White Teeth (24 page)

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, prised Samad’s face off the hot glass with an egg slice.

‘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 palaeolithic 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 hung 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, signalling downstairs.

‘I am a Muslim, Mickey, I don’t indulge any more.’

‘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, both in 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 lino 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, their families had both 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 offence, 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.’

Mickey looked at Samad, leant on the counter, and wiped his nose with his apron.

‘Now you know better than that. It’s self-service around here, gentlemen. This ain’t the fucking Waldorf.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Archie, sliding out of his seat.

‘How is he?’ asked Mickey under his breath, as he pushed the plate towards Archie.

Archie frowned. ‘Dunno. He’s on about tradition again. He’s worried about his sons, you see. Easy for children to go off the rails in this day and age, you know. I don’t really know what to say to him.’

‘Don’t have to tell me, mate,’ said Mickey, shaking his head. ‘I wrote the fucking book, didn’t I? Look at my littlest, Abdul-Jimmy. Up in juvenile court next week for swiping fucking VW medallions. I says to ’im, you fucking stupid or sommink? What the fuck is the point of that? At least steal the fucking
car
, if that’s the way you feel about it. I mean, why? ’E says it’s sommink to do wiv some fucking Beetie Boys or some such bollocks. Well, I says to him, that lot are dead as shit if I get hold of ’em, and I can tell you that for fucking nothing. No sense of tradition, no fucking morality, is the problem.’

Archie nodded and picked up a wad of napkins with which to handle the hot dishes.

‘If you want my advice — and you do, ’cos that’s part of the special relationship between caff owner and caff customer — you tell Samad he has two options. He can either send them back to the old country, back to India—’

‘Bangladesh,’ corrected Archie, nicking a chip from Samad’s meal.

‘Whereverthefuckitis. He can send ’em back there and have ’em brought up proper, by their granddads and grandmums, have ’em learn about their fucking culture, have ’em grow up with some fucking principles. Or — one minute — CHIPS, BEANS, PATTIE AND MUSHROOMS! FOR TWO!’

Denzel and Clarence ever so slowly sidled up to the hot plates.

‘Dat pattie look
strange
,’ said Clarence.

‘ ’Im try to poison us,’ said Denzel.

‘Dem mushroom look
peculiar
,’ said Clarence.

‘ ’Im try to infiltrate a good man with de devil’s food,’ said Denzel.

Mickey slapped his egg slice down on Denzel’s fingers, ‘Oi. Morecambe and fucking Wise. Get a new fucking routine, all right?’

‘Or what?’ persisted Archie.

‘ ’Im tryin’ to kill an ’ol man. An ’ol, weak man,’ muttered Denzel, as the two of them shuffled back to their seats.

‘Fucking ’ell, those two. They’re only alive ’cos they’re too stingy to pay for the fucking cremation.’

‘Or what?’

‘What?’

‘What’s the second option?’

‘Oh, yeah. Well, second option’s obvious, innit?’

‘Is it?’

‘
Accept
it. He’ll have to
accept
it, won’t he. We’re all English now, mate. Like it or lump it, as the rhubarb said to the custard. And that’ll be two fifty, Archibald, my good man. The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over.’

The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers ended ten years ago. For ten years Mickey had been saying, ‘The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over.’And that’s what Archie loved about O’Connell’s. Everything was remembered, nothing was lost. History was never revised or reinterpreted, adapted or whitewashed. It was as solid and as simple as the encrusted egg on the clock.

When Archie returned to table eight, Samad was like Jeeves: if not exactly disgruntled, then some way from being gruntled.

‘Archibald, did you take a wrong turn at the Ganges? Weren’t you listening to my dilemma? I am corrupt, my sons are becoming corrupt, we are all soon to burn in the fires of hell. These are problems of some urgency, Archibald.’