A Matter of Marriage (32 page)

His father spoke at last. “Well, that then is a sad conundrum; a number-one Gordian knot that cannot be untied. For you see, Mrs. Begum, whichever way he turns, the boy stands to lose one of his parents forever.”

Dad stared at her with such directness that she dropped her eyes and pulled her
pallu
across the top of her head, as if meeting him for the first time.

“For I say to you, wife and mother of my children, that if the boy does marry, then he will no longer be my son.” He gave a little dry cough, the lecturer's modest epilogue to an outrageous, revolutionary analysis, and Tariq half expected him to say
quod erat demonstrandum.
Perhaps he had, for Tariq could not quite believe his ears. He looked at his parents for guidance, but their faces were blank, neutral, as if they were now dealing with a situation, with emotions, that had no precedent.

Then his mother raised her head and, almost as soon as she had, she was a whirling dervish of rage and scorn. No man, no head of a family would behave this way, no son would be so ungrateful. No one knew what she went through. This family was a sinking boat, and she was the only one trying to save it. How could they behave as they had? But at the same time, she seemed to know that she had already lost, and why. Something had wakened between her husband and her son that had not been there before, and she knew she could not win against this new alliance.

She disappeared out the sitting-room door. Perfect quiet reigned, although Tariq was still having trouble with his breathing. What force had accomplished this impossible thing, that his parents now knew his true self? That he was not doomed to fight a losing battle against wife and children and be trapped forever?

“Abba?” Tariq whispered, still kneeling.

“Hmm?”

“I was thinking of going to mosque today, in Swindon. For
Jumma
, Friday prayers.”

Dad gave no sign of hearing him. Pots banged in the kitchen, louder than usual, and he wondered if he could smell burning, or whether that was his imagination.

His father spoke as if to himself. “Hmm . . . perhaps it would be politic to be
in absentia
for a while.” He stood, glanced in the mantel mirror, smoothed his hair, and only then seemed to notice that Tariq was still on the floor. “Get up, get up. Perhaps we will eat in Swindon as well. Make a day of it, as it were.”

—

I
T WAS MOST
soothing for Dr. Choudhury, as a man doubly heartsore, to proceed through the solemn rituals of
wudu
and
salat
in the old Broad Street mosque. He felt as if he had regained a little of the dignity lost in Oxford yesterday. He could see clearly now: to keep clinging on to tenure alone would be unworthy of him, like scrabbling for a toehold in the face of an avalanche.

The head imam came to him afterward, wreathed in smiles, and grasped his hand and elbow in greeting, clearly grateful that, after the unfortunate radical connections of recent years, this mosque was again to be patronized by the community's intellectual elite, its forces for moderation. Dr. Choudhury gave a dignified nod and introduced his son and graciously acknowledged the imam's admiration (partly concealed but obvious enough) of such a fine young man, and an Oxford graduate too. So wonderful to have your son back now. For good? Of course, of course.

A late lunch in one of Swindon's finer Bangladeshi establishments, with a son as tall and good-looking as Tariq, was similarly punctuated by the smiles and greetings and respectful questions of other members of the community. Dr. Choudhury's son has come home. A good boy, going to
Jumma
with his father. What a distinguished pair. He knew how these people thought.

After lunch, they strolled down Cricklade Street to ponder an interesting renovation being carried out on the Gilbert Scott–designed Christ Church, then drifted toward the shops. Dr. Choudhury could not remember a more pleasant afternoon. The slight excess of emotion that he intermittently detected in his son, he put down to similar feelings. What a relief it was to speak what was in one's heart, however obliquely. And that meal had been excellent. He could not recall Tariq wanting to spend so much time with him since he was a teenager.

Relief and pain were enthroned together in his heart. What Clyde had meant, still meant, to him, he had never thought he would be able to say to anyone. And now he saw that same secret pain in his son.

He gave a contented sigh. “To think that I am now a man without a profession. Life is full of surprises.” He snuck a glance at his son's face and was pleased to see his remorse.

“I'm sorry, Abba,” said Tariq, as he should. “I didn't know. I didn't know that you had enemies there. At the university.”

Ah, the love of a son for his father. My enemies are his enemies. That is how it should be.

“My son, there are always enemies. Wherever there is real achievement, there will be those who wish to destroy you.”

Real
achievement. Giving his views on period architecture and interiors for the two Trusts had been no novelty, was simply a continuation of what he had done at Oxford for decades. But at the Abbey, for the first time, he had seen his views translated into reality by workmen using the same labor-intensive, highly skilled techniques that were used four hundred years ago. That had been a revelation. He found himself moved by the immediate beauty of freshly carved wood and cut stone, the fine modest focus of master tradesmen, in a way that publications and higher degrees never had.

It put him in mind of many things. His daughter coming to life again with the brush in her hand. His mother's pleasure in painting and embroidery, which he could only just remember. And the knowledge of his father's increasing bitterness and isolation in his life as a circuit judge, fulfilling his own parents' wishes.

He pulled out his pocket handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “These are number-one villains, you know, these Saudis. Ignorant people, thinking that they can buy anyone and anything with their dirty money. Thinking that their Wahhabis, because they control Mecca and Arafat and the other holy sites, are more truly Islamic than Sunnis in Indonesia or Shiites in Iran or Sufis in India.” He flapped his handkerchief in emphasis. “Thinking, as bad as those American Protestants, those Pamelas of the New World, that their wealth itself is virtue rewarded.”

Tariq spoke with strong feeling. “They're Muslims, but that's about it, yeah.”

“Yes, yes, no better, no worse than any other.”

“So, you've left Oxford now, Abba?”

“Yes.” He was surprised at how easily he said it. He seemed to have found a measure of philosophy, just forty-eight hours after his exclusion. But the boy could not be expected to take it all in quite so quickly. “There are other things in this life. Art, beauty . . .”

“Those dirty sons of dogs,” his son muttered.

Dr. Choudhury coughed in a manner that was only mildly reproving. It was so warming to the muscles of his heart to feel his son's anger on his behalf. “Well, the head of faculty, she is very much under their influence. A clique of Islamist radicals and Saudi hangers-on, and of course, large amounts of money, very large, being offered to the department, the college. And I of course am well-known as a moderate.” He turned to his son.

“But what about you? Are you still a member of Jamat-al-Islami?”

His son flushed deeply, then shook his head. “No, Abba. I mean, I never broke with them. But I'm not really involved anymore. I promise you.”

He had thought as much, but sometimes it pays to let your children know that you are not stupid. “Angry young men, eh.”

Tariq laughed. “Yeah.”

They walked on, Tariq speaking in short, broken sentences.

“It was more the spiritual side, Abba. I thought that they had that; I felt it, with them, at uni, but not later. When I was away, I realized it wasn't for me.”

“Are you under any obligations, my son: any bond that you cannot break?”

“No, no. I don't think so.” Tariq kept his eyes down. “They didn't have much use for me, in the end.”

“A good thing, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes, my boy, in such instances as these . . .” For the second time that day, Dr. Choudhury felt uncharacteristically hesitant. “Sometimes the ways marked out for us by those who have come before us are . . . wrong.” He paused again, gave a light cough. “But sometimes those ways, some of them, can be of help to this next generation.”

They had reached the shops and stopped where the pavement took a sharp turn to the left, wrapping around the plate-glass frontage of a travel agency. Opposite them, across the intersection, was a multi-storey shopping center, plastered with red-and-white sale posters:
Because you're worth it.
Beneath that a second, larger poster stated:
You can't go home without me
, the last two words, torn and flapping.

Dr. Choudhury slapped his hand against the travel-agency window. “This is our world; more than the past, much more than where we came from. We cannot pretend that it is not.” Under the glass were posters of happy, semi-naked
gora
families throwing beachballs in Dubai, a woman in a bikini and a lotus pose gazing at the pyramids, floats and fireworks at the Sydney Mardi Gras. He lifted his hand off the glass. Beneath it was a small triangular green sticker poster.

Tariq was staring at it, fascinated. “Haj,” he said.

“Eh?” He followed his son's gaze and read the sign:
Haj Tours
.

Haj. The unimpeachable decision. Honor of honors. To be a Hajiri, see the great sights and monuments of Islam as Dr. Choudhury's father never had, and return home to the glory and respect of his community, the wary awe of his secular colleagues. Former colleagues.

The humiliation of the impending announcement of his early retirement—everyone knowing what it really meant. And Bourne Abbey, his second home, soon to be no longer in need of him. There was an emptiness within himself and he had a sense of something similar in Tariq: it had always been all or nothing with that boy. It was obvious that Tariq could not live with the compromises that Dr. Choudhury and so many of his generation had made.

And why should he? Was this not one of the reasons Dr. Choudhury and his wife had striven so hard in this new country? Perhaps there was a way forward, for both of them. He slapped Tariq's shoulder. “We will go, you and I.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Tariq, wide-eyed. “You mean it.”

Dr. Choudhury raised his eyebrows reproachfully and turned his back on the shop window to face the street. He placed his right hand over his heart and spoke loudly and sonorously, in his lecturer's voice. “I have come to that age where I am impelled to consider my own mortality. No, no.” He raised his hand, pre-empting his son's inevitable expressions of concern for his health and well-being. “I know that I could pass for a man ten years younger, and in his prime at that. But in my heart of hearts, I know, as Tennyson says, that
Death closes all.
This era, this stage of my life of academic eminence, and material success, is finished with. Phut.” He snapped his fingers. “Phut,” he said again.

But enough of lightness. These were serious times, serious matters. He thrust out his other hand and went on. “
But something ere the end, some work of noble note, may yet be done.
”

Someone across the road clapped sarcastically, and he gave them a carefree wave. A woman with a stroller started to edge around him on the pavement as he spoke a few words further, about honor and toil. He nodded benignly at her as she struggled past, two wheels in the gutter and her toddler, in a Disney Piglet suit, hanging on grimly to the stroller's sides, but she was unresponsive. So few people had a spiritual dimension.

“A new age, my son. A new age. We will welcome it in by doing the great duty of all Muslims.” With his head high, and in doubt no longer, Dr. Choudhury walked into the travel agency.

A
S IT TURNED
out, Kareem did not have far to look that Friday night to find Simon, the dirty
gora
who had beaten Shunduri's affa. His relationship with a Muslim girl was known about by some bouncer friends, who said he often tried to score at the clubs. Kareem went to Jerusalem first, the newest Soho club (formerly Mecca but just now renamed after one too many firebomb threats), which had queues round the corner, even though it was only eleven. He'd been meaning to go there for a while, to give respect and some gifts to Jerome and Sujad, the two bouncers at the front door, and also wanted to see if the name change had affected business any. It hadn't, but the threats had stopped, so the owners were happy.

They'd been chatting for about twenty minutes when a taxi drew up and a whooping posse of Hooray Henrys tumbled out, bypassed the line and sailed right up to them. Suj did his job well, giving Kareem the nod to confirm that the first one was Simon, right there in front of him, as if he'd been delivered,
Inshallah
. Too easy, man. Suj doubled the door price with a straight face and walked them to the bar to ensure that they all bought early. Kareem bumped fists with Jerome and followed them inside.

The dance floor was full of bodies with their hands in the air, and the explosive drumbeats of Bhangara trance thudded through Kareem's belly as he moved into position near Simon and his friends. They were already well-oiled, and he guessed that they had already been to some kind of work function and were probably here just to kill some time, perhaps score early in the night before moving on to some other party: a private affair, probably back in Knightsbridge or Notting Hill, where e's and cocaine would be in demand.

Another time he would have ensured that his face and his number were known to each of them—they were clearly Trust-fund boys with more money than they knew what to do with—but not tonight. He genially rebuffed them, pleading no gear, no stuff, he was cleaned out for now, maybe in a few hours, then headed to the toilets. He pissed into the urinal with exaggerated care, trying to slow down his breathing, and retreated to a cubicle to do a couple of fat lines. Afterward, his eyes shining, he stood in front of the full-length mirror behind the door and checked his nose and lips for residue. He smoothed his shirtfront and shrugged his suit jacket forward to test the shoulder room.

He tried a few moves, still watching himself: a quick one-two rabbit-punch down low, a sharp uppercut to the jaw. Man, that looked mean. Or maybe even a Thai-streetfighter-style high-kick, to thigh, buttock or stomach. Nah, pants definitely too tight for that.

He readjusted his trousers, then dampened some toilet paper and wiped it across the toes of his shoes. Presentation Is the Key to Success, he'd seen it on
Oprah
, and that woman knew what she was talking about. Believe in Your Own Powers, that's The Secret. He knew what he had to say to Simon. He just had to get him on his own, away from his friends. He had no wish to be the first Desi dealer to be given the beats by a group of nancy boys. He straightened and drew his brows together, staring intently at his reflection. Yul Brynner in
The
Magnificent Seven.

Yeah
.
He maintained the glare but sneered, like Gulshan Grover in
Ram Lakhan
. That always looked better wiv a moustache though. And everyone was scared of dealers: he'd seen it in the eyes of these Trust-fund Henrys; that mixture of fear and contempt, that he had his own sources, could survive on the street. Yeah, that was him, alright. Like Al Pacino in
Scarface
: ruthless, will stop at nuffink, yeah. He glared at the mirror again, shook his wrist so that the joint cracked and his rings glittered menacingly.

Hard man Kareem. Those boys probably thought he was carrying a piece on him right now, had backup waiting just around the corner. Simon was probably one of those pub-men that had never been to the gym in their lives, had no street nous, never been in a fight.

Man, it'd be good when Simon was sorted: it'd put a smile back on his princess's face and enhance relations in that direction, not to mention his rep on the street generally. He took his rings off and put them all on the right hand, doubling up. Time to get out there before Simon and his mates took off for another club and some other dealer.

The heat and noise of the dance floor hit him like getting off the plane in the old country, straight into the humid chaos of Dhaka airport: the same disorientation, of being a stranger in a strange place. What was he here for again?

But even as he turned toward the bar to look for Simon, there he was, grabbing Kareem's sleeve and leaving a damp imprint.

“Hey, Mohammed, I need you to fix me
up
, man.”

Kareem smiled, making his voice, his expression, soft, intimate. “Hey, man, chill. Seein' as you're such a good friend of my friends, a valued friend, I might be able to make an exception. Just for you.”

He put an arm around Simon's back, hot under the lights, and squeezed his shoulder, keeping him close and turning him away from his friends at the bar. He felt the confidence he always had when making a sale flood back. Believe in Yourself and the Customer Will Believe in You.

“But, you gotta understand, supply's tight, yeah?” The words were rolling off his tongue now. He knew these people. “Dere's not enough for everyone. Quality stuff, man, the best, but not enough ovvit for your friends.”

“Fuck
them
, man. They c'n look after themselves. Where is it then?”

“I'll need to go outside. I'm meetin' someone there.”

Simon clutched onto him again as he headed for the exit sign. “I'll come too, man, see how much he's got.”

Kareem pretended to hesitate, then gestured for Simon to precede him through the rear exit.
After you, casra khota, dirty dog.

In the alleyway, Gibran was minding the back door, his dark mass balanced on a minuscule folding stool. A lit match against a cigarette was angled into his huge palms, turning them into a bowl of light. Kareem bumped fists with him. “
Salaamalaikum
, brother.”

Gibran nodded to him, his eyes sliding over Simon as if he wasn't there. “Eh, brother,
Alaikumsalaam
.”

Simon laughed edgily and reached to punch Gibran's shoulder. “Yeah, man, Kumbaya to you too,” he said, but Gibran ignored him.

While Simon strolled ahead, Kareem slid the Omega off his wrist and into his palm and then into the bouncer's free hand. Gibran closed his hand over it and moved back into the recess of the doorway with deliberation, making it impassable. Kareem felt impregnable with Gibran behind him. It was time. He looked down the alley at his mark with a feeling of revulsion and a reluctance that he would not name. But time alone with this dirty
gora
would not come again, and he needed a result for his princess.

Simon came back, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, head down as he patted his pockets and executed some kind of complicated dance move.

“Hey, Mohammed, got a light?”

Kareem took a step closer.

“Where's your man then? He late or what?”

He moved forward quickly and swung the full length of his arm, hitting Simon hard and open-handed across the left cheek with a satisfying crack. “
Casra khota
,” he said softly.

“Fuck!” Simon stumbled sideways, cigarette gone and cheek already blooming, then turned to face Kareem, his lips pulling back from his teeth. “You fucking cunt!”

Kareem was bouncing a little now, despite his heavy shoes and the cobbles, and reached out and pushed into Simon's neck while he was still off balance. His head hit the brickwork of the opposite wall.

Simon's hands came up instinctively. Kareem rabbit-punched him in the groin, and Simon, gasping and coughing, slid down and doubled onto his side.

Kareem leaned a hand against the wall, careful not to drag his jacket cuff against the bricks, and watched. All was quiet except for the sound of Simon retching. Things were going quite well, considering. There was a pale spill of something on the lapel of Simon's bespoke suit, and his pants were covered in alley filth. One cufflink was almost off, a Tag Heuer design. Or was it Dunhill.

Simon, panting with a little high cry on each exhalation, started to struggle with an inner jacket pocket. “You fucking want my cash, fucking Paki—”

“Nah, pig-dog.” Kareem spoke slowly and clearly, imparting the lesson. “That's not what we're here for, yeah. We're here for a little chat. 'Bout you disrespectin' one of my sisters.”

“Sisters? What the fuck are you fucking talking about?” Simon, amazingly, was starting to sit up. His face was as white as the moon, apart from the scarlet hand print, and his eyes were glassy.

“I mean the sisterhood, man. The Muslim sisterhood. You need to keep your dirty hands off our sisters.”

He was on something, Kareem hadn't expected that. He must have taken something, speed maybe, just before he hit the club.
Gora
courage. A dirty drug, good for National Front–types and pub-men, anyone that wanted a fight. And nancy boys going into clubs where they didn't belong.

There was a creak behind him, and Kareem turned just in time to see Gibran's ham-sized hand, and a glint of the Omega, as the back door swung closed, shutting off the club music like a power cut. Jesus Christ, so much for the Muslim brotherhood.

Kareem didn't have a piece with him or even a knife, hadn't thought there was a need. And Gibran wouldn't be opening the back door anytime soon
.
Simon was lighter but taller, and buzzing, vibrating with the drug, first resort of soldiers, cons and
gundahs
to ramp up aggression and pain thresholds.

Simon was standing now, as if he'd never been jobbed in the nuts, not saying a word. Kareem had seen a speeder hit by a car and get up and keep going, running like a maniac. This was a serious situation, and no backup. He would have to rethink his strategy, improvise, use what was around him, like Bruce Lee. Kareem glanced down the alleyway. No one to be seen.

Simon's eyes were fixed on him and his hands were twitching and picking at his tie, his breaths coming faster and faster, as he began to move toward him.

Kareem smiled, spoke to him, his tone warm, conversational, as if they had just got chatting, while waiting for a bus, or a haircut. “We're very protective of our sisters, man. We treat them with the highest of respect, yeah? It's
izzat
, yeah. That's our sisters' honor and dignity.”

Simon seemed to hesitate, then muttered something inaudible, his face blank and rigid. Kareem stepped back to widen the space between them, and his casting hand found Ali's little folding stool. He put a foot on it and started to fiddle with his laces.

He continued hastily, “We Muslim boys, we don't take kindly to people beating them up, dishonoring our sisters, yeah? You see, ignorant pig-dogs like you, no respect for
izzat
. No respect for family.”

The socked foot finally slipped out of the shoe. Kareem rested a forearm on his bent knee to distract from his other hand picking up the shoe by its toe: Simon was close, but he was ready for him now.

Simon's forehead loomed, and his voice suddenly became audible: fast and monotonous, as if he was stuck on repeat. “You think you're so fuckin' cool so fuckin' cool you fuckin' Paki nigger loser cunt fuckin' go back where you fuckin' came from Paki I'll fuck all your sisters I'll fuck them up the arse I'll fuckin' fuck your mother, I'll—”

Kareem swung the shoe hard into Simon's face.
Allahu Akbar.

The side of the shoe just caught his mouth, splitting his lip in the center, like a burst tomato. A tea-kettle scream started, and Kareem felt a surge of disgust: where were his balls? Simon rocked back, and in the slo-mo feel that Kareem knew from the ring, he noted the contrast between the spray of blood droplets over one side of Simon's suit jacket and the solid line running down his chin toward his shirt. His mouth was open, looking like a letter Q with its tail made of blood.

But Simon seemed to regain his balance and came for him, hands clawed like a woman's, no style, no strategy, still squealing like a pig. Kareem, his socked foot still on the stool, hopped backward to give himself room, take his time, and swung the shoe again, more comfortable with it now, a real roundhouse backhander, with all his muscle behind it.

Simon, his eyes still fixed on Kareem's like the amateur he was, didn't dodge, the heel angled into his nose with the unmistakable crunch of bone. The screaming stopped abruptly, as Simon, after an interminable second, dropped to his knees and smacked forward onto his face.

Kareem watched him for a moment, then bent down and wiped the heel of the shoe across Simon's jacket, back and forth until it was completely clean, then eased it back onto his foot, his hands only trembling slightly. You certainly couldn't do as much damage with just some cheap Kays shoe. And forget trainers. These handmades had real weight in them. Beautiful craftsmanship. Investment dressing was what it was all about.

He retied the laces, adjusted the waistband of his pants and prodded Simon with his toe. No movement. He sucked his teeth, hitched up his trouser legs and squatted to roll him onto his back.

Simon flopped over heavily and, to Kareem's relief, took a deep, snoring breath. His nose was mashed and bloody and some clear fluid—snot or tears—was bubbling out onto his mouth and chin, displacing the blood. He looked like he'd pissed his pants as well.
Casra charsi
, dirty addict. Kareem sighed. There was always this sour, gone-bad feeling afterward, Kareem reminded himself, it's only the winners who have the time to think about such things.

Nuff damage control: it was time he was off. Jerusalem's back door was still shut tight—Gibran had more nous than Jerome and Suj put together, as well as no fuckin' loyalty. He would phone once he was clear, and Gibran would make sure Simon was taken care of: that his friends found him or, if they were like him and had left without looking for their friend, an ambulance called.