"Mrs. Iqbal? It's Joyce Chalfen. Mrs. Iqbal? I can see you quite clearly. It's Joyce. I really thinkwe should talk. Could you .. . umm .. . open the door?"Yes, she could. Theoretically, she could. But in this atmosphere of extremity, with warring sonsand disparate factions, Alsana needed a tactic of her own. She'd done silence, and word-strikes andfood consumption (the opposite of a hunger-strike; one gets bigger in order to intimidate theenemy), and now she was attempting a sit-down protest.
"Mrs. Iqbal .. . just five minutes of your time. Magid's really very upset about all of this. He'sworried about Millat and so am I. Just five minutes, Mrs. Iqbal, please."Alsana didn't rise from her seat. She simply continued along the hem, keeping her eye on theblack thread as it shuttled from one cog to the next and down into the PVC, pressing the pedal ofthe Singer furiously, as if kicking the flank of a horse she wished to ride into the sunset.
"Well, you may as well let her in," said Samad wearily, emerging from the lounge, whereJoyce's persistence had disturbed his appreciation of The Antiques Roadshow. (Aside from TheEqualizer, starring that great moral arbiter Edward Woodward, it was Samad's favourite programme.
He had spent fifteen long tele visual years waiting for some cockney housewife to pull a trinket ofMangal Pande's out of her handbag. Oh, Mrs. Winterbottom, now this is very exciting. What wehave here is the barrel of the musket belonging to ... He sat with the phone under his right hand sothat in the event of such a scenario he could phone the BBC and demand the said Winterbottom'saddress and asking price. So faronly Mutiny medals and a pocket watch belonging to Havelock, but still he watched.)He peered down the hallway at the shadowy form of Joyce through the glass and scratched histesticles, sadly. Samad was in his television mode: garish V-neck, stomach swelling like a tighthot-water bottle beneath it, long moth-eaten dressing gown, and a pair of paisley boxer-shorts fromwhich two stick legs, the legacy of his youth, protruded. In his television mode action escaped him.
The box in the corner of the room (which he liked to think of as an antique of its kind, encased inwood and on four legs like some Victorian robot) sucked him in and sapped all energy.
"Well, why don't you do something, Mr. Iqbal? Make her go away. Instead of standing therewith your flabby gut and your tiny willy on display."Samad grunted and tucked the cause of all his troubles, two huge hairy balls and adefeated-looking limp prick, back into the inner lining of his shorts.
"She won't go away," he murmured. "And if she does, she will only return withreinforcements.""But why? Hasn't she caused enough trouble?" said Alsana loudly, loud enough for Joyce. "Shehas her own family, no? Why does she not go and for a change mess them up? She has boys, fourboys? How many boys does she want? How bloody many?"Samad shrugged, went into the kitchen drawer and fished out the earphones that could beplugged into the television and thus short-circuit the outside world. He, like Marcus, haddisengaged. Leave them, was his feeling. Leave them to their battles.
"Oh thank you," said Alsana caustically, as her husband retreated to his Hugh Scully and hispots and guns. "Thank you, Samad Miah, for your oh so valuable contribution. This is what themen do. They make the mess, the century ends, and they leave the women to clear up the shit.
Thank you, husband!"She increased the speed of her sewing, dashing out the seam,progressing down the inner leg, while the Sphinx of the letterbox continued to askunanswerable questions.
"Mrs. Iqbal.. . please can we talk? Is there any reason why we shouldn't talk? Do we have tobehave like children?"Alsana began to sing.
"Mrs. Iqbal? Please. What can this possibly achieve?"Alsana sang louder.
"I must tell you," said Joyce, strident as ever, even through three panels of wood and doubleglazing, "I'm not here for my health. Whether you want me to be involved or not, I am, you see? I am."Involved. At least that was the right word, Alsana reflected, as she lifted her foot off the pedal,and let the wheel spin a few times alone before coming to a squeaky halt. Sometimes, here inEngland, especially at bus-stops and on the daytime soaps, you heard people say "We're involvedwith each other," as if this were a most wonderful state to be in, as if one chose it and enjoyed it.
Alsana never thought of it that way. Involved happened over a long period of time, pulling you inlike quicksand. Involved is what befell the moon-faced Alsana Begum and the handsome SamadMiah one week after they'd been pushed into a Delhi breakfast room together and informed theywere to marry. Involved was the result when Clara Bowden met Archie Jones at the bottom of somestairs. Involved swallowed up a girl called Ambrosia and a boy called Charlie (yes, Clara had toldher that sorry tale) the second they kissed in the larder of a guest house. Involved is neither good,nor bad. It is just a consequence of living, a consequence of occupation and immigration, ofempires and expansion, of living in each other's pockets .. . one becomes involved and it is a longtrek back to being uninvolved. And the woman was right, one didn't do it for one's health. Nothingthis late in the century was done with health in mind. Alsana was no dummy when it came to theModern Condition. She watched the talk shows, all day long she watched the talk shows My wifeslept with my brother, My mother won't stay out of my boyfriend's lifeand the microphone holder, whether it be Tanned Man with White Teeth or Scary MarriedCouple, always asked the same damn silly question: But why do you feel the need .. . ? Wrong!
Alsana had to explain it to them through the screen. You blockhead; they are not wanting this, theyare not willing it they are just involved, see? They walk IN and they get trapped between therevolving doors of those two v's. Involved. The years pass, and the mess accumulates and here weare. Your brother's sleeping with my ex-wife's niece's second cousin. Involved. Just a tired,inevitable fact. Something in the way Joyce said it, involvedwearied, slightly acid suggested to Alsana that the word meant the same thing to her. Anenormous web you spin to catch yourself.
"OK, OK, lady, five minutes, only. I have three cat suits to do this morning come hell or high water."Alsana opened the door and Joyce walked into the hallway, and for a moment they surveyedtheir opposite number, guessing each other's weight like nervous prize fighters prior to mountingthe scales. They were definitely a match for Teach other. What Joyce lacked in chest, she made upin bottom. Where Alsana revealed a weakness in delicate features a thin and pretty nose, lighteyebrows she compensated with the huge pudge of her arms, the dimples of maternal power. For,after all, she was the mother here. The mother of the boys in question. She held the trump card,should she be forced to play it.
"Okey-do key then," said Alsana, squeezing through the narrow kitchen door, beckoning Joyceto follow.
"Is it tea or is it coffee?""Tea," said Joyce firmly. "Fruit if possible.""Fruit not possible. Not even Earl Grey is possible. I come from the land of tea to this godawfulcountry and then I can't afford a proper cup of it. P.G. Tips is possible and nothing else."Joyce winced. "P.G. Tips, please, then.""As you wish."The mug of tea plonked in front of Joyce a few minutes later was grey with a rim of scum andthousands of little microbes flitting through it, less micro than one would have hoped. Alsana gaveJoyce a moment to consider it.
"Just leave it for a while," she explained gaily. "My husband hit a water pipe when digging atrench for some onions. Our water is a little funny ever since. It may give you the running shits or itmay not. But give it a minute and it clears. See?" Alsana gave it an unconvincing stir, sending yetlarger chunks of unidentified matter bubbling up to the surface. "You see? Fit for Shah Jahan himself!"Joyce took a tentative sip and then pushed it to one side.
"Mrs. Iqbal, I know we haven't been on the best of terms in the past, but-'
"Mrs. Chalfen," said Alsana, putting up her long forefinger to stop Joyce speaking. "There aretwo rules that everybody knows, from PM to jinrickshaw-wallah. The first is, never let yourcountry become a trading post. Very important. If my ancestors had followed this advice, mysituation presently would be very different, but such is life. The second is, don't interfere in otherpeople's family business. Milk?""No, no, thank you. A little sugar .. ."Alsana dumped a huge heaped tablespoon into Joyce's cup.
"You think I am interfering?""I think you have interfered.""But I just want the twins to see each other.""You are the reason they are apart.""But Magid is only living with us because Millat won't live with him here. And Magid tells meyour husband can barely stand the sight of him."Alsana, little pressure-cooker that she was, blew. "And why can't he? Because you, you andyour husband, have involved Magid in something so contrary to our culture, to our beliefs,that we barely recognize him! You have done that! He is at odds with his brother now.
Impossible conflict! Those green bow-tied bastards: Millat is high up with them now. Very involved.
He doesn't tell me, but I hear. They call themselves followers of Islam, but they are nothing butthugs in a gang roaming Kilburn like all the other lunatics. And now they are sending out the whatare they called folded-paper trouble.""Leaflets?""Leaflets. Leaflets about your husband and his ungodly mouse. Trouble brewing, yes sir. Ifound them, hundreds of them under his bed." Alsana stood up, drew a key out of her apron pocketand opened a kitchen cupboard stacked full of green leaflets, which cascaded on to the floor. "He'sdisappeared again, three days. I have to put them back before he finds out they are gone. Take some,go on, lady, take them, go and read them to Magid. Show him what you have done. Two boysdriven to different ends of the world. You have made a war between my sons. You are splittingthem apart!"A minute earlier Millat had turned the key ever so softly in the front door. Since then he hadbeen standing in the hallway, listening to the conversation and smoking a fag. It was great! It waslike listening to two big Italian matriarchs from opposing clans battle it out. Millat loved clans. Hehad joined KEVIN because he loved clans (and the outfit and the bow tie), and he loved clans atwar. Marjorie the analyst had suggested that this desire to be part of a clan was a result of being,effectively, half a twin. Marjorie the analyst suggested that Millat's religious conversion was morelikely born out of a need for sameness within a group than out of any intellectually formulatedbelief in the existence of an all-powerful creator. Maybe. Whatever. As far as he was concerned,you could analyse it until the cows came home, but nothing beat being all dressed in black,smoking a fag, listening to two mammas battle it out over you in operatic style:
"You claim to want to help my boys, but you have done nothing but drive a wedge betweenthem. It is too late now. I have lost my family. Why don't you go back to yours and leave us alone?""You think it's paradise over at my house? My family has been split by this too. Joshua isn'tspeaking to Marcus. Did you know that? And those two were so close .. Joyce looked a bit weepy,and Alsana reluctantly passed her the kitchen roll. "I'm trying to help all of us. And the best way tostart is to get Magid and Millat talking before this escalates any further than it has. I think we canboth agree on that. If we could find some neutral place, some ground where they both felt nopressures or outside influence"But there are no neutral places any more! I agree they should meet, but where and how? Youand your husband have made everything impossible.""Mrs. Iqbal, with all due respect, the problems in your family began long before either myhusband or I had any involvement.""Maybe, maybe, Mrs. Chalfen, but you are the salt in the wound, yes? You are the one extrachilli pepper in the hot sauce."Millat heard Joyce draw her breath in sharply.
"Again, with respect, I can't believe that it is the case. I think this has been going on for a verylong time. Millat told me that some years ago you burnt all his things. I mean, it's just an example,but I don't think you understand the trauma that kind of thing has inflicted on Millat. He's very damaged.""Oh, we are going to play the tit for the tat. I see. And I am to be the tit. Not that it is any ofyour big-nose business, but I burnt those things to teach him a lesson to respect other people's lives!""A strange way of showing it, if you don't mind me saying.""I do mind! I do mind! What do you know of it?""Only what I see. And I see that Millat has a lot of mental scars. You may not be aware, but I'vebeen funding sessions for Millat with my analyst. And I can tell you, Millat's inner life his karma,Magid, Mil Ut and Marcus 1992, 1999I suppose you might call it in Bengali the whole world of his subconscious shows serious illness."In fact, the problem with Millat's subconscious (and he didn't need Marjorie to tell him this)was that it was basically split-level. On the one hand he was trying real hard to live as Hifan andthe others suggested. This involved getting his head around four main criteria.
1. To be ascetic in one's habits (cut down on the booze, thespliff, the women).
2. To remember always the glory of Muhammad (peace be upon Him!) and the might of the Creator.
3. To grasp a full intellectual understanding of KEVIN and the Qur'an.
4. To purge oneself of the taint of the West.
He knew that he was HE VIN 's big experiment, and he wanted to give it his best shot. In thefirst three areas he was doing fine. He smoked the odd fag and put away a Guinness on occasion(can't say fairer than that), but he was very successful with both the evil weed and the temptationsof the flesh. He no longer saw Alexandra Andrusier, Polly Houghton or Rosie Dew (though he paidoccasional visits to one Tanya Chapman, a very small redhead who understood the delicate natureof his dilemma and would give him a thorough blow job without requiring Millat to touch her at all.
It was a mutually beneficial arrangement: she was the daughter of a judge and delighted inhorrifying the old goat, and Millat needed ejaculation with no actual active participation on hisside). On the scriptural side of things, he thought Muhammad (peace be upon Him!) was a rightgeezer, a great bloke, and he was in awe of the Creator, in the original meaning of that word: dread,fear, really shit-scared and Hifan said that was correct, that was how it should be. He understoodthis idea that his religion was not one based on faith not likethe Christians, the Jews, et al. but one that could be intellectually proved by the best minds. Heunderstood the idea. But, sadly, Millat was far from possessing one of the best minds, or even areasonable mind; intellectual proof or disproof was beyond him. Still, he understood that to rely onfaith, as his own father did, was contemptible. And no one could say he didn't give one hundred percent to the cause. That seemed enough for HE VIN. They were more than happy with his real forte,which was the delivery of the thing. The presentation. For instance, if a nervous-looking womancame up to the KEVIN stall in Willesden Library and asked about the faith, Millat would lean overthe desk, grab her hand, press it and say: Not faith, Sister. We do not deal in faith here. Spend fiveminutes with my Brother Rakesh and he will intellectually prove to you the existence of the Creator.
The Qur'an is a document of science, a document of rational thought. Spend five minutes, Sister, ifyou care for your future beyond this earth. And to top it off, he could usually sell her a few tapes(Ideological Warfare or Let the Scholars Beware), two quid each. Or even some of their literature,if he was on top form. Everyone at KEVIN was mightily impressed. So far so good. As forKEVIN's more unorthodox programmes of direct action, Millat was right in there, he was theirgreatest asset, he was in the forefront, the first into battle come jihad, cool as fuck in a crisis, a manof action, like Brando, like Pacino, like Liotta. But even as Millat reflected on this with pride in hismother's hallway, his heart sank. For therein lay the problem. Number four. Purging oneself of the West .
Now, he knew, he knew that if you wanted an example of the moribund, decadent, degenerate,over-sexed, violent state of Western capitalist culture and the logical endpoint of its obsession withpersonal freedoms (Leaflet: Way Out West), you couldn't do much better than Hollywood cinema.
And he knew (how many times had he been through it with Hifan?) that the 'gangster' movie, theMafia genre, was the worst example of that. And yet ... it was thehardest thing to let go. He would give every spliff he'd ever smoked and every woman he'd everfucked to retrieve the films his mother had burnt, or even the few he had purchased more recentlywhich Hifan had confiscated. He had torn up his Rocky Video membership and thrown away theIqbal video recorder to distance himself from direct temptation, but was it his fault if Channel 4 rana De Niro season? Could he help it if Tony Bennett's "Rags to Riches' floated out of a clothes shopand entered his soul? It was his most shameful secret that whenever he opened a door a car door, acar boot, the door of KEVIN's meeting hall or the door of his own house just now the opening ofGoodFdlas ran through his head and he found this sentence rolling around in what he presumed washis subconscious:
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.
He even saw it like that, in that font, like on the movie poster. And when he found himselfdoing it, he tried desperately not to, he tried to fix it, but Millat's mind was a mess and more oftenthan not he'd end up pushing upon the door, head back, shoulders forward, Liotta style, thinking:
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a Muslim.
He knew, in a way, this was worse, but he just couldn't help it. He kept a white handkerchief inhis top pocket, he always carried dice, even though he had no idea what a crap game actually was,he loved long camel jackets and he could cook a killer seafood linguine, though a lamb curry wascompletely beyond him. It was all hara am he knew that.
Worst of all was the anger inside him. Not the righteous anger of a man of God, but the seething,violent anger of a gangster, ajuvenile delinquent, determined to prove himself, determined to run the clan, determined to beatthe rest. And if the game was God, if the game was a fight against the West, against thepresumptions of Western science, against his brother or Marcus Chalfen, he was determined to winit. Millat stubbed his fag out against the bannister. It pissed him off that these were not piousthoughts. But they were in the right ball park, weren't they? He had the fundamentals, didn't he?
Clean living, praying (five times a day without fail), fasting, working for the cause, spreading themessage? And that was enough, wasn't it? Maybe. Whatever. Either way, there was no going backnow. Yeah, he'd meet Magid, he'd meet him .. . they'd have a good face-off, he'd come out of it thestronger; he'd call his brother a little cock-a-roach, and walk out of that tete-a-tete even moredetermined to fulfill his destiny. Millat straightened his green bow-tie and slunk forward like Liotta(all menace and charm) and pushed open the kitchen door (Ever since I can remember.. . ), waitingfor two pairs of eyes, like two of Scorsese's cameras, to pan on to his face and focus.
"Millat!""Amma.""Millat!""Joyce."(Great, supwoib, so we all know each other, went Millat's inner monologue in Paul Sorvino'svoice, Now let's get down to business.)"All right, gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed. It is simply my son. Magid, Mickey.
Mickey, Magid."O'ConnelTs once more. Because Alsana had eventually conceded Joyce's point, but did not careto dirty her hands. Instead, she demanded Samad take Magid 'out somewhere' and spend an eveningpersuading him into meeting with Millat. But the only 'out' Samad understood was O'Connell's andthe prospect oftaking his son there was repellent. He and his wife had a thorough wrestle in the garden to settlethe point, and he was confident of success until Alsana fooled him with a dummy trip, then anarmlock-knee-groin combination. So here he was: O'Connell's, and it was as bad a choice as he'dsuspected. When he, Archie and Magid walked in, trying to make a low-key entrance, there hadbeen widespread consternation amongst both staff and clientele. The last stranger anybodyremembered arriving with Arch and Sam was Samad's accountant, a small rat-faced man who triedto talk to people about their savings (as if people in O'Connell's had savings!) and asked not oncebut twice for blood pudding, though it had been explained to him that pig was unavailable. Thathad been around 1987 and nobody had enjoyed it. And now what was this? A mere five years laterand here comes another one, this time all dressed in white insultingly clean for a Friday evening inO'ConnelTs and way below the unspoken minimum age requirement (thirty-six). What was Samadtrying to do?
"Whattareya tryin' to do to us, Sammy?" asked Johnny, a mournful-looking stick of anex-Orangeman, who was leaning over the hot plate to collect some bubble and squeak. "Overrun us,are ya or sum thing"Oo 'im?" demanded Denzel, who had not yet died.
"Your batty bwoy?" inquired Clarence, who was also, by God's grace, hanging on in there.
"All right, gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed. It is simply my son. Magid, Mickey.
Mickey, Magid."Mickey looked a little dumbfounded by this introduction, and just stood there for a minute, asoggy fried egg hanging off his spatula.
"Magid Mahfooz Murshed Mubtasim Iqbal," said Magid serenely. "It is a great honour to meetyou, Michael. I have heard such a great deal about you."Which was odd, because Samad had never told him a thing.
Mickey continued to look over Magid's shoulder to Samad for confirmation. "You what? Youmean the one you, er, sent back 'ome? This is Magid?""Yes, yes, this is Magid," replied Samad rapidly, pissed off by all the attention the boy wasgetting. "Now, Archibald and I will have our usuals and'
"Magid Iqbal," repeated Mickey slowly. "Well, I bloody never. You know you'd never guessyou was an Iqbal. You've got a very trusting, well, kind of sympathetic face, if you get me.""And yet I am an Iqbal, Michael," said Magid, laying that look of total empathy on Mickey andthe other dregs of humanity huddled around the hot counter, 'though I have been gone a long time.""Say that again. Well, this is a turn-up for the books. I've got your .. . wait a minute, let me getthis right .. . your great-great-grandfather up there, see?""I noticed it the moment I came in, and I can assure you, Michael, my soul is very grateful forit," said Magid, beaming like an angel. "It makes me feel at home, and, as this place is dear to myfather and his friend Archibald Jones I feel certain it shall also be dear to me. They have broughtme here, I think, to discuss important matters, and I for one can think of no better place for them,despite your clearly debilitating skin condition."Mickey was simply bowled over by that, and could not conceal his pleasure, addressing hisreply both to Magid and the rest of O'Connell's.
"Speaks fuckin' nice, don't he? Sounds like a right fuckin' Olivier. Queen's fucking English andno mistake. What a nice fella. You're the kind of clientele I could do wiv in here, Magid, let me tellyou. Civilized and that. And don't you worry about my skin, it don't get anywhere near the food andit don't give me much trouble. Cor, what a gentleman. You do feel like you should watch yourmouth around him, dontcha?""Mine and Archibald's usual, then, please, Mickey," said Samad.
Till leave my son to make up his mind. We will be over by the pinball." J|"Yeah, yeah," said Mickey, not bothering or able to tun his *5i gaze from Magid's dark eyes. IB"Dat a lovely suit you gat dere," murmured Denzel, stroking "IH the white linen wistfully.
"Dat's what de Englishmen use taw ear back home in Jamaica, remember dat, Clarence:1'
Clarence nodded slowly, dribbling a little, struck by the beatific.
"Go on, get out of it, the pair of you," grumbled Mickey, shooing them away, Till bring it over,all right? I want to talk to Magid here. Growing boy, he's got to eat. So: what is it I can get you,Magid?" Mickey leant over the counter, all concern, lite an over-attentive shop girl "Eggs?
Mushrooms? Beans? Fried sice?""I think," replied Magid, slowly surveying the dusty chalkboard menus on the wall, and thenturning back to Mickey, his face illumined, "I should like a bacon sandwich. Yes, that is it. I wouldlove a juicy, yet well-done, tomato ketchup-ed bacon sandwich. On brown."Oh, the struggle that could be seen on Mickey's kisser at that moment! Oh, the gargoyliancontortions! It was a battle between the favour of the most refined customer he had ever had andthe most hallowed, sacred rule of O'Connell's Pool House. no pork.
Mickey's left eye twitched.
"Don't want a nice plate of scrambled? I do a lovely scrambled eggs, don't I, Johnny?""I'd be a liar if I said ya didn't," said Johnny loyally from his table, even though Mickey's eggswere famously grey and stiff, I'd be a terrible liar, on my mother's life, I would."Magid wrinkled his nose and shook his head.
"All right what about mushrooms and beans? Omelette and chips? No better chips in theFinchley Road. Come on, son," he pleaded, desperate. "You're a Muslim, int ya? You don't want tobreak your father's heart with a bacon sandwich.""My father's heart will not be broken by a bacon sandwich. Itis far more likely that my father's heart will break from the result of a build-up of saturated fatwhich is in turn a result of eating in your establishment for fifteen years. One wonders," said Magidevenly, 'if a case could be made, a legal case, you understand, against individuals in the foodservice industry who fail to label their meals with a clear fat content or general health warning. Onewonders."All this was delivered in the sweetest, most melodious voice, and with no hint of threat. PoorMickey didn't know what to make of it.
"Well, of course," said Mickey nervously, 'hypothetically that is an interesting question. Veryinteresting.""Yes, I think so.""Yeah, definitely."Mickey fell silent and spent a minute elaborately polishing the top of the hot plate, an activityhe indulged in about once every ten years.
"There. See your face in that. Now. Where were we?""A bacon sandwich."At the sound of the word 'bacon', a few ears began to twitch at the front tables.
"If you could keep your voice down a little"A bacon sandwich," whispered Magid.
"Bacon. Right. Well, I'll have to nip next door, 'cos I ain't got none at present .. . but you just sitdown wiv your dad and I'll bring it over. It'll cost a bit more, like. What wiv the extra effort, youknow. But don't worry, I'll bring it over. And tell Archie not to worry if he ain't got the cash. ALuncheon Voucher will do.""You are very kind, Michael. Take one of these." Magid reached into his pocket and pulled outa piece of folded paper.
"Oh, fuck me, another leaflet? You can't fucking............