Brick Lane (59 page)

'These young ones,' Razia hissed in Nazneen's ear, 'they don't know about respect.'

'That's what Ka—'

'What?'

That's what Karim says. He says that the young ones would do anything. If they lit a cigarette in the street and they saw an elder coming, they did not bother to hide it. They walked with their girlfriends. They even kissed, in the street, in front of an elder. There was no reason not to say it. 'The man who brings the sewing for me, he says the same thing.'

'The middleman? The boy who comes?'

Nazneen pulled out a roll of cherry-red cotton jersey. She took a keen interest in it. 'Oh, yes. Everyone says it.' She was aware of Razia watching her.

'He has been keeping you busy.'

Nazneen pulled the material. The stretchiness of the fabric was of great importance to her. Razia was making small talk, and Nazneen listened with only half an ear. 'Huh? Oh, plenty of work.'

Eventually, she had to look up. Razia, expectant. Her lashes, enlarged by the spectacles, seemed like thick spider's legs. In the depths of her irises, gold lights played at an infinitesimal remove. It should have been possible to tell her anything.

'Well, which one do you like?' It should have been possible for her to ask anything. But Razia decided not to ask. Instead, they discussed material. They spoke of weight and colour, texture and sturdiness, loveliness and ease of care. They pulled out roll after roll and failed to return the stock to its rightful position and the assistant clacked around them on her heels.

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.