Authors: Monica Ali

Brick Lane (95 page)

'Tell us the one about How You Were Left To Your Fate.'

'Not that one,' groaned Shahana. 'It's boring.'

'True,' said Nazneen. 'I'll tell you a better one.'

Nazneen walked through the car park, over the playground and onto the tarmac hill that bounded the concrete valley. She checked her purse: nearly twenty pounds. Maybe she would buy some chocolate for the girls. Nazneen gave silent thanks. Without Razia there would be no money at all, because Karim had disappeared. She had no middleman, no contact for the factory, no work for her needle, no means to support the children. She prayed to God, but He had already given her what she needed: Razia.

A couple of workmen tried to manoeuvre a walnut-legged table with a green baize top through the doors of the community hut. Another rolled thick cream paint over the graffiti on the dull red brick. The long, low sloping roof had been replaced and it was black as melted midnight against the watery blue sky. A sign had been erected above the doors, in English and in Bengali: 'Dogwood Estate Youth Club'.

The table squeezed through the doors and a thin young man walked out into the pale spring sun.

After the riot, everything was going to change.

Politicians came and walked around the estate with their hands behind their backs to show that they were not responsible, leaning forward slightly to indicate that they were looking forward to the future. A councillor in a corduroy jacket and round-necked shirt came to Nazneen's flat and looked at the hallway where the plaster had come off. He had a reporter and a photographer with him. The photographer took a picture of the councillor with his hand against the bricks.

'How long has it been like this?' said the councillor, dispensing his words one by one.

'Seven, eight years,' said Nazneen.

'Are you finding it hard to cope?' asked the councillor.

'No,' said Nazneen.

'How many children do you have?'

'Two,' said Nazneen.

The councillor looked disappointed. He went away.

Television crews came in the afternoon. There was nothing to film, so they filmed each other. They returned after dark and filmed the boys riding around in cars. They found the disused flats where the addicts gathered to socialize with their addictions, and filmed the grotty mattresses and the bits of silver foil. It was a sensation. It was on the local news.

Three dealers were arrested. Job opportunities opened up.

A Tower Hamlets Task Force was established to look into Youth Deprivation and Social Cohesion. In two years' time it would deliver its verdict.

In the meantime, reporters equipped with notebooks and tape recorders roamed the estate looking for gang members. They accosted Tariq. 'Where are the gangs? Are you a member?'

'No,' he said. 'There are no gangs here.'

'Fundamentalist, then. Are you one of those?'

On Brick Lane scabs formed quickly over the wounds. Plasters were applied. There was nothing that would not heal and after a few weeks, when the wooden boards and the plasters came off, it was as if nothing had happened. There were no visible scars.

Nazneen descended the steps into the concrete basin. The thin young man walked over the flagstones, away from her. She quickened her pace.

'Salaam Ale-Koum.'

He turned round. 'Walaikum-asalaam.'

'Do you know,' she asked him, 'what has happened to the Bengal Tigers?'

He regarded her with a devouring interest. His nose, large, pestle-shaped, became inquisitorial. 'It was disbanded. The Chairman went away.'

'Oh,' said Nazneen, looking down. 'Where did he go?'

'Karim? He went to Bangladesh.'

'I see. Yes.'

'Or he joined the caravan. That's what some people say.'

Nazneen had a vision: Karim in his jeans and white shirt, a thin gold chain at his neck and a bale of dresses over his shoulder; Karim in a mountain cave, surrounded by men in turbans wielding machine-guns.

'But I think he went to Bangladesh.'

'Yes,' said Nazneen.

'Anyway,' said the boy, 7 wouldn't go for jihad in some faraway place. There's enough to do here.'

Nazneen glanced at the youth club sign.

'Yes, exactly. They are looking for Organizers. And I'm starting a new group. You know, I never approved of allowing women in the Bengal Tigers. It was supposed to be an Islamic group! It was a mixed-up idea. Not my idea.' He gave her a look that said, we both know whose idea. 'My group, it's not religious anyway. It's going to be a political organization. Local politics. You should come along.'

If it was his group, then he would become the Chairman. The Questioner was moving on. That left a vacancy.

'I'll come. I'd like to, though I only went to a few of the other meetings,' said Nazneen. An aeroplane passed overhead. She looked up. The plane climbed steadily. The higher it climbed, the deeper the sky. It rode up. And it went on. Nazneen stopped watching. She said, 'But that was before I knew what I could do.'

She put the chocolate in the fridge, went into the sitting room and turned on the radio. The radio was tuned to one of Shahana's stations. A man sang about love and leaving, rain and tears. He sang of loss and perhaps – the words were not clear – of death. He sounded inexorably happy, bounced along by the drums and the tune. Nazneen took a pen and paper and sat down at the table. She began to sketch out a design. The sun warmed her hands. It poured into a glass of water and spilled golden rings on the dark table top.

Razia would pay her tomorrow. Tomorrow she would go to Sonali Bank and send money to Hasina. There had been no letter from Hasina for more than two months now.

Chanu wrote every week. Sometimes there was a gap of three weeks and then all three letters arrived at once. Then, especially then, it was easy to see that it was always the same letter that he wrote. He wrote this and that about the weather. It was hot. It was cooler now. And now very hot. He was sweating very much, or not so much. He was looking forward to the rain. He wrote about food: his breakfast, his lunch, his dinner. She knew the contents of his stomach as intimately as ever. He mentioned soap, management, strides forward, little setbacks. The Big Boss was either 'encouraging' or 'encouraging but cautious'. These lines gave little away. It was as if the censor's pen hovered over them, ready to strike out any material fact. Other aspects of his new life Chanu detailed with precision. He had embarked on an exercise regime and reported faithfully the week's programme. Twenty-five sit-ups and thirty press-ups on Monday, forty press-ups and fifty squats on Tuesday and so on. And week by week he constructed a word map of his new home. Living area twenty feet by ten feet, kitchen area six feet by four feet, nearest barber two hundred and fifty yards, nearest butcher six hundred yards, nearest bank approximately one mile. Week after week he sent the information. Everything else he kept to himself. He wrote on thick yellow paper and filled one side, right to the end. He never stopped short of the end of the page. Sometimes he reported twice on the weather, simply to fill the space.