Other than this it was just damp paperbacks with airline tickets as bookmarks. The only diversion was when Toby came in. He wasn’t with Mortimer; he was with a goth girl I haven’t seen before. She had a broken look about her, as if she got slapped awake every morning. I figured they had only come in because of the rain, because at first neither made any effort to inspect the shelves. He stood there like a boulder; her teeth worried her lip. I asked if they needed any help, and this made her smile the way pretty girls smile when they receive the attention that is merely what they deserve. “We’re just browsing,” she said, although they weren’t, and even after saying this she made no move toward the shelves. Instead she stared at my face as if it were hung on a gallery wall. She took a small step towards me, stopped, looked at Toby, and said, “Thanks.” She turned and picked up a book about Japanese swords, leafed through it in a distracted manner, then put it quickly down. “Come on, Toby,” she said. “Let’s find the children’s books.”
She moved down the aisle, past history, past travel, till she reached the kids’ section. I only glanced at her a few times during the next ten minutes, but each time I did, she was looking in my direction, probably to check if it was still raining, which it was. So large was the puddle formed at the crossing that every time a car went through at speed a sheet of water sprayed onto the pavement; two parents with a pushchair got completely drenched.
Though Toby had been well behaved, each time I looked over he seemed agitated. His hands were pressed against his stomach; he opened and closed his mouth while rolling his eyes at her. But the girl ignored him until Toby wailed horribly. He swung his arms like two elephants’ trunks and knocked a pile of books from the shelf. In falling, they struck another pile of books on the shelf beneath, which, in vertical domino fashion, brought down yet another pile. Books were all over the floor. “Sorry,” she said, and bent, which threw the male customers into confusion. The two with girlfriends had to pretend to ignore the spectacle of her upturned bottom, the inch of skin above her waist. The other men took quick visual bites, flicking their gaze away when she straightened. The only one to properly stare was Raymond, who was standing on the kick stool, looking at the erotica section. After the girl had put the books back on the shelf, she led Toby to the cookery section. “Maybe this will make you feel better,” she said, and opened a book.
Slowly the great head turned; for the first time I heard words emerge. “Sausages,” said a high, girlish voice (or perhaps a normal male voice with a liking for helium). “That’s right,” the girl said, and swallowed, and then Toby took the book from her and slowly turned its pages. As he did a light grew in his face, a glow that you see in the faces of child actors in commercials when adult actors pretending to be their parents give them a toy or fizzy drink, and all of them pretend it’s a surprise and that they love each other. The difference was that the light in the elephant’s face was real. I could see this, and so could the girl, who looked at me and smiled, and then her face was more than a mask on which dark makeup had been smeared. The eyeliner and lipstick faded, and I could see that though she was what most guys call “hot,” her face was a palimpsest. Beneath the lips she pushed into a pout, the jaw that seemed clenched, there was someone else. This girl looked out of the goth girl’s eyes like they were holes in a fence. I do not think this girl would have spoken to me, or shown herself, and probably did not know I could see her. But maybe, when she came to the till, she might have taken that chance.
But then Raymond fell from the stool and hit his head, and the girl and Toby just went. Who would have thought the old pervert had so much blood in him?
When I read this, more than sixty years later, what strikes me is not so much his sarcasm, his general lack of compassion, but the way that, for all his intelligence, he had no inkling of how significant this moment was for Toby and Sinead. He can be forgiven for not realising the former; even Sinead, who was usually so sensitive to Toby’s shifts in appetite (which was admittedly a fairly narrow range, consisting as it did of variations of ravenous) was too preoccupied to notice that Toby did not mention food for the next hour. Instead he slowly turned the pages of the cookbook, his eyes consuming each picture.
But Sam also didn’t notice how she looked at him. She wasn’t looking out the shop window. She didn’t care about rain. She was staring at him with an emotion that should have been unmistakable.
That night she wrote in her diary:
August 19, 2016
Could not sleep for thinking about bookshop man. The more I came, the worse it got; I couldn’t stop my hands. After the third time it wasn’t even about the thought of us fucking. It was about us lying together after we’d finished, his head on my breasts. I wanted to stay in this thought forever, to go to sleep with it, but pretty soon it started to fade and the only way to get it back was to imagine us fucking. And I should know better. Perhaps he is married or gay or has a girlfriend or only likes black girls. But I have a good feeling about him.
After this she took Toby to the bookshop every time they went for a walk. As the days shortened and the temperature dropped, she found herself walking past whenever she could—just to glimpse the back of him, sometimes to take a photo with her phone. Though she tried to be patient, to let things build, it was often a struggle.
September 10, 2016
What is the matter with him? He hadn’t seen me for almost a week, but all he said was “Hi.” Didn’t ask where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing. Instead he went into the back room and didn’t come out for ten minutes. I had to buy a book to make him talk to me. I was wearing a black mesh top over a black bikini and although the holes are pretty wide he didn’t glance at my chest once. All he said was “How’s it going?” to which I said OK but that I was really pissed off because I wanted to go and see Damson play in Glasgow but had no one to go with. It was a totally obvious cue, but instead of saying he also wanted to go he started asking about Toby. I told him Toby was fine, that he’d just been to the hospital for some tests, and then I made myself shut up. All we do is talk. Instead I did what I’ve been trying not to. I moved round the counter, not all the way, but far enough so that it was no longer between us. I stared at him. I bit my lip. I could see his eyes through his glasses. Although he must have known that I meant to do or say something, he didn’t seem worried or nervous, and this was very bad. It meant he hadn’t been hoping something like this would happen. It meant he wasn’t one of those guys who pretend they don’t want to have sex because they’re frightened of being rejected. With them you have to do all the work. You have to do the kissing, the asking them back, you have to take off your clothes, and sometimes theirs, before they relax. But all Sam did was look at me in a neutral way.
The next few entries had an uneven tone. Frustration alternated with desire; tenderness gave way to rage. Sinead became convinced that Sam was involved with someone else. Then the journal entries stopped for ten days. When they resumed, it was clear that Sinead had crossed a line.
September 14, 2016
He lives on Royal Circus. No. 24. I don’t know which flat. Either 5 or 6.
September 15, 2016
Definitely no. 5. His name is on the door.
His routine became her routine. She expected to catch him with someone, but he was always alone. But the absence of proof only made her more suspicious.
September 19, 2016
The girl with the fucked-up face was in the shop again. Maybe she does only work next door—but what reason is that to go into the same bookshop twice in one week? She barely looked at the shelves. She talked to him for ages.
Soon she was following Caitlin as well as Sam. She saw her go to the doctor and chemist; she followed him to car-boot sales. But in several weeks of surveillance she never saw them together outside his shop. Though it was obvious to her that Caitlin treasured every second with him—in his presence her face alternated between disbelief and gratitude—her adoration was clearly not requited. He kept her at the same d
istance that he kept Sinead.
8. Fahad
The Lahore Review
AUGUST 2047
The Peacock’s Eyes
FAHAD HAS LIVED IN LAHORE with his niece Laila, her husband, Jaleel, and their two teenage sons for the last thirty years. They live in a modest but comfortable house in Allama Iqbal Town, close to many of their relatives. On Sundays they go to Gulshan Park, where they picnic by the waterfall. On Mondays Fahad goes with his niece to Kareem Block Market, where he is friends with many of the traders. When he is talking to Suleman, who sells shoes, or sitting with Bashir at his vegetable stall, Fahad seems wholly at ease. At home, he gets on well with the two boys, Hasan and Ismail, who call him grandfather (neither remembers Laila’s and Jaleel’s fathers, who died when the boys were young). Laila and her husband have a great affection for him, as do all of their neighbours. Yet every morning there is a reminder that Fahad is not entirely content. While Jaleel, Hasan, and Ismail are praying, Fahad goes to the park. And this is not a recent change: In the thirty years since Fahad came to Lahore, he has never been to the temple. In some respects, this is unremarkable—just because he is living in a predominantly Hindu part of Lahore does not mean he must be Hindu too. But Fahad used to be; in his youth he was devout. Given that people tend to become more, not less religious, as they get older, this loss of faith seems to demand explanation. Surely it concerns his friends and relatives.
But Fahad never has to explain. Everyone in Allama Iqbal knows that thirty years ago Fahad got on a plane in Edinburgh, when there was still a place called Edinburgh, still a country called Scotland. Many people don’t know Fahad’s name, but when you show them his photo they say, “Oh yes, the Survivor.”
And if my withholding of this crucial piece of biography seems a prime example of journalistic coyness, consider how you would have felt about Fahad if this had been the first thing you knew. You would not have cared about his friendships, his niece’s sons, his lack of submission to God. There would just have been the fact that he Survived.
Unsurprisingly, some people have interpreted Fahad’s near miss—he left on August 1, 2017—as more than just good fortune. He frequently gets messages telling him he was chosen by a higher power. There are Web sites devoted to “his incredible story,” some of which claim he has magical powers. A few say he is immortal; one says he can fly. Similar claims have been made for others who left the impact zone in time. Such people were “saved” or “special.”
It is certainly true that many Survivors have done well. The current Forbes list has fifteen people who call themselves Survivors; three prime ministers and two presidents make a similar claim. A more prosaic explanation for their success is that almost dying is incredibly motivating.
When I mentioned the idea of him being special, Fahad shook his head.
“I had no plans to leave Scotland, but then one of my customers asked if I was going on holiday, and I decided I would. I hadn’t had a holiday for almost ten years! At first I was thinking of Paris, because it was so close and I had never been. Then I heard there were cheap flights to Pakistan, so I went to visit my brother. If I hadn’t known about those flights, I would have been in France.”
He could have been eating dinner in the Marais when the first meteorites hit. And this thought was enough to make me pause, to make me have one of those flashes of empathy, which if they happened more often, would make life unbearable. I remembered what he surely never forgets: He had a wife, two sons, and a daughter who did not get on the plane to Lahore.
But Fahad’s thoughts seemed lighter. As we passed the peacock enclosure he said, “Beautiful.” The birds were showing their tails.
Fahad led us to a bench near the waterfall and without prompting began to speak.
“Before I went to Scotland, I lived with my parents in Bradford [a town in the north of England], where my father had a small newsagent. After I left school at seventeen, I worked with him for five years. Every morning, I got up at four thirty to deliver papers, then I opened the shop at six thirty, worked until three, then went home and slept for three hours. Most weeknights I went to evening school to learn bookkeeping and finance. I was too tired and busy to think about whether this was what I wanted. My father’s health was bad, and so he needed a lot of help, and my other brothers were still in school. As the oldest son, it was my duty, so I didn’t feel I had a choice. When I had free time, I spent it helping at the community association that was part of our temple. Sometimes I was so tired that I fell asleep when the pundit was speaking.”
At twenty-two, Fahad was, by his own admission, an overly serious young man. “I just worked and worried about the business. I did not like to go to the cinema or watch television; it seemed a waste of time. I never had a girlfriend because I told myself I was too busy. Then one day I came home and my mother said we would have guests. That was the evening I met Rabia, who came with her parents and only said ‘Yes’ or ‘Thank you’ during the whole evening.”
He smiled, and his eyes disappeared. A peacock cried. Another answered. Then Fahad stood, and I did too, and I thought he had had enough. But he did not say he was tired (though he looked it) or that he had to be somewhere else. He said, “We got married three months later, and it made me very happy. I did not mind having to work so hard when there was someone to come home to. The business did well, and we had a daughter, and then in 1986, a son. Shortly afterwards Rabia’s father asked me if I had ever been to Scotland. He said he knew of a good opportunity.”
Fahad did not like leaving Bradford, but he could not turn down the offer of his own shop. It was in a town called Edinburgh. At first it just sold bread, fruit, milk, newspapers, cigarettes, and other essential items. But although these were things everyone needed, Fahad’s store received little business at first.
“I could not understand it. I saw people walk past, then, after five minutes, they came back with milk and newspapers they had bought in another shop. I did not understand why they had gone so far, because I knew that our prices were cheaper than the other shop. And you know what it was?” he says, and jabbed his finger at me. “It was because I was Asian. That was why. There were not many African or Asian people living there, and none who had a shop. I told myself it would take a little more time for them to get used to me, but after three months, business was still bad. It was a shock to me, because in Bradford the white people didn’t care if you were Indian or Chinese or black, only that the things were cheap. Sometimes there were problems, but it was never serious. We had good relations.”
Fahad seemed genuinely regretful. But then his tone shifted, and as he spoke, he poked the air with his finger.
“And you know what, it got worse. One night someone broke the window, and it cost a lot to fix. Two weeks later, someone broke it again, and the police did nothing. There was something wrong with those people. They could not accept a man who wanted to make a living for his family, who worked very hard, just because he was a Pakistani. If it hadn’t been my shop, and my father-in-law’s money, I would have gone back to Bradford.”
By this point, Fahad was shaking.
“Those were ignorant people; they were racists. They hated me because my skin was different, because my mother and father came from a different place. Why could they not accept me?”
This was not a remembered anger; it seemed fresher, more dangerous.
“And it wasn’t only a few people, it was most of them. They could not look me in the eye, they would come in and buy something, and if they said ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ you could see they did not mean it.”
Fahad was almost shouting. Someone, or something, had to be blamed, and perhaps it was safer not to be angry with God.
In this belief, Fahad is not alone. There are still people who think the destruction was anything but random. They say it cannot be a coincidence that the worst affected countries were former imperial powers. They say it was punishment, or karma, for all the murders, wars, and exploitation, the lines they drew o
n maps.
“But they weren’t all like that,” I said, and Fahad looked at me. He stared until I was frightened of that eighty-six-year-old man.
I didn’t find this article until a year ago, and it was more than a surprise; it was a massive shock. It never occurred to me that Mr. Asham might have Survived. The strange thing was that when I pictured him in that park in Lahore, he was still wearing the blue shop coat he always wore at work. It made no difference that I often saw him on the street, wearing a tweed jacket, looking very smart. Without that shop coat he was someone else.
This was one of the unfortunate consequences of Comely Bank being such a close community. People’s ideas about each other quickly became fixed. For many people, Mr. Asham was just the man who sold them milk, eggs, and newspapers. The most they knew about him was that he was married and had children. In some ways, this was due to the nature of Mr. Asham’s shop, which was not a place where people browsed. It was certainly not due to any unfriendliness on Mr. Asham’s part. Of all the shopkeepers of Comely Bank, he was the one who tried hardest to make every transaction seem like a friendly exchange (something that is far from easy, as anyone who has worked in a shop knows).
But perhaps this level of customer service was part of the problem. It was so professionally pleasant it gave away nothing, did not remind people that Fahad Asham was a man who sometimes wore tweed suits. Which is not to say that the colour of his skin made no difference to the mostly Caucasian people of Comely Bank. Though it had been a long time since a brick had been thrown through his window, there were still all kinds of subtle (and not-so-subtle) moments when people slighted him or treated him without sufficient respect because his skin was darker than theirs. Most didn’t realise they were doing it, and would have been troubled if they did. Though much has been written about the iniquities of people back then, in their defence it must be said that most were less prejudiced than their parents and grandparents had been. Unfortunately, they were still cruel in many other ways. Sam recorded this conversation on his phone on July 11, 2016.
The Casualties Page 7