White Teeth (22 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mitosis

The stranger who wanders into O'Connell's Poolroom at random, hoping for the soft rise and fall of his grandfather's brogue, perhaps, or seeking to rebound a red ball off the side cushion and into the corner pocket, is immediately disappointed to find the place is neither Irish nor a poolroom. He will survey the carpeted walls, the reproductions of George Stubbs's racehorse paintings, the framed fragments of some foreign, Eastern script, with not a little confusion. He will look for a snooker table and find instead a tall, brown man with terrible acne standing behind a counter, frying eggs and mushrooms. His eye will land with suspicion upon an Irish flag and a map of the Arab Emirates knotted together and hung from wall to wall, partitioning him from the rest of the customers. Then he will become aware of several pairs of eyes upon him, some condescending, some incredulous; the hapless stranger will stumble out, warily, backward, knocking over the life-size cutout of Viv Richards as he goes. The customers will laugh. O'Connell's is no place for strangers.

O'Connell's is the kind of place family men come to for a different kind of family. Unlike blood relations, it is necessary here to
earn
one's position in the community; it takes years of devoted fucking around, time-wasting, lying-about, shooting the breeze, watching paint dry—far more dedication than men invest in the careless moment of procreation. You need to
know
the place. For example, there are reasons why O'Connell's is an Irish poolroom run by Arabs with no pool tables. And there are reasons why the pustule-covered Mickey will cook you chips, egg, and beans, or egg, chips, and beans, or beans, chips, eggs, and mushrooms but not, under any circumstances, chips, beans, eggs, and bacon. But you need to hang around for that kind of information. We'll get into that later. For now, suffice it to say this is Archie and Samad's home from home; for ten years they have come here between six (the time Archie finishes work) and eight (the time Samad starts) to discuss everything from the meaning of Revelation to the prices of plumbers. And women. Hypothetical women. If a woman walked past the yolk-stained window of O'Connell's (a woman had never been known to venture inside) they would smile and speculate—depending on Samad's religious sensibilities that evening—on matters as far-reaching as whether one would kick her out of bed in a hurry, to the relative merits of stockings or tights, and then on, inevitably, to the great debate: small breasts (that stand up) vs big breasts (that flop to the sides). But there was never any question of real women, real flesh and blood and wet and sticky women. Not until now. And so the unprecedented events of the past few months called for an earlier O'Connell's summit than usual. Samad had finally phoned Archie and confessed the whole terrible mess: he had cheated, he was cheating; he had been seen by the children and now he was seeing the children, like visions, day and night. Archie had been silent for a bit, and then said, “Bloody hell. Four o'clock it is, then. Bloody hell.” He was like that, Archie. Calm in a crisis.

But come 4:15 and still no sign of him, a desperate Samad had chewed every fingernail he possessed to the cuticle and collapsed on the counter, nose squished up against the hot glass where the battered burgers were kept, eye to eye with a postcard showing the eight different local charms of County Antrim.

Mickey, chef, waiter, and proprietor, who prided himself on knowing each customer's name and knowing when each customer was out of sorts, pried Samad's face off the hot glass with a spatula.

“Oi.”

“Hello, Mickey, how are you?”

“Same old, same old. But enough about me. What's the fucking matter wiv you, mate? Eh? Eh? I've been watching you, Sammy, since the minute you stepped in here. Face as long as shit. Tell your uncle Mickey.”

Samad groaned.

“Oi. No. None of that. You know me. I'm the sympathetic side of the service industry, I'm service with a fucking smile, I'd wear a little red tie and a little red hat like them fuckwits in Mr. Burger if my fuckin' head weren't so big.”

This was not a metaphor. Mickey had a very large head, almost as if his acne had demanded more room and received planning permission.

“What's the problem?”

Samad looked up at Mickey's big red head.

“I am just waiting for Archibald, Mickey. Please, do not concern yourself. I will be fine.”

“'Sbit early, innit?”

“Pardon?”

Mickey checked the clock behind him, the one with the paleolithic piece of encrusted egg on the dial. “I say 'sbit early, innit? For you and the Archie-boy. Six is when I expect you. One chips, beans, egg, and mushroom. And one omelette and mushrooms. With seasonal variations, naturally.”

Samad sighed. “We have much to discuss.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “You ain't starting on that Mangy Pandy whateverthefuckitis again, are you? Who shot who, and who hanged who, my grandad ruled the Pakis or whateverthefuckitwas, as if any poor fucker gives a flying fuck. You're driving the custom away. You're creating—” Mickey flicked through his new bible,
Food for Thought: A Guideline for Employers and Employees Working in the Food Service Industry—Customer Strategy and Consumer Relations.
“You're creating a
repetitive syndrome
that puts all these buggers off their
culinary experience.
”

“No, no. My
great-
grandfather is not up for discussion today. We have other business.”

“Well, thank
fuck.
Repetitive syndrome is what it is.” Mickey patted his book, affectionately. “'Sall in 'ere, mate. Best four ninety-five I ever spent. Talking of moolah, you 'aving a flutter today?” asked Mickey, signaling downstairs.

“I am a Muslim, Mickey, I don't indulge anymore.”

“Well, obviously, yeah, we're all Brothers—but a man's gotta live, now. Hasn't he? I mean, hasn't he?”

“I don't know, Mickey, does he?”

Mickey slapped Samad firmly on the back. “'Course he does! I was saying to my brother Abdul—”

“Which Abdul?”

It was a tradition, in both Mickey's wider and nuclear family, to name all sons Abdul to teach them the vanity of assuming higher status than any other man, which was all very well and good but tended to cause confusion in the formative years. However, children are creative, and all the many Abduls added an English name as a kind of buffer to the first.

“Abdul-Colin.”

“Right.”

“So, you know Abdul-Colin went a bit fundamental—EGGS, BEANS, CHIPS, TOAST—big fucking beard, no pig, no drink, no pussy, the fuckin' works, mate—there you are, guvnor.”

Abdul-Mickey pushed a plate of festering carbohydrate to a sunken old man whose trousers were so high up his body they were gradually swallowing him whole.

“Well, where do you think I slap eyes on Abdul-Colin last week? Only in the Mickey Finn, down Harrow Road way, and I says, ‘Oi, Abdul-Colin, this is a fucking turn-up for the fucking books' and he says, all solemn, you know, all fully bearded, he says—”

“Mickey, Mickey—do you mind very much if we leave the story for later . . . it is just that . . .”

“No, fine, fine. Wish I knew why the fuck I bother.”

“If you could possibly tell Archibald I am sitting in the booth behind the pinball when he comes in. Oh, and my usual.”

“No problemo, mate.”

About ten minutes later the door went and Mickey looked up from Chapter 6, “There's a Fly in My Soup: Dealing with Frameworks of Hostility Regarding Health Issues,” to see Archibald Jones, cheap suitcase in hand, approaching the counter.

“All right, Arch. How's the folding business?”

“Oh, you know. Comme si, comme sar. Samad about?”

“Is he
about
? Is he
about
? He's been hanging round like a bad fucking smell for half a fucking hour. Face as long as shit. Someone wants to get a Poop-a-Scoop and clean him up.”

Archie put his suitcase on the counter and furrowed his brow. “In a bad way, is he? Between you and me, Mickey, I'm really worried about him.”

“Go tell it to the fucking mountain,” said Mickey, who had been aggravated by Chapter 6's assertion that you should rinse plates in piping hot water. “Or, alternatively, go to the booth behind the pinball.”

“Thanks, Mickey. Oh, omelette and—”

“I know. Mushrooms.”

Archie walked down the linoleum aisles of O'Connell's.

“Hello, Denzel, evening, Clarence.”

Denzel and Clarence were two uniquely rude, foul-mouthed octogenarian Jamaicans. Denzel was impossibly fat, Clarence was horribly thin, both their families had died, they both wore trilbies, and they sat in the corner playing dominoes all the hours that were left to them.

“What dat bambaclaat say?”

“'Im say
evenin'.
”

“Can't 'im see me playin' domino?”

“No man! 'Im 'ave a pussy for a face. How you expec' 'im to see any little ting?”

Archie took it on the chin as it was meant and slipped into the booth, opposite Samad. “I don't understand,” said Archie, picking up immediately where their phone conversation had terminated. “Are you saying you're seeing them there in your imagination or you're seeing them there in real life?”

“It is really very simple. The first time, the very first time, they were there. But since then, Archie, these past few weeks, I see the twins whenever I am with her—like apparitions! Even when we are . . . I see them there. Smiling at me.”

“Are you sure you're not just overworked?”

“Listen to me, Archie: I
see
them. It is a sign.”

“Sam, let's try and deal with the facts. When they really saw you—what did you do?”

“What could I do? I said, ‘Hello, sons. Say hello to Miss Burt-Jones.' ”

“And what did they say?”

“They said hello.”

“And what did you say?”

“Archibald, do you think I could simply tell you what occurred without this constant inane interjection?”

“CHIPS, BEANS, EGG, TOMATO, AND MUSHROOM!”

“Sam, that's yours.”

“I resent that accusation. It is not mine. I never order tomato. I do not want some poor peeled tomato boiled to death, then fried to death.”

“Well, it's not mine. I asked for omelette.”

“Well, it is not mine. Now: may I continue?”

“With pleasure.”

“I looked at my boys, Archie . . . I looked at my beautiful boys . . . and my heart cracked—no, more than this—it shattered. It shattered into so many pieces and each piece stabbed me like a mortal wound. I kept thinking: how can I teach my boys anything, how can I show them the straight road when I have lost my own bearings?”

“I thought,” began Archie haltingly, “that the problem was the woman. If you really don't know what to do about her, well . . . we could flip this coin, heads you stay, tails you go—at least you'd have made a—”

Samad slammed his good fist on the table. “I don't want to flip a bloody coin! Besides, it is too late for that. Can't you see? What is done is done. I am hell-bound, I see that now. So I must concentrate on saving my sons. I have a choice to make, a choice of
morality.
” Samad lowered his voice, and even before he spoke Archie knew to what he was about to refer. “You have made hard choices yourself, Archie, many years ago. You hide it well, but I know you have not forgotten what it is like. You have a bit of bullet in the leg to prove it. You struggled with him. You won out. I have not forgotten. I have always admired you because of it, Archibald.”

Archie looked at the floor. “I'd rather not—”

“Believe me, I take no pleasure from dragging up that which is distasteful to you, my friend. But I am just trying to make you understand my situation. Then, as now, the question is always:
what kind of a world do I want my children to grow up in?
You took action on that matter once. And now it is my turn.”

Archie, making no more sense of Samad's speeches than he had forty years ago, played with a toothpick for a moment.

“Well . . . why don't you just stop, well, seeing her?”

“I try . . . I try.”

“That good, is it?”

“No, well, that is not strictly . . . what I mean to say is, it is nice, yes . . . but it is not debauched . . . we kiss, we embrace.”

“But no—”

“Not strictly speaking, no.”

“But some—”

“Archibald, are you concerned about my sons or my sperm?”

“Sons,” said Archie. “Definitely sons.”

“Because there is rebellion in them, Archie. I can see it—it is small now but it is growing. I tell you, I don't know what is happening to our children in this country. Everywhere you look, it is the same. Last week, Zinat's son was found smoking marijuana. Like a Jamaican!”

Archie raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, I meant no offense, Archibald.”

“None taken, mate. But you shouldn't judge before you've tried it. Being married to a Jamaican has done wonders for my arthritis. But that's by the by. Carry on.”

“Well, take Alsana's sisters—all their children are nothing but trouble. They won't go to mosque, they don't pray, they speak strangely, they dress strangely, they eat all kinds of rubbish, they have intercourse with God knows who. No respect for tradition. People call it assimilation when it is nothing but corruption. Corruption!”

Archie tried to look shocked and then tried disgusted, not knowing what to say. He liked people to get on with things, Archie. He kind of felt people should just live together, you know, in peace or harmony or something.

“CHIPS, BEANS, EGG, MUSHROOM! OMELETTE AND MUSHROOMS!”

Samad raised his hand and turned to the counter. “Abdul-Mickey!” he yelled, his voice assuming a slight, comic, Cockney twinge. “Over here, my guvnor, please.”