White Teeth (64 page)

they know what they want, especially those who've lived this century, forced from one space to another like Mr. De Winter (né Wojciech), renamed, rebranded, the answer to every questionnaire nothing nothing space please just space nothing please nothing space

CHAPTER TWENTY

Of Mice and Memory

It's just like on TV! And that is the most superlative compliment Archie can think of for any real-life event. Except this is just like on TV but better. It's very
modern.
It's so well designed you wouldn't want to
breathe
in it, no matter fart in it. There's these chairs, plastic but without legs, curved like an
s;
they seem to work by means of their own fold; and they fit together, about two hundred of them in ten rows; and they snake around you when you sit in them—soft yet supportive! Comfy! Modern! And you've got to admire folding like that, Archie thinks, lowering himself into one, a far higher level of folding than he'd ever been involved with.
Very nice.

The other thing that makes it all better than TV is it's full of people Archie knows. There's Millboid at the very back (scoundrel), with Abdul-Jimmy and Abdul-Colin; Josh Chalfen nearer the middle, and Magid's sitting up at the front with the Chalfen woman (Alsana won't look at her, but Archie waves anyway because it'd be rude not to), and facing them all (near Archie—Archie's got the best seat in the house) sits Marcus at a long long table, just like on TV, with microphones all over it, like a bloody swarm, the huge black abdomens of killer bees. Marcus is sitting next to four other blokes, three his age and one really old bloke, dry-looking
—desiccated,
if that's the word. And they've all got glasses to a man, the way scientists do on the telly. No white coats, though. All very casual: V-necks, ties, loafers.
Bit disappointing.

Now he's seen a lot of these press conference larks, Archie has (weeping parents, missing child, or, conversely, if it was a foreign-orphan scenario, weeping child, missing parents), but this is
miles
better because in the center of the table is something quite interesting (which you don't usually get on TV, just the weeping people): a mouse. Quite a plain mouse, brown, and not with any other mice, but it's very active, scurrying around in this glass box that's about as big as a television with airholes. Archie was a bit worried when he first saw it (seven years in a glass box!), but it turns out it's temporary, just for the photographs. Irie explained there's this huge thing for it in the Institute, full of pipes and secret places, space upon space, so it won't get too bored, and it'll be transferred there later. So that's all right. He's a cunning-looking little blinder too, this mouse. He looks like he's pulling faces a lot of the time. You forget how alert-looking mice are. Terrible trouble to look after, of course. That's why he never got one for Irie when she was small. Goldfish are cleaner—with shorter memories. In Archie's experience anything with a long memory holds a grievance and a pet with a grievance (that time you got the wrong food, that time you bathed me) just isn't what you want.

“Oh, you're right there,” agrees Abdul-Mickey, plonking himself down in the seat next to Archie, betraying no reverence for the legless chair. “You don't want some resentful fucking rodent on your hands.”

Archie smiles. Mickey's the kind of guy you want to watch the footie with, or the cricket, or if you see a fight in the street you want him to be there, because he's kind of a commentator on life. Kind of a philosopher. He's quite frustrated in his daily existence because he doesn't get much opportunity to show that side of himself. But get him free of his apron and away from the oven, give him space to maneuver—he really comes into his own. Archie's got a lot of time for Mickey. A lot of time.

“When they gonna get on wiv it, then?” he says to Archie. “Taking their time, eh? Can't look at a mouse all bloody night, can you? I mean, you get all these people here on New Year's Eve, you want
something
resembling entertainment.”

“Yeah, well,” says Archie, not disagreeing but not completely agreeing either, “I 'spect they've got to go through their notes and that . . . 'Snot like just getting up and telling a few howlers, is it? I mean, it's not just about pleasing all the people all of the time, now, is it? It's
Science.
” Archie says
Science
the same way he says
Modern,
as if someone has lent him the words and made him swear not to break them.
“Science,”
Archie repeats, handling it more firmly, “is a different kettle of fish.”

Mickey nods at this, seriously considering the proposition, trying to decide how much weight he should allow this counterargument
Science,
with all its connotations of expertise and higher planes, of places in thought that neither Mickey nor Archie has ever visited (answer: none), how much respect he should give it in the light of these connotations (answer: fuck all. University of Life, innit?), and how many seconds he should leave before tearing it apart (answer: three).

“On the contrary, Archibald, on the bloody contrary. Speeshuss argument, that is. Common fucking mistake, that is. Science ain't no different from nuffink else, is it? I mean, when you get down to it. At the end of the day, it's got to please the people, you know what I mean?”

Archie nods. He knows what Mickey means. (Some people—Samad for example—will tell you not to trust people who overuse the phrase
at the end of the day—
football managers, estate agents, salesmen of all kinds—but Archie's never felt that way about it. Prudent use of said phrase never failed to convince him that his interlocutor was getting to the bottom of things, to the fundamentals.)

“And if you think there's any difference between a place like this and my caff,” Mickey continues, somehow full-throated and yet never increasing above a whisper in terms of decibel, “you're having a laugh. 'Sall the same in the end. 'Sall about the customer in the end.
Exempli fuckin' gratia:
it's no good me putting
duck à l'orange
on the menu if nobody wants it.
Vis-à-vis,
there's no point this lot spending a lot of money on some clever ideas if they're not going to do some fucking good for someone.
Think about it,
” says Mickey, tapping his temple, and Archie follows the instruction as best he can.

“But that don't mean you don't give it a bloody chance,” continues Mickey, warming to his theme. “You've got to give these new ideas a
chance.
Otherwise you're just a philistine, Arch. Now, at the end of the day, you know I've always been your cutting-edge type of geezer. That's why I introduced Bubble and Squeak two years ago.”

Archie nods sagely. The Bubble and Squeak had been a revelation of sorts.

“Same goes here. You've got to give these things a chance. That's what I said to Abdul-Colin and my Jimmy. I said: before you jump the gun, come along and give it a chance. And here they are.” Abdul-Mickey flicked his head back, a vicious sign of recognition in the direction of his brother and son, who responded in kind. “They might not like what they hear, of course, but you can't account for that, can you? But at least they've come along with an
open mind.
Now, me personally, I'm here on good authority from that Magid Ick-Ball—and I trust him, I trust his judgment. But, as I say, we shall wait and see. We live and fucking learn, Archibald,” says Mickey, not to be offensive, but because the
F-
word acts like padding to him; he can't help it; it's just a filler like beans or peas, “we live and fucking learn. And I can tell you, if anything said here tonight convinces me that my Jimmy might not have kids wiv skin like the surface of the fucking moon, then I'm converted, Arch. I'll say it now. I've not the fucking foggiest what some mouse's got to do with the old Yusuf skin, but I tell you, I'd put my life in that Ick-Ball boy's hands. I just get a good feeling off that lad. Worth a dozen of his brother,” adds Mickey slyly, lowering his voice because Sam's behind them. “A dozen easy. I mean, what the fuck was he thinking, eh? I know which one I'd've sent away. No fear.”

Archie shrugs. “It was a tough decision.”

Mickey crosses his arms and scoffs, “No such thing, mate. You're either
right
or you
ain't.
And as soon as you realize that, Arch, suddenly your life becomes a lot fucking easier. Take my word for it.”

Archie takes Mickey's words gratefully, adding them to the other pieces of sagacity the century has afforded him:
You're either right or you ain't. The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over. Can't say fairer than that. Heads or tails?

“Oi-oi, what this?” says Mickey with a grin. “Here we go. Movement. Microphone in action. One-two, one-two. Looks like the manneth beginneth.”

“. . . and this work
is
pioneering, it
is
something that deserves public money and public attention, and it is work the significance of which overrides, in any rational person's mind, the objections that have been levied against it. What we need . . .”

What we
need,
thinks Joshua, are seats closer to the front. Typical cuntish planning on the part of Crispin. Crispin asked for seats in the thick of it, so FATE could kind of merge with the crowd and slip the balaclavas on at the last minute, but it was clearly a rubbishy idea which relied upon some kind of middle aisle in the seating, which just isn't here. Now they are going to have to make an ungainly journey to the side aisles, like terrorists looking for their seats in the cinema, slowing down the whole operation, when speed and shock tactics are the whole fucking
point.
What a performance. The whole plan pisses Josh off. So elaborate and absurd, all designed for the greater glory of Crispin. Crispin gets to do a bit of shouting, Crispin gets to do some waving-of-gun, Crispin does some pseudo–Jack Nicholson–psycho twitches just for the drama of it. FANTASTIC. All Josh gets to say is
Dad, please. Give them what they want,
though privately he figures he'll have some room for improvisation:
Dad, please. I'm so fucking young. I want to live. Give them what they want, for Chrissake. It's just a mouse . . . I'm your son,
and then possibly a phony faint in response to a phony pistol-whip if his father proves to be hesitant. The whole plan's so high on the cheese factor it's practically Stilton. But it will work (Crispin had said), that stuff always
works.
But having spent so much time in the animal kingdom, Crispin is like Mowgli: he doesn't know about the motivations of people. And he knows more about the psychology of a badger than he will ever know about the inner workings of a Chalfen. So looking at Marcus up there with his magnificent mouse, celebrating the great achievement of his life and maybe
of this generation,
Joshua can't stop his own perverse brain from wondering whether it is just possible that he and Crispin and FATE have misjudged
completely.
That they have all royally messed up. That they have underestimated the power of Chalfenism and its remarkable commitment to the Rational. For it is quite possible that his father will not simply and unreflectingly save the thing he loves like the rest of the plebs. It is quite possible that love doesn't even come into it. And just thinking about that makes Joshua smile.

“. . . and I'd like to thank you all, particularly family and friends who have sacrificed their New Year's Eve . . . I'd like to thank you all for being here at the outset of what I'm sure everybody agrees is a very exciting project, not just for myself and the other researchers but for a far wider . . .”

Marcus begins and Millat watches the Brothers of KEVIN exchange glances. They're figuring about ten minutes in. Maybe fifteen. They'll take their cue from Abdul-Colin. They're following instructions. Millat, on the other hand, is not following instructions, at least not the kind that are passed from mouth to mouth or written on pieces of paper. His is an imperative secreted in the genes, and the cold steel in his inside pocket is the answer to a claim made on him long ago. He's a Pandy deep down. And there's mutiny in his blood.

As for the practicalities, it had been no biggie: two phone calls to some guys from the old crew, a tacit agreement, some KEVIN money, a trip to Brixton, and, hey presto! it was in his hand, heavier than he had imagined, but, aside from that, not such a headfuck of an object. He almost
recognized
it. The effect of it reminded him of a small car bomb he saw explode, many years ago, in the Irish section of Kilburn. He was only nine, walking along with Samad. But where Samad was shaken, genuinely shaken, Millat hardly blinked. To Millat, it was so
familiar.
He was so
unfazed
by it. Because there aren't any alien objects or events anymore, just as there aren't any sacred ones. It's all so familiar. It's all on TV. So handling the cold metal, feeling it next to his skin that first time: it was easy. And when things come to you easily, when things click effortlessly into place, it is so tempting to use the four-letter F-word. Fate. Which to Millat is a quantity very much like TV: an unstoppable narrative, written, produced, and directed by somebody else.

Of course, now that he's here, now that he's stoned and
scared,
and it doesn't feel so easy, and the right-hand side of his jacket feels like someone put a fucking cartoon anvil in there—now he sees the great difference between TV and life, and it kicks him right in the groin. Consequences. But even to think
this
is to look to the movies for reference (because he's not like Samad or Mangal Pande; he didn't get a war, he never saw action, he hasn't got any analogies or anecdotes), is to remember Pacino in the first
Godfather,
huddled in the restaurant toilet (as Pande was huddled in the barracks room), considering for a moment what it means to burst out of the men's room and blast the hell out of the two guys at the checkered table. And Millat remembers. He remembers rewinding and freeze-framing and slow-playing that scene countless times over the years. He remembers that no matter how long you hold the split-second of Pacino reflecting, no matter how often you replay the doubt that seems to cross his face, he never does anything else but what he was always going to do.