A Matter of Marriage (10 page)

“Oh, not really. Some of them were used, well, painted for the Pears' Soap advertising campaign of the time . . .” He stopped himself, unable to say anything more about them that was remotely positive.
If you can't say anything nice
, as Audrey used to say when he and Richard were little.

“They don't really go with the pieces, innit?”

“Pieces of what?”

“Weapons.” Kareem gestured at the swords, daggers and early muzzle-loaders scattered between the pictures. “The weaponry you got up dere.”

“Oh. Oh quite. You're perfectly right there. Well put.” Thee had never agreed with him on this, and Richard seemed to think he was spineless for allowing old Kiriakis's kitsch to be displayed next to the armory.

Kareem appeared to have regained some of his confidence, now that they were inside. He folded his arms over his chest and approached the executioner. “
That
goes with the weaponry.”

“Yes, yes, indeed. In fact that, ah, bloodstained scimitar in the executioner's hand, we've got two of those on the wall. The ones with the curved blades, next to the kittens in a basket.”

“Oh yeah. Like in
Aladdin
. So, ah, why do you have all the swords up there?”

“Oh, ah, just tradition, I suppose. Most of them are still in beautiful order: perfectly useable if I ever felt the urge, you know. Hah hah.”

Kareem didn't laugh. A buzzing sound started up, as if a bumblebee had sought refuge inside from the wet weather. Kareem bent and fished an angry mite of a mobile phone out of his sock. Putting it to his ear and launching into what Henry assumed was Hindi or something, Kareem strode toward the back door, giving the armory display a wide berth on the way out.

Henry wandered tentatively into the sitting room, caught a glimpse of himself in the mantel mirror, round-shouldered and soft-bellied, and drew in his tummy for a second before giving up. He had always been more duvet than washboard; Richard had scored all the tall-and-lean genes.

Some of the curtains had been drawn against the cool day, and the women were sitting opposite each other, on the new cabbage-rose chintz sofas. The two dark heads were together, almost touching, and little wisps of steam were rising like smoke signals from the tiny, transparent, gold-rimmed coffee cups in their hands. They looked up at him simultaneously, startlingly similar, as if they were cousins or even sisters. He felt like an intruder.

“Well, well.” He briefly stretched out his hands to the fire, then unstuck a piece of baklava from a doily, and sat down next to his wife. Shunduri stared back at him, casually hostile.

“Isn't this nice,” he said. She must be Greek, even if Kareem wasn't.

Thea put a hand on his knee, and spoke to Shunduri. “We were both at Oxford together, Henry and I. That's how we met.”

He suddenly relaxed into the squashy back of the sofa, and could have kissed his wife. If she didn't even know how they met, she couldn't possibly be a relative. They really must just be lost, like Shunduri had said. He took an unwary bite of the baklava then realized that Shunduri was still looking at him.

“You know my dad then? Dr. Choudhury?”

“Your . . . Oh, good Lord,” he said with sudden comprehension, speaking with his mouth full. “I didn't realize. Shunduri
Choudhury
. Yes, yes, of course, lovely fellow. We couldn't have done without him at the Abbey, you know.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, smiling with relief. “You're down here to visit your parents, are you? And your brother. Good lord, of course! And you probably haven't seen that new bypass they've opened this last month . . . Ah, that's why you were lost . . .” He realized that he had just sprayed a bit of baklava, and subsided. Last thing he wanted was an interview with Audrey about who'd put honey on the new sofa cushions.

Shunduri nodded at him in a dignified sort of way and fiddled with the knot on her headscarf. “I've been very busy with college in London, yaah. Studyin'.” She paused, before saying with a careless air, “Have you seen my sister, then? Is she, like, stayin' around here or somefink?”

Henry, trying to discreetly remove the remains of the baklava from the roof of his mouth, turned to Thea, who shook her head and spoke. “I don't think so, Shunduri. We were introduced to your brother—Tariq, is it?—just the other day.”

“Oh,” Shunduri said, as if Henry and Thea had failed some sort of test. “I thought she'd be . . . We came all this way . . .” Her voice trembled. “My own sister. It's not my fault.” Then she burst into tears.

“Good Lord,” said Henry again, standing up and taking an instinctive step backward.

“For heaven's sake, Henry,” said his wife, moving to the other sofa to sit next to Shunduri. “Find something else to say.”

But even if he could have, the bloody endless baklava seemed to have glued itself to the roof of his mouth. He retreated further, grabbed the tissue box on the writing table and scooted it across to Thea.

With masterly timing, Kareem appeared at the doorway and, understandably, paused. Henry felt a surge of sympathy for him, although he didn't seem that surprised by the turn of events and simply said, “Princess.”

Shunduri hiccupped and wiped her nose on the proffered tissues. Then she broke into a rapid, high-pitched flow of their native language, periodically interrupted by little outcroppings of English.

“. . . just not fair . . . always the last to know . . . no one will tell me anyfing . . . dropped everything to come here . . . always the favorite . . . what about me . . .”

Kareem said something to her, and she shook her head violently, then looked round at them all, her eyes swimming.

“I
called
her you know. I
called
her just last weekend, to say I was coming down and that
gora
Simon picked up. He said, “Your bruvver's took her and good riddance.” But Mum and Dad won't say
nuffink
to me.”

Kareem looked as if he was about to say something, but she plowed on, the pitch of her voice rising steadily.

“And when I called home last night to say what time I was coming, Baiyya wouldn't say nuffink
either
. I didn't do
anyfing
wrong. She's my
sister
.”

Henry started to say Good Lord, but Thea caught his eye, and he stopped himself so abruptly that he had a coughing fit and had to retreat with his free hand over his mouth to prevent any more baklava escaping. Kareem, ignoring his host's struggles and seemingly unbothered by Shunduri's tears, took over tissue-box duties from Thea and stood watching Shunduri, his plan apparently being to just wait for her to wind down to silence, like some kind of clockwork doll.

Perhaps Kareem was used to this kind of thing happening all the time. Henry felt a wave of gratitude for Thea's cool pragmatism, which, while not exactly serene, was certainly never out of control. He couldn't imagine Thea losing it in public like this.

Shunduri let up for a moment, then launched into another wail. Henry eyed Kareem's unmoved expression with admiration. Imagine living with this every day.

The sound of thunder outside, then heavy rain, interrupted proceedings. Kareem flinched, took a hasty glance at his Omega, and turned to his hosts. “Time we was goin'. Shunduri's family . . .”

“It's pouring,” said Thea. “Why don't you wait until it stops?”

Kareem shook his head. “Really must get goin'. She'll settle down once she's with her mum. Very nice to meet you both. Come on, Princess. Let's go see your mum and dad.”

“Oh yes, of course,” said Henry. “Look, I'll see you out. You can't miss it from here.” He followed Kareem, who towed a sniffing and complaining Shunduri through to the main hall and toward the rear entrance.

As the rain increased in force, the lights flickered, glinting off the armory. Kareem sped up, and Henry had to break into a trot to keep up, saying to their retreating backs, “Just, ah, continue round to the front, then to the gates, then hard left.”

He watched as Kareem helped Shunduri into the car's back seat, ran to the driver's door and jumped in. Perhaps she needs a lie-down, Henry thought, as he stopped under the doorway's sheltering arch and called out to them. “Just a summer shower, you know. It'll have passed by the time you . . . Just make sure you leave by the front gates: that'll take you past the Lodge—that's where we're staying—then the very next house you come to on the left, just before you hit the village proper, that's Windsor Cottage, and if you miss it, Mrs. Darby's is next . . .”

But his last words were swallowed up by the roar of the Rover's engine and the scream of flying gravel as the car turned tightly on the circular drive and accelerated away. He watched them speed off admiringly: he'd never have dared go that hard on gravel. He stuck a finger in his mouth to finally scrape the last remnant of baklava off a sore back tooth. Good Lord.

I
T WOULD BE
impossible for any man, even one of Dr. Choudhury's mental powers, to relax or to concentrate while Mrs. Begum, fizzing with excitement like a just-lit firecracker, was rushing between kitchen and front door, kitchen and sitting-room front window, looking for the much-awaited, much-anticipated arrival of their youngest child. A red-letter Tuesday, indeed. Baby's favorite dishes were on the stove, her favorite hair oil was on the mantelpiece, and Mrs. Begum had completely disrupted his peace of mind by rearranging the occasional tables in the sitting room.

The paan tray was already on display, heaped and gleaming, and everywhere there was an unusual profusion of flowers in vases and plants in pots: that Mrs. Darby's influence, he was sure of it. Dr. Choudhury felt like he was in a particularly oppressive jungle, or a Christian funeral. To walk to the sitting-room window, he had to shoulder past a large drooping plant in a brass container. He shuddered and wiped at the plant's point of contact with his second-best jacket, a tweedy triumph in burgundy and green with a subtle yellow fleck. Plants belong outside, people belong inside. Where was Baby? She should be here by now.

He just happened to glance out the window again when a large, dark car drew up at the cottage gate. The growl of its engine triggered a shriek and a flash of color as Mrs. Begum rocketed past the sitting-room entrance en route to the front door.

In light of the importance of the occasion, he gave only the most cursory of glances into the mantel mirror to check his hair and his tie (lemon and gold: an Eid present from Baby), smoothing both of them fondly. Buttoning his jacket as he walked down the hallway, Dr. Choudhury hurrumphed himself into position just behind his wife, who had already opened the front door. Her yellow sari set off his jacket nicely, and his tie. She could call and cry: she was the mother after all. When the necessary female fuss had died down, he would receive his due as paterfamilias, from the youngest and stupidest of his offspring. He was in no hurry. How long it had been since their Baby had been home.

Shunduri was not visible through the tinted windscreen, but a young man, very well dressed, had jumped down from the driver's seat and hurried to a rear passenger door, which he swung open with a flourish before standing back in an elaborate display of physical contact avoided.

A figure stepped out, away from the shielding door, and there was their daughter in a tightly fitting long black dress and matching headscarf. The front of the scarf had been pushed back a little, revealing the front of a scimitar-sharp bob, which Dr. Choudhury recognized at once as the latest celebrity haircut.

Although much of her face was obscured by aviator-frame glasses, he saw with satisfaction that Shunduri looked even taller, slimmer and more polished than he remembered: a remarkable achievement, given the short-and-round-ness of her mother, who was sighing and muttering something about everyone starving in London.

The man disappeared around to the back of the car where he appeared to be unloading luggage. Shunduri turned to them and gave a theatrical startle before crying out “Amma! Abba!” and running with a slow high-heeled stagger up the front path and into her mother's arms.

Dr. Choudhury felt tears prick at his eyes and hurrumphed again, loudly.
He
had never felt a mother's touch since he was school age. It took some time for Shunduri to extricate herself from the maternal embrace, but then, sunglasses removed and gratifyingly teary as well, she made a token feint for her father's feet before being drawn into his arms and bursting into loud sobs. Baby was home.

—

T
A
RIQ RAN DOWNSTAIRS
and into the hall, just in time to see his parents disappearing into the sitting room and his youngest sister pause dramatically in the doorway, framed by a sweep of peacock feathers behind her. He held his arms out. “Baby.”

“Baiyya!” Shunduri gave a little shriek and skipped toward him, gestured toward his feet and accepted his hug. “I've missed you soo much, Bai, like you wouldn't believe.”

Despite the little-girl voice, she seemed much older than when he'd last seen her: older than Rohimun in fact. Shunduri's perfect make-up, slender figure and cinched-in, stylish clothes were those of the married, moneyed women he used to sell to in the Jo'burg galleries. He cleared his throat, feeling all the weight of older-brother responsibility.

“Yeah, me too, Baby. God, you've grown, yeah.”

“Are you back for good? Where's Affa? Where is she? Are you going to sort her out?”

Before he could answer, the peacock feathers shivered and moved toward them, then swung away to reveal a short, broad-shouldered, shaven-headed man in a tight suit, carrying an entire stuffed peacock as well as a number of boxes wrapped in gold paper. Tariq stared at him, expressionless, and the man quickly piled the boxes on the hallstand and approached him, smiling, the peacock still tucked under his arm.

“
Salaamalaikum
, Baisahib,” he said, using the full, formal version of the honorary title. “Kareem Guri. I'm honored to meet you, man. I've heard a lot about you.” He held out his hand. Fat diamond studs glittered in each ear, and Tariq could see the trace of a Nike tick that had been shaved into his right eyebrow and was now growing out, with the help of some kohl sketched into the gap.

Shunduri wound herself around her brother's arm, using her girly voice. “Kareem's grandfather knew Amma's uncle the tailor. Their wives were, umm”—Shunduri flapped a hand—“
cousins
and Kareem, umm, helped out with Uncle's funeral.”

Tariq nodded but did not take Kareem's outstretched hand. Kareem, still smiling, withdrew it and patted the peacock absentmindedly on its rump.

Mrs. Begum, eavesdropping, reappeared at the entrance to the sitting room, tears in her eyes. “My beloved Khalo, Uncle! Like a father to me he was, sending for me to join him in Dhaka, when I was left with no one, no one at all.” She grabbed a corner of her sari and wiped her eyes, then gave Tariq's arm a squeeze. A don't-spoil-this-for-me squeeze.

He affected not to notice, and kept watching Kareem. After one last squeeze, hard—migod Mum must have been working out—she let go of him and put an arm around Shunduri, gesturing with the other for Kareem to join them in the sitting room.

Kareem dipped his head but stood back, making it clear that he was waiting for Tariq to precede him. He pretended not to see Mum's gesture. Slimy bastard. Why the fuck was he here?

Tariq dawdled, rocking back on one foot and patting his pockets as if he'd forgotten something. Kareem, seemingly unfazed, continued to wait. Jesus, he looked like one fit fucker under that suit. And with all his nodding and smiling, not moving an inch. Eventually Tariq admitted defeat and walked, stiff-backed, into the sitting room, far too aware of man and bird following close behind him.

Baby was already curled up next to Mum on the sofa, sniffling and sighing: milking the big reunion scene for everything it was worth, that was for sure. You'd have thought she was the one who'd been overseas for a year and a half, instead of in London and only three months since she'd last been home. She was sounding off to Mum about how they had ended up at the Abbey on the way, and met Henry and Thea Bourne, and were all great friends now. As if that was likely. Perhaps she'd leaned out of the car window and waved at them on the way past.

And who was this Kareem wide-boy Guri? Mum was crying again: Kareem was talking about the old country, beautiful bloody Bangladesh, the tailor's Dhaka shop, now taken over by some cousin apparently. Even Dad had tears in his eyes.

Tariq stalked to the wing-back chair opposite his father's and sat at an angle so as to keep an eye on everyone. No one had looked to him for guidance on how to treat this
gundah
muscle-builder, who seemed to have been accepted, even welcomed, without reservation. They were all in thrall to Kareem's novelty: his sharp suit and worldly smiles, his ability to spout sentimental Bangladesh bullshit.

When he, Tariq, had arrived last Saturday, turning up at dawn with Rohimun, their little Munni, white in the face and almost dead on her feet, he had been the man of the family then. No one had questioned his place to direct that she be put to bed with a hot-water bottle, nor his entitlement to sit up with Mum and Dad over chai and pakhoras to discuss the situation, decide what to do. Dad had deferred to his judgement about the danger of press interest, had acquiesced to all Tariq's statements about the future. Of course, Rohimun could not stay in the cottage: they all recognized that. And when Dad had made the suggestion of the Abbey as a temporary hiding place, he had done so tentatively, dependent on Tariq's approval.

Tariq noticed that everyone was looking his way and realized that he had lost the thread of the conversation. He was about to mouth a surly, teenage
What?
when something brushed against his hair, with the unmistakable scent of Giorgio for Men. Robbie's scent. His heart in his mouth, he turned his head toward the fireplace and almost into Kareem's rounded pin-striped bottom, inches away.

“Up, up, back,” said Mrs. Begum. “Beautiful bird.”

Kareem, standing between Tariq's chair and the fireplace, was arranging the stuffed peacock on the mantel at an angle so that its tail swept down behind Tariq's chair in a river of color. Tariq jerked his head back around, heart thumping, recrossed his legs and folded his arms.

A seemingly endless disjointed conversation ensued, all focused on the man behind him while he sat, trapped in his chair and surrounded by scented rustling, feeling every slight nudge to the back of his chair as Kareem adjusted the peacock's positioning under Mrs. Begum's pleased supervision. The rich scent, everyone's staring, Kareem's proximity were excruciating. How long was this going to take?
Robbie, why did I ever leave you?

—

T
ARIQ HAD KNOWN
from that first evening in Tajura Barracks with Robbie that he, Tariq Choudhury, was what he was. Not a man who couldn't find love, or a straight man making use of what was available, but a poof, a faggot. And Islam couldn't change him, or save him.

From that night he'd felt liberated, enlightened, separate from the daily round of posturing and failure that barracks life had become. After that, it had only been a matter of time, stringing out his training at the barracks in Libya, stealing as much time with Robbie as he could until Robbie finished his three-month mercenary stint there and took off back to Jo'burg.

After that, it was suddenly easy to accept the humiliation of resigning, admitting that he wasn't up for it, was a failure as a soldier of God; the shame of his cell-leader's ready acceptance of this, and the Libyan officer's comment that Tariq was better suited to a
madrassa
than a military school. Easy to make vague promises to keep in touch, accept the hints of perhaps another role, later.

Then a roundabout route by light plane and private jeep back to South Africa and meeting up weeks later with Robbie in Jo'burg for a wild spree of partying, drinking and generally following him around like a Siamese twin. Desire did not fade in those early months, but, away from the petty desolation of Tajura Barracks, he began to see that his beautiful Robbie, as short and fair and free-spirited as he was not, was more of a temporary liberator than a lifelong companion: a fuck-buddy rather than the lover that he had originally thought, in the rush and high of feelings freed.

Tariq had truly begun to feel the void then: no lover to adore, no religion, no family, no politics. For Jamat-al-Islami and the cell he was a dropout, a failure. Who was he then? What was left? After three months Robbie had run out of money and was talking about another stint in Libya, or maybe something in Algeria or Darfur. Nowhere Tariq could follow: Tajura had proved that. Once Robbie went, what could he do? What would he be?

Chance connections at one of those endless Jo'burg parties had led to a job in a gallery, and then, once Tariq's Oxbridge background became known, an acting curatorship at the Goodman Gallery. The gallery, filled with moveable walls, natural light and risky installations, and basking in the kudos now given it as a supporter of black artists through the pre-Mandela years, was a breath of fresh air after his interrupted PhD studies. Tariq basked as well, in the joy of revisiting this side of himself, after so long without.

But the void was still there, and even before Robbie had left for a consultancy with a private security firm in Iraq, Tariq knew that, despite the gallery job, the all-embracing hedonism of the underground gay scene in Jo'burg was not enough. No one seemed to belong to anything larger than themselves, believe in anything greater than their own desires. He needed a community, and a system of belief. He was nothing, less than nothing, without that.

Over the next nine months, his career at the gallery had flourished, but his sense of aimlessness and homesickness grew. He carried it as a deserved burden and, he thought, a secret one, until one drizzly afternoon, his boss Linda's hand had landed gently on his shoulder.

“Go home,” she'd said. “Fly to London for me, meet these people I want to exhibit, see their work, take some time with your family. You've earned it.”

She moved away, then returned briefly to give his back a brisk, get-on-with-it smack, making him think of his father. Tears had sprung to his eyes.

“Then come back. You're the best bloody curator I've had.”

—

K
AREEM HAD AT
last returned to the small occasional chair near to Dr. Choudhury, but Tariq's gut was painfully tight, and he tried to deepen his breathing, to relax the cramp, assuage the longing.
God, Robbie, where are you now?

Dr. Choudhury laughed at something, and Kareem quickly laughed with him. Bastard. Tariq felt his hand clench in his lap as he glared at the visitor. Kareem, perhaps sensing the look, glanced at him.