Dear Infidel (20 page)

‘When you say
never
...’

‘I used to cook: dinners for one. Have you ever done that? I used to make a real effort, just for myself. But I’m a ready-meals convert now.’

Aadam swallowed hard. ‘Look, dude, just find yourself a wife. There’s someone out there for everyone.’

‘But I’m going to be thirty-five soon. I don’t know how ... to satisfy a woman.’ Aadam glanced at the wall clock, cursing its slow progress. ‘So what should I do? I used to lead a good life – a simple life, at least. Everything was in order. But it just got harder.’

‘You can’t beat yourself up for losing interest in dinners for one! Why didn’t you look for a wife before? I found Nazneen myself. Well, kind of stumbled across her, really, but Salman’s marriage was arranged, of sorts. Didn’t you have the urge earlier? Even just for sex?’

‘No...’ He gagged on the word. ‘No. I knew that everyone around me was pairing off. But I never felt the need. Not back then, anyway. I’d left home, I had a place of my own, a job – it was all fine. And for sex.’ Again he stalled.

‘What? You polished the woodwork?’ Aadam tittered before berating himself for the misplaced humour.

‘Have you ever ... You’ve watched porn before, right?’

‘Yeah, of course. There’s not a man who hasn’t.’

‘And?’

‘And what? Please, Imtiaz – no more being cryptic, huh?’

‘Did you like it? No, wait. Do you still watch it?’

Aadam stared hard. He wondered what on earth had possessed him to hang back with this lunatic and not stay with the others. ‘Er, no,’ he stamped. ‘I’m happily married, thank you. But yeah, it was kind of fun. Guilty pleasure.’

‘Do you miss it?’

‘No! Look, what is this? Why are you talking about porn now?’

‘It’s ... it’s all I think about.’

Silence.

‘What do you mean, exactly?’

Imtiaz drained the last of his tea, like he wished the action would last a thousand years.

‘The others will be back soon – this is your chance. Say what you want. I’ll not judge you.’

‘What to say, Aadam? Please. There’s nothing else. Work, eating, sleeping – I just go through the motions. But porn ... it takes me to another place. I hate it. I hate myself, but there’s just nothing else.’

Aadam was lost. There was just no point of reference. But this was nothing less than a confession; he couldn’t reject him now.

‘Porn isn’t damaging, Imtiaz. Not necessarily, anyway. The thing is you have no checks and balances. Look at you, man. You’ve got to turn this around.’

‘But that’s the thing. By the time I realised there was more than what I could see...’ He just couldn’t complete the sentence.

‘It’s never too late, Imtiaz. Never. No one expects you to go to a pub and start chatting up birds. We can help. The community can help.’

‘Aadam, I’m terrified. I know nothing about women, real women. I know nothing about real sex.’

‘You have to take a leap of faith. You don’t have the luxury of time now.’

‘You say others can help, but if the marriage is “arranged” it’s kind of a business transaction, right? I have to bring something to the table. I don’t know what I can offer.’

‘Oh Imtiaz,
Bhai, tu kyaho gaya
?’ Aadam rubbed his face, sadness spilling over confusion. ‘Do you know how amazing being with someone can be? Even afterwards, couples talk. Nothing fancy – just checking-in with each other, really. Often I’ll drift off to sleep like that. So tell me, how do you feel after a session on the Internet?’

For a moment Imtiaz looked livid, ready to launch a tirade. But then he started crying. He tried to regain composure but failed and quickly buried his head in his arms. Strangely, he wasn’t even making any noise. Aadam looked on, nothing but a spectator. He looked around – those Tamils were gone and there was no one on the other side. Not that it mattered. Should he say something, hold him, offer him some water? He’d never seen a man cry like this before. The seconds passed. Imtiaz stayed slumped, cradled in his own arms.

‘There they are,’ pointed out Salman, on entering the cafe. Imtiaz was smiling and gestured them over.

‘Did you get what you want?’

‘Yeah, sure did. This dude really knows his stuff!’ Pasha flashed a congratulatory smile and Salman acknowledged the compliment mutely.

‘Come, let’s go.’

They began walking when Pasha saw a bus: an old-style red double-decker. It was slowing down, pulling up at a stop about thirty yards in front.

‘I thought they only have those in Central London now. For the tourists, and that.’

‘True,’ replied Aadam. ‘Maybe their main fleet is getting a wash or something,’ he added unconvincingly. Pasha knocked his shoulder and the pair tittered.

‘110. I think this one passes Arwa Masi’s.’

‘Yeah, yeah – you’re right.’

And with that the four of them pelted towards the bus and scrambled on-board just in time. Imtiaz was last on and looked putout and out of breath.

‘Come on, Imtiaz, this is fun! When did you last ride an old-style Routemaster?’ chided his brother lightly. The four of them were bunched up by the entrance, waiting for those in front to take up seats.

‘Oh leave it out, Pasha, you don’t have to sell me a ride on a bus. It’s a very small thing.’ He was still catching his breath and was bent double, hands resting on knees.

‘Look, bro, if you can’t enjoy the little things then it really is all over.’

‘Where to?’ asked the West Indian conductor, his voice deep and gravelly.

‘Erm, same as him,’ said Pasha with a smile, pointing at Aadam in front. He was still holding the pole by the entrance and the conductor was using a manual machine to dispense tickets. The man wore a uniform, he had a hat on and there was a bag of change strapped to his waist. Tripping on the nostalgia, Pasha took his ticket and followed the others up the stairwell. It wasn’t that packed on the top deck – just one group of lads right at the back and a sprinkling of individuals here and there. Pasha gazed out of the window and watched the Parade ease out of sight. He turned around. Salman was inspecting a packet of diced lamb.

‘You know one thing I like about
halal
butchers?’

Salman braced himself, not knowing how many more cute comments he’d silently absorb.

‘You see real meat, real carcasses. There’s no squeamishness.’

Salman relaxed and laughed. Pasha had riled him constantly today, but he’d also been funny and warm. He didn’t have to come out to
him after he’d slapped Taimur – he’d not forget that. He remembered the two of them making their way home from school on buses just like this. It seemed like yesterday. It seemed like another life.

‘Aye. Lamb comes from lambs, not some plastics factory in New Zealand,’ said Aadam.

‘
Wah
! Very cute,’ applauded Pasha, and the two high-fived.

‘So will you be rustling up some exotic dishes?’ asked Imtiaz of his brother, gesturing at his new utensils.

‘Oh, I might well take these babies out for a test drive,’ he remarked lightly, clearly in high spirits. He removed the
tawa
from its bag and held it up, rotating it by the handle. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Cast iron. I miss eating
rotis
. Naan bread is fine, but there’s nothing like
rotis
. And I can now make my own!’

‘So invite us all up once you’ve perfected them. We should be the first to sample your handiwork.’

Pasha was taken aback by Salman’s suggestion.
Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
Salman’s gentle smile assured him that he hadn’t misunderstood.

‘You boys can expect a call from me within a month, then!’ And with that Pasha turned to his brother.

‘You’ll come too, right?’

‘Sure,
Bhai
, count me in.’

I’m bored. Aadam’s not back yet. The boys have been gone for ages. The others are watching telly, the kids are getting ratty and Kahina’s praying. Again. I tried joining them, all of them. But I was no good at reminiscing, playing
It
or talking about cooking and kids. I’m a damn spare part here. I mean, why bring me along, huh? Did I want to come? Was this my idea? It’s always about him. He pretends to be all modern, that everything’s shared, that we work as a team – but it’s rubbish, really. In the end it’s his call and I have to go along with it.

I go into the kitchen to see if there’s anything to do, just to pass the time. I was playing racing cars with Taimur five minutes ago. Did Aadam not think to take me along? He didn’t even ask. I’m like some porcelain doll – he takes me out to impress the guests and then stuffs me back in the cupboard.
I’m bored
. I’m not used to this, being treated like some show piece. I want to be adored.
I want to be adored
. Oh, Martin.

The sun is no longer visible up in the Colorado sky, now but a sheer veil on the day, set off by a soft peach glow. But as she gazes up into infinity, it looks as if a wounded sun has been staggering all over the heavens, leaving a blood trail. Several gaping wounds puncture the dim glow, clear evidence of the crime committed. She pays homage to the martyred, anointing herself under a blood-red sky. And the alien landscape lies stretched out below, an unleavened red crust opened up repeatedly by those mighty sandstone eruptions.
The sheer expanse. Nothing else. Nothing.
She looks up again and the sky seems lower,
darker. She snatches her breath, scared. And those stone Centurions, guarding since the dawn of time; and this descending red pall, smothering her, above and below.

‘You OK?’

Nazneen jumps on hearing Martin, a voice outside of the Apocalypse she was witnessing. His hand is on her shoulder and she snaps towards him, confused and frightened. He lays a hand on her cheek, softly. ‘This place is just awesome, no?’

‘Yeah – and a little freaky too!’ she adds with a nervous giggle. A few loose strands of hair dance across her face, surfing on a small breeze. He patiently collects them, smoothing them back into place.

‘Are you OK?’ he repeats a little louder, staring with concern. She relaxes and smiles, taking hold of his outstretched arm.

A group nearby relax around a small fire, sipping liquor, listening to soft music and chatting quietly. Some crackling raises hearty cheer and a few raise a friendly hand as Martin and Nazneen pass by. The glow from the fire soon passes and they find themselves staring into a black void – the light in the sky has been snuffed out. Nazneen instinctively stops, waiting for her eyes to adjust, and she turns back to the wicked red flames, now dancing with naked abandon. Sensing her unease, Martin pulls her closer, and with his arm around her they slowly walk away. She looks up at him, open delight on her smiley face. She’s just so happy. She snuggles up, sheltering under him as they meander down a smooth incline, just in from World’s End. Meanwhile, folk rhythms continue, giving the night comfort. Martin starts singing, serenading her, letting the music still nearby dominate, but as they walk away he becomes more animated, clicking fingers to maintain the beat. He stops, abruptly, once the music is out of range. He grabs her face, lit up now only by moonlight. They stand alone and in complete silence, but for Martin’s heavy breathing.

I’d give this whole world,

just to dream with you, under these stars.

‘Cause they’ll be here tomorrow,

But we will never come back.

Silence. Just the dull silence of blackness, filling empty space. Nazneen’s head is locked in his hands and his tight grip pulls her up, forcing her onto tiptoes. He holds her eyes, his expression somewhere
between pained and disturbed. Suddenly he kisses her, but he devours her face with such haste it’s closer to being licked by a dog. He grabs her by the shoulders and starts driving her backwards, ramming her into a jutting rock face. She screams and he abruptly lets go, panting heavily. She moves back against the support, instinctively lying down across its broad surface.

‘What did you scream for?’ he snaps, looking back up the path nervously. He sees no one.

‘What...what are you doing, Martin?’

Her face is barely visible but he can make out a terror etched there.

‘I love you,’ he whispers. ‘I want you.’ He takes one step forward and then stops, allowing her to get comfortable with his proximity again. Standing over her now he reaches out, deliberately leaving his arm hovering for her to breach the gap. She sees his quivering hand, opened, waiting for her touch. ‘I need you...’ She takes his hand and places it on her chest, the centre of his palm over her solar plexus. He steps in, his fractured, heavy breathing still the only sound, but despite himself, somehow, he keeps his hand still, pressing down on just the one spot. She props herself up a little, finding easy purchase on the gently sloping rock face; Martin inches forwards to stay connected. She leans in and kisses him and a current shoots through on the circuit completing. He bolts onto the surface and forces her right back, and on all fours considers his prey menacingly. Nazneen touches his face, trying to take some of the heat out of his fever but it’s no good. He descends onto her to make the kill. Ripping her t-shirt upwards he buries his face in her stomach, smothering his mouth, nose, forehead and cheeks over her smooth, soft belly. Securing her centre, he works outwards both ways, biting flesh, pacifying limbs, tearing away clothing. She opens her eyes and looks skywards, a naked innocent splayed out on a sacrificial altar. He touches her, igniting delicate nerve endings, making calm waters stir. She shivers and covers her eyes, not wanting to watch the heavens watching her. Trickles flow and coalesce, each drop longing for the ocean. And the body of water builds, shaping slowly into a vortex. And he throws himself in, wanting only to die in this holy water. And she grips, pulling him; dragging him down, sinking him. He tries to resist but the current takes him instantly. He knows he’s helpless. She gazes up again. The sky has become a black velvet drape, speckled with a billion stars. Again,
shame bites her. Those stars, observing everything, and she turns to avoid their censorious stare. But each movement of his – a torrent trapped in a storm, thrashing around in ever decreasing circles. The stars above join in the dance, at first swirling uniformly but then splintering into rival factions, competing for her attention. Nazneen faces the heavens squarely, surety replacing shame: this performance, this kaleidoscope sky – it’s all for her. The beat becomes faster, faster still and the stars swoosh in a desperate frenzy, individual movements now blurring. She shuts her eyes and the vortex shatters, smashed apart under pressure. Her waters spill, overflow, and wash into his animal release. He collapses onto her, a dead weight. The kaleidoscope stops spinning and she soon feels a breeze, trespassing on her naked limbs. She folds arms around his lifeless body and in silence offers thanks. Today the gods have borne witness, on this, her High Noon.