He had donned a baseball cap and dark glasses for the stroll there, saying how ironic it was that when young he’d wanted to be recognised and praised as a star, whereas having become older, he yearned for his original anonymity, having realised that fame-a handful of snow-didn’t bring you understanding from others but somehow rendered you abstract, even to yourself. Soon, he said, newspapers would be running “Whatever happened to George?” pieces, though even those would stop eventually.
“Why is the British press so vile? I hate the version of me they present. But I wouldn’t give the money back, of course,” he added. “Though it was easy to make. I could hardly believe it when the dosh started dropping into my account-so much of it, and so often! But I should have been a doctor.”
“Are you sick?”
“Not me, no.” Mustaq told me, as he’d had to tell a lot of people, that he hadn’t been in London much because Alan had been ill. Like many ex-junkies, Alan had hepatitis C and had been refused a liver transplant since his cancer had spread. “Alan will die in the next year. I have to accompany him on this journey. That is my work. But I do envy you your work.”
“What about it do you envy?”
“Its seriousness. Fatuous, limitless narcissism can’t be what we homosexuals fought for. Can’t we think about anything else but our hair?”
“You sound like your father.”
“He was a serious man.”
I said, “So are you, and you are engaged in a great love. We heterosexuals are more frivolous-all we want is sex. You gays get married for life! The next step, of course, will be for a man legally to take three wives.”
“And a woman three husbands?”
“Equality is everything.” Then I said, “What did you think of the documentary about the factory?”
“I missed him, my father, all over again. Whoever removed him did me a considerable disservice. And I kept thinking how much like him I was.” He went on, “Ajita’s been living here, as you know. I don’t like it-this city is far too dangerous.”
“New York is safer?”
“From one point of view, yes. A man has started to visit her. He comes about four times a week, late at night, at five in the morning sometimes. Of course the house and the street are covered by cameras. You know this guy?”
“Late middle-aged, stocky, short hair, determined-looking?” When he nodded, I said, “He was a friend of ours, from the time we were at university.”
“Is he reliable?”
“He lives and works in a bar in West London. He’s hardworking and not a drunk or even a cokey. She likes him, but I wouldn’t have thought he’s trying to exploit her.”
“Are you sure? She tells me she wants to buy a little flat in London. She asked for money-about a million, if you can believe it! She wants to start an antiques business too, with a friend of hers, someone who knows how to do such things-she claims. Jamal, she’s coming alive, at last, and how can I refuse her?”
He went on, “God knows we’re all strange, and it’s not for me to judge or say anything about the kind of sex she likes. Passion is the only interesting thing, of course. I did think, though, that the two of you might make something together.”
“Sorry about that,” I said. “My wife and I parted. I’m not ready to see anyone else yet.”
“When we went back to India after Dad died, and she was mourning him, she had no one but me to take care of her. Blasted Mother was preoccupied with her boyfriend.
“Ajita went to the market, helped in the kitchen. She had groovy Bombay girlfriends called Boomi and Mooni. But she spent a lot of time alone, and then she started to disappear in the car. It was rumoured she was going with a lot of people. The aunties wanted her to marry. After the first few candidates, she said to me, ‘The only person I ever wanted to marry was Jamal.’
“The aunties were closing in. She was thinking of marrying one of those eligible turkeys in dire ties. She didn’t want to go back to London, though she talked about you a lot.”
“She did?”
“She’d say, ‘I want to know what he’s doing at this exact moment!’ She wondered whether you had a lot of girlfriends or just one. But so much time had passed, she couldn’t come back and reclaim you.
“I took her to America and got her a job in the fashion business. She met Mark, who she now says she wants to divorce. He found her a handful, but he stuck by her, and in my view she should be grateful. The guy’s in pieces and I’ve begged her, but she refuses to comfort him.” He said, “I found…I saw recently-I looked in her bag-I wish I hadn’t, I regret it-that she is reading books about abuse.”
“A growing genre.”
“I’ve been wondering-do you think anything like that happened to her?”
“It’s not impossible.”
He said, “I’ll take that to be a yes. How much did you know about it? Did you know then-or later?” I didn’t reply. “The poor girl. And I did nothing. We both stood by and did nothing, eh?
“I have to reinterpret my whole family history in the light of this. But, Jamal, it must have been hard on you.” He was staring at me. “Now I have to go to America to plan a tour. I want to make music again and play live. I will set up a music foundation somewhere in the Third World. Ajita can help me. I am nervous about leaving her alone in London with this guy.”
“On the other hand, you don’t want to turn into a Muslim father.”
“You think I am?”
“When you said you resembled your father, I thought you meant that you both have bullying natures.”
He went on, sharply, “You see someone you love making a mistake and you don’t warn them?”
I said, “Who’s to say she’s making a mistake?”
He embraced me and said, “Sorry, you’re right. I’m too used to people doing what I say.”
We parted, Mustaq and I, as we always did, with some puzzlement and dissatisfaction, as if neither of us was quite sure we were friends.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Mustaq went back to America, and I arranged to see Ajita again.
A new Indian place had opened not far from my house, one of those contemporary restaurants where the waitresses were young Polish women studying English during the day. The food was made with fresh ingredients and was dry, not drowning in a pool of grease. The decor was disappointingly modern-no chains of undusted plastic flowers hanging from the ceiling.
The only relief from the eerie, suspended, and scared atmosphere of the city was to be with people you liked. The bad thing had already happened; we were in recovery. However, a week later there was another, failed, attempt at a bombing. Everyone was tense and despairing. We felt threatened and angry but, I guess, not as threatened and angry as the Iraqi people. I saw patients and Rafi, or Miriam and Henry. I watched the TV news continuously. I preferred not to be alone.
I was curious, too, about what Ajita and Wolf were doing at this time, and in this place, central London. I suspected it wouldn’t be long before Wolf told Ajita the truth about her father’s death and everything came out. It didn’t seem there was much I could do about it.
Ajita was late; I didn’t mind. I had become used to writing in cafés, which London was full of now-Henry called London “a city of waitresses.” Lately I had been reading everything about Islam, tearing articles out of the newspapers and keeping them in a file. Like many people, the entire time I had a debate going on in my head.
“You didn’t recognise me,” said Ajita, when at last she turned up, dressed like all the girls in a summer dress and flip-flops with a bag. “This might sound strange to you,” she said. “But I’ve been wearing the burqa and sitting over there, watching you send texts and talking to Josephine so warmly.”
“That was you?”
“There’s a verse in the Koran about it, which goes something like: ‘Tell thy wives and daughters to draw thy cloaks close around them.’”