Brick Lane (72 page)

The girls were upset. Chanu took the news so philosophically that he did not even care to philosophize about it. In any case, he had stopped singing. He had even stopped humming. At first Shahana said, 'Thank God he's put a sock in it.' After a week or so, she said, 'Is he sick or something?' Finally, she said, 'It's going to happen, isn't it? He's going to kidnap us.'

Chanu sat on the floor reading a newspaper.

Shahana approached of her own volition. 'Do you want me to turn the page?'

'You are a clever girl. Go and study.'

'Abba, how much money do you have now?'

He carried on reading.

'Because I was thinking, if you left me behind, me and Bibi if she wants, then you wouldn't have to save as much. And we could be adopted, or just looked after by someone. Really, we could look after ourselves.'

He didn't look up. 'Do you want me to beat you?'

Shahana screwed up her face. She clawed the air. 'Yes,' she screamed. 'Yes.'

'Well, I won't beat you,' he said quietly. 'And I won't leave you behind either.'

He chewed indigestion tablets, whole packets at a time, and still his stomach pained him.

'Go to the doctor,' said Nazneen every day.

'It's a symptom,' said Chanu. 'I've got to tackle the cause.'

Bibi tried to interest her father in her schoolbooks. 'Good,' he said. 'Study.' He patted her on the head cautiously, as if she were made of chalk.

'Abba, do you want me to walk on your back?'

The girls hated walking on their father's back. Shahana refused outright and risked floggings; Bibi trod along the furrowed flesh with all the relish of a girl stepping in fresh cowpats.

'Back?' said Chanu. 'No.' As if he did not even possess such a thing.

Then Chanu made a purchase. He laid it on the sofa and they all lined up in front of it. Bibi bent over to touch it, to check if it was real. Shahana closed her eyes and her lips moved silently. Chanu unzipped it and lifted up the lid.

'Might as well make a start on the packing.'

It was an unremarkable suitcase: shiny black nylon and two straps with silver buckles, like a pair of cheap raincoats stitched around a frame. Nazneen was astounded. That Chanu should buy a suitcase was not in itself surprising. All of his projects required equipment. But there was something different this time. Chanu made no speech. He did not clear his throat. He did not begin to speak about his plans for the Dhaka house, or the rural retreat. Peasant types and ignorant types were not mentioned. Of the immigrant tragedy, the clash of cultures and the lessons of history nothing was said. There was no singing, no humming and not a proverb in sight.

Nazneen thought, it is going to happen. We are going to Bangladesh.

Karim had a new style. The gold necklace vanished; the jeans, shirts and trainers went as well. Some of the parents were telling their daughters to leave their headscarves at home. Karim put on panjabi-pyjama and a skullcap. He wore a sleeveless fleece and big boots with the laces left undone at the top. The fleece and the boots were expensive. Nazneen saw him running his finger over the labels. When he took off the fleece he laid it down with care. The boots had to be unlaced in just the right way, neither too high nor too low. Nazneen felt that Karim did not want her to mention the new clothes. The matter was either too trivial or else too important to be discussed.

There was a labourer who worked on her father's land whose name was Arzoo. Besides his name he possessed very little. He had his arms and legs, tough as jute from his work in the fields, and he had two lungis and two vests. In cold weather he wore both vests at once and a sack with holes cut in it.

One day Arzoo caused a stir. He appeared in a jacket made of red wool with two patch pockets on the front and four brass buttons. Nobody could understand it.

'Hey, Arzoo! Joining the circus?'

'Quick, everyone run. Police inspector coming.'

'Trousers coming next year, eh, Arzoo?'

Arzoo was dignified. He walked more slowly than before, giving everyone the chance to appreciate the jacket. And he sniffed with his nose held high.

'Something flavouring the air. Whoever thought jealousy stink so bad like that?'

As far as anyone knew, he never took the jacket off. He wore it in the fields and it became caked in mud. When he walked around he took to picking off lumps of dirt and he could never get enough of touching the jacket.

In the village, people had to make their own entertainment.

'In this day and age, a man doesn't need a wife to make love to. All he needs is a nice jacket.'

'Oh, maharaja! Sahib! Can't you see that we are in need? What is a few lakh takas to a man like you?'

Arzoo ignored them all but he walked in an urgent way, and it seemed to Nazneen that he was trying to give his jacket the slip.

He came to collect his wages. Abba studied his vest and knotted shoulders.

'What has happened? Dacoits?'

The labourer lowered his head and looked glum. 'If someone wanted to take my jacket they would have to kill me first. But I have finished with that jacket. Was nothing but trouble.' His skin was dark as dates and the only parts of him that were not dusty were the whites of his eyes. He widened them now. 'You think that a clothing is just a clothing. But as a matter of fact it is not. In a place like this it is a serious thing.'

Nazneen could not concentrate on her sewing. She watched the back of Karim's head, the strong lines his neck made. If she were to describe him to Hasina, what would she say?

That even when you knew you had not, you could end up believing you had said something that might change his life.

She would say that he knew so many things.

Chanu also knew many things but they only left him bewildered. If knowledge was food then while Karim grew strong on his intake, Chanu became only bloated, bilious and pained. The way Karim made you feel was . . .

Casting around in her mind, she rejected all the words that came. How could she make Hasina understand? She meandered back into the village.

Tamizuddin Mizra Haque was Gouripur's barber. Beneath the shade of a moss-encrusted pipal tree he set up his shop with three or four stools, two buckets, special soaps and oils, cutlass-like razors and his gleaming scissors, the cleanest and brightest object for miles around. A few feet behind, bamboo grew like a living wall, defining the space and investing it with an official quality. If you had to describe Tamizuddin Mizra Haque to someone who did not know him and was, nevertheless, intent on finding him in a gathering of men, you would simply tell them to look for the most important person in the room. Inevitably, they would gravitate towards the barber. For of all the men in Gouripur, if looks were kingmakers, it was the barber who would be crowned. It was not a matter of 'handsome' or 'beautiful'. It was simply that Tamizuddin Mizra Haque had an important face. Even when he was working – and a barber's status was not high – he was undiminished. By his face alone you would guess that this man of influence had fallen suddenly on hard times, or was merely playing a role. Perhaps it was this quality that wrote the rule that everybody at all times addressed him as Tamizuddin Mizra Haque. It was not possible to shorten his name in any way, and though it was the custom to show respect by naming people Uncle or Brother or some other fictitious relative, it would have been frowned upon in this case.

Even when his wife came to call him, she said, 'Tamizuddin Mizra Haque, would you kindly bring your miserable backside over here.'

Nazneen and Hasina loved to play near the barber's shop. When a customer's face disappeared inside a cloud of white soap, it was thrilling to see the razor fly over the throat and cheeks and see how the skin beneath looked new and untouched. When the barber applied the lotions with a great slapping noise Nazneen felt her own skin tingle at the touch.

But the best thing about the barber's shop was the information. If you wanted to find out something about somebody, the best plan you could make would be to hang around near the pipal tree. Not too near because men would shoo children from their path as easily as ducks. But not too far either.