Valentine nods, intimidated (her arms folded, defensively, across her chest), then glances over towards his wife again.
‘She’s just acting out,’ Karim grumbles. ‘It’s a pointless charade – a farce! Forget modesty or reserve or decency or restraint – it’s sheer bloody-mindedness. It’s all about control …’
Karim pats the handkerchief over his forehead and then shoves it back into his pocket. ‘Of course she won’t listen,’ he mutters, ‘so what can I do? It’s embarrassing. People think I’m a monster. She loves it. She absolutely loves it. She’s my second wife. Only twenty-one years of age. Attended Catholic school. Grew up in Barking. Is barking, to my way of thinking …’
‘What happened to your first wife?’ Valentine wonders.
‘Nothing happened to her.’ Karim’s indignant. ‘She’s perfectly fine! She lives in Delhi. She nurses my ailing mother.’
‘I see.’ Valentine chews on her lower lip, somewhat apprehensively. ‘D’you have children?’
‘Yes I do.’ He nods. ‘Three. Two by my first wife – both sons – and one daughter by Aamilah.’ He thumbs, contemptuously, towards the window. ‘Milah’s an awful mother. The child – Badriya – is very fat. Milah just feeds her and feeds her. We share our home with Milah’s sister, Farhana. She loves to cook. All they do is feed each other and watch DVDs. And sometimes they watch daytime TV – awful TV – and pass haughty pronouncements on it. “Oh that woman is so ugly! Oh that man is so degenerate!” I tell them, “Nobody is forcing you to watch it!” but they don’t pay me the slightest heed. I might as well be invisible for all they care. The house is a terrible mess. A pigsty! They’re completely useless. The child is huge. Like a balloon. It’s ridiculous. I mean the woman has an A-level in politics and economics, but she lives like an imbecile.’
Noel returns holding a tray with a lone can of Coke on it. He proffers it to their guest.
‘Couldn’t you find a glass?’ Valentine murmurs, embarrassed.
‘I’m fine with a can, just so long as it’s good and cold,’ Karim insists. He takes the can, cracks the ring-pull and takes a long, deep draught.
‘I’ll fetch Mum,’ Noel volunteers, then promptly heads out of the room again, still clutching the tray, before Valentine has a chance to react.
She stares after him, scowling. Karim looks around for somewhere to place his can.
‘Sorry … here … please …’ Valentine unfolds a small, occasional table in front of their guest so that he can put his drink down on it.
‘Don’t be sorry.’ Karim smiles up at her. ‘An attractive girl need never be sorry.’
‘And a plain girl?’ she counters.
‘A plain girl should be constantly apologizing!’ he exclaims. ‘What else?!’
She gazes at him for a moment, shocked, her eyes widening.
‘Yes, yes, I’m incorrigible!’ He chuckles. ‘I was an incorrigible baby – so my mother always tells me – who grew into an incorrigible boy, then into an incorrigible teenager. And now I am an incorrigible man. My life is packed full of incorrigibility. There’s nothing to be done about it. Nothing at all.’
‘It’s just …’ Valentine yanks on her fringe, unsettled. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m still not … I mean Noel didn’t get around to telling me what it is that you actually …’
‘Because he doesn’t know himself!’ Karim expostulates, delighted.
‘… what it is that you do, exactly,’ Valentine finishes off, confused.
‘Let me lay my cards on to the table.’ Karim leans forward and spreads his hands across the small, drinks table in a symbolic gesture. ‘It’s never what people think, okay? The service varies from client to client. It’s basically tailor-made – I believe the fashionable lingo is “boutique” …’
He emits a snuffling laugh.
‘It certainly isn’t just wham-bam-thank-you-mam,’ he expands, ‘if that’s what you’re imagining! It’s much deeper, much more profound than that. It’s about intimacy. Enjoying something intimate. A special bond. A closeness. Sometimes we sing spiritual songs or I recite to them from learned texts during a hand or foot or head massage. Sometimes they play with my finger’ – he holds up his index finger – ‘or gently stroke my belly’ – he pats his rotund stomach, beatifically. ‘I teach a special kind of pelvic bouncing. It’s extraordinarily effective, if I say so myself! A person’s sexuality can take myriad forms. I can make a woman come by clapping my hands together …’
He claps his hands. ‘Or by making them laugh, or with simple eye contact …’
He gazes at her, owlishly. Valentine blinks, then shudders.
‘That’s right,’ Karim repeats, holding her gaze, ‘just by simple eye contact. Although I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty …’ He lifts a plump, graceful hand, to illustrate. ‘It’s a tailor-made service, but it’s a complete service. Satisfaction is guaranteed …’ He pauses for a moment, mid-sentence, inspecting his raised hand, fastidiously. ‘My hands are actually dirty. I do apologize. I polished my car after breakfast. I’d booked the morning off, then your brother phoned …’
‘It’s a lovely car,’ Valentine interjects, peering over towards the window again (happy for the distraction). ‘Is it an old Citroën?’
‘A Citroën? Heavens, no!’ Karim scoffs. ‘It’s a Tatra. It’s Czechoslovakian. Very rare. There’s only a couple of them in the country as we speak.’
Valentine moves still closer to the window and inspects the car more thoroughly.
‘The engine is in the boot,’ he informs her.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she muses. ‘Is that a third headlight in the middle of the bonnet?’
‘Yes,’ Karim confirms, proudly, ‘and there’s a bonus fin on the back.’
‘It’s like something from an old film or a cartoon,’ she marvels. ‘Batman or The Jetsons …’
‘The Wizard of Oz,’ he volunteers.
‘Why not?’ She grins. ‘Careering along the yellow brick road, horn blaring, a couple of Munchkins behind the wheel …’
‘Bags I be a Munchkin and you be Dorothy!’ he cackles, suddenly wildly over-excited. ‘Milah can be “It”!’ he adds, guffawing.
Valentine’s grin falters.
‘You remind me a lot of Dorothy.’ He chuckles, still running with the idea. ‘A sweet, little farm girl. The quaint way you dress – your funny, bobbed fringe …’
Valentine touches her fringe again, uncertain how to react.
‘But I’m getting carried away with myself again!’ he chastises himself, taking another quick sip of his Coke, placing down the can, lacing his fingers together and then leaning back into the cushions. ‘Do please feel free to ask any questions about the service I provide. Don’t be shy! Be as specific as you like. I won’t be offended. I’m impossible to offend.’
Valentine thinks hard for a few seconds. ‘So you’re actually …’ – she clears her throat, embarrassed – ‘… you’re actually more of a … a sexual therapist?’
‘People sometimes call me that’ – Karim nods, wincing slightly – ‘although there are other words and phrases that describe what I do more effectively. Of course I have no formal, therapeutic training – if that’s what’s troubling you – no documentation I can show you. No degree from the university of heaven knows where. No GCSE or NVQ. All I have is this …’
Karim straightens up and indicates, respectfully, towards his head. ‘And this …’
He indicates, respectfully, towards his heart. ‘And this …’
He indicates, respectfully, towards his penis.
‘Bloody hell!’ Valentine bites her lip, uncertain quite where to rest her eyes.
‘Serious brain injury can sometimes result in a dramatic increase in sexual appetite,’ Karim continues, suddenly more businesslike. ‘It’s nothing to get embarrassed about. It’s not shameful or wrong. It’s just a very basic, very natural animal instinct. There’s no point in fighting it or getting upset
about it. We need to be calm, focused and pragmatic.’
‘I’m not fighting it,’ Valentine insists (perhaps a fraction too hotly), ‘it’s just …’ She frowns. ‘So you’ve already spoken to Noel about all of this? I mean …’ She shakes her head, confused. ‘Noel’s perfectly happy with the idea of …?’
She can’t quite bring herself to say it.
‘Heavens, no!’ Karim throws up his hands, shocked. ‘I haven’t breathed a word of it! And Salvatore will have been very discreet – the last thing he wants to do is risk alienating his loyal client base.’
‘Because I’m not really sure if he’d entirely like the idea of you and our mum …’ – Valentine gestures, limply – ‘… you know.’
‘In the act of coitus,’ Karim interjects, mildly.
She winces. ‘He’s just very … uh … protective.’
‘Of course.’ Karim shrugs. ‘He’s a loving son. He believes he’s protecting her, but all he’s really protecting are his own fragile sensibilities. He finds it difficult to perceive his mother as a fully functioning sexual animal. And that’s absolutely fine’ – he shrugs again – ‘although profoundly detrimental to her basic physical and mental well-being.’
He delivers her a beaming smile. ‘Luckily, what Noel doesn’t know about can’t hurt him, eh?’
Valentine is quiet for a while (perhaps struggling to come to terms with what’s just been said).
‘Is it expensive?’ she eventually enquires. ‘The … the …’
‘Service,’ he fills in, cordially.
She nods.
‘Well I’m not a charity’ – Karim chuckles – ‘but I am Karim. I am Generosity. I have charitable instincts. I won’t bleed you dry, in other words. My requirements are almost criminally modest.’
‘And it’s not … it’s not illegal or anything?’
‘Illegal?!’ Karim scoffs. ‘Not remotely!’
‘And you would visit us approximately …?’
‘Twice a week.’ Karim removes a small diary from his waistcoat pocket and checks his schedule. ‘I have a regular, Monday afternoon slot up for grabs from early August – between two and three thirty – and a regular, Thursday morning slot to start immediately – between ten and eleven forty-five.’ He pauses, speculatively. ‘The initial three or four sessions consist of basic, trust-building exercises and last only half an hour – the client tends to get tired quite quickly to begin with, so the fee will vary accordingly … And of course it goes without saying that before I can wholly commit to your mother’s treatment I will need to be formally introduced to her and to feel assured of a certain … I don’t know … chemistry: a spiritual and emotional rapport …’ He pauses again. ‘I think it only fair to warn you that I generally turn down more clients than I accept. This isn’t just a job for me, you see. It’s a mission. It’s a divine gift. Some people call me an “Angel of Love”, a cherubim. I’m a conjurer’ – he waggles his fingers at her – ‘I make magic. I conjure miracles. And as such I need to feel completely at ease in my working environment.’
As he speaks he turns to apprehend Valentine’s shrine, a slight frown denting his forehead. ‘May I deduce from your shrine that you are a devotee of the goddess, Kali?’
‘Um …’
Valentine’s eyes also turn towards the shrine.
‘Because while I respect your enquiring spirit – I sincerely do’ – he smiles at her, ingratiatingly – ‘I happen to know, from intense, personal experience …’ – his hand flies back to his heart and his eyes briefly flutter towards the ceiling – ‘that there is only one God, and the best way to draw close to him is through combating the ego. There really is no other path. Kali is a digression, a deviation, an exotic fancy, a macabre, physical projection of your destructive inner God-instinct, a charming but invidious pipe-dream –’
‘I only use the shrine for chanting,’ Valentine interrupts him, slightly panicked.
‘Let me put it this way,’ Karim persists. ‘When Dorothy wanted to speak to the Wizard, what did she do?’
‘Do?’ Valentine echoes, mystified.
‘Yes. What did Dorothy do?’ he repeats.
‘Uh …’ Valentine thinks for a few seconds. ‘Well she took a trip to Oz, I guess.’
‘Exactly!’ Karim slaps his diary on to his knee, delighted. ‘She headed straight for Oz! She didn’t waste her precious time deifying the red shoes or becoming a loyal devotee of the Wicked Witch – what earthly good would that have done her?! Dorothy sensed – and quite correctly – that the shoes and the Witch were just a colourful distraction, a part of the sideshow …’
‘I take your point,’ Valentine murmurs, somewhat piqued (and not a little beleaguered), turning to face the door through which she can just about discern her brother gradually descending the stairs (her grumbling mother in tow).
‘Well I’m very glad we’ve sorted that out,’ Karim mutters, tucking away his diary and turning towards the door himself, his round face breaking into the broadest of smiles. ‘Now for the fun part, eh?!’ He chuckles, rubbing his soft, plump hands together in gleeful anticipation of their imminent arrival.
‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this business,’ Ransom hypothesizes, airily, ‘it’s that nobody will take you seriously unless you take yourself seriously. That’s the chief piece of wisdom I offer any dumb kid who’s honestly thinking about entering this rat-race: I say, “Take yourself seriously. Take yourself really fuckin’ seriously. Because if you don’t take yourself seriously, then – trust me – no other fucker will, either.”’
‘I suppose talent will out, eventually,’ Gene concedes, somewhat distractedly, as he peruses the drinks menu.
‘Fuck talent!’ Ransom scoffs. ‘Talent-schmalent! I mean look at Mourinho. Look at what he did. He called himself “The Special One”. The Special One! He gave himself that name! It’s like …’ Ransom throws up his hands exasperated. ‘It’s like … why the hell wait for someone else to realize how special you are? Life’s too fucking short! Make yourself special! Immortalize yourself! Book your own place in friggin’ history!’
Gene waits a couple of seconds for the rousing conclusion of Ransom’s diatribe to fully resonate into the surrounding atmosphere, then places down the menu. ‘Uh … in reply to your earlier question,’ he mutters, ‘a glass of lemonade would be great.’
‘A lemonade?’ Ransom’s visibly underwhelmed. ‘They do freshly prepared smoothies here. Have a strawberry smoothie. Have a blueberry and banana smoothie.’
‘A lemonade’s absolutely fine,’ Gene avers.
‘Or a fruit mocktail. They do this ginger and lavender mocktail with loads of freshly squeezed lemon in it. What’s that thing called again?’
Ransom turns to the long-suffering waitress, enquiringly.
‘A Ginger Mule,’ she answers, her hand hovering over her pad.
‘A Ginger Mule. Can you make that with extra Spirulina?’ Ransom enquires. ‘And a shot of vodka? Maybe a teaspoon or two of powdered kale?’
‘That would be two mocktails combined,’ the waitress informs him, grabbing the menu and scrutinizing it for a second. ‘A Ginger Mule and a Sea Breeze, so it would cost twice as much …’ She places the menu back down on to the table. ‘Then there’d obviously be the price of the shot on top.’
‘The cost is irrelevant,’ Ransom informs her, haughtily, then turns to Gene. ‘D’you like Spirulina?’
‘And I can’t promise how good it would taste,’ she interjects.
‘I don’t know what Spirulina is,’ Gene confesses.
‘It’s plankton,’ Ransom tells him, ignoring her interjection, ‘the stuff whales feed on. It’s great. It’s a super-food. It makes your shit come out smelling like Play-Doh.’
‘Really?’ Gene looks mildly nauseated. ‘And that’s supposed to be its chief selling point?’
‘Why not?’ Ransom demands. ‘D’you like the smell of shit? Are you especially attached to the smell of shit? Is this some weird, litt
le picadillo you’ve developed during those long, hard years manning the front lines, perchance?’
Ransom grabs Gene’s military cap as he speaks (which sits – with the torn jacket – on the plush banquette beside him) and plops it, unceremoniously, on to his head.
‘Uh …’
Gene scowls.
‘I mean who likes the smell of shit?’ Ransom declaims, outraged. ‘It’s shit! That’s why it’s called shit! It stinks like shit! It’s shit!’
‘I may be totally off the mark, here’ – Gene slightly adjusts the angle of the cap on his head – ‘but I think the word you’re after is “peccadillo”. The original, Latin root is peccare, or “to sin”.’
Ransom gapes at him, astonished.
‘I helped my wife cram for her Latin exam at Divinity School’ – he shrugs, his colour rising – ‘and a couple of things just seemed to stick …’
‘Spirulina’s a type of algae produced by water and sunlight,’ the waitress volunteers (plainly eager to move on). ‘It’s meant to “refresh the colon”, and that’s why your …’
She twizzles her hand, expressively, keen not to enter into any further detail.
‘It makes your shit float,’ Ransom enthuses. ‘It’s like four, friggin’ flushes before those torpedos will quit the bowl!’
The waitress winces.
‘Sorry,’ Gene apologizes.
‘She’d better get used to it!’ Ransom snorts. ‘This is a golf club for Christ’s sake! Pretty much all pro-golfers ever do is witter on about their friggin’ bowel movements! Why else d’you think they flog date brownies in the lounge? An’ huge slabs of friggin’ banana cake? Bran and raisin muffins for breakfast? If you’re backed up and you’ve got eighteen holes in prospect it’s a minor, fuckin’ catastrophe! Golfers need to be kept regular. It’s critical – a top priority – one of the ten Golfing Commandments …’
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