Authors: Monica Ali
Suddenly, she knew that what he was building up there in the flat could be pulled down here, in the hall. And she began to pay attention.
The issue under discussion was Oldham, whether to charter a coach for a trip to the north. The Secretary squatted on the stage with his clipboard balanced on his knee. He took notes and chewed on the end of his pen. Karim and the Questioner stood on either side of him, and each attempted to control the meeting.
The musician was on his feet. He wore a tight black T-shirt with silver lettering on the front, and a pair of black leather gloves with the fingers cut off. Nazneen wondered what they were protecting, whether his hands were burned.
'If we take a sound system, we'll get more support. I went to this gig, right, with DJ Kushi and MC Manak, and it was rammed. Most of the crowd were white. It was, like, amazing.'
The Questioner was dismissive. 'It's a demo, not a disco.'
'Yeah, but like we want to get people there.'
Karim nodded his head. 'Yeah. Man. That's what we want.' He kept on nodding, as if it were impossible to show the full extent of his agreement.
'Brothers,' said the Questioner, 'do we want—'
'And sisters,' said the girls in burkha.
'Brothers,' repeated the Questioner. 'Do we want to turn it into a carnival? Do we want all the white kids showing up for a disco?'
The black man spoke. 'When I was 'bout your age, the black kids went to the black clubs and the white kids went to the white clubs. I like to see it all mix up.' He addressed the musician – 'Bhangra music, is it?'
'No, man. No. Bhangra?' He looked amused. 'We're like, bhangramuffin, know what I mean? Bitta raga infusion. We're like, bhangle, sometimes. Jungle roots. Know what I'm saying?'
'Are we talking about clubs? Discos?' said the Questioner. He had the air of a man who could only be pushed so far.
The musician popped up again. 'Maybe we should, like, talk about it.'
There was a mixed reaction from the audience. Those who agreed began immediately to debate it with their neighbours. Those who disagreed began immediately to talk to their neighbours about how this should not be discussed.
'Brothers,' began the Questioner, but no one paid him any attention.
'Brothers and sisters,' began Karim, and the girls in burkha started a campaign of shushing on his behalf. 'Brothers and sisters, let's hear all your ideas. Raise your hand, and everyone can take a turn.'
Karim called on people to speak and he made each one feel as if he or she had said something of great importance. The Questioner attacked his paperwork and shook his head. He rearranged his portable office and picked his fingernails. While Karim caressed his audience with blunt syllables of wonder, his rival began to squeeze a spot at the side of his mouth. By the time Karim had finished, the crowd was sated and calm and the spot hugely inflamed.
Then Karim made a brief speech to sum up. Think global but act local, he said. Official messages of support would be despatched to the appropriate ummahs around the world – Oldham, Iraq and elsewhere. The Publications Committee would see to it. And all leaflets would, from now on, be vetted by the committee. He asked anyone who opposed this to raise a hand. No one stirred. The Questioner had his arms crossed and his hands tucked into his armpits. The meeting, Karim declared, was now closed.
Nazneen stood up and walked quickly down the aisle, looking neither left nor right. All the way home she fought the desire to run, and once inside she waited just by the door so that she opened it before Karim even knocked.
* * *
He kissed her on the mouth and he led her into the bedroom. Get undressed, he said, and get into bed. He left the room. She got changed into her nightdress and lay beneath the sheets. Through the window she looked at a patch of blue sky and a scrap of white cloud. She pulled the covers up to her neck and closed her eyes. What she wanted to do was sleep. It would be impossible to stay awake. She was sick and she needed to sleep. She had a fever and her body was shaking. She turned her face into the pillow and moaned and when he kissed the back of her neck she moaned again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thirty or so years after he arrived in London, Chanu decided that it was time to see the sights. 'All I saw was the Houses of Parliament. And that was in 1979.' It was a project. Much equipment was needed. Preparations were made. Chanu bought a pair of shorts which hung just below his knees. He tried them on and filled the numerous pockets with a compass, guidebook, binoculars, bottled water, maps and two types of disposable camera. Thus loaded, the shorts hung at mid-calf. He bought a baseball cap and wore it around the flat with the visor variously angled up and down and turned round to the back of his head. A money belt secured the shorts around his waist and prevented them from reaching his ankles. He made a list of tourist attractions and devised a star rating system that encompassed historical significance, something he termed 'entertainment factor' and value for money. The girls would enjoy themselves. They were forewarned of this requirement.
On a hot Saturday morning towards the end of July the planning came to fruition. 'I've spent more than half my life here,' said Chanu, 'but I hardly left these few streets.' He stared out of the bus window at the grimy colours of Bethnal Green Road. 'All this time I have been struggling and struggling, and I barely had time to lift my head and look around.'
They sat at the front of the bus, on the top deck. Chanu shared a seat with Nazneen, and Shahana and Bibi sat across the aisle. Nazneen crossed her ankles and tucked her feet beneath the seat to make way for the two plastic carrier bags that contained their picnic. 'You'll stink the bus out,' Shahana had said. 'I'm not sitting with you.' But she had not moved away.
'It's like this,' said Chanu, 'when you have all the time in the world to see something, you don't bother to see it. Now that we are going home, I have become a tourist.' He pulled his sunglasses from his forehead onto his nose. They were part of the new equipment.
Nazneen looked down at his sandals, which were also new. She regarded the thick yellow nails of his big toes. The spongy head of a corn poked from beneath the strap. She had neglected them, these feet. She brushed an imaginary hair from her husband's shoulder.
He turned to the girls. 'How do you like your holiday so far?' Bibi said that she liked it very well, and Shahana squinted and shuffled and leaned her head against the side window.
Chanu began to hum. He danced with his head which wobbled from side to side, and drummed out a rhythm on his thigh. The humming appeared to come from low down in his chest and melded with the general tune of the bus, vibrating on the bass notes.
Nazneen decided she would make this day unlike any other. She would not allow this day to disappoint him.
The conductor came to collect fares. He had a slack-jawed expression: nothing could interest him. 'Two at one pound, and two children please,' said Chanu. He received his tickets. 'Sightseeing,' he announced, and flourished his guidebook. 'Family holiday.'
'Right,' said the conductor. He jingled his bag, looking for change. He was squashed by his job. The ceiling forced him to stoop.
'Can you tell me something? To your mind, does the British Museum rate more highly than the National Gallery? Or would you recommend gallery over museum?'
The conductor pushed his lower lip out with his tongue. He stared hard at Chanu, as if considering whether to eject him from the bus.
'In my rating system,' explained Chanu, 'they are neck and neck. It would be good to take an opinion from a local.'
'Where've you come from, mate?'
'Oh, just two blocks behind,' said Chanu. 'But this is the first holiday for twenty or thirty years.'
The conductor swayed. It was still early but the bus was hot and Nazneen could smell his sweat. He looked at Chanu's guidebook. He twisted round and looked at the girls. At a half-glance he knew everything about Nazneen, and then he shook his head and walked away.
The avenue that swept down to Buckingham Palace was wide as forty bullock carts and it was the grandest of roads. It was not black or grey. Nor was it brown or dusty yellow. It was red. It was fit for a Queen. The tall black railings that guarded the palace were crowned with spikes of gold. Nazneen held on to a rail and surveyed the building. After a couple of seconds she looked behind her. The pavement was rife with tourists. Young couples, joined at the hip; families, each with a disconsolate member of its own; tour groups, homogenized by race and tourist equipment; small bands of teenagers, who smoked or chewed gum or otherwise engaged their mouths in ferocious displays of kissing. Many people looked at the palace, as if they were waiting for it to do something. Nazneen looked back at the building. It was big and white and, as far as she could see, extraordinary only in its size. The railings she found impressive but the house was only big. Its face was very plain. Two pillars (in themselves plain) sat at the main doorway, but there was little else in the way of decoration. If she were the Queen she would tear it down and build a new house, not this flat-roofed block but something elegant and spirited, with minarets and spires, domes and mosaics, a beautiful garden instead of this bare forecourt. Something like the Taj Mahal.