A Matter of Marriage (11 page)

He was a joke as a big brother, an eldest son. A
casra kusrah
, a dirty homo. Sex between men was pervasive in the traditional Muslim world, given the unavailability of its women. But a real homosexual: that was the unspeakable, the unclean thing. Even here, with his family, he was committing this sin . . .

A man without a wife was a boy, not a man. A man who had lost his wife was but half a man. A man who did not want to marry, to bring a wife into his family to care for his parents and to give them grandchildren, was no son, no man at all. He stole another look at Kareem, who, hands on knees, was listening with rapt attention to some Oxford gossip of Dad's. How could Dad even think that Kareem would be interested in college gossip? Then again, all he'd ever needed was an audience, and he certainly had that. Now Mum was trying to get in on the act as well, hovering, waiting for Dad to take a breath so that she could jump in.

Anyone would think that Kareem, not he, was the eldest son, the prodigal returned, the rescuer of sisters. Kareem sat and listened but at the same time seemed to be aware of everything else that was happening in the room, with an alert stillness that made him look ready for anything. This was the kind of man Jamat-al-Islami had wanted at Tajura, with the single-mindedness that Tariq had never had.

What had he taken away from that time in Libya, really? An efficiency in times of crisis, perhaps. Certainly he was physically tougher. Kareem had that toughness too, Tariq could see that, despite the suit and the smiles, but with him it was a gift from the street.

What else? He could probably still strip and remount a Kalashnikov at speed, though he never would again. And the paramedic course had helped him out of a few tight spots.

A lull in the conversation brought him back to the present, in time to see Kareem head out of the room and come back with the gold-wrapped gifts. A Rolex for Dr. Choudhury and another for Tariq, both proffered apologetically, modestly. A box of mangoes (“Direct from Bangladesh yesterday, Khalama, Auntie,”) for Mrs. Begum and a beauty box for “the other sister.”

They all accepted their gifts and fell silent, his parents looking caught uncomfortably between sentimentality and suspicion. He could see it on their faces: the fellow Bangladeshi who could conjure up such memories of home, who had helped bury Mum's dearest uncle, who showed such respect, knew the old forms and traditions as if he were their generation, not Tariq's and Shunduri's. The unrelated male who had arrived without notice, ridden in a car with their unmarried daughter, known her in London.

—

M
RS.
B
EGUM TOOK
the box of mangoes into the kitchen, picked one out, put it to her nose and inhaled deeply. The sweet heavy perfume of this prince of fruits always took her back to eating them as a child in her village on special occasions, every last piece of flesh scraped off the skin with her teeth, the juice running down her chin. She bent to look through her cupboards, found her Royal Albert old-country-roses saucers and a sharp knife and proceeded to slice up three mangoes into six portions, neatly segmenting the flesh into squares. She bent the skins into convex arcs and placed one on each saucer, so the exposed cubes could be lifted off with a fork. Even the Windsors could not prefer cake to this.

What a good boy to bring gifts, touch their feet in the way he did, not like these modern boys with their Christian handshakes and phones always ringing. And he was in Mrs. Guri's household.

Mrs. Begum reserved the mango stones, with scraps of flesh still clinging to them, onto a separate, plain plate for kitchen-eating later. Was Kareem also the man in the car of whom Mrs. Guri had warned? Either way, Shunduri must be disposed of soon, before the scandal got worse. She frowned. Two could play at matchmaker.

If Mrs. Guri knew that Kareem was here, it meant that she wanted to marry him into the Choudhurys. Mrs. Begum loaded the saucers onto a metal tray and started to hunt for the small shiny forks that Mrs. Darby had given her. Fish-forks, her friend had called them. Who could eat fish with a tiny fork anyway? No wonder they had never been used.

If Mrs. Guri did not know that Kareem was here, then Mrs. Begum would make her own enquiries and would not be above moving events along. The love-match: so dreaded by all respectable parents, yet so common over here in UK, with boys and girls going to the same schools, driving cars, at college together. They happened often enough, hushed up, with everyone pretending that they were a quick-quick arranged marriage, in accord with the wishes of some family elder on their deathbed. She snorted. That family elder then being miraculously revived to attend the
nikkah
, of course. And the reception. And the
walima
. At least Kareem was not Hindu or Christian,
Inshallah
. In fact, the way things were going, he might be her only Bangladeshi son-in-law.

Kareem reminded her a bit of Prince Andrew, with his dark suit and jewelry. A good match for Baby, who, as far as her loud mouth and spending habits went, could have been Princess Fergie herself. But Baby could be managed. Even her worst behavior, her smiles-and-laughing one minute and tears-and-wailing the next, a gift she had had since childhood, was never known to operate against her own interests. And what could be more in Baby's interests than this?

Kareem looked like a good boy, with a good job. He would be a generous husband, give her lots of clothes, and be worldly enough to not be put off by news of a troubled sister-in-law. Just think of them in a big detached red-brick house close to her, just like Andrew and Fergie used to have. Mrs. Guri was a good, practical sort of woman. Between the two of them, and the threat of scandal, there would be no need here for a
funchait
to force a reluctant suitor into marriage with slaps and beatings by a council of elders.

—

K
AREEM KNEW HE
was on a knife edge. The brother's glowering, he'd expected that. And he'd shown nuff respect to the elders, though he would have to watch his step: one car trip with their daughter he could get away with, and one only.

Not that there needed to be another: this should keep his princess happy for a while, show her he could be relied upon, keep everything sweet. While he nodded and smiled, he looked around uneasily. That castle, Bourne Abbey, which he could see out the window, like something out of Transylvania. In this room, books, magazines and newspapers everywhere, no television in sight. No community here to visit. What did they do in the evenings? This was not your usual Bangla family, with the father a professor, the whole family so wealthy with their own house, detached too, and removed from the community.

He tried to remember what Auntie had said about them. The father was involved with those people at the castle, with their dogs. And Auntie had thought that the brother had gone fundamental. He'd planned ahead: set all his mobs to vibrate, first time ever, and put Baby in the back seat once they'd left the motorway. He'd even been prepared to touch Tariq's feet if necessary.

It had been a surprise to find Tariq in jeans and t-shirt, clean-shaven. And there was something else about him, a familiarity, though he was sure they'd never met. He dressed like a clubber, but looked tougher: maybe he'd gotten into some trouble wherever he'd disappeared to in the last few years.

Mrs. Begum came back in with a trayful of mangoes, and as Kareem shifted small tables and pot plants to make room, he took the opportunity to have a good look at the wall above the mantelpiece, on which hung a gilt frame around a portrait of Dodi and Princess Di. A photo originally, or rather two formal shots put together so that they appeared to be gazing lovingly almost into each other's eyes, and covered by a thick layer of clear acrylic to give the illusion of paint strokes. Dodi was slightly out of focus, squinting into sunlight, while Diana, soulful and evenly lit, was a studio shot.

Mrs. Begum must have noticed his interest in the picture, for she smiled at him and shook her head, giving a sideways glance at it. “So sad!” she whispered under the flow of Dr. Choudhury's talking, then sprang up to pick another, smaller picture off the same wall and gave it to him.

This was no composite portrait but an ordinary Kodak shot blown up just beyond its limits, of a bearded Christian man and a blonde, toothy woman in a Chanel suit standing in front of a McDonald's.

From one side of the photo extended an arm and part of a plump shoulder partially draped in a bright yellow sari, the hand reaching toward the couple at the center of the photo, fingers stretched out, as if to hold the moment itself for posterity. The blonde woman also had her hand extended, but her expression was ambivalent, and it was not clear whether she was about to grasp the hand or fend it off.

Kareem watched as Mrs. Begum's fingers traced the outline of the yellow arm.

“Is
me
,” she whispered. “I was
there
.”

Kareem, in the dark but playing safe, gave an exaggerated start. “You were there?”

Mrs. Begum nodded. “The Prince and Princess Michael. Grand Opening of the McDonald's restaurant. By Special Invitation.” She stretched out her arm and gestured to mimic the arm in the photo. “This, my arm, was in the newspaper.”

He stared hard at the picture and nodded respectfully. Fucking hell, they did know royalty.

K
AREEM WAS JUST
what Dr. Choudhury needed. A successful man-of-the-world, able to recognize and respect his position as both an elder of the community and as a man of learning. Kareem's sympathetic interest was slowly but surely drawing out of him (for he hated to talk about himself) the full story behind the inexplicable falling-off of student attendances at his Historical Architecture lectures and tutorials over the last few years. Not to mention the sad and disturbing changes that had overtaken so much that he had loved about Oxford since his first days there as a young man. As young as Kareem.

From here, and encouraged by Kareem's undivided attention, he segued into a brief outline of how a new wave of professors with a mania for publishing and self-promotion had washed into the university and suddenly placed him in the untenable position of having to justify his time, his publishing record and his falling enrolments.

Not also to mention (though he did: this Kareem was so
simpatico
) the disturbing rumors of Saudi funding, which had coincided with Professor Bertha Beeton's sudden enthusiasm for a Chair of Islamic Studies. And for the current departmental fashion in
soi-disant
authorities on Eastern culture such as Edward Said and Tariq Ali, and the need for what Professor Beeton, as faculty head, was calling “engagement” with Jamat-al-Islami and other, similar extremist religious groups that had somehow, while he wasn't looking, become key players around the university.

Dr. Choudhury had found himself isolated, he was not sure how, by this new talking, these new attitudes. His own philosophy, that of a Westernized, moderate Muslim, seemed to be no longer
comme il faut
and even seemed to irritate some parties, as indicated by a variety of hurtful and unexpected comments made in recent faculty meetings about Asian Anglophiles.

And all of it had been made worse by the loss, in quick succession, of a number of colleagues with whom he was familiar and comfortable, who had retired or moved on, and the fact that he and Professor Beeton were dons at the same college. The senior common room, his beloved SCR, in which he used to spend such a large part of his time, was no longer an oasis of pipe-smoke and newspapers and the odd fashion magazine. It was a tense, watchful place, with positions being taken and alliances forged and broken in a way that he seemed unable to keep track of.

To Kareem's attentive and understanding eyes, he explained himself further. No one appreciated his little
bons mots
, his classical allusions, his love of beauty and color. Nor his tales of life at the college when he was young and, if he may say so himself, its number-one student at that time. All they wanted to know was how he felt about the British imperialist hegemony that had alienated him from the workers of Dhaka. His Rhodes scholarship award, he told Kareem now just as he had said then, was one of the proudest achievements of his life. Kareem was nodding admiringly. How good-looking this young man was, how respectful.

—

D
R.
C
HOUDHURY AND
Kareem seemed happy enough downstairs; Tariq, unsociable boy, had left muttering something about someone he had to see, and Mrs. Begum needed,
needed
to know, so she followed her daughter, who was heading upstairs. She sat on Shunduri's bed and watched her tie and retie her headscarf in front of the mirror as an excuse to look at her reflected face and figure. How young and healthy she was, and in full possession of the powers that went with that.

And now coming home with a boy. There was only one way, the time-honored way, to deal with that, before there was any more talk. She squinted at her daughter's behind, which had developed a something, a sideways shifting, in short a wiggle, since she had been up to London. It was definitely time.

“Your studies must be ending soon.”

“Yaah, maybe . . .”

As far as her studies went, Shunduri had never shown the interest or ability that her siblings had. But then, she had always been so easy to manage. Mrs. Begum was able to dress her up like a little doll for visits and weddings. Tariq always had his head in a book the whole time and Munni had to be dragged out of the car, shedding bracelets with every step, then watched like a hawk so as not to draw on walls. She always had a felt-tip pen hidden somewhere.

“Your father and I have been thinking about your future.” Shunduri, in the act of reapplying her lipstick, locked eyes with her mother in the mirror.

“You know we want the best for you and want you to be settled. And you are of an age . . .”

Shunduri turned away, flounced to the wardrobe and pushed open its sliding door with unnecessary force.

Mrs. Begum decided to adopt a firmer tone. “You are now of an age where you should be getting married.”

Silence. A coat hanger clicked into place on the rail amongst its fellows.

“We have a few boys in mind, but we are a modern family: you may also ask around.” Shunduri's back was still turned toward her mother, her head bowed, and she appeared to be biting her nails. She hadn't seen her daughter do that since she was twelve. “Well, then.”

Shunduri spoke into her nails. “Why are you pickin' on me? I'm the youngest, in case you'd forgotten. Why don't you marry off Baiyya or Affa. And where is Affa, anyway?”

Mrs. Begum kept her temper with difficulty. “We are not talking of Tariq or . . . anyone else.”

“You always side with them. You just want to get me off your hands. I must be a problem to you or somefin'.” Sniff. “All I want is to be happy. Is that too much to ask?”

Mrs. Begum swallowed her annoyance and tried to speak soothingly. “That is all we want, Baby. We want you to be happy, to find a good boy who'll take care of you . . . I have asked around. There is this boy, Hassan, he is a doctor-in-training. His sister is married, she is a teacher, and his brother is an accountant . . .”

Shunduri's hands flew out and she crashed the wardrobe door open so hard that it bounced shut again. “You're not listening to what I'm saying!”

“I have his ceevee—”

“You don't care! You don't know anything about me! You don't know who I want! You want to get rid of me!”

“Shunduri!” Mrs. Begum rose to her feet, and her daughter beat a strategic retreat out of the bedroom door, crying. “You want me to be happy, you marry off Affa then! See if you can!”

Shunduri disappeared from the bedroom doorway with some haste, and by the time Mrs. Begum reached it, she heard the slam of the bathroom door and the rattle of the bolt sliding home. She smacked the doorframe with her open palm: a poor substitute for her daughter's most deserving face. Now Baby would have a bath, as she always did when upset, and use up all the hot water.

Mrs. Begum walked back to Shunduri's bed and sat down to think. In all those words, Baby had never said no marriage, never-never, unlike her other children. She had just fussed about the choice. And about the need to marry off Rohimun first, as if her mother needed to be told. That was the problem then: she was afraid Munni's reputation was spoiling Baby's own chances. She would need to think on this slowly, then act quickly.

Time was running out, even for her beautiful Baby, what with being only a breath away from twenty-four and having a sister in disgrace. Families would start asking themselves what was wrong with her that she was not betrothed by now, would start to speculate. A modern girl, like her sister perhaps.

Her hand clutched the red satin bedspread. Shunduri must, and would, get the wedding her mother had never had, with every traditional trimming, every visit and gift and celebration that she was entitled to, as the youngest child of Dr. Babru Choudhury and Mrs. Syeda Begum.

She went to the bathroom and banged the flat of her hand against the door. “Stay then. Stay upstairs, I tell you. I do not wish to see you now. We, all of us, will talk downstairs and you will not be allowed.”

An angry gasp could be heard, a sliding of locks and turning of handles, then the door opened, and Shunduri's pretty face appeared, as creased up with frowns and wantings as a sultana. “That's not fair! I want—”

“Wanting-wanting. You
stay
.” She turned her back on her daughter's outraged face and started walking toward the stairs. As soon as she got to the kitchen, Baby would follow, quick as a chicken at feed-time.

But there was a creak on the stairs, a cautious and dignified creak, and Mrs. Begum huffed a sigh of annoyance: only her husband, of all husbands, could be in so many wrong places at wrong times. Dr. Choudhury's head rose from the stairwell, peering upward, and the bathroom door slammed shut again.

He coughed at her in his usual way. “That temper in your daughter.”

She glowered at him and folded her arms. Now Shunduri would never come out, and there would be no chance for mother–daughter talking in the kitchen. She, Syeda Begum, was the only worldly passenger on this ship of fools.

He spoke again. “Has she decided on a boy?”

Did he think that such things were done in an instant? “No, no. Soon.” Her tone did not invite the requesting of details.

“Ah.”

Silence rose between them, along with all the thoughts and worries so familiar to them both that there was no naming them. They appeared before Mrs. Begum's eyes like phantoms: unmarriageable son and daughters, elopements, children born out of wedlock, disgrace upon disgrace. Soon, soon, marriage must be soon, or disaster, more disaster, would surely follow. She knew what was best for them.

“Kareem is outside. In the garden,” Dr. Choudhury added, with a rising inflection as if he really could not understand why. “A cup of tea?” he asked tentatively.

Mrs. Begum could see steam escaping from under the bathroom door, and she could hear Shunduri humming. She was happy enough now, ungrateful girl, running a bath while they had visitors in the house. As she went downstairs, her husband's voice floated back up the stairwell, from where his bald patch was descending in front of her. “The way forward, Mrs. Begum, is to use tact and subtlety. I do appreciate that these skills do not come easily to one of your nature, so I draw your attention to the fable of the sun and the wind and their competing attempts to remove the overcoat of a man passing by. The wind blew with great force, which led the, ah, everyman to wrap it ever more closely around himself. The sun however, inclined its life-giving rays upon his back and shoulders and in no time at all . . .”

His voice faded around a corner, and by the time she caught up with him, the story had evidently ended.

She followed him into the kitchen. “Perhaps next, her father can talk to her. I am sure she will be happier,” she said, as she handed her husband half-a-cup of tea, just the way he liked it.
You being so full of wind anyway, maybe you can blow her into a good temper and a betrothal with one big puff
.

—

W
HEN
D
R.
C
HOUDHURY
returned to the sitting room, Kareem was still outside. What a pleasant young man, and certainly more socially responsible than Tariq, just leaving like that. Not intellectual perhaps, but with an untutored quickness of understanding so lacking in his own nearest and dearest when it came to the exigencies of professional life.

Dr. Choudhury walked to the sitting room's front window. Intermittent puffs of smoke were emanating from the roof of Kareem's car. A slave to the god tobacco, it seemed. Their cosy little coterie had scattered now: first Shunduri skipping upstairs to primp and preen (what an attachment to her mirror that girl had), closely followed by her mother, who, of course, could not leave her alone for an instant. No wonder they had had words and were now both sulking.

Kareem had not been able to offer any insights as to how to manage the bumptious rudeness of the head of department, who, it must be admitted, had become simply unbearable since her last visit to Riyadh, cutting him dead in corridors and lending out his rooms to postgraduate students to have coffee and drop biscuit crumbs in. But Kareem's undivided attention, the way he had leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Dr. Choudhury's, the hmms and ahhs of respectful empathy, had been a balm, a positive balm, to his troubled mind.

Truly, he felt now, as he moved further into a patch of sunshine in the window embrasure that, incidentally, also enabled a better view of the smoking SUV, Professor Beeton's dislike of him had grown into what could only be called outright aggression. Perhaps it was a result of those hormonal disruptions that some women seemed so prone to in their teens and then again in the autumn of their lives.

He was not certain of Mrs. Begum's status in that regard, but her sudden flarings of temper at unexpected times, her irritability, and at other times her strange absentmindedness—his cravats had been missing for days now—could well be put down to this. How prey to their bodily functions women were.

The smoke had ceased, but now Kareem could be seen talking to the Bourne children, Andrew and Jonathon. They must have walked over from the Lodge, hoping for more of Mrs. Begum's
ladhu
balls, most likely. A minute later both of the children were on Kareem's shoulders, laughing and screaming as he ran across the side lawn with them and pretended to fall, tipping them onto the grass. Really, Kareem had lost all notion of dignity. But Dr. Choudhury was in a mood to be indulgent and allowed himself to smile with theoretical understanding at the high spirits of youth.

Anyway, perhaps he was, as the elder statesman of the college and still, of course, a fine figure of a man, also a convenient authority figure for Professor Beeton to beat herself against. Ah, that sunshine was very pleasant. He laced his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes for a few seconds to enable himself to concentrate more fully. In short, her behavior could well be viewed as a cry for help from one of his sex, his age and his experience. His, shall we say,
savoir faire
.