Brick Lane (33 page)

All the while Nazneen counted her secrets. How had it happened? It was as if she had woken one day to find that she had become a collector, guardian of a great archive of secrets, without the faintest knowledge of how she had got started or how her collection had grown. Perhaps, she considered, they just breed with each other. And then she imagined her secrets growing like a column of ants, appearing at first like a few negligible specks and turning so quickly into an unstoppable force.

She scratched her leg and her arms. Razia caught the itch and scratched also. Nazneen felt overrun with secrets. She wanted to tell everything to Razia – about Karim, what she suspected about Tariq, the truth about Hasina, the saga of Mrs Islam's money.

When the assistant was at a safe distance, checking her make-up in a strip of mirror behind the counter, Nazneen said, 'We borrowed money from Mrs Islam.'

Razia made an unfamiliar sound: she squeaked. In all the years she had known her, Nazneen had never heard her friend squeak.

'What for? Why?'

'To buy the sewing machine. You can't do anything without capital,' said Nazneen, quoting her husband. 'And we bought the computer.'

'Certificates from here to here,' said Razia, stretching out her arms, 'but the man is a bloody fool.'

'The thing is, however much we pay back, she always wants more.'

'Of course she wants more. That is how it works.'

'Yes,' agreed Nazneen, 'but how much more?'

'She is a witch.'

'I don't know. Whenever someone needs something, they go to her. She gives. She gave us the money when we needed it. And she is old. Her hip . . .' She trailed off, but felt that she had not said enough. 'Her hands are bad too.'

Razia snorted and tossed her head. 'Hands are bad! The only thing that's bad is her heart. Look at my hands. For the past two months I have worked only on leather. Let me see her hands! Perhaps they would benefit from a little honest work.' She drew her mouth tight and made it lipless. 'When I was a young girl, I had the most beautiful hands in all the country, East and West.' She had Mrs Islam's new 'deathbed' voice exactly. 'People came from far and wide to get a glimpse.' She looked at Nazneen sidelong and a tremor of laughter crept into her voice. 'If they caught a sight,' the words rose on a crescendo, 'my father chopped off their heads.'

Nazneen laughed loudly. The assistant looked uncomfortable, as though laughter were something new and unsettling. She picked up a piece of paper, a price list or inventory, and walked around with a pencil to show that she certainly had things to be getting on with.

'But how much do you owe?' Razia grew serious again.

'Around a thousand, I think.'

'And how much did you borrow?'

'Around the same. I'm not sure.'

'And how much have you paid already?'

'I don't know. It's difficult to keep a track, but it seems like we should nearly be finishing instead of just starting.'

'Listen, you will never be rid of this debt. Whatever you pay, she will say you owe interest and fees and this and that. I know of one case where they have been paying for six, seven years.'

'We have some money saved for going back to Dhaka. I don't know how much. Chanu has it in the bank.'

'Keep it,' said Razia quickly. 'Don't let her get her twisted fingers on that money. I'll think of something. Leave it to me.'

She decided on a length of ivory silk and a turquoise voile to make the scarf. 'I'll make it at work. It will be a surprise for her. I know she's going to pass the exams.'

The assistant wrapped the fabrics in tissue paper, her little pink tongue poking out between her lips, as she made sure to align the edges. She named her price.

Razia opened her purse and looked inside, holding it practically at eye level. Then she began removing pieces of paper, receipts, photographs, tickets and coins. When the purse was empty she conceded, 'There's only two pounds here.'

The assistant stood with her hands on her narrow hips. Then she put them on the package and looked at Razia. She had seen her sort before.

'Can you make a discount?' said Razia.

The girl did not smile. She drew the package closer to her.

'I don't know,' Razia told Nazneen. 'I can't remember anything these days. I thought I had forty pounds in here. Must have left it somewhere.'

Nazneen reached inside her bag. 'I'll give you the money. I have some here. I was going to send it to Hasina.'

But Razia would not take the money and they walked together to Sonali Bank at the bottom of Brick Lane, and on past the newsagents with the window stacked with amulets and herbal remedies, the Sangeeta Centre stocked with paper flowers, garland kits and Gloy glue. 'Do you know,' said Nazneen, 'Dr Azad told my husband, so many of our young men are getting hooked on drugs.'

'Truly I am grateful to God.' Razia looked straight ahead. 'He has kept this curse away from our home.'

'To pay for the drugs, they must steal. Dr Azad says that sometimes they steal even from . . .' she hesitated – 'their own parents.'

Razia looked at her now, with an expression that Nazneen could not read. 'As I just told you, I am grateful to God.'

They walked on past the Bangla Superstore declaring 'Dates from Madinah', the waiters who fished for customers from the restaurant doorways, and the grocer where all year round the window sign bore the sweet lie, 'New season Lengra'.

The curtains were closed though it was not quite yet dark. The walls by the window held oblongs of rich light, neat cut-outs pasted onto the wallpaper. From the television came feathery rays both bright and weak. The tall floor lamp against the back wall cast light up and down and into the television, where it made a picture of itself. Chanu's reading lamp was positioned on top of the trolley. Its yellow beam formed a circle which took in Chanu's book, his belly, his knees and some part of his papers. Nazneen cleared and wiped the table, working in the last warm melts of sun which soaked through the thin grey curtains. The girls, in their nightdresses, drew their feet up on the sofa, caught in the misty glow of television. And Chanu sat beneath the yellow light, his face filled with shadows.

'Do you know that the British cut the fingers off Bengali weavers?' It was unclear whom he was addressing. Shahana stared hard at the television screen. Bibi looked from the screen to her father and then her mother and then back at the screen.

'Oh, I went to buy cloth with Razia today.' Nazneen could not stop thinking about Razia's empty purse.

'It was the British, of course, who destroyed our textile industry.'

'Yes,' said Nazneen. 'How did they do that?'

Chanu expelled whatever it was that was sticking in his windpipe. He coughed as well to be on the safe side, and then he began. 'You see, it was largely a matter of tariffs. Export and import duties. Silk and cotton goods had seventy or eighty per cent tax slapped on them, and we were not allowed to retaliate.'

Nazneen had drifted. She straightened the dining chairs and shivered at some remembered pleasure.

'The Dhaka looms were sacrificed,' said Chanu, 'so that the mills of Manchester could be born.'

Nazneen came round to her duties. 'They were closed down by the British?'

'In effect,' said Chanu, waggling his head. 'Not closed down exactly.' He put his book aside and placed his hands beneath his vest where they grew busy. 'It's like being in a race, where one man runs without hindrance, and you must run with your arms tied behind your back, a blindfold on, hot coals beneath you and, and . . .' He thought for a while and his cheeks moved this way and that. 'And your legs cut off,' he finished, and indicated with a chopping motion to the knee the exact location of the severance.

'Ah,' said Nazneen, 'I see how it happened.' She wished that Shahana and Bibi would pay more attention. A sudden regret came to her. How much time she had wasted over the years, eating up her mind with a thousand petty worries and details that added up to nothing. She picked up one of Chanu's books and turned it over, pressed her thumbs on the cover as if she could squeeze the knowledge from it. She waited for Chanu to continue.

Chanu bounced his knees up and down. He spoke a few words to himself, of summation or consolation, and then he got up. He went out of the room and returned with a small mat of wooden beads. 'This is an automatic back massager,' he said. 'It's amazing what you can buy.' His face grew full of wonder, as if he had received this revelation from the Angel Jibreel himself. 'Let me try it now.' He motioned to the girls to move aside.

'It's for the car.' Chanu positioned the mat over the back of the sofa and wedged himself against it. 'All sorts of gadgets and gimmicks you can get.'

This was true. Chanu had invested in many items for his driving job. There were gloves for the glove compartment, an ice scraper (bought at a good price, much cheaper than buying it in the winter), an extra mirror that enabled him to conduct surveillance on the ignorant-type people in the back, an air freshener in the shape of a frog, and an eye mask made of thick black nylon that allowed Chanu to sleep in his seat between jobs. The most serious investment was a device that monitored traffic conditions and worked out alternative routes through the city. Chanu was awestruck. 'It's a mystery, how man can invent such things.' It had cost a great deal of money. It cost a deal more in heartache. However Chanu coaxed and cajoled it, the machine never gave up its mystery. He could never get it to work.

On top of these costs were the fines and penalties. Though Chanu was a very careful and able driver, it seemed that the Authorities conspired against him. There were fines for speeding and one for going too slow. On one occasion Chanu had to attend court over some fabricated indictment. He put on his suit and he rehearsed his speech in front of the mirror. 'They don't know who they are dealing with,' he told Nazneen. 'They think it is some peasant-type person who will tremble at their gowns and wigs.' He left in high spirits and returned in a black mood. He lay on the bed with his face turned to the wall. Nazneen brought food and left it on the dressing table. 'The trial was not fair,' she suggested. She touched his back. It was rigid. 'Just leave me alone,' he said.

The parking tickets mounted up and an outrage occurred when the car was towed away and held for ransom. By the time these various expenses were added up and the rental cost for the minicab paid to Kempton Kars, the profit margin was tender and exposed. Chanu worked hard and the harder he worked the more he suspected he was being cheated of his reward. 'Chasing wild buffaloes,' he said, 'and eating my own rice.'

The automatic back massager seemed to be working. Chanu ground himself into his seat and let out a series of grunts. 'I just don't know,' he said, and interrupted himself with a moan: 'A man could fall asleep at the wheel.'

'Can I try it, Abba?' Bibi always took an interest in Chanu's latest gadget. She even played with the frog air freshener, tapping it on the back until Chanu said, 'All right, Bibi, don't waste it all.'

'It's for the
relief of tension
and the
unknotting of muscles,'
said Chanu, quoting in English from the packaging. 'You don't have any tensions.'

'No,' said Bibi in a small voice.

'What is this rubbish you are watching, Shahana? Switch it off now.'

'How do you know that it's rubbish if you don't even know what it is?'

Nazneen held her breath.

It was dark now outside. The room was sealed. There were too many things in it. Too many people. Too little light.

Chanu stood up and turned off the television. Then he returned to his seat and extended an arm to his elder daughter. 'Come. Come on, sit close.'

Shahana did not move. She blew at her fringe.

Nazneen went towards her. 'Go on. Sit with your father. Don't you hear him?'

Chanu waved her away. 'Leave her be. She is too big for all that. She is not a child any more. You're not a child, are you, Shahana?'

Shahana moved her shoulders a fraction of an inch.

'All right, all right,' said Chanu. He picked something out of a back tooth. He pushed his back against the massager, and circled his ankles. 'How is school? Still top of the class? Clever girl, eh?'

Shahana turned her head a little. 'It's OK,' she said in English.

'OK, OK.
All this television watching and still she comes top of the class.' He spoke quietly. 'When I was at school, I used to get very good grades. Your mother is also clever, though she takes care to hide it. But, you see, we have not been able to make our way. We have tried . . .' He broke off and became lost in thought. 'Well, we have tried.'

Nazneen sat down in the armchair. Bibi sat on the arm.

'I know,' said Shahana. 'Don't worry about it.'

'You're right. Worry does no good.' Chanu smiled and touched his hand briefly to Shahana's shoulder.

'It's time for bed,' said Nazneen.

But Chanu objected. 'Let them stay. We are having a conversation here, father-daughter.' He looked at Shahana and raised his eyebrows, as if to say
That woman, how she always spoils our fun.
Shahana allowed him a smile and Chanu was very pleased. 'I don't know, Shahana. Sometimes I look back and I am shocked. Every day of my life I have prepared for success, worked for it, waited for it, and you don't notice how the days pass until nearly a lifetime has finished. Then it hits you – the thing you have been waiting for has already gone by. And it was going in the other direction. It's like I've been waiting on the wrong side of the road for a bus that was already full.'

Shahana nodded quickly. 'But don't worry,' she said.

'You are old enough now to talk to. That is a great comfort to me. And to have such a clever daughter . . .' His eyes grew full and he cleared his throat a little. 'You see, the things I had to fight: racism, ignorance, poverty, all of that – I don't want you to go through it.'

Bibi chewed her nails. Nazneen gently pulled her hand away from her mouth.

'Abba, I'm . . .'

'You know Mr Iqbal? In the newsagents. He comes from a very good family in Chittagong. God knows how many servants. And he is an educated man. We talk of many things. Why can he not rise out of that little hole here, always buried under newspapers and his hands black with ink? In Chittagong he would live like a prince, but here he is just doing the donkey work by day and sleeping in a little rat hole at night.'