White Teeth (58 page)

‘I think,’ replied Magid, slowly surveying the dusty chalkboard menus on the wall, and then turning back to Mickey, his face illumined, ‘I should like a bacon sandwich. Yes, that is it. I would love a juicy, yet well-done, tomato ketchup-ed bacon sandwich. On brown.’

Oh, the struggle that could be seen on Mickey’s kisser at that moment! Oh, the gargoylian contortions! It was a battle between the favour of the most refined customer he had ever had and the most hallowed, sacred rule of O’Connell’s Pool House. NO PORK.

Mickey’s left eye twitched.

‘Don’t want a nice plate of scrambled? I do a lovely scrambled eggs, don’t I, Johnny?’

‘I’d be a liar if I said ya didn’t,’ said Johnny loyally from his table, even though Mickey’s eggs were famously grey and stiff, ‘I’d be a terrible liar, on my mother’s life, I would.’

Magid wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

‘All right — what about mushrooms and beans? Omelette and chips? No better chips in the Finchley Road. Come on, son,’ he pleaded, desperate. ‘You’re a Muslim, int ya? You don’t want to break your father’s heart with a bacon sandwich.’

‘My father’s heart will not be broken by a bacon sandwich. It is far more likely that my father’s heart will break from the result of a build-up of saturated fat which is in turn a result of eating in your establishment for fifteen years. One wonders,’ said Magid evenly, ‘if a case could be made, a legal case, you understand, against individuals in the food service industry who fail to label their meals with a clear fat content or general health warning. One wonders.’

All this was delivered in the sweetest, most melodious voice, and with no hint of threat. Poor Mickey didn’t know what to make of it.

‘Well, of course,’ said Mickey nervously, ‘hypothetically that is an interesting question. Very interesting.’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Yeah, definitely.’

Mickey fell silent and spent a minute elaborately polishing the top of the hot plate, an activity he indulged in about once every ten years.

‘There. See your face in that. Now. Where were we?’

‘A bacon sandwich.’

At the sound of the word ‘bacon’, a few ears began to twitch at the front tables.

‘If you could keep your voice down a little . . .’

‘
A bacon sandwich
,’ whispered Magid.

‘Bacon. Right. Well, I’ll have to nip next door, ’cos I ain’t got none at present . . . but you just sit down wiv your dad and I’ll bring it over. It’ll cost a bit more, like. What wiv the extra effort, you know. But don’t worry, I’ll bring it over. And tell Archie not to worry if he ain’t got the cash. A Luncheon Voucher will do.’

‘You are very kind, Michael. Take one of these.’ Magid reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper.

‘Oh, fuck me, another leaflet? You can’t fucking move — pardon my French — but you can’t
move
for leaflets in Norf London these days. My brother Abdul-Colin’s always loading me wiv ’em an’ all. But seein’ as it’s you . . . go on, hand it over.’

‘It’s not a leaflet,’ said Magid, collecting his knife and fork from the tray. ‘It is an invitation to a launch.’

‘You what?’ said Mickey excitedly (in the grammar of his daily tabloid,
launch
meant lots of cameras, expensive-looking birds with huge tits, red carpets). ‘Really?’

Millat passed him the invite. ‘Incredible things are to be seen and heard there.’

‘Oh,’ said Mickey, disappointed, eyeing the expensive piece of card. ‘I’ve heard about this bloke and his mouse.’ He had heard about this bloke and his mouse in this same tabloid; it was a kind of filler between the tits and the more tits and it was underneath the byline: ONE BLOKE AND HIS MOUSE.

‘Seems a bit dodgy to me, messing wiv God an’ all that. ’Sides I ain’t that scientifically minded, you see. Go right over my head.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. One just has to look at the thing from a perspective that interests you personally. Take your skin, for example.’

‘I wish somebody would fuckin’ take it,’ joked Mickey amiably. ‘I’ve ’ad a-fucking-nuff of it.’

Magid did not smile.

‘You suffer from a serious endocrine disorder. By which I mean, it is not simply adolescent acne caused by the over-excretion of sebum, but a condition that comes from a hormonal defect. I presume your family share it?’

‘Er . . . yeah, as it happens. All my brothers. And my son, Abdul-Jimmy. All spotty bastards.’

‘But you would not like it if your son were to pass on the condition to his sons.’

‘Obviously, no. I ’ad terrible trouble in school. I carry a knife to this day, Magid. But I can’t see how that can be avoided, to be honest with you. Been goin’ on for decades.’

‘But you see,’ said Magid (and what an expert he was at the personal interest angle!), ‘it can certainly be avoided. It would be perfectly simple and much misery would be saved. That is the kind of thing we will be discussing at the launch.’

‘Oh, well, if that’s the case, you know, count me in. I thought it was just some bloody mutant-mouse or sommink, you see. But if that’s the case . . .’

‘Thirty-first of December,’ said Magid, before walking down the aisle to his father. ‘It will be wonderful to see you there.’

‘You took your time,’ said Archie, as Magid approached their table.

‘Did you come by way of the Ganges?’ inquired Samad irritably, shifting up to make space for him.

‘Pardon me, please. I was just speaking with your friend, Michael. A very decent chap. Oh, before I forget, Archibald, he said that it would be perfectly acceptable to pay in Luncheon Vouchers this evening.’

Archie almost choked on a little toothpick he was chewing on. ‘He said
what
? Are you
sure
?’

‘Quite sure. Now, Abba, shall we begin?’

‘There’s nothing to begin,’ growled Samad, refusing to look him in the eye. ‘I am afraid we are already far into whatever diabolic plot fate has in store for me. And I want you to know, that I am not here of my own volition but because your mother begged me to do this and because I have more respect for that poor woman than either you or your brother ever had.’

Magid released a wry, gentle smile. ‘I thought you were here because Amma beat you in the wrestling.’

Samad scowled. ‘Oh yes, ridicule me. My own son. Do you never read the Qur’ān? Do you not know the duties a son owes to his father? You
sicken
me, Magid Mubtasim.’

‘Oi, Sammy, old man,’ said Archie, playing with the ketchup, trying to keep things light. ‘Steady on.’

‘No, I will not steady on! This boy is a thorn in my foot.’

‘Surely “side”?’

‘Archibald, stay out of this.’

Archie returned his attention to the pepper and salt cellars, trying to pour the former into the latter.

‘Right you are, Sam.’

‘I have a message to deliver and I will deliver it and no more. Magid, your mother wants you to meet with Millat. The woman Chalfen will arrange it. It is their opinion that the two of you must talk.’

‘And what is your opinion, Abba?’

‘You don’t want to hear my opinion.’

‘On the contrary, Abba, I would very much like to hear it.’

‘Simply, I think it is a mistake. I think you two can do no possible good for each other. I think you should go to opposite corners of the earth. I think I have been cursed with two sons more dysfunctional than Mr Cain and Mr Abel.’

‘I am perfectly willing to meet with him, Abba. If he will meet with me.’

‘Apparently he is willing, this is what I am told. I don’t know. I don’t talk with him any more than I talk with you. I am too busy at the moment trying to make my peace with God.’

‘Er . . .’ said Archibald, crunching on his toothpick out of hunger and nerves, and because Magid gave him the heebie-jeebies, ‘I’ll go and see if the food is ready, shall I? Yes. I’ll do that. What am I picking up for you, Madge?’

‘A bacon sandwich, please, Archibald.’

‘Bac — ? Er . . . right. Right you are.’

Samad’s face blew up like one of Mickey’s fried tomatoes. ‘So you mean to
mock
me, is that it? In front of my face you wish to show me the kaffir that you are. Go on, then! Munch on your pig in front of me! You are so bloody clever, aren’t you? Mr Smarty-pants. Mr white-trousered Englishman with his stiff- upper-lip and his big white teeth. You know everything, even enough to escape your own judgement day.’

‘I am not so clever, Abba.’

‘No, no, you are
not
. You are not half as clever as you think. I don’t know why I bother to warn you, but I do: you are on a
direct collision course
with your brother, Magid. I keep my ear to the ground, I hear Shiva talking in the restaurant. And there are others: Mo Hussein-Ishmael, Mickey’s brother, Abdul-Colin, and his son, Abdul-Jimmy — these are only a few, there are many more, and they are organizing against you. Millat is with them. Your Marcus Chalfen has stirred a great deal of anger and there are some, these green-ties, who are willing to act. Who are crazy enough to do what they believe is right. Crazy enough to start a war. There aren’t many people like that. Most of us just follow along once war has been announced. But some people wish to bring things to a head. Some people march on to the parade ground and fire the first shot. Your brother is one of them.’

All through this, as Samad’s face contorted from anger, to despair, to near-hysterical grins, Magid had remained blank, his face an unwritten page.

‘You have nothing to say? This news does not surprise you?’

‘Why don’t you reason with them, Abba,’ said Magid after a pause. ‘Many of them respect you. You are respected in the community. Reason with them.’

‘Because I disapprove as strongly as they do, for all their lunacies. Marcus Chalfen has no
right
. No right to do as he does. It is not his business. It is God’s business. If you meddle with a creature, the very
nature
of a creature, even if it is a mouse, you walk into the arena that is God’s: creation. You infer that the wonder of God’s creation can be improved upon. It cannot. Marcus Chalfen
presumes
. He expects to be worshipped when the only thing in the universe that warrants worship is Allah. And you are wrong to help him. Even his own son has disowned him. And so,’ said Samad, unable to suppress the drama queen deep within his soul, ‘I must disown you.’

‘Ah, now, one chips, beans, egg and mushroom for you, Sammy-my-good-man,’ said Archibald, approaching the table and passing the plate. ‘And one omelette and mushrooms for me . . .’

‘And one bacon sandwich,’ said Mickey, who had insisted on breaking fifteen years of tradition in bringing this one dish over himself, ‘for the young professor.’

‘He will
not
eat that at my table.’

‘Oh, come on, Sam,’ began Archie gingerly. ‘Give the lad a break.’

‘I say he will
not
eat that at my table!’

Mickey scratched his forehead. ‘Stone me, we’re getting a bit fundamentalist in our old age, ain’t we?’

‘I said—’

‘As you wish, Abba,’ said Magid, with that same infuriating smile of total forgiveness. He took his plate from Mickey, and sat down at the adjacent table with Clarence and Denzel.

Denzel welcomed him with a grin, ‘Clarence, look see! It de young prince in white. ’Im come to play domino. I jus’ look in his eye and I and I knew ’im play domino. ’Im an hexpert.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ said Magid.

‘Def-net-lee. Gwan.’

‘Do you think I should meet with my brother?’

‘Hmm. I don’ tink me can say,’ replied Denzel, after a spell of thought in which he laid down a five-domino set.

‘I would say you look like a young fellow oo can make up ’im own mind,’ said Clarence cautiously.

‘Do I?’

Magid turned back to his previous table, where his father was trying studiously to ignore him, and Archie was toying with his omelette.

‘Archibald! Shall I meet with my brother or not?’

Archie looked guiltily at Samad and then back at his plate.

‘Archibald! This is a very significant question for me. Should I or not?’

‘Go on,’ said Samad sourly. ‘Answer him. If he’d rather advice from two old fools and a man he barely knows than from his own father, then let him have it. Well? Should he?’

Archie squirmed. ‘Well . . . I can’t . . . I mean, it’s not for me to say . . . I suppose, if he wants . . . but then again, if you don’t think . . .’

Samad thrust his fist into Archie’s mushrooms so hard the omelette slithered off the plate altogether and slipped to the floor.

‘Make a decision, Archibald. For once in your pathetic little life, make a decision.’

‘Um . . . heads, yes,’ gasped Archie, reaching into his pocket for a twenty pence piece. ‘Tails, no. Ready?’

The coin rose and flipped as a coin would rise and flip every time in a perfect world, flashing its light and then revealing its dark enough times to mesmerize a man. Then, at some point in its triumphant ascension, it began to arc, and the arc went wrong, and Archibald realized that it was not coming back to him at all but going behind him, a fair way behind him, and he turned with the others to watch it complete an elegant swoop towards the pinball machine and somersault straight into the slot. Immediately the huge old beast lit up; the ball shot off and began its chaotic, noisy course around a labyrinth of swinging doors, automatic bats, tubes and ringing bells, until, with no one to assist it, no one to direct it, it gave up the ghost and dropped back into the swallowing hole.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Archibald, visibly chuffed. ‘What are the chances of that, eh?’

A neutral place. The chances of finding one these days are slim, maybe even slimmer than Archie’s pinball trick. The sheer
quantity
of shit that must be wiped off the slate if we are to start again as new. Race. Land. Ownership. Faith. Theft. Blood. And more blood. And more. And not only must the
place
be neutral, but the messenger who takes you to the place, and the messenger who sends the messenger. There are no people or places like that left in North London. But Joyce did her best with what she had. First she went to Clara. In Clara’s present seat of learning, a red-brick university, South-West by the Thames, there was a room she used for study on Friday afternoons. A thoughtful teacher had loaned her the key. Always empty between three and six. Contents: one blackboard, several tables, some chairs, two anglepoise lamps, an overhead projector, a filing cabinet, a computer. Nothing older than twelve years, Clara could guarantee that. The university itself was only twelve years old. Built on empty waste land — no Indian burial grounds, no Roman viaducts, no interred alien spacecraft, no foundations of a long-gone church. Just earth. As neutral a place as anywhere. Clara gave Joyce the key and Joyce gave it to Irie.