White Teeth (38 page)

Joyce pressed on. Mice and men, genes and germs, that was Marcus's corner. Seedlings, light sources, growth, nurture, the buried heart of things—that was
hers.
As on any missionary vessel, tasks were delegated. Marcus on the prow, looking for the storm. Joyce below decks, checking the linen for bedbugs.

“Your headmaster knows how much I hate to see potential wasted—that's why he sent you to
us.
”

“And because he knows most of the Chalfens are four hundred times smarter than him!” said Jack, doing a marine-style star-jump. He was still young and hadn't yet learned to demonstrate his pride in his family in a more socially acceptable manner. “Even Oscar is.”

“No, I'm not,” said Oscar, kicking in a Lego garage he had recently made. “I'm the stupidest in the world.”

“Oscar's got an IQ of 178,” whispered Joyce. “It's a bit daunting, even when you're his mum.”

“Wow,” said Irie, turning, with the rest of the room, to appreciate Oscar trying to ingest the head of a plastic giraffe. “That's remarkable.”

“Yes, but he's had everything, and so much of it is nurture, isn't it? I really believe that. We've just been lucky enough to give him so much and with a daddy like Marcus—it's like having a strong sunbeam shining on him twenty-four hours a day, isn't it, darling? He's so fortunate to have that. Well, they all are. Now, you may think this sounds strange, but it was always my aim to marry a man cleverer than me.” Joyce put her hands on her hips and waited for Irie to think that sounded strange. “No, I really did. And I'm a staunch feminist, Marcus will tell you.”

“She's a staunch feminist,” said Marcus from the inner sanctum of the fridge.

“I don't suppose you can understand that—your generation have different ideas—but I knew it would be liberating. And I knew what kind of father I wanted for my children. Now, that's surprised you, hasn't it? I'm sorry, but we really
don't
do small talk around here. If you're going to be here every week, I thought it best you got a proper dose of the Chalfens now.”

All the Chalfens who were in earshot for this last comment smiled and nodded.

Joyce paused and looked at Irie and Millat the way she had looked at her “Garter Knight” delphinium. She was a quick and experienced detector of illness, and there was damage here. There was a quiet pain in the first one (
Irieanthus negressium marcusilia
), a lack of a father figure perhaps, an intellect untapped, a low self-esteem; and in the second (
Millaturea brandolidia joyculatus
) there was a deeper sadness, a terrible loss, a gaping wound. A hole that needed more than education or money. That needed love. Joyce longed to touch the site with the tip of her Chalfen greenfinger, close the gap, knit the skin.

“Can I ask? Your father? What does he—?”

(Joyce wondered what the parents did, what they had done. When she found a mutated first bloom, she wanted to know where the cutting had come from. Wrong question. It wasn't the parents, it wasn't just one generation, it was the whole century. Not the bud but the bush.)

“Curry-shifter,” said Millat. “Busboy. Waiter.”

“Paper,” began Irie. “Kind of folding it . . . and working on things like perforations . . . kind of direct mail advertising but not really advertising, at least not the
ideas
end . . . kind of folding—” She gave up. “It's hard to explain.”

“Oh yes. Yes, yes,
yes.
When there's a lack of a male role model, you see . . . that's when things really go awry, in my experience. I wrote an article for
Women's Earth
recently. I described a school I worked in where I gave all the children a potted spider plant and told them to look after it for a week like a daddy or mummy looks after a baby. Each child chose which parent they were going to emulate. This lovely little Jamaican boy, Winston, chose his daddy. The next week his mother phoned and asked why I'd asked Winston to feed his plant Pepsi and put it in front of the television. I mean, it's just
terrible,
isn't it. But I think a lot of these parents just don't appreciate their children sufficiently. Partly, it's the culture, you know? It just makes me so angry. The only thing I allow Oscar to watch is
Newsround
for half an hour a day. That's more than enough.”

“Lucky Oscar,” said Millat.

“Anyway, I'm just really excited about you being here because, because, the Chalfens, I mean—it may sound peculiar, but I really wanted to persuade your headmaster this was the best idea, and now I've met you both I'm even more certain—because the
Chalfens—
”

“Know how to bring the right things out in people,” finished Joshua, “they did with me.”

“Yes,” said Joyce, relieved her search for the words was over, radiating pride.
“Yes.”

Joshua pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “Well, we'd better get down to some study. Marcus, could you come up and help us a bit later on the biology? I'm really bad at reducing the reproductive stuff to bite-size chunks.”

“Sure. I'm working on my FutureMouse, though.” This was the family joke name for Marcus's project, and the younger Chalfens sang
FutureMouse!
after him, imagining an anthropomorphic rodent in red shorts. “And I've got to play a bit of piano with Jack first. Scott Joplin. Jack's the left hand, I'm the right. Not quite Art Tatum,” he said, ruffling Jack's hair. “But we get by.”

Irie tried her hardest to imagine Mr. Iqbal playing the right hand of Scott Joplin with his dead gray digits. Or Mr. Jones turning anything into bite-size chunks. She felt her cheeks flush with the warm heat of Chalfenist revelation. So there existed fathers who dealt in the present, who didn't drag ancient history around like a ball and chain. So there were men who were not neck-deep and sinking in the quagmire of the past.

“You'll stay for dinner, won't you?” pleaded Joyce. “Oscar really wants you to stay. Oscar loves having strangers in the house, he finds it really stimulating. Especially brown strangers! Don't you, Oscar?”

“No, I don't,” confided Oscar, spitting in Irie's ear. “I hate brown strangers.”

“He finds brown strangers really stimulating,” whispered Joyce.

This has been the century of strangers, brown, yellow, and white. This has been the century of the great immigrant experiment. It is only this late in the day that you can walk into a playground and find Isaac Leung by the fish pond, Danny Rahman in the football cage, Quang O'Rourke bouncing a basketball, and Irie Jones humming a tune. Children with first and last names on a direct collision course. Names that secrete within them mass exodus, cramped boats and planes, cold arrivals, medical checkups. It is only this late in the day, and possibly only in Willesden, that you can find best friends Sita and Sharon, constantly mistaken for each other because Sita is white (her mother liked the name) and Sharon is Pakistani (her mother thought it best—less trouble). Yet, despite all the mixing up, despite the fact that we have finally slipped into each other's lives with reasonable comfort (like a man returning to his lover's bed after a midnight walk), despite all this, it is still hard to admit that there is no one more English than the Indian, no one more Indian than the English. There are still young white men who are
angry
about that; who will roll out at closing time into the poorly lit streets with a kitchen knife wrapped in a tight fist.

But it makes an immigrant laugh to hear the fears of the nationalist, scared of infection, penetration, miscegenation, when this is small fry,
peanuts,
compared to what the immigrant fears—dissolution,
disappearance.
Even the unflappable Alsana Iqbal would regularly wake up in a puddle of her own sweat after a night visited by visions of Millat (genetically
BB;
where
B
stands for Bengaliness) marrying someone called Sarah (
aa,
where
a
stands for Aryan), resulting in a child called Michael (
Ba
), who in turn marries somebody called Lucy (
aa
), leaving Alsana with a legacy of unrecognizable great-grandchildren (
Aaaaaaa!
), their Bengaliness thoroughly diluted, genotype hidden by phenotype. It is both the most irrational and natural feeling in the world. In Jamaica it is even in the grammar: there is no choice of personal pronoun, no splits between
me
or
you
or
they,
there is only the pure, homogenous
I.
When Hortense Bowden, half white herself, got to hearing about Clara's marriage, she came round to the house, stood on the doorstep, said, “Understand: I and I don't speak from this moment forth,” turned on her heel, and was true to her word. Hortense hadn't put all that effort into marrying black, into dragging her genes back from the brink, just so her daughter could bring yet more high-colored children into the world.

Likewise, in the Iqbal house the lines of battle were clearly drawn. When Millat brought an Emily or a Lucy back home, Alsana quietly wept in the kitchen, Samad went into the garden to attack the coriander. The next morning was a waiting game, a furious biting of tongues until the Emily or Lucy left the house and the war of words could begin. But with Irie and Clara the issue was mostly unspoken, for Clara knew she was not in a position to preach. Still, she made no attempt to disguise her disappointment or the aching sadness. From Irie's bedroom shrine of green-eyed Hollywood idols to the gaggle of white friends who regularly trooped in and out of her bedroom, Clara saw an ocean of pink skins surrounding her daughter and she feared the tide that would take her away.

It was partly for this reason that Irie didn't mention the Chalfens to her parents. It wasn't that she intended to
mate
with the Chalfens . . . but the instinct was the same. She had a nebulous fifteen-year-old's passion for them, overwhelming, yet with no real direction or object. She just wanted to, well, kind of,
merge
with them. She wanted their Englishness. Their Chalfenishness. The
purity
of it. It didn't occur to her that the Chalfens were, after a fashion, immigrants too (third generation, by way of Germany and Poland, né Chalfenovsky), or that they might be as needy of her as she was of them. To Irie, the Chalfens were more English than the English. When Irie stepped over the threshold of the Chalfen house, she felt an illicit thrill, like a Jew munching a sausage or a Hindu grabbing a Big Mac. She was crossing borders, sneaking into England; it felt like some terribly mutinous act, wearing somebody else's uniform or somebody else's skin.

She just said she had netball on Tuesday evenings and left it at that.

Conversation flowed at the Chalfen house. It seemed to Irie that here nobody prayed or hid their feelings in a toolbox or silently stroked fading photographs wondering what might have been. Conversation was the stuff of life.

“Hello, Irie! Come in, come in, Joshua's in the kitchen with Joyce, you're looking well. Millat not with you?”

“Coming later. He's got a
date.
”

“Ah, yes. Well, if there are any questions in your exams on oral communication, he'll fly through them. Joyce! Irie's here! So how's the study going? It's been—what? Four months now? The Chalfen genius rubbing off?”

“Yeah, not bad, not bad. I never thought I had a scientific bone in my body but . . . it seems to be working. I don't know, though. Sometimes my brain hurts.”

“That's just the right side of your brain waking up after a long sleep, getting back into the swing of things. I'm really impressed; I told you it was possible to turn a wishy-washy arts student into a science student in no time at all—oh, and I've got the FutureMouse pictures. Remind me later, you wanted to see them, no? Joyce, the big brown goddess has arrived!”

“Marcus, chill out, man . . . Hi, Joyce. Hi, Josh. Hey, Jack. Oooh, hell-low, Oscar, you cutie.”

“Hello, Irie! Come here and give me a kiss. Oscar, look, it's Irie come to see us again! Oh, look at his face . . . he's wondering where Millat is, aren't you, Oscar?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Oh dear, yes he is . . . look at his little face . . . he gets very upset when Millat doesn't turn up. Tell Irie the name of the new monkey, Oscar, the one Daddy gave you.”

“George.”

“No, not George—you called it Millat the Monkey, remember? Because monkeys are mischievous and Millat's
just as bad,
isn't he, Oscar?”

“Don't know. Don't care.”

“Oscar gets terribly upset when Millat doesn't come.”

“He'll be along in a while. He's on a
date.
”

“When isn't he on a date! All those busty girls! We might get jealous, mightn't we, Oscar? He spends more time with them than us. But we shouldn't joke. I suppose it's a bit difficult for you.”

“No, I don't mind, Joyce, really. I'm used to it.”

“But everybody loves Millat, don't they, Oscar! It's so hard not to, isn't it, Oscar? We love him, don't we, Oscar?”

“I hate him.”

“Oh, Oscar, don't say silly things.”

“Can we all stop talking about Millat,
please.
”

“Yes, Joshua, all right. Do you hear how he gets jealous? I try to explain to him that Millat needs a little extra care, you know. He's from a very difficult background. It's just like when I give more time to my peonies than my Michaelmas daisies, daisies will grow anywhere . . . you know you can be very selfish sometimes, Joshi.”

“OK, Mum, OK. What's happening with dinner—before study or after?”

“
Before,
I think, Joyce, no? I've got to work on FutureMouse all night.”

“FutureMouse!”

“Shh, Oscar, I'm trying to listen to Daddy.”