whetherArchie would manage to get Magid outside the Palace at i a.m. on the dot); he murmured themalong with the rest of the kitchen in a kind of working rhythm as they chopped and marinaded,sliced and crushed.

　　I've seen the Paris opra and the wonders of the East"Samad Miah, I'm looking for the Rajah mustard seeds."Spent my summers by the Nile and my winters on the pi ste"Mustard seeds ... I think I saw Muhammed with them."I've had diamonds, rubies, furs and velvet capes"Accusations, accusations ... I have seen no mustard seeds."I've had Howard Hughes peel me a grape"I'm sorry, Shiva, if the old man doesn't have them, then I haven't seen them."But what does it mean without love?

　　"Then what are these?" Shiva walked over from his place next to chef and picked up a packet ofmustard seeds by Samad's right elbow. "Come on, Sam get it together. Head in the clouds this evening.""I'm sorry ... I have a lot on my mind"That lady friend of yours, eh?""Keep your voice down, Shiva.""They tell me I'm spoilt, a rich broad who means trouble," sang Shiva in the strangest ofHindified transatlantic accents. "Oioi, my chorus. But whatever love I'm given I pay it back double."Shiva grabbed a small aquamarine vase and sang his big finale into its upturned end. "But noamount of money, will make my honey mine .. . You should take that advice, Samad Miah," saidShiva, who was convinced Samad's recent remortgage was funding his illicit affair, 'it's good advice."A few hours later Ardashir appeared once more through the swing doors, breaking up thesinging to deliver his second-phase pep-talk. "Gentlemen, gentlemen! That is more than enough ofthat. Now, listen up: it's ten-thirty. They've seen the show.

　　They're hungry. They got only one pitiful tub of ice-cream in the interval and plenty of Bombaygin, which, as we all know, brings on the need for curry and that, gentlemen, is where we come in.

　　Two tables of fifteen just came in and sat at the back. Now: when they ask for water what do youdo? What do you do, Ravind?"Ravind was brand new, nephew of the chef, sixteen, nervy. "You tell them '

　　"No, Ravind, even before you speak, what do you do?"Ravind bit his lip. "I don't know, Ardashir.""You shake your head," said Ardashir, shaking his head. "Simultaneous with a look of concernand fear for their well-being." Ardashir demonstrated the look. "And then you say?"'"Water does not help the heat, sir.""But what helps the heat, Ravind? What will aid the gentleman with the burning sensation he ispresently feeling?""More rice, Ardashir/"And? And?"Ravind looked stumped and began to sweat. Samad, who had been belittled by Ardashir toomany times to enjoy watching someone else play the victim, leant over to whisper the answer inRavind's clammy ear.

　　Ravind's face lit up in gratitude. "More naan bread, Ardashir!""Yes; because it soaks up the chilli and more importantly water is free and naan bread is onepound twenty. Now cousin," said Ardashir, turning to Samad and waggling a bony finger, 'how willthe boy learn? Let the boy answer for himself next time. You have your own business: a couple ofladies on table twelve requested the head waiter specifically, to be served only by him, so-'

　　"Requested me? But I thought I might stay in the kitchen this evening. Besides, I cannot berequested like some personal butler, there is too much to do that is not policy, cousinAnd at this moment Samad feels panicky. His thoughts are sotaken up with the i a.m. abduction, with the prospect of splitting his twins, that he does not trusthimself with hot plates and steaming bowls of dal, with the spitting fat of clay-oven chicken, withall the dangers that accost a one-handed waiter. His head is full of his sons. He is half in dream thisevening. He has once again bitten every nail beyond the cuticle and is fast approaching thetranslucent high-moons, the bleeding hubs.

　　He is saying, he hears himself saying, "Ardashir, I have a million things to do here in thekitchens. And why should '

　　And the answer comes, "Because the head waiter is the best waiter and naturally they tipped meus for the privilege. No quibbling, please, cousin. Table twelve, Samad Miah/And perspiring lightly, throwing a white towel over his left arm, Samad begins tunelessly tohum the show-stopper as he pushes through the doors.

　　What won't a guy do for a girl? How sweet the scent, how huge the pearl?

　　It is a long walk to table twelve. Not in distance, it is only twenty metres in distance, but it is along walk through the thick smells and the loud voices and the demands; through the cries ofEnglishmen; past table two, where the ashtray is full and must be cupped by another ashtray, liftedsilently and switched for the new ashtray with perfect insouciance; stopping at table four, wherethere is an unidentifiable dish that was not ordered; debating with table five, who wish to be joinedwith table six, no matter the inconvenience; and table seven wants egg fried rice whether or not it isa Chinese dish; and table eight wobbles and more wine! More beer! It is a long walk if you are tonegotiate the jungle; attending to the endless needs and needless ends, the desires, the demands ofthe pink faces that strike Samad now as pith-helmet-wearing gentlemen, feet up on the table withguns across their laps; as tea-slurping ladies on verandas cooling themselves under the breeze of thebrown boys who beat the ostrich feathersWhat lengths won't he travel, how many hits of the gavelBy Allah, how thankful he is (yes, madam, one moment, madam), how gladdened by thethought that Magid, Magid at least, will, in a matter of four hours, be flying east from this place andits demands, its constant cravings, this place where there exists neither patience nor pity, where thepeople want what they want now, right now (We've been waiting twenty minutes for the vegetables),expecting their lovers, their children, their friends and even their gods to arrive at little cost and inlittle time, just as table ten expect their tandoori prawns .. .

　　At the auction of her choosing, how many Rembrandts, Kiimts, De Koonings?

　　These people who would exchange all faith for sex and all sex for power, who would exchangefear of God for self-pride, knowledge for irony, a covered, respectful head for a long, strident shockof orange hair It is Poppy at table twelve. It is Poppy Burt-Jones. And just the name would beenough right now (for he is at his most volatile, Samad; he is about to split his own sons in two likethat first nervous surgeon wielding his clumsy spit-wet knife over the clodded skin of the twins ofSiam), just the name would be enough to explode his mind. The name alone is a torpedo headingfor a tiny fishing boat, blowing his thoughts out of the water. But it is more than the name, the echoof a name spoken by some thoughtless fool or found at the bottom of an old letter, it is PoppyBurt-Jones herself in the freckled flesh. Sitting cold and determined with her sister, who seems, likeall siblings of those we have desired, an uglier, mis-featured version.

　　"Say something, then," says Poppy abruptly, fiddling with a Marlboro packet. "No wittyrejoinder? No crap about camels or coconuts? Nothing to say?"Samad doesn't have anything to say. He merely stops humming his tune, inclines his head atexactly the correct deferential angle, and puts the nib of his pen preparedly to paper. It is like adream.

　　"All right, then," Poppy is saying tartly, looking Samad up and down, lighting up a fag. "Have ityour way. Right. To start with we'll have lamb samos as and the yoghurt whatdyamacallit/"And for the main," the shorter, plainer, or anger snub-nosed sister is saying, "Two Lamb DawnSock and rice, with chips, please, waiter."At least Archie is right on time; right year, right date, right hour; 1984, 5 November, i a.m.

　　Outside the restaurant, dressed in a long trench-coat, standing in front of his Vauxhall, one handtickling some spanking new Pirelli tyres, the other pulling hard on a fag like Bogart or a chauffeuror Bogart's chauffeur. Samad arrives, clasps Archie's right hand in his own and feels the coldness ofhis friend's fingers, feels the great debt he owes him. Involuntarily, he blows a cloud of frozenbreath into his face. "I won't forget this, Archibald," he is saying, "I won't forget what you do forme tonight, my friend."Archie shuffles about awkwardly. "Sam, before you there's something I have to'

　　But Samad is already reaching for the door, and Archie's explanation must follow the sight ofthree shivering children in the back seat like a limp punchline.

　　"They woke up, Sam. They were all sleeping in the same room - a sleepover, like. Nothing Icould do. I just put coats over their pyjamas1 couldn't risk Clara hearing I had to bring them."Irie asleep; curled up with her head on the ashtray and her feet resting on the gearbox, butMillat and Magid reaching out for their father gleefully, pulling at his flares, chucking him on the chin.

　　"Hey, Abba! Where we going, Abba? To a secret disco party? Are we really?"Samad looks severely at Archie; Archie shrugs.

　　"We're going on a trip to an airport. To Heathrow.""Wow!""And then when we get there, Magid - Magid ' It is like a dream. Samad feels the tears beforehe can stop them; he reaches out to his eldest-son-by-two-minutes and holds him so tight to hischest that he snaps the arm of his glasses. "And then Magid is going on a trip with auntie Zinat.""Will he come back?" It is Millat. "It would be cool if he didn't come back!"Magid prises himself from his father's headlock. "Is it far? Will I be back in time for Mondayonly I've got to see how my photosynthesis is for science I took two plants: put one in the cupboardand one in the sunlight and I've got to see, Abba, I've got to see which one '

　　Years from now, even hours after that plane leaves, this will be history that Samad tries not toremember. That his memory makes no effort to retain. A sudden stone submerged. False teethfloating silently to the bottom of a glass.

　　"Will I get back for school, Abba?""Come on," says Archie, solemnly from the front seat. "We've got to get cracking if we're goingto make it.""You'll be in a school on Monday, Magid. I promise. Now sit back in your seats, go on. ForAbba, please."Samad closes the car door and crouches to watch his twin sons blow their hot breath on to thewindow. He puts his one hand up, applying a false touch to their lips, raw pink against the glass,their saliva mingling in the grimy condensation.

　　To Alsana's mind the real difference between people was not colour. Nor did it lie in gender,faith, their relative ability to dance to a syncopated rhythm or open their fists to reveal a handful ofgold coins. The real difference was far more fundamental. It was in the earth. It was in the sky. Youcould divide the whole of humanity into two distinct camps, as far as she was concerned, simply byasking them to complete a very simple questionnaire, of the kind you find in Woman's Own on a Tuesday:

　　(a) Are the skies you sleep under likely to open up for week son end?

　　(b) Is the ground you walk on likely to tremble and split? (c) Is there a chance (and please tickthe box, no matter how small that chance seems) that the ominous mountain casting a middayshadow over your home might one day erupt with no rhyme or reason?

　　Because if the answer is yes to one or all of these questions, then the life you lead is a midnightthing, always a hair's breadth from the witching hour; it is volatile, it is threadbare; it is carefree inthe true sense of that term; it is light, lo sable like a keyring or a hair clip And it is lethargy: whynot sit all morning, all day, all year, under the same cypress tree drawing the figure of eight in thedust? More than that, it is disaster, it is chaos: why not overthrow a government on a whim, whynot blind the man you hated, why not go mad, go gibbering through the town like a loon, wavingyour hands, tearing your hair? There's nothing to stop you or rather anything could stop you, anyhour, any minute. That feeling. That's the real difference in a life.