A Matter of Marriage (38 page)

Tariq and Dr. Choudhury snorted at the same time, and Tariq patted Henry's shoulder. “Forget about Dan Brown, man. Or our credibility's down the toilet, yeah?”

He ignored them. This niche, this mihrab, was so wonderful and exciting, and he wasn't going to let tasteless jokes about bestsellers or politics spoil it. He would find Thea and tell her the news, if she wasn't too busy with the movers.

M
RS.
B
EGUM KNEW
that where Baby was concerned she was standing on eggshells on her Axminster, and all her natural shrewdness and intimate knowledge of her youngest child rose up in her to meet the challenge. Baby was so liable to dramatics—tears and door-slammings and no-one-understands-mes and it's-not-fairs and I-wish-I-was-deads—that she would need all this time that they would have alone together, to soothe and stroke her into revealing what she really felt, really wanted.

She was sure now that they both desired the same thing. And there was no longer any time left to make mistakes. She would rather die than let Baby marry in the same circumstances that she had, shamed and disgraced by her own body.

Her daughter shifted restlessly in front of the sitting-room's side window, looking, looking at that Abbey into which the men had disappeared about twenty minutes before. Her face was thin and hungry, but not for food. She had that look, the one that she used to discuss with Mrs. Darby, as they sat over tea and pound cake, and leafed through some of the older
Majesty
magazines together, examining the pictures of Prince William and his then-girlfriend.

Waity-Kaity, Mrs. Darby had called her, with that smooth hair and so-fashionable clothes, but in those pretty eyes, a look of hunger and patience tested. Because he hadn't proposed yet and everyone was asking, or maybe he had said secret engagement (always such a mistake, Mrs. Darby said, and Mrs. Begum agreed wholeheartedly), or maybe he never would propose since she was no longer a good girl, or perhaps he had seen too much of the tragedy of his own parents' marriage to trust in his own future. Too thin, too hungry by half, Mrs. Begum had thought: such a contrast with the smiling relaxation of just-married William-and-Kate, happy with their new place in the world.

She took her daughter's arm, stiff but unresisting, and sat her down on the couch, nice-and-close. Shunduri sat upright, staring straight ahead, her profile made even more striking by its black frame
.

“I remember so well, the day you were born. I knew you would be my last, my little baby, and all through the labor I suffered. Oh, how I suffered! But knowing, knowing all the time, that it would be worth the pain.” She slid even closer to her daughter, tenderly fiddled the veil's knot undone, and took out the hairpins holding it flat to her hairline, one by one. “And you were so beautiful, even then. Even then, I knew.”

She unwrapped the fabric from around Shunduri's head as if uncovering a rare and precious jewel, took the hated veil into her lap and slowly folded it. Her daughter did not move, but she could see from her tense and upright pose that she was like a little
Doel
bird, half ready to take wing. She would just have to keep talking, not give her daughter too much time to think.

“I
knew
,” she said, with loving emphasis. She placed the folded fabric on the couch behind them, and took her daughter's face between her palms, turning it toward her. “I knew.”

Shunduri's posture softened a little. “What, Amma?”

“I knew, Baby, that you would be beautiful.” She rose up off her bottom for a moment to kiss her daughter on the forehead, then sat back down and let her hands return to her lap. “So beautiful. Tall and slim like your father, but with my skin and eyes. And chin. You remember how I had to put the dark spot on you whenever we went out, to protect you from the envy of other mothers? Ahh. I used to love taking you shopping. Munni and Abu would fight for turns to push your stroller. I miss those days. But I am so proud of you now.” She gave a sigh. “Especially now, with so many other troubles in my life. My other children . . . It is a great comfort to my mother's heart to see how well
you
have turned out.” She was startled by a look of need, even desperation, in her daughter's eyes.

“I can't be doin' any more study, Amma. I, I don't care that I haven't finished.”

“Of course, my Baby.”

“I don't care that I have to come home.”

“Of course, of course.”

Baby was ready, then, and even she knew it, suddenly so willing to give up London, even the bank. Mrs. Begum reached for the bottle of hair oil that she'd taken down from the mantel, and Shunduri lay down on her side, putting her head in her mother's lap. Mrs. Begum pooled a little of the liquid in one hand, rubbed it between her palms, then stroked it through her daughter's hair in a long, unhurried caress, and then another and another.

Shunduri wriggled into a more comfortable position, tucked her feet up onto the couch. She gave a heavy, little-girl sigh, and Mrs. Begum nodded tenderly, careful not to smile. My Baby is home, and ready to marry.

There was a watery sniff. She stroked the hair back from her daughter's face and leaned over her. A tear had snaked down Shunduri's cheek, leaving a trail of black.

“Ahh, Baby, you are sad?”

A violent headshake was her only answer, and another sniff.

“You know, your father and I, all we want, all we dream of, is for you to be happy.”

Another sniff. A listening sniff.

“I would be so-so happy to see you married to a good boy who will take care of you.” She jiggled her knees a little and allowed herself a small smile. “A
handsome
boy.”

Shunduri semi-snorted.

Mrs. Begum, encouraged by this sign of a returning sense of humor (never her youngest's strong point), moved on. “We only want the very best for you, precious Baby. To see you settled in a good marriage, to a good boy . . . We have a few boys in mind: but you just tell me what you want. It is up to
you
, my Baby.”

Shunduri rolled onto her back, and she saw her daughter's eyes full of tears. Shunduri pulled a tissue out of her robe pocket, dabbed at her eyes, then balled it up between her hands.

“Ahh, my Baby,” said Mrs. Begum. “We only want you to be happy.”

“I'm not . . . He's not . . . I'm not going to get married off to some Bangla peasant who won't let me work . . . I'm doin' so well at the bank . . . I'm not going to marry some taxi driver or kitchen hand just because he has some stupid degree from Dhaka University . . .” She went into a series of hiccupping sobs and sat up.

Mrs. Begum patted her daughter's back and made soothing noises. “There, there. Baby, we would not do that to you. I know you want a modern boy. I know what you want. A handsome Desi boy, with a good job, nah?”

“Have you an' Abba got someone lined up, then?”

Mrs. Begum gave a quick fingertip touch to the talisman at her neck and ventured on, her tone as bland as if she was Mrs. Darby discussing the weather. “The Guris are a very good family. The same caste as my mother's family. Hardworking, respectable . . .” She had the pleasure of seeing her daughter's cheeks flush darkly.

She took Shunduri's face between her hands again and bent it down to kiss her forehead. “You think your own mother does not guess what is in your heart? I will speak to Mrs. Guri then, and we will arrange a meeting.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued. “He looks like a nice boy. A good boy.”

She let the silence linger, to make it clear that this was a question, and her daughter answered with more tears and, eventually, the slightest of nods.

“You want this?” said Mrs. Begum, certain of the answer now. Shunduri wiped her face with the wadded tissue. “If you an' Abba do . . .”

Mrs. Begum nodded, pleased and happy to show it, though hiding in her heart her concerns. Why had Kareem not initiated an approach from Mrs. Guri? He was clearly worldly enough to know that much. Perhaps they had fallen out. Had Baby compromised herself in some way already? Never: she could not bear to think of it, she must stop thinking that way, except to hurry up her husband. Was Mrs. Guri's last visit supposed to test them, to see if they had someone else in mind? Or was she warning her off? No matter, Kareem would be managed: the mere fact that he was here, and behaving as if he'd been caught halfway up someone else's mango tree, was indication enough that this marriage had to happen.

“Amma?”

“Yes, Baby.”

“Could we do the
rukhsati
, the reception, at Oxford Town Hall?”

“Anything for my Baby. Ah, what a lot to do, a lot to look forward to.” She embraced her daughter with a mixture of relief that it had all been agreed to so easily, and fear in her heart that Baby was not as innocent as the day she'd first left for London.

“Come, come, let us take this off. Ah, as slim as ever,” she said, relieved, as Shunduri removed her
abaya
. “Come into the kitchen and I will make mango rice for you.”

As Mrs. Begum pureed fragrant mangoes in Mrs. Darby's second-best food processor and mixed them with white rice, slightly overcooked, Shunduri sat at the table, as chatty now as she had been silent before, talking about A1 WeddingWalla Wedding Planners, the best Brick Lane shops for wedding
lehengas
and the great need for a pre-wedding
haldi mendhi
that was bigger and better than all her friends'
mendhis
combined. Mrs. Begum nodded and smiled and every so often glanced at her speckled kitchen curtains, where Mustique and the white limousine shifted as the curtains swayed in the afternoon breeze.

Mrs. Begum sat down next to her daughter and fed her the gold rice with her right hand, smiling and cajoling her for each mouthful as if she was an invalid or an infant. This was always such a difficult time for girls, and it was clear that Shunduri had been thinking too hard, wanting too much.

While Baby's mouth was still full, she asked her, “Has Kareem spoken with the Guris?”

Shunduri stopped chewing, swallowed with effort. “He told me he was goin' to speak to them this week.” But then the tears welled again, and her voice shook. “I don't know, I don't know what they . . . Amma, it's just a matter of time, innit? He, he said he wanted to see you an' Abba first . . .”

Mrs. Begum took her daughter's hand. “Don't cry, Baby. We will arrange it, we will fix it. If this is what you really want.”

Shunduri stared at her mother and nodded, wordless. No pretence now.

“Then I will invite Mrs. Guri to come here. And we will talk.” Really talk. If that dirty dog Kareem was not willing to marry Baby, she would force a
funchait
. They were in no position to find another boy. Not after Rohimun had gone off the railways—and when that had happened, Mrs. Begum had received enough sympathy visits from the community to last a lifetime. No more. Shunduri would be married in the proper way, with everything she wanted, as soon as possible.

“This Kareem. He has a good job?”

“He's a businessman. Import-export. Mobiles and stuff.”

Stuff, thought Mrs. Begum. He had better not bring any more of his stuff into my house. The durian sat on the kitchen table, and she placed her index finger on it and rolled the fruit suspiciously, back and forth. It looked real enough.

“Eeuw, that stinks, Amma.”

“Of course. As it should, it is a durian.” She moved to the kitchen window, peering at an awkward angle so as to catch a glimpse of the Abbey hillside. No sign of the men returning yet.

“Amma.”

“Yes, my Baby.”

“What are you going to do about Affa?”

So Baby was still afraid that Rohimun would spoil her marriage chances. She went back to stand behind her daughter and ran her fingers through Shunduri's wispy straight hair, now shiny with oil: so like her father's, unfortunately. How lucky that the fashion in this country was for short and straight, like Princess Diana and Edward's Sophie.

She looked down at her daughter's bowed head. I, Syeda Begum, uneducated village girl born and bred in Bangladesh, am more modern at heart than my youngest child, so preoccupied with what people will think of her sister and with beating her friends to the
nikkah
. And my so-so clever husband with his Rhodes, and his cannot-forgives.

“We will not talk of your affa today, Baby. Come, your father and I will speak to Kareem, and he will bring Mr. and Mrs. Guri to us. Maybe even tomorrow.”

K
AREEM DIDN'T SEEM
to fully understand the significance of the discovery, thought Dr. Choudhury. But his gut instinct, as they say, had been good, and Dr. Choudhury felt a warm flush of pride—it must be pride—that such a man, so young and confident and handsome and broad-shouldered and so much in the physical prime of his life, was his
brother
in the Muslim sense. Right then, he was able to look upon that word as a pleasant reference to the Muslim brotherhood in its historical meaning, as the
ummah
, rather than the
bruvver
of vulgar street slang and source of unwanted familiarity from taxi drivers and suchlike.

Henry had gone off somewhere, perhaps to supervise the movers, and so had Tariq, presumably to check on his sister and give her the tiffin. Kareem was laughing and joking with the two students; as he watched, Kareem slapped the back of one of them, raising a little puff of dust. How did he manage this? To be so at ease wherever he went, to get along with and know how to talk to anyone? Such a charming boy but, now he thought about it, surely such a universal facility indicated a certain lack of discrimination. Kareem was being as charming to those dishevelled students as he had been to him.

Dr. Choudhury looked longingly at the trio of young men but could not bring himself to approach them. If only they would join him. He pretended an interest in the long flattened arch of the ceiling, finding himself reminded too much of the outsider that he had been, at their age.

Kareem moved into view again, away from the two students and, arms folded, surveyed the rest of the long gallery as if, to Dr. Choudhury's dazzled eyes, he owned it. He reminded him of the Franz Ernst painting of an arrogant Ethiopian prince in full regalia, standing on the front steps of his mansion, that hung halfway up the main stairs. Kareem could have posed for it, to the life.

Dr. Choudhury felt old and pedestrian. He cleared his throat. “You know, my boy, I shall be in the land of our spiritual forefathers soon,
Inshallah
.”

Kareem was immediately attentive. “Bangladesh?”

“No, no. I speak of our spiritual home. I do hope shortly to be seeing the minarets of Masjid al-Haram. As well as diverse other great sights.”

Kareem gave a single anxious glance at his watch, as if suddenly recalling a pressing appointment. “Are you travelling then, sir?”

“The greatest journey of all,” Dr. Choudhury said, with a faraway look in his eye, turning his left profile (his best side) toward Kareem.

“Some kind of world trip soon?” Kareem, seeming now both anxious and downcast, walked over to join him.

Dr. Choudhury felt a jolt of pity. The transparent impressionability of youth: so easily excited, so easily cast down. Kareem was obviously hurting at the thought of losing him. And perhaps, Dr. Choudhury thought generously, there was also some truth in Mrs. Begum's plotting and fantasizing: if so, this would be a bad time for a nervous suitor to lose contact with his prospective father-in-law. He really should put him out of his misery.

“Haj, boy. I am speaking of Haj.”

Kareem's eyes opened wide. “Man.” He paused, then seemed to recover himself. “Sorry, Uncle, I see what you mean about it being the greatest trip.”

“The pilgrimage must be begun and accomplished within the eighth and twelfth days of the twelfth lunar month,
Dhu al-Hijjah
, which commences in a little over a fortnight. Although, of course, as a pilgrim travelling from the UK, we shall commence our actual journey a little earlier than that. So very soon indeed.”

“Oh, sir,” said Kareem, now in accents of surprise and sorrow. “That is so soon. I had not expected . . . How long will you be gone?”

“Perhaps weeks, perhaps longer. I cannot be certain, given the testing and spiritual nature of such a journey. We may well stay a little longer. The shopping is apparently first-rate. And perhaps visit some additional holy sites.”

“You certainly have taken me by surprise, Khalo.” Kareem drew closer and his voice became pensive and confiding. “To tell you the truth, sir, I have been thinking for some time of my duties as a Muslim. I would be very grateful, very grateful indeed, if you, with your wisdom and experience, could advise me.”

There was indeed nothing Dr. Choudhury liked doing more, particularly since losing access to Oxford's undergraduate student body. He hemmed in a professorial way and gave a fatherly pat to Kareem's shoulder. The boy was solid muscle. “Let us walk, my boy. Let us walk-and-talk, as they say.”

They strolled down the main staircase and did a slow circuit of the principal rooms on the ground floor, as Kareem outlined the urges that he had been feeling, to fulfil his own duties as a Muslim. But not only this: the additional and increasingly pressing need that he had become aware of, please excuse his frankness, as a man contemplating marriage—Dr. Choudhury felt himself almost stumble at this point—who felt that, for him, Haj for him would be an important and necessary, almost cleansing, step before embarking upon matrimony.

Recovering his poise, Dr. Choudhury hemmed and hawed to draw the boy out a little more, watching his eager, almost worshipful expression. Ah, the crushes of youth. What a charming age. And the more that they discussed the great benefits of Haj, the more Dr. Choudhury was impressed with Kareem's hitherto unsuspected spiritual depths.

He, of course, counselled Kareem to follow his heart. What else? As soon as these words were out of his mouth, he could see Kareem's visage clearing and brightening to a remarkable degree.

They started to discuss the details of Dr. Choudhury and Tariq's trip, and Kareem suddenly remembered that he had a cousin in Swindon who could get them a discount on the Haj tickets, and furthermore that this cousin could arrange the Haj visas very quickly, organize a first-class trip.

“Khalo,” Kareem said, “you may not have realized just how many crooks there are in the business of ripping off pilgrims, tainting the holy journey with their greed and usury.”

Kareem went on to provide many instances of corruption and depravity, lost tickets and stranded pilgrims. Not to mention the reputation of the Wahhabi officials for bullying those pilgrims with an inclination to prostrate themselves before certain tombs and other holy sites.

Dr. Choudhury hemmed and hawed at the stories, and started to wonder whether Tariq's presence alone would be sufficient to protect them both from the shysters, robbers and officialdom awaiting them at every step of the journey. It all sounded so much more fraught with danger and difficulty than he had realized.

But then, almost as if he'd been reading his mind, Kareem turned toward Dr. Choudhury, ducking his head respectfully. “Sir, I would be most, most honored to escort you and Baiyya on Haj, sir.” He was about to respond, but Kareem hurried on, his face clearly anxious now. “I would be honored to be of service to you in that way. The journey would be even more meaningful in your presence, yeah.
Inshallah
.”

Dr. Choudhury patted Kareem's arm again. What a handsome offer. “My boy, my boy. That would be splendid. The more the merrier. Splendid.”

All signs of concern left Kareem's face, to be replaced by joy and gratitude. Truly, Dr. Choudhury had not lost his touch with students, as evinced by the reputation he had always felt he had, of being one of his college's best-loved professors. Kareem had clearly recognized these qualities in him, despite his own lack of formal education. And who was he to criticize as failings those very qualities, those untutored, instinctive virtues of respect, strength and courage that made Rousseau's savage noble.

As they continued to stroll and to discuss related matters of the journey, Dr. Choudhury began to wonder if perhaps it was Shunduri who would be fortunate in acquiring such a husband, and himself in obtaining such a man as a son-in-law.

Just then Tariq reappeared, and Dr. Choudhury relayed the good news. He could not ignore the fact that Tariq seemed rather subdued by it. But this was understandable: after all, Tariq had expected to have his father to himself for three whole weeks, and was now having to share. But the more the merrier, Dr. Choudhury liked to think. He would be leading quite the little band of travellers. His mind briefly encompassed the telling of Mrs. Begum, then shied away. He was a busy man, what with mihrabs, and Kareem's need for guidance, and his son and daughter here to stay. Perhaps Tariq could do it for him.