Dear Infidel (26 page)

It’s never too late
. He hesitated for just a moment before pressing the doorbell. An ample-sized woman wearing bra and knickers opened the door –
the advert says “slim”, but
... With hands on hips she gave a little wiggle and smiled generously.

‘Twenty for sex, twenty-five for French and sex,’ she stated casually.
Bloody hell, that’s cheap
. Imtiaz said nothing: he was just standing there, gawping.

‘You coming in?’ she prompted. More silence. Her smile quickly faded and she was now looking serious, making Imtiaz uncomfortable. ‘Wanker!’ she shouted, before slamming the door. He heard her continue to cuss, but now in a language that he didn’t recognise. He turned around and walked back down the stairs. He took a left into Walkers Court and entered a sex shop. Rows and rows of DVDs pulled him close on an invisible string.
Forget them all, forget it all.
Everywhere he looked, just everywhere ... what a feast. His penis was hard and he put his hand down his trouser pocket to discreetly readjust. He picked a few of the empty covers up and flipped them over. A montage of clips revealed things that he’d seen a thousand times before, but he was just not getting bored. Actually, that wasn’t quite true – it wasn’t as pure as it once was but for sheer intensity, nothing else could compete. Once you are in that zone, pornography is peerless. Sport, work, art, politics – interests come and go and aptitudes vary, but porn is imperious. It’s so simple, it’s egalitarian – porn is for everyone, the poison of poisons. Oddly he found the front covers more alluring than the back – the anticipation of the wrapped up gift. He left the shop without buying anything, though that would come. This, though, was the best part. He’d had the foreplay of the train journey and now this was it – the heat of passion. He’d keep upping the pressure, moving from shop to shop until he could take it no more. And then he’d make his choice. Coming back into Walkers Court, Imtiaz strode purposefully. He was mentally mapping a route, thinking of the various establishments he’d go into. He fully intended on lasting the course tonight – it’d been such a trying day. And then an accident. Two men tore past, one knocking him straight down with his shoulder. He was
thrown to the pavement and he banged his forehead hard on the ground. The suddenness of the impact stunned him and for several seconds he was disorientated:
I’m all right, I’m all right
, he tried to reassure himself. From lying prostrate, he moved to squat before crawling to the side of the walkway. Nobody came to his assistance but he understood – you were on your own here. He checked his possessions. His wallet was still in his back trouser pocket but his glasses had come off. Scanning where he fell, he saw them in the middle of the path and he scurried to fetch them. They were broken. The left lens had been shattered and the frame was bent – they were beyond repair. The shock of the injury was now subsiding, allowing the physical pain to take over. He had scuffed the fleshy part of his left palm badly: the skin there was torn and he was bleeding. There was some grit mixed in with the open wound and even though he tried rubbing it off gently, it burnt like hell. Two doormen standing outside a strip joint up ahead burst out laughing. Self-consciously he looked up but the joke was not on him. With some effort he stood and gingerly continued. Coming to the end, he hit an opening: Brewer Street cutting across with Rupert Street. There was a lot of activity and a real festive feeling hung in the air. Everywhere he looked he was seeing groups of people: twos, threes and fours, making their way here and there. Everyone looked normal. Even here, in what was meant to be a lonely man’s paradise, he was the odd one out. He looked up into the night sky and inhaled. Returning his gaze to street level, he slowly moved on but he was now only interested in going home. His urgency, his earlier appetite had been drained. He walked past another new bar – Latin or Spanish sounds emanated. Soho was becoming gentrified, with the smut being moved out. Approaching the next building along some graffiti caught his eye:
Without my depression I’d be a failure – with it, I’m a success on hold
. He paused to consider the point ...
Die before you die,
whispered the wind without notice, picking up around his ears. He sensed death and shuddered. He looked around but, without his glasses, his vision was no longer clear. He checked his cut hand again, though he was now aware of a burning sensation in several other places: his forehead, his left knee, his hip. He continued onwards, though with increasing difficulty – his muscles and joints were tightening up. Towards the apex of his vision he made out another
GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS
and an
XXX
, restoring something of the natural order for the area. The two signs were overlapping, though; an illusion brought on not only by the
distance, but also by the absence of his glasses. He squinted, trying to get a clearer picture, but tears were now starting in his eyes and it didn’t really help. It was all just one big blur.

END

The world is a bridge. Pass over it, but build no houses on it. He who hopes for an hour may hope for eternity; the world endures but an hour. Spend it in prayer, for the rest is unseen.

JESUS CHRIST (AS)

Inscribed above the
Buland Darwaza
,
the Grand Entrance to Fatepur Sikhri, India