Dear Infidel (11 page)

She looked uncertain and changed the conversation. ‘So are you married, then?’

‘No.’

She sipped generously and laughed. ‘Don’t look so nervous. I’m not about to propose!’ He smiled and sat down beside her, and which point she flopped backwards and closed her eyes. ‘You’re different to other paki lads.’

‘Different ‘good’ or different ‘bad’?’ he asked, trying to shake off her casual use of ‘paki’. She’d clearly had more to drink than he had realised.

‘Different ... good!’ They tittered at her hesitation.

‘So are you going to get yourself a nice Pakistani bride?’

Pasha was irritated by the question. ‘Why? Do you know any?’

‘Not many down my way, I’m afraid. Just us local girls. We’ve got more ... spirit.’ And with her eyes still shut she nestled up closer. Her hands were by her sides whilst she absent-mindedly opened and closed her legs, with the soles of her feet remaining together. Little butterfly wings.
Flutter flutter
,
come taste my nectar
. He considered just chucking her out and going to sleep, or fucking her first before chucking her out and going to sleep. Nip-and-tuck. Her head moved gently from side-to-side, as if she was listening to some tune. But there was no music. This was easy, too easy, and a surge of anger bolted through him. For a moment he was close to hitting her and he was relieved he hadn’t done so. Still looking down, he curbed his disdain – he couldn’t hate her, this salt-of-the-earth British girl. British women: they didn’t have the
élan
of the Italians, the femininity of the French or the sheer native beauty of the Spanish. No. But they had a rawness, a baseness, a kind of prostitute-quality that really worked for him. He leaned in to touch her hair and, feeling his weight, her smile widened. He ran a finger over her bubble-gum pink lips and her butterfly wings re-opened. He moved on top, pinning her, and kissed her with hunger. Enjoying her firmness he bit her neck, holding a fold of skin and flesh in his teeth, inhaling her cheap, stale perfume. Pasha’s mist descended. He sprang up, pushing her pliable legs to either side and smoothed his
thumb over her knickers. He moved slowly from outer to inner labia, and then clitoral hood – mapping her out through silk. He could tease himself no longer. Pulling down her lace, he descended – bubble-gum pink to bubble-gum pink. And instantly he recoiled. She stank. She was giggling and for a second time he came close to violence, but again he pulled back. He studied her ethnic features, her blotchy pink arms and her pink, pink skin. Indissoluble pink. Jim Pink. Jenny opened her eyes and clasping his tie, pulled him onto her.

‘Love me, Pasha,’ she said. And they’d been together ever since.

He’d reached the outskirts of west London. A mortal dread gripped him. He looked around like a wide-eyed tourist who, expecting to see pinstriped suits and bowler hats
à la Mary Poppins
, could instead barely see a white face. Into the heartlands he went: a
sari
shop passed him on his left and a Middle-Eastern grocer’s on his right. Five minutes later he came up to the Lahori Kebab House, which he remembered well. He’d loved it there, being a regular throughout his teens. Part of him wanted to rush in and say
I’m back!
, but most of him didn’t. A woman wearing what could only be described as a tent crossed the road. Her face was covered and Pasha genuinely wondered if she could see where she was going. Turning a corner into Elmstead Avenue, he saw two Asian kids kicking a ball. One wore a polo shirt which declared that he was
Proud to be Pakistani
. It didn’t say
Proud to be British
or
Proud to be British Pakistani
; just
Proud to be Pakistani
. And there he was – number forty-five. Home.

Aadam carried two steaming mugs of tea into the living room. Bina was sitting on the floor, focused on defacing some magazine. Kishore sat slumped on the settee. His eyes were shut and he looked pale, and Aadam considered just letting him rest a while.

‘Tea’s up, bro,’ he soon announced loudly, and Kishore jolted awake before gratefully accepting the mug.

‘Oh man, that’s better. That hit the spot.’ He sighed on sipping, the ginger biting his throat. ‘Nazneen will be OK, right?’ Kishore quickly refocused without waiting for a response, and picked up the TV remote.

‘Oh sure, I’ll sort things out.’ With newspaper in hand Aadam settled by the dining table, trying to brush the incident off. Deep down, though, he was shaken; upset that she’d walked out. He’d really chosen badly in letting his friend trump her.

‘
Eid Mubarak!
’ came the cry from the box. On the screen was a sea of Muslims at prayer. They were all dressed in white and going into
sujud,
moving down from standing. To prostrate themselves. Prostrate themselves before God. Before Allah. Together. Muslims to the left, Muslims to the right: an unending sea of Muslims. Kishore changed channels. Britney Spears appeared and Bina’s head turned. She watched open-mouthed as the attractive girl went through a series of interesting moves. Daddy was watching open mouthed too.

You wanna look at me? Look all you want, baby. I’m so young, I’m so fine. You like my hair, my Little Bo Peep plaits? And the rest of me? Do you like my shirt, my school shirt done up like that, all turned up
like it’s a crop-top? I think crop-tops are sooo cool. My stomach’s nice and smooth, huh? I know you like me in my uniform. When you’re off to work tomorrow, will you think of me when you see all those schoolgirls on the streets? Their skirts are short but not as short as mine. Here, let me turn around. Look at my behind. No, REALLY look at my behind. Isn’t that the peachiest peach you’ve ever seen? Can you imagine? Are you imagining? You are, aren’t you? That’s OK, I won’t tell. Hit Me Baby, One More Time.

‘Britney Spears is fucking hot, man,’ blustered Kishore, releasing a shiver as blood flowed to his extremities.

‘Yeah, but she’s not a patch on that Christina woman. That girl’s so dirty, it’s a compliment.’

‘Filthy and cute, man, filthy and cute,’ came the refrain in unison as the pair burst out laughing.

‘Hey, look at this!’ said Kishore as the next video started. His eyes were wide and his smile pure, and Aadam couldn’t help but catch his friend’s excitement.

It was the Spice Girls, a bunch of has-beens looking so eager in their
Wannabe
days. ‘That one was Posh Spice, right?’

‘Yeah, I think so,’ said Aadam, and they watched the pretty little thing slink across the set.
Pow!
Another of the gang introduced her identikit identity to the world with a high-kick: Sporty Spice, and they both grinned, warming to the theme. A third member took her turn, beckoning the viewers towards her before running away. The frigging tease.

‘And this one? Who the hell was this one?’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ sighed Aadam, losing interest in the guessing game. ‘Make-an-old-man-very-happy, Spice?’ Kishore began laughing but stopped. Aadam was still fixed on the screen, an easy contempt spoiling his face.

‘You know, Kishu.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The worlds of pop and porn have a lot in common.’

‘How’s that, then?’

‘They both need a constant supply of fresh meat.’ Aadam went back to the newspaper, leaving Kishore to channel surf alone.

‘Mother of God!’ said Aadam. With head down he continued reading, though, and Kishore let it go.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ he spat shortly afterwards. He looked up and Kishore gestured for detail, whilst still watching TV.

‘Get this. There’s this article here on the rewriting of history in Indian schools. They’ve reprinted this question, from some state’s elementary maths exam: “If one
kar sevak
can destroy four mosques, how many
kar sevaks
will be required to destroy twenty mosques?” I mean, what the fuck is going on? Can you imagine being a little Muslim boy and sitting that paper, and coming across that question? How would you feel?’

He looked at Kishore who stared back but said nothing.

‘Well? How the fuck would you feel?’

‘Five.’

‘What?’

‘The answer’s five.’

Kishore kept on staring and Aadam turned away. He went into the kitchen, leaving Kishore sitting alone in silence, stung by his own venom.

‘Hey,
Bhai
, you seen “
Devdas”
yet? That Aishwarya Rai – God, now that’s a woman!’ After a minute Kishore had followed Aadam into the kitchen and found him over the sink, rinsing some dishes. He put an arm on his shoulder, tenderly.

‘No, Kishu. Actually, I saw five minutes the other night. One of Nazneen’s friends brought it along. I got bored pretty quickly.’ He moved to stack plates, deliberately brushing off Kishore’s hand.

‘Really? But that Aishwarya Rai – come on, man...’

‘For God’s sake, why is everyone so gaga about her?’

‘Cause she’s a stunning beauty – why else?’

‘Oh come on, there are plenty of others just as classy.’

‘No, no. Not in her league. She’s stand-out.’

‘Yeah? Course you know why she really does stand out.’

‘Go on.’

‘‘Cause she doesn’t look Indian.’

‘What?’

‘Aishwarya Rai
is
attractive, but you Indians have only gone so dizzy cause she doesn’t look like a bloody Indian.’

‘What the fuck? You don’t know what you’re talking about – India is a huge place, one billion people. Not everyone has dark brown skin. There are so many looks: Tamils, Goans, Bengalis, Gujaratis, Punjabis. None of them look the same.’

‘Too right they don’t. And Aishwarya Rai’s appeal is precisely that she looks like none of them.’

‘Oh fuck off,’ Kishore spat, turning his head away. Aadam laughed.

‘You know I’m right. Look at the crop of current actresses. Sure, they’re all beautiful, but that’s not the point. Their features, Kishu: very fair skin, green eyes. What does it say about India that the idea of feminine beauty excludes ninety per cent of the nation’s women, on ethnic grounds alone?’

‘You tell me, then?’ asked Kishore;
dared
Kishore. He was looking Aadam full in the face, just willing him to throw one more insult.

‘Look,
Bhai
, let’s not fight. We’ve known each other too long. It’s an interesting observation, that’s all I’m saying. Draw your own conclusions.’ Aadam stacked the last of the dishes and Kishore stepped back, sorrow reshaping his features.

‘What’s happening to us?’ his voice was breaking, suddenly soft. He sounded defeated.

‘Perhaps we’re just getting old, Kishu,’ Aadam replied, knowing full well that age had nothing to do with it.

Aadam closed the front door and went back upstairs. From his bedroom window he watched Kishore trundle down the street until out of sight, pushing Bina in her buggy. He never looked back, not even once. Aadam wondered if Bina would have any Muslim friends when she grew up.

Nazneen drove, the heat of her rage bleeding into space. Her burning eyes sought not to separate the innocent from the guilty; her tongue flickered only to taste revenge. She’d really wanted,
needed
him, to confirm, cement, eliminate all doubt: Husband and Wife – till death us do part.
How can he prefer to spend time with that idiot, rather than be with me?
Her mind reeled at the insult, unable to get a handle.
What kind of man is he?
But this cold November day remained unimpressed: the pallid sky did not stir with her dark thoughts, and no passer-by shrank back in dread. Impotence returned her to the present.

Choking back tears she took a sharp turn, attracting a horn plus a volley of abuse.
Why didn’t I see this side of him earlier? Why was I so hasty?
A dancing Scooby Doo air freshener fell onto her lap, the stickiness of the base all gone. Without slowing down she picked it up.
Scooby Doo
. They were together when Aadam had bought it. Halfords, some Saturday afternoon.
How the hell has it come to this, spending Saturdays in Halfords?
He’d liked it straight away.
Funny, quirky, cute
, he’d said. She’d said it was stupid, childish. He bought it anyway, along with an in-car coat-hanger or
travel valet
, as he’d called it, without any sense of humour or even noticing that she didn’t want to be in fucking Halfords on a fucking Saturday. It was on his list, he’d said. He had to get it, he’d said, so he could cross it off.
THE GUY MADE LISTS
. Surely he should have declared such anal-retentiveness, prior to marriage? Did this not constitute breach of contract or something?
Must get in-car coat hanger. CHECK. Must get car air freshener. CHECK. Must make wife cum...
Forgot to put that on your
list, eh? EH??
YOU RETARD. I’LL SHOW YOU SCOOBY FUCKING DOO.
She took another loose, fast turn into a residential street. She was eyeing the Scooby Doo repeatedly, pouring hate into Aadam by proxy. A boy was crossing the road. She didn’t see him. She still didn’t see him. She saw him ... She floored the brake pedal and tyres screeched on biting tarmac. The car stalled. The wail of burning rubber crescendoed then died. The boy was standing, his hand on the bonnet. He was staring straight at Nazneen but not really seeing her, his face framed by shock. Voices rushed in. Foreign tongues. It woke him and he banged on the bonnet, his look suddenly aggressive. Nazneen was frozen. There was a bang on her window and she jumped to her side: another lad was gesturing wildly, also shouting in a foreign tongue. A third lad, tall and sinewy, rushed in. He kicked the driver-side door and tried to open it. Nazneen was yet to respond – no words, no action, no gesture. The oldest lad spat and translucent dribble slid slowly downwards, leaving a mucus trail. A woman approached, pushing a buggy. She barked and the three lads reluctantly moved on, each holding a stare. Nazneen darted nervously from one to the other before the woman shouted from up close. A portion of her face was obscured by the sliding spittle. She was wearing a flowing burkha which even covered her hands, and when she banged the window the sound was dampened.

‘I’m sorry,’ Nazneen finally spluttered, but there was no look of forgiveness in those spittle-veiled eyes.