East of Wimbledon (25 page)

At this moment, Mr Khan the restaurant owner yelled, ‘Down with Malik! Down with Shah! Down with the Wimbledon Independent Boys’ Islamic Day School!’

The other Twenty-fourthers, waving their right shoes above their heads, answered with the skill born of long practice, ‘Down with Malik! Down with Shah! Down with the Independent Boys’ Islamic Day School (Wimbledon)!’

The audience were now definitely convinced this was part of the headmaster’s grand design. Mr Mahmud could be heard telling his wife that these people represented narrowness and intolerance in the Islamic world, and that they would shortly be vanquished by the rightly guided headmaster.

Before this happened, however, Rafiq, who had up to this point been seated with the staff and parents, leaped to his feet and, in full sight of the assembly, yanked off his right shoe. He seemed to be wearing wellington boots, and he had clearly not changed his socks for some days, because the people near him started to scrape their chairs across the floor in an effort to escape. ‘Mr Khan here has been betrayed by the man who bears the name of Shah!’ he yelled. ‘That Shah is a hypocrite Muslim! He has not given his promised support to The Taste of Empire tandoori restaurant. Especially on Wednesdays!’

He pointed at the school’s principal benefactor, the tall man in the elegantly cut suit who still bore an uncanny resemblance to the Duke of Edinburgh. This Mr Shah was looking at Mr Khan in a hurt and puzzled manner. ‘My dear man,’ he began to say – ‘if this is part of our business disagreement—’

But, before he could finish, Rafiq heaved his wellington boot at the members of the school now threshing around on the stage under the lights. His example was followed by many of his companions. A hail of plimsolls, trainers, leather shoes, mountain boots and sandals rose up in the air and rained down on boys, parents and teachers.

Robert could see that Mr Malik, who still seemed remarkably unworried by all this, was signalling to someone at the back of the hall, behind him. And then the lights went out.

For a moment everything was quiet.
This is it
, thought Robert,
Molotov cocktails!
Next to him a woman was whispering something, although he could not hear what it was or what language she was speaking. Suddenly, high up above the stage, as high as that afternoon on the other side of the Common, a light flicked on and Hasan stood before them. At first Robert thought he was hovering above the blacked-out room; then he saw that he had been slipped over the banisters of the stairs and was perched, perilously, on the edge of one of the steps.

He was dressed all in white, in a long, flowing garment of bright silk. On his left foot was a golden sandal. His right foot was naked. He stretched out his hands over the faces of the crowd and began to speak. ‘Bow down,’ he began:

Bow down and listen to my words!

You are led by the wicked!

You are led by transgressors!

We wear one shoe

To show your leaders have lied to you.

Bow down.

Bow down and listen to my words!

Quite a few people actually did start to bow down. Robert himself, now fairly well trained in the act of Islamic prayer, felt a strong urge to make, head first, for the parquet floor. The little boy’s voice was so eerily still! His face so withdrawn and delicate! His shoulders seemed to beg some invisible presence for mercy!

My father stabbed the seducer Hasan.

I am the son of Hasan b. Namawar.

I am the rightful Twenty-fourth Imam,

And I return to punish.

Bow down.

There is fire in my fingers.

Bow down!

Rafiq, observing the early success of this performance, joined in well. ‘Bow down!’ he yelled. ‘Bow down! Do not serve the hypocrites! Bow down!’

Behind Robert a woman started to hiss. Whether it was fear or anger or pleasure that made her do so was impossible to tell. All over the hall, people were murmuring and hissing and breathing in sharply. This, thought Robert, was entirely reasonable. As apparitions go, Hasan was certainly in the Angel Gabriel class. At a school Open Day he was a guaranteed sensation.

Hasan’s fingers quivered as he stretched out his hands over the audience, but whether it was in a blessing or a curse was impossible to tell. His sightless eyes sought the light as he went on:

Do not listen to the seducer.

Do not listen to those who would lead you.

Do not listen to those who betray the Law.

I am the Twenty-fourth Imam.

I come to destroy all this.

I come to destroy this school!

People were getting quite emotional. Apart from Mr Mafouz, who was heard to announce that this was the best damn show he had seen since
The Bodyguard
, most of the parents seemed entirely convinced by Hasan’s performance. One or two were openly crying. As the little boy’s voice rose to a shriek the Twenty-fourthers came in, like Elvis Presley’s backing group, perfectly on cue.

Destroy this school!

Bow down!

Destroy this man!

Destroy the seducer Malik!

Bow down!

There is fire in his fingers!

Bow down!

In the gloom, Robert could see that Rafiq was fumbling with something underneath his jacket. Aziz the janitor, now up on the stairs, seemed to be holding something, and, with a shock, Robert realized it was a lighted match.
They really are
, he thought –
they really are going to burn the place to the ground.

It was then that the lights came on – not just a single lamp, but a whole battery of arc lights ranged along the stage. It seemed, at first, like a deliberate theatrical effect, which indeed it probably was. And, if the Twenty-fourthers had a developed sense of theatre, they were mere amateurs compared to the man who now strode to the centre of the stage – Mr Malik, the one and only headmaster of the Boys’ Independent Day Islamic Wimbledon School. His voice rose over Hasan’s as he stretched his huge hands up towards the boy. ‘Who has done this evil thing to you?’ he said.

It was fairly obvious, to Robert anyway, who had done this evil thing to the little boy, but that didn’t deprive the headmaster’s rhetorical question of any of its power.

‘Who has filled your head with lies?’ went on Malik. ‘Who is the real seducer here? Who are the real seducers?’

The audience were now thoroughly enjoying this. They had not been sure about the song; the flags of many nations had left them decidedly cold; but this, their faces seemed to say, was worth leaving the shop to see.

‘I will tell you,’ went on Malik. ‘This man Rafiq, who has claimed to be my friend, has sought to get his hands on a profitable enterprise. As has this fat swine Khan – a man who has the business ethics of a stoat!’

Hasan knew when he was outclassed. Anyway, in the rehearsal process to which he had been undoubtedly subjected by Rafiq and his friends, presumably no allowance had been made for an Oscar award-winning interruption from the headmaster.

Malik was now waving something above his head, and the Twenty-fourthers were looking at it with some interest. Robert recognized it as the manuscript that had been given him, along with the locket, last summer.

‘This,’ Malik shrieked, ‘is the “document” that tells the story of the Twenty-fourth Imam. This is the “document” that gave substance to what, in previous times, were only whispers and rumours – a secret as closely guarded as the Golden Calf of the Druze. This is the “prophecy” with which my so-called friend has deceived you and deceived this child!’

Here he rounded on Rafiq, who, Robert now saw, was busy stuffing what looked like an oiled rag into a milk bottle.

‘It is a forgery!’ shouted Malik. ‘I can prove it is a forgery! This gentleman here – this Khan – is the manager of The Taste of Empire restaurant, Balham, and owes our benefactor a considerable sum of money. He has exploited the credulity of a section of the Wimbledon Dharjees in an attempt to wreck a business rival!’

Rafiq, the bottle in one hand, was now snarling at his employer. But his one-shoed companions, like the rest of the audience, were giving signs of enjoying the show.

Robert was more confused than ever. What was this religion, where what looked like theology turned out to be politics? Where loyalties and friendships seemed to acquire the force of a mystical belief? Where God was not a remote, almost human presence but a chord struck in the communal mind, echoing into every corner of life, facing you when you argued or made love or fought for money or power? He had no place here. He did not – could not – belong.

‘The Twenty-third Imam—’ began Rafiq.

‘There is no hidden imam among the Nizari Ismailis,’ said Mr Malik. ‘The Twenty-third Imam was, as you quite rightly say, stabbed by Hasan b. Namawar, but there is no record of the assassin having issue. You have taken a piece of true history and doctored it, gentlemen!’

The parents and staff gave this a round of well-deserved applause. Mr Akhtar was heard to say that the opening part of the pageant had been a total let-down, but this was ‘world class’ and gave evidence of ‘money well spent’. People could be heard muttering that Malik was a man to watch.

And then the headmaster reached down, pulled off one of his expensive brown brogues, and waved it above his head. ‘See!’ he yelled. ‘See! I go with one shoe!’

Everyone leaned forward in their seats. Robert, wondering whether he was about to witness a spectacular conversion, held his breath.

‘I go with one shoe, my people,’ went on Mr Malik, ‘as my so-called “friend” asks you to do! And do you know what will happen if I go with one shoe?’

‘What will happen?’ asked a Twenty-fourther, who was clearly expert at this kind of dialogue. ‘Tell us – what will happen?’

By way of reply, Mr Malik ran around the stage gobbling like a chicken for some seconds. He not only gobbled, he brandished the shoe and twitched, and did a fair impression of a man who has taken complete leave of his senses. Then he stopped and rounded on Rafiq. ‘I will get my feet wet!’ he yelled. ‘I will carry on like a lunatic and be of no use to anyone!’

Then he turned to face the audience. He drew himself up to his full height and said, ‘We must learn to fight for what is rightfully ours and also
to live in peace with our neighbours.
Do we wish our sons to go to war?’

There were shouts of ‘No No!’ and ‘We do not wish this!’ Robert was not aware of any immediate plans for conscription in the Wimbledon area, but the assembled crowd, who were showing as much volatility as the Roman plebeians after the death of Caesar, pressed in on the stage, shouting, crying, and waving their hands in the air.

‘I put on my shoe!’ screamed the headmaster. ‘And I advise you to do the same!’

All over the darkened hall, men started to struggle back into their footwear – those, that is, who had not hurled it on to the stage. Those who had done so were openly weeping and grabbing hold of their neighbours’ laces. Even Aziz the janitor was, in a highly emotional manner, trying to get his right toe into a canvas boot, although where he had got this from was unclear.

‘Put on your shoes,’ yelled the headmaster, ‘and keep them on your feet always!’

Several people were trying to persuade Rafiq to put on his shoe, though whether this was for religious or hygienic reasons was not obvious. He did not seem keen to do so. Mr Mafouz had got hold of him and was beating his head against the back wall.

‘Put on your shoes,’ cried Malik again, ‘I beg you! I beseech you! I implore you to do so! In the words of the Prophet to Abu Hurayra,
“Don’t walk with only one shoe. Either go barefoot or wear shoes on both feet!”
’

This seemed to decide matters once and for all. Quite a few people took off both shoes, and those who didn’t borrowed other people’s until almost everyone in the room, apart from the engineering master, was equipped with a pair of properly Islamic feet. This generated a welcome and often jolly spirit of conviviality about the place. People were laughing and joking, clapping each other on the back and helping each other find some way of getting properly attired below the ankles.

Truth
, Robert’s old history master was fond of saying,
is whatever is confidently asserted and plausibly maintained.
The world of Islam seemed more purely about society than he had ever supposed possible. Islam, he saw clearly as if for the first time, was a nation, a nation on the march. It was only now that he finally understood a favourite phrase of the headmaster’s:
Belief, my dear Wilson, is for us an intimate part of the social contract. It was Ayatollah Khomeini who pointed out that ‘Islam is politics!’

And Mr Malik was no ordinary politician. No one even seemed bothered about testing his claim that the document was a forgery. He was a strong man, and his word – like the Prophet’s – was law.

Robert thought, bitterly, about Malik. Why should the man find everything so easy when Robert found it so hard? Why could
he
sway a room with a few well-chosen sentences, when on one of the few occasions when Robert had opened his mouth to express his real feelings he had been sentenced to death by a deranged mathematics master? Why was life so unfair? Was the reason the man was so complacent to do with the fact that his religion was
right?
That fate, destiny, whatever you liked to call it, was now on his side and the world was slowly turning his way, so that soon the power and the glory would all come from a long way east of Wimbledon?

Whatever the reason, something in Robert Wilson snapped. ‘Who gives a toss how many shoes you wear?’ he heard himself shout into a sudden silence. ‘Who gives a toss? And who gives a monkeys how many blows it takes you to polish off a wall gecko, frankly? I mean, why is it that
all
you people construct your lives around the not very reliably reported table talk of a man whose chief claim to fame would seem to be his talent for carving up his immediate neighbours in some God-forsaken chunk of desert?’

The silence that had preceded his remarks seemed to lengthen miraculously.

‘All I’m saying,’ said Robert, ‘is that when I joined this school I knew absolutely nothing about the Muslim faith, and that, after teaching here for a year, I really feel that ignorance is bliss, frankly!’