Titty Soups lifted himself up on his elbows and looked gravely at Babarr: “I reckon I have indirectly fathered half the kids in this town.”
Babarr chuckled and asked: “Is the sky blue in your world?”
“Kiss my red ass and tell me what you want.”
“Some time ago you told me there’s a family in your area that has come from Pakistan and they’re on the lookout. What’s the deal with them?”
“The Gafoors. So far as I know they’re still looking. The girl looks OK. I could set something up if you like.”
“Do that because my man here is running out of time. He’s gotta find someone suitable and soon,” said Babarr nodding in Musa’s direction.
Titty Soups waved a hand at the steam as if trying to get a clearer view of him.
“But there is no such thing as a suitable wife. Any girl who is fertile can be a suitable wife. You don’t want suitable, Musa, you want dependable and steady. Because believe me, girls nowadays have gotta dark past. You rattle their closet and nasty things will fall out.”
The House of Gafoor, at the very edge of a leafy suburb, had a distinctly gothic quality. From the outside, it was easier to believe that the occupants were troubled ghosts and not frustrated Pakistani parents trying desperately to find a worthy match for their precious daughter.
Just as he was about to lift the heavy door-knocker, Babarr turned to Musa who was carefully dressed in a black tunic and trousers.
“Now before we go in there, remember you work for me. I pay you a salary of 37K a year and the promotion prospects are fantastic. You have already been head-hunted by several Arab institutions but you turned them all down because you want to provide a service for the community. You have an apartment at the Islamic Centre but you choose to live with Mum and Dad because they are elderly and you want to look after them. Got it?” he growled.
Musa nodded dutifully.
“Good. Let me do the talking. Remember, girls are attracted to men with strength so there is the real possibility that she might start giving me the eye. If that happens I will make it clear in no fucking uncertain terms that I ain’t interested.”
He paused. “If they ask you why you are dressed that way I will say it’s your preferred dress and then you say it’s because that’s what Saladin wore when he captured Jerusalem. If they ask how you know, go like this,” he pushed his tongue behind his bottom lower lip and made a strange barfing sound. “Say you watched the film with that guy from Pirates of the Caribbean just like everyone else.”
He winked at Musa before hammering at the door.
A small swarthy man, a servant of some sort, yet with a dignity acquired through proximity with wealthier men, greeted them.
“Hey buddy. We are here to meet the Gafoors. They’re expecting us,” said Babarr.
The faintest hint of a smile passed across the man’s face as he beckoned them in to the house and in to a room furnished in a bizarre concoction of styles. Regency chairs stood at either side of a Victorian fireplace, now modified with phoney coals which glowed an intense red. A golden star-shaped clock, probably from Argos, hung on a wall decorated with deep-green flock wallpaper. Most curious of all, above a Land of Leather settee, was a large print of the Mona Lisa, the woman with the strange smile that reminded Musa of Imam Faisal, a travelling speaker who visited the Madrasah and spoke endlessly and bafflingly about states within states and the black house and the White House.
One time Ali had got hold of a bottle of ethyl-alcohol, a chemical which evaporated at room temperature and the resulting vapour had the curious property of freezing anything it came in contact with. Musa had told Ali to get rid of it by pouring it down the toilet but Ali refused to carry out such a menial task so Musa had to do it. As he left the toilet Imam Faisal walked in. Petrified Musa waited. He knew he should fear the worst but, when Imam Faisal emerged, he had on his face that Mona Lisa smile although he walked with a strange gait.
Just then, a sound of tinkling bracelets and rustling clothes was heard. With a regal flourish, a large woman in a psychedelic sari with short dyed red hair swept into the room.
“Ah…you must be Musa and Babarr. How delightful to meet you. Do sit down.”
A fat hand with pink-varnished, pointed fingernails pointed to the sofa. “Ronnie! The guests have arrived.” Her voice rose to a commanding octave.
She lowered her bulky form on to one of the regency chairs and smiled an impossibly charming smile. Size for size, she had a torso to match Babarr’s. Her face was broad and her cheeks were pronounced in contrast to a thin, delicately proportioned nose. Most disconcerting of all her eyes, darting from Babarr to Musa, were almost feral in their keenness.
“So how was your journey?” she asked with legs crossed and hands resting daintily on her knees.
“Oh…it was fine. You know what they say about traffic these days. It’s a bitch wherever you go.”
Babarr chuckled jovially and in response the mother let off a round of tinkling laughter. Musa smiled politely. He wondered at the name Ronnie. Was he perhaps a convert to Islam? But then she didn’t seem the type to marry a white man and then return to Pakistan. Normally it was the other way around. And her manner…too haughty…too authoritative…no, there was no doubt she wore the trousers and a corset too by the looks of it. Aboo was often known to rant against a woman who acted as if she was the man of the house. Such women were part of the hierarchy of Pakistani society. They danced within the parameters of their gilded lives, viewing the lower classes with a disdain that only the well-mannered among them tried to conceal. What could have made such a person leave the safe, secure waters of Pakistani gentility Musa wondered?
A tall, slim man walked into the room and sat in the Regency chair facing his wife, his posture ramrod straight. He was dressed like a member of the English landed gentry in a tweed jacket with a yellow pullover. Around his neck was what seemed to be some sort of handkerchief. His hair was neatly parted in the centre and he sported a thin symmetrical moustache.
“This is my husband Raja, but I call him Ronnie for short. Raja is such a mouthful you know,” said Mother. She laughed as if this was the funniest thing she had said in years.
“So tell me young man. What is your connection to Musa? Are you related or are you a family friend?” inquired Mother.
“Well actually, I am a family friend. But I am also much more. I am his employer and mentor,” replied Babarr importantly.
“Oh how wonderful! What do you mean exactly?”
Babarr settled back and clasped his hands together. “Well you see…Aunty, I’ve been a friend of the family for a very long time. And one day I get a call out of the blue from Musa’s brother Suleiman. He goes, I gotta kid brother who’s wetter than a dolphin behind the ears. Can you make sure he gets some life experience? I said no worries. You send him to me I’ll make sure he gets so much life experience he’ll wanna stop living!”
He laughed uproariously. This time however the Mother did not add her tinkling laughter and her face took on a pained pinched expression.
“And what is it that you do exactly, Babarr?”
“I’m a builder. Never spent a day on the dole. Never cheated anybody. All my life I worked hard and I slept good. Never done no hanky-panky with no chick. I give as good as I get and then some. There ain’t nobody in this town that messes with me. Because they know that to mess with Babarr is a one way ride to the shit-creek of misery. Some blokes don’t like what others do. All I say is that I ain’t gotta answer to you on the Day of Judgement, so if you don’t like what I say or what I do you can go to hell, because this baby ain’t for turning.”
The silence that followed Babarr’s profile of himself seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. Then came the sound of breath being drawn and good manners were restored. Mother smiled weakly and began to laugh again, but this time her laughter faded away.
“How…how charming.” She frowned. “But we were told that Musa is an educator not a builder.�
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“He is an educator. You see I’m not just a builder of homes. I run an Islamic Centre because I want to build something for the afterlife. I wanna get together some of the boys and some of the girls and make some noise. Because that’s the way I learn shit. If you put a book in front of me, man, it’s like toilet paper. But if you shout and scream, then I get it.
“That’s how it all started. One day I was looking at this wall that I knocked down that I shouldn’t have knocked down, if you know what I mean, and the guy starts screaming like a monkey and giving me all this jip and I suddenly realised that everything in life will be like that wall. Just a pile of dust. You can work hard all your life but what you got to show for it? A shithole with three bedrooms and kids who’ll show you disrespect by running after every bit of white flesh they see. But with Islam, you can build something that will last. You get what I mean?”
Before anyone could answer, the servant entered the room carrying a corncob pipe. Ronnie opened his mouth as if in anticipation of a passionate kiss from Mother and the servant gently placed the pipe in his master’s mouth. Removing a box of matches from the side pocket of his tunic he carefully lit the tobacco: Ronnie inhaled with great satisfaction, blew his pleasure into the servant’s face and waved the man away.
Musa saw Babarr fixing Ronnie with a mean stare.
“Just how much do you earn Musa?” asked Mother. Her voice seemed to have a hard edge to it.
The servant stopped on his way to the door. Ronnie’s hand froze in the air just as he was about to take his pipe out of his mouth while Musa pondered the question. He had already forgotten the rehearsed answer and felt embarrassed. Then Babarr spoke.
“I pay him £37, 000 a year,” said Babar nonchalantly.
Mother nodded, her eyes flickering with calculation. “Is that net or gross?”
“Gross,” replied Babarr.
“What tax code is on your payslip?” she asked. Her voice was tense and she now sat with her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“What…what do you mean?” Musa hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
“Do you have a K code or a BR code or an NT code or a DO code?” pressed Mother, urgently.
Befuddled, Musa turned to Babarr and whispered, “What do we do?”
Ronnie, mishearing the whisper, was immensely pleased. “It’s a DO code. He’s a high rate taxpayer.”
Mother smiled approvingly. “What about prospects for promotion,” she asked.
“Fantastic. If he keeps getting more people interested in Islam, I’ve promised to build a big five-bedroom house free of charge. That means that he’ll be getting the salary plus he won’t be saddled with a mortgage,” answered Babarr.
Musa pondered on the implausibility of this promise and wondered if Ronnie and Mother had experienced a neural alert to Babarr’s bullshit.
Mother, however, continued to smile. “This is all most interesting. I will phone you in the evening to let you know if we wish to pursue this matter.”
Babarr frowned in annoyance and turned to Musa, who nodded eagerly.
“Not a problem Aunty,” sighed Babarr.
“Bring down Rani!” commanded Mother.
Impassively, the servant nodded his head and shuffled slowly out of the door. Mother then turned to Musa.
“You appear to be a very quiet young man. What can you give my daughter?”
Before he could answer, Babarr spoke.
“I think you’re coming from the wrong angle, Aunty. You should be thinking what your girl could do for my boy here. Because, let’s be honest, why have you come to this country to look for a geezer for your gal?”
“Because we feel that England can offer our daughter certain things that Pakistan cannot. The situation in Pakistan is very unstable. Nobody knows what will happen from one day to the next,” answered Mother.
“No. If you were so worried about the politics, you would have come to the UK years ago. That way your girl could have gone to university here and you could have made her into a doctor or something. The reason you’re here, the reason why everyone from Pakistan comes here is because you want to go prospecting!”
“Prospecting?” asked Mother, puzzled.
“Yep, prospecting. The way guys in America used to go prospecting for gold back in the time of Clint Eastwood. They would take out a pan and dip it in the local river to see if they couldn’t find any gold. When that didn’t work out they’d try their luck in another river till eventually they hit the jackpot. Same thing with you guys. You can’t tell me that you didn’t try for a doctor or an army officer in Pakistan. That way you would have lived like kings there. You’re here because your pan turned up rocks instead of gold.”
Mother was indignant but before she could launch into a rebuttal, the servant was holding the door open for Rani. He flicked an amused glance at Musa, and then immediately cast his eyes down.
Rani’s large hazel eyes swam in innocence. Her hair fell freely around her shoulders in a rolling black mass of waves and her smile to Musa spoke of the unbidden blossoming of shyness into courtesy. She was beautiful. As their eyes took in each other’s appearance with pleasure, Musa felt such elation. She was the one: the emblem of his victory and the symbol of Allah’s bounty. Nothing could match the majesty of this moment. It was a divine precursor to a life most blessed. The dreams he had hugged and cherished in the twilight hours of the morning would not now be sucked into the abyss of reality for fate had decreed.
A couple of hours after meeting Rani they were back in Babarr’s office with the others. “What is taking her so long? And where’s Shabnam?” asked Armila irritably.
“She had to stay at home as my mum was poorly,” said Suleiman.
“I bet you a tenner it’s a yes!” said Babarr, gazing at his mobile.
“You’re on,” replied Suleiman, taking out his wallet.
“Do you mind!” protested Musa.
“The girl was giving Musa the eye. I’m telling you man. She could not take her eyes off him,” said Babarr.
Then it came: the digitised sound heralding the all-important text message.
“So sorry. Best wishes,” read Suleiman.
“It’s a no,” said Babarr gloomily.
Musa hung his head.
“You set this thing up. What happened?” demanded Armila.
“How the fuck do I know? Titty Soups said they were a respectable land-owning family from Pakistan who were on the look-out for a respectable man from a good family,” answered Babarr.
Suleiman laughed. “That’s most definitely us.”
Armila had devoted considerable thought to the enigma that was Suleiman. She gave him a quick once-over. As usual he was dressed in that long flowing leather coat over black nondescript clothes.
“Cheer up, Musa. There’ll be other girls,” said Suleiman.
“No there won’t, not like her,” said Babarr. “This girl was genuinely fit. Man she lit up that room. And she was all shy and pretty. You know the way a woman should be. Not like these mouthy slags you come across nowadays. Why can’t more women be like that?”
“You weren’t exactly honest with her. Telling her that Musa was earning thirty-seven grand a year!” said Armila.
Babarr stuck up his middle finger, his head still down. He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone and marched towards the door.
“Hey where do you think you’re going?” said Suleiman.
“I’m gonna ring Titty Soups and ask him to come here. He’ll know what to do next.”
“Look, I think that you’re gonna come across this a lot. It doesn’t matter whether the girl is educated or not or whether she’s from Pakistan or not. She isn’t looking for decency and Islam, she’s looking for a high-flyer – a guy with a flash car and a detached house who’s his own man and is not afraid of telling his family where to go if they start interfering. That’s what all the Asian girls here are looking for. If you say to them I’m earning thirty grand they’ll s
ay we’ll be in touch and they’ll put you on the reserve list and start looking for a guy who’s on eighty or ninety. If you wanna be a player you gotta act like it’s a game of poker where the guy with the biggest hand wins,” said Armila.
She stood up and placed her hands on her hips and looked sternly at Musa. “Why do you think every Asian parent, Pakistani or Indian, is trying to get their son or daughter to be a doctor? It’s not about prestige or respect, it’s because they know these people earn a hundred thousand a year plus. That’s the kind of money that gets you married. Musa is not in that league,” she continued.
“Not everyone is like that. Are you telling me only doctors and dentists get married?” argued Suleiman.
“No, I’m not saying that. Let me put it another way. You gotta look at this thing as if it were a horse race. The doctors and dentists are the Arabian stallions. The graduates in the normal nine to five jobs, they’re studs but not so hot. Everyone else is just a donkey,” concluded Armila.
“Are you saying I’m a donkey?” asked Musa.
“Not quite a donkey but nowhere near a stud and most definitely not a stallion. But that’s not your fault. You weren’t raised in the right stable. And it’s not the fault of the girls either. They have got mums who remember what life was like in the village and who don’t want the same for their daughters. It’s that simple.”
“Stupid is what it is. People just don’t realise that not every problem in marriage is about money,” said Suleiman.
“You’re so wrong,” said Musa. “People follow their heart not their head. It’s always been like that. I once read a poem by an English poet who was born more than three hundred years ago. He said the same thing. ‘The ruling passion be it what it will, the ruling passion conquers reason still’. All it takes is that little moment inside your heart and then nothing else will matter. And when you see that in the other person’s eyes, then you know it’s forever. That’s what none of you get. People never stop dreaming. It doesn’t matter whether you’re rich or poor, everyone wants a bit of wonder in their life. And they’ll go on and on trying to find it. Maybe they’ll cheat on their wives, maybe their wives will start living in a fantasy world, but they’ll never stop looking. That’s what it’s all about; passion, not money.”
The Reluctant Mullah Page 19