Dear Infidel

by Tamim Sadikali

  ‘You stupid boy!’ Bilqis thundered, breaking the silence. Salman was still kneeling by the now vacant chair. He walked right out, slamming the front door shut. The only movement was from Aadam who stepped towards his wife, placing an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘That stupid boy!’ Bilqis repeated, fury punctuating her words.

  ‘He didn’t mean it, Bahen, my sister. He must be feeling terrible right now,’ said Arwa, but Bilqis was having none of it.

  ‘Well he bloody well ought to be.’

  Hearing his wife fume, Husnain rubbed his weary head, worry and shame competing to bring him down.

  ‘I’ll go and talk to him,’ said Pasha, and the sound of the front door closing again signalled the end of the drama.

  ‘Come, Husnain, let’s go into the living room,’ said Zakir, and reluctantly he followed him out to receive the balm of telly.

  ‘You know what everyone needs?’ suggested Nazneen.

  ‘What, Beti?’

  ‘Tea! A nice cup of tea.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Arwa with a sigh, and she turned with effort towards the kettle.

  ‘No, no, I mean proper tea. Spiced tea – cooked tea. Do you have any chai masala, Aunty?’

  ‘Actually I don’t, child. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can make you up some.’

  And with that Nazneen went to the cupboards, searching for the five or six whole spices that are essential to such a mixture. Arwa and Bilqis exchanged looks. Despite Nazneen entering the family two years ago they remained unconvinced by her, this fancy career girl. Bilqis could hear her son playing with Aaliyah in the corridor and felt it was time Aadam had a child of his own. Nazneen measured out different spices on a plate before tipping the lot into a blender. Individual seeds quickly merged into a powder, and pressing the plastic lid down she looked up at her mother-in-law, wearing a satisfied grin. It’s OK, girl. I’m impressed, Bilqis thought. But what else do you know? Oblivious to the sceptical eyes, Nazneen began making the tea.

  20

  Pasha looked down the thin, shared driveway of his parents’ house. The front garden was tiny – a small square lawn with a regular bush fencing two sides. There was an arrangement of flowering shrubs in the middle. Of course, there was no colourful display on this mid-November afternoon; only bare branches exposing barren earth.

  There was no sign of Salman. He walked to the pavement and looked down the road and saw a big figure trying to look small in a beat-up car. His first thought was one of surprise; that Salman owned such a banger. Didn’t he study accountancy at uni? Wasn’t his old man an accountant, too? He approached the driver-side door cautiously. If Salman had seen him he hadn’t reacted – he remained perfectly still. His eyes were shut and his chest rose evenly and deeply. For all the world it looked like he was sleeping. But then Pasha noticed a tear roll down. His nose also ran and he wiped the back of his hand underneath. Pasha remembered the two of them kicking a ball about on this very street, and marvelled at how life could get so fucked up. Gently, he tapped the window.

  Allah, why did I hit him? Why? I didn’t want to come here today. Why couldn’t we have spent Eid at home, just us? Look at them, these ... he’s ruined my day, my special day. Does Eid mean anything to him? That na-paak. I should have put my foot down; said something. But Mum treats me like a damn child. She’d treat me with greater respect if I earned more. I have tried, though. I’ve always tried, but this damn country won’t let me win. Allah, I shouldn’t have hit him. Knock knock.

  Oh God, what is he ... ‘I’ll be in in a minute, Pasha.’ I look up briefly and force a smile. ‘Please – go back inside.’

  I’m looking dead ahead. I don’t want to see him again. He’s not saying anything but he’s not moving, either. Go, you swine.

  ‘Please, Pasha. I just need a few minutes.’

  ‘Let me in, Salman. It’s bloody freezing out here!’

  I close my eyes and wish ... wish I could wish things away. Like in that kids’ film. Click your heels together, three times. I look up and he’s smiling, smiling at me, the swine. And against my best efforts, I smile back. I’ve lost – again. I stretch and open the passenger-side door. Pasha hops round like he’s walking on hot coals before jumping in. I just can’t bear to look. I can hear the silence. I’m sat in my freezing car with my one-time cousin/brother/enemy, and now complete stranger. I want to go home.

  Pasha rubs his hands together. ‘Put the heating on, Salman!’

  I slowly turn to him. We study each other. He’s so familiar and yet a complete alien. It’s really uncomfortable. Allah ... I remember us playing football together on this very street. We were kids, then – ten, maybe eleven. I bet he’s forgotten all that. I can’t believe this is the same person. They say Allah guides whom He wants to guide.

  ‘I can’t. The battery’s really weak. I don’t want to risk the car not starting when we leave.’

  ‘Well, then get a better car!’ Pasha punches me lightly on the arm. ‘I know how much you accountants earn!’

  I really don’t know what to say. You know I’d always hoped that one day I’d get my revenge. Because he cut me loose when I really needed a friend, after he’d found his wings and I was still searching for my feet.

  ‘I’m a Passport Control Officer at Heathrow Airport,’ I say, matter-of-factly. I see Pasha bite his lower lip. Silence.

  ‘But you studied accountancy, right?’ He looks at me curiously but with concern.

  ‘Yeah.’ I don’t feel like elaborating. Pasha shifts in his seat.

  ‘You know I’ve been thinking about you constantly, these last few days.’

  I raise my eyebrows but say nothing. He keeps looking at me, expectantly. He’s willing me to give him something, anything, but I’m no longer finding it difficult to ignore him. Eventually he sighs and shapes to get out but some reflex makes me turn. Instantly he stops. I’m on a roller coaster: brotherhood, distance, love, repulsion. But above all, compulsion. I just can’t stop myself.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you, too. Do you know how long it’s been?’

  ‘Too long,’ sighs Pasha, rubbing his temples. I feel his frustration, wishing things were different but knowing they never will be.

  ‘Are you married?’ Pasha stiffens at my question. I’ll take that as a no, then.

  ‘I have a girlfriend – a partner.’ He adds that last part quickly, almost like a correction.

  ‘Why don’t you just marry her?’

  ‘She’s English,’ he replies stiffly. He’s staring like he’s expecting some big reaction but I’m not sure if that’s meant to be surprise, awe or disappointment. In truth, all three emotions shoot through me, but I’ll not let on to any of that.

  ‘So what? Kahina’s Tunisian.’

  ‘Kahina’s Muslim, though – her nationality’s irrelevant.’

  Again he braces himself for some reaction, but it’s too cold, he’s not worth it, it’s Eid and I just can’t be bothered.

  ‘I never entered accountancy in the end. I never got my foot in the door. I guess my face didn’t fit. I’m glad now, though. It’s not a clean living – usury, entertaining clients. Not clean. What do you do?’

  ‘Oh, I’m in software. Look, it’s not important.’

  ‘Oh but it is. You just made my son happier than I ever have. How do you think that makes me feel?’ I face him squarely and can see he’s stunned. I am, too. I can’t believe I just said that. But it is why we are both out here, in my freezing old car.

  ‘I had no idea. Salman, I’m sorry.’ And he looks it, he really does. But there’s no way I’m letting this guy in.

  ‘Don’t you think I’d have bought him something expensive if I could have?’

  ‘But it’s not about the cost, Salman. Taimur’s a kid. Don’t you remember being that young? Would you have appreciated receiving a Qur’an as an Eid present, when you were eight?’

  He’s right. NO. He’s wrong.

  ‘It’s ever
ything to do with the cost. Kids want so much now. I’m trying to give him some deeper values. The British only worship money. Money, drink and sex.’ I catch Pasha’s eye and he looks horrified. I guess it’s an uphill struggle for both of us, trying not to hate each other.

  ‘Salman, I’m sorry. I can only say it so many times. I bought the presents with good will. I’d never seen your children before.’ Again, sincerity. He’s not making it easy for me.

  ‘I should have been seeing your children today, too.’ Pasha looks down into his lap. He looks lost, almost apologetic. I’ve not seen that look in him before, ever – not as a boy, not as a teenager, and not as a young man. That was what marked him out – total self-confidence. Sitting this close to him, I notice some grey in his hair. I have grey in mine, too. More than him, but I don’t mind, not really. But I bet he does. I bet he minds a whole lot. Maybe my day of justice will still come.

  21

  Life is bland. Mostly. Days come and go and we buy comfort and sell ourselves. And then come the spikes. Extreme highs and lows puncture the cocoon, heightening senses, precipitating thought. Remember meeting that dear old friend after such a long time? Wasn’t it just like the taste of Christmas Past, mellowed in oak? More often, though, you end up being force-fed some home-brewed hooch that leaves you half-blind and bleeding from every orifice.

  Imtiaz had arrived. Out of everyone he lived the closest, yet he was nearly two hours late. He was just inside by the front door and was trying to take his shoes off. Their black-dyed leather was well worn and the laces utterly frayed; he fumbled in undoing the knot.

  ‘Good to see you again, Imtiaz. How are you, Bhai?’ asked Salman. Instinct, though, made him look away even as he greeted him. Imtiaz smiled weakly and muttered in response. A motionless Pasha was there too as Imtiaz continued wrestling with his shoes. The sleeves of his overcoat rode up as he picked at the knot, exposing thin wrists with skin wrapped tightly over bone.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ commented Salman moronically. Pasha looked at him aghast before glancing back at his brother, hoping he hadn’t provoked a reaction. He hadn’t. Quitting whilst he was only just slightly behind, Salman about-turned and scuttled off; the two brothers were left on their own. Finally, Imtiaz stood up.

  ‘Hi, Pasha.’

  His face carried no expression at all, yet Pasha knew he was mortified.

  ‘Are you well?’ he asked, falling into the same trap as Salman. He bit his lower lip as the brothers embraced loosely.

  Leading him into the kitchen, Pasha recomposed himself.

  ‘Guess who is here, Mum?’ He attempted a fanfare before briskly walking through and planting himself at the breakfast table, next to Salman. The two exchanged looks. Imtiaz stood alone, stranded by the kitchen door. His head was lowered in an attempt to hide under his baseball cap, yet a thin film of sweat was still evident – his skin glistened with dis-ease.

  Aaliyah and Taimur stopped and stared. Nazneen and Bilqis turned away. Arwa looked full of shame.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said blandly. His mother embraced him tightly but he barely reciprocated. Watching on, Bilqis remembered him as a little boy. He was always such a frightened child, always holding onto his mother, tagging behind on her apron strings. She was filled with sadness. This boy just never stopped being frightened.

  ‘Hello, Aunty,’ he peeped, a tremor in his voice.

  ‘Why are you wearing this thing indoors?’ She admonished him and swiftly removed his cap without seeming interested in a response. His head of hair resembled a sea storm: overgrown clumps lashed into random, frenzied shapes. Bilqis smarted at the display before running a hand through.

  ‘And what is this, eh?’ Her serious eyes bore no hint of remorse. ‘No time for a haircut? No time to wash or comb?’ She darted from one eye to the other, looking for some sign of life. Pity soon pulled her back. She kissed him on the third eye. His body was bent awkwardly and he tried smiling but it came out all distorted. She kissed him again and abruptly let go, moving swiftly to inspect the bubbling dishes. Imtiaz moved on.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ said Aadam with a handshake. ‘This is my wife,’ he jollied, those words accompanied as always by an unfailing pride.

  ‘Hello, Imtiaz,’ Nazneen smiled and held out a cup of tea. ‘You look like you could do with this.’ He responded to her brightness and accepted the drink gratefully. Taimur now held his toy car up to the strange man and Imtiaz reacted with delight. He was re-introduced to Kahina by Salman, them having met before, and then he tried to pick up Aaliyah but she screamed and writhed away in protest. Everyone laughed. His father and Husnain re-entered the kitchen and the coldest of greetings between Imtiaz and Zakir followed.

  Pasha felt shaken. He couldn’t take his eyes off him when he had first entered. His body had lost all structure, its definition distorted. His arms and legs had wasted away but bizarrely he’d also acquired a belly. And his face, too, was puffy but it was the total lack of expression that was the starkest feature: dead eyes peering out from a live but rotting carcass. The extra fat on his face (certainly more so than he could remember) had taken the edge off him as “him”, blurring his features. He looked somewhat androgynous, amorphous. He had searched for the right adjective or phrase, and after dismissing “dishevelled” and “unattractive”, had settled on “cartoon ugly”.

  But now he felt ashamed. This was his brother. He recalled that incident when Kahina had given him Aaliyah to hold. The little girl had shrilled and squirmed in protest until her mother simply had to take her back. Everyone had laughed; even Imtiaz himself had laughed, but he wasn’t stupid. His brother was absorbing insult after insult with an animal’s tolerance, and he was fully aware. Pasha hung his head.

  22

  “Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

  JALALUDDIN RUMI

  Mother...

  I’ll never risk reading a magazine in this house again. I flick back to the front cover, curious to see what bizarre periodical has made its way into the Walayat household. Sufi Psychology, it says. Jeez. It’s not what I pick up from the “special interest” section at my local newsagents ... haha ... But it’s not really funny, is it. God. If I were a dog they’d put me down. I remember someone from work once blustering about a stag-do to Amsterdam that they’d been on, and how their top-shelf magazines put us Brits to shame. Now, I’ll admit to having enjoyed more than the odd copy of Mayfair or Men’s World, but over there they cut right to the chase: Fist Cunt and Choco & Piss are two titles that I pretended not to hear, but which were seared instantly into my mind. I mean, just how messed up can a person get? I ain’t claiming to be no saint, but if I found myself next to someone browsing the latest issue of Choco & Piss, even I’d be running for the hills. I’m scared. I really am. I don’t want to descend any further down this pit. I desperately need help.

  I toss the magazine onto the coffee table and collapse back. I inhale greedily, trying to work out what the hell to do next: dinner’s close to being served but it ain’t ready yet. Five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes to go. Please, God, just get me through this day. I’m on my own in the living room but then my Old Man enters. Oh God, please.

  ‘Oh, I’m starving!’ my father jollies, taking his favourite seat. He’s on good form today, I tell you. ‘What’s to come first?’ he bellows with good humour, clearly expecting to be served on hand-and-foot. I’m guessing the question’s aimed at my mum, but she’s in the kitchen and no reply comes forth. He smiles at us nonetheless from across the coffee table, kind of flashy, and I wink back. That’s right, ya cunt. Start as ya mean to go on, I say. He rubs his hands with glee, clearly picking up none of the poison in my eyes.

  The breakfast table was too small to fit everyone so we decided to eat in the living room. Well, when I say we decided, I mean Pasha decided. He’s rolled his sleeves up today, and no mistake. He’s really getting stuck in, helping Mum and that.
I should too, but ... it’s the looks, those looks I get – seeing that same expression in everyone’s face. It just freezes me over. I need to just sit here, recover a bit. I’m relieved all the introductions are over.

  It’s still only me and me Old Man who have taken up positions. Everyone else is doing something useful, I guess. Still, Daddy Dear is now providing me with some entertainment, and I watch him plump up some cushions. He turns back round, a satisfied grin on his mug. Someone, I can’t remember who, but someone once said that Hell was being locked up in a room full of your friends, forever. That’s startlingly close to the mark, you know. I think it was Socrates. Daddy Dear now switches on the telly and stretches out a tartan-patterned blanket over his legs before cleaning his teeth with a toothpick. Or was it Dustin Hoffman? Look at him, just look. Right now he wants for nothing. I envy the cunt, truly I do. I wish a tartan blanket and some good telly was enough to warm my cockles. I shake my head, marvelling at the insanity of it all. I mean, just what the hell are we all doing here, on this miserable planet?