‘Yes, Shiva. Really and truly.’
‘And that’s what’s driving you crazy, is it?’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say crazy, no… it is troubling me.’
‘Because something,’ interrupted Shiva, ‘has got right up your arse recently. We’ve all noticed it.’
‘We?’
‘Us. The boys. Yesterday it was a grain of salt in a napkin. The day before Gandhi wasn’t hung straight on the wall. The past week you’ve been acting like Führer-gee,’ said Shiva nodding in Ardashir’s direction. ‘Like a crazy man. You don’t smile. You don’t eat. You’re constantly on everybody’s case. And when the head waiter’s not all there it puts everybody off. Like a football captain.’
‘I am certain I do not know to what you are referring,’ said Samad, tight-lipped, passing him the vase.
‘And I’m certain you do,’ said Shiva provocatively, placing the empty vase back on the table.
‘If I am concerned about something, there is no reason why it should disrupt my work here,’ said Samad, becoming panicked, passing him back the vase. ‘I do not wish to inconvenience others.’
Shiva returned the vase to the table once more. ‘So there is something. Come on, man… I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but we’ve got to stick together in this place. How long have we worked together? Samad Miah?’
Samad looked up suddenly at Shiva, and Shiva saw he was sweating, that he seemed almost dazed. ‘Yes, yes… there is… something.’
Shiva put his hand on Samad’s shoulder. ‘So why don’t we sod the fucking carnation and go and cook you a curry – sun’ll be down in twenty minutes. Come on, you can tell Shiva all about it. Not because I give a fuck, you understand, but I have to work here too and you’re driving me mad, mate.’
Samad, oddly touched by this inelegant offer of a listening ear, laid down his pink swans and followed Shiva into the kitchens.
‘Animal, vegetable, mineral?’
Shiva stood at a work surface and began chopping a breast of chicken into perfect cubes and dousing them in corn flour.
‘Pardon me?’
‘Is it animal, vegetable or mineral?’ repeated Shiva impatiently. ‘The thing that’s bothering you.’
‘Animal, mainly.’
‘Female?’
Samad dropped on to a nearby stool and hung his head.
‘Female,’ Shiva concluded. ‘Wife?’
‘The shame of it, the pain of it will come to my wife, but no… she is not the cause.’
‘Another bird. My specialist subject.’ Shiva performed the action of rolling a camera, sang the theme to Mastermind and jumped into shot. ‘Shiva Bhagwati, you have thirty seconds on shagging women other than your wife. First question: is it right? Answer: depends. Second question: shall I go to hell?-’
Samad cut in, disgusted. ‘I am not… making love to her.’
‘I’ve started so I’ll finish: shall I go to hell? Answer-’
‘Enough. Forget it. Please, forget that I mentioned anything of this.’
‘Do you want aubergine in this?’
‘No… green peppers are sufficient.’
‘Alrighty,’ said Shiva, throwing a green pepper up in the air and catching it on the tip of his knife. ‘One Chicken Bhuna coming up. How long’s it been going on, then?’
‘Nothing is going on. I met her only once. I barely know her.’
‘So: what’s the damage? A grope? A snog?’
‘A handshake, only. She is my sons’ teacher.’
Shiva tossed the onions and peppers into hot oil. ‘You’ve had the odd stray thought. So what?’
Samad stood up. ‘It is more than stray thoughts, Shiva. My whole body is mutinous, nothing will do what I tell it. Never before have I been subjected to such physical indignities. For example: I am constantly-’
‘Yeah,’ said Shiva, indicating Samad’s crotch. ‘We noticed that too. Why don’t you do the five-knuckle-shuffle before you get to work?’
‘I do… I am… but it makes no difference. Besides, Allah forbids it.’
‘Oh, you should never have got religious, Samad. It don’t suit you.’ Shiva wiped an onion-tear away. ‘All that guilt’s not healthy.’
‘It is not guilt. It is fear. I am fifty-seven, Shiva. When you get to my age, you become… concerned about your faith, you don’t want to leave things too late. I have been corrupted by England, I see that now – my children, my wife, they too have been corrupted. I think maybe I have made the wrong friends. Maybe I have been frivolous. Maybe I have thought intellect more important than faith. And now it seems this final temptation has been put in front of me. To punish me, you understand. Shiva, you know about women. Help me. How can this feeling be possible? I have known of the woman’s existence for no more than a few months, I have spoken to her only once.’
‘As you said: you’re fifty-seven. Mid-life crisis.’
‘Mid-life? What does this mean?’ snapped Samad irritably. ‘Dammit, Shiva, I don’t plan to live for one hundred and fourteen years.’
‘It’s a manner of speaking. You read about it in the magazines these days. It’s when a man gets to a certain point in life, he starts feeling he’s over the hill… and you’re as young as the girl you feel, if you get my meaning.’
‘I am at a moral crossroads in my life and you are talking nonsense to me.’
‘You’ve got to learn this stuff, mate,’ said Shiva, speaking slowly, patiently. ‘Female organism, gee-spot, testicle cancer, the menstropause – mid-life crisis is one of them. Information the modern man needs at his fingertips.’
‘But I don’t wish for such information!’ cried Samad, standing up and pacing the kitchen. ‘That is precisely the point! I don’t wish to be a modern man! I wish to live as I was always meant to! I wish to return to the East!’
‘Ah, well… we all do, don’t we?’ murmured Shiva, pushing the peppers and onion around the pan. ‘I left when I was three. Fuck knows I haven’t made anything of this country. But who’s got the money for the air fare? And who wants to live in a shack with fourteen servants on the payroll? Who knows what Shiva Bagwhati would have turned out like back in Calcutta? Prince or pauper? And who,’ said Shiva, some of his old beauty returning to his face, ‘can pull the West out of ’em once it’s in?’
Samad continued to pace. ‘I should never have come here – that’s where every problem has come from. Never should have brought my sons here, so far from God. Willesden Green! Callingcards in sweetshop windows, Judy Blume in the school, condom on the pavement, Harvest Festival, teacher-temptresses!’ roared Samad, picking items at random. ‘Shiva – I tell you, in confidence: my dearest friend, Archibald Jones, is an unbeliever! Now: what kind of a model am I for my children?’
‘Iqbal, sit down. Be calm. Listen: you just want somebody. People want people. It happens from Delhi to Deptford. And it’s not the end of the world.’
‘Of this, I wish I could be certain.’
‘When are you next seeing her?’
‘We are meeting for school-related business… the first Wednesday of September.’
‘I see. Is she Hindu? Muslim? She ain’t Sikh, is she?’
‘That is the worst of it,’ said Samad, his voice breaking. ‘English. White. English.’
Shiva shook his head. ‘I been out with a lot of white birds, Samad. A lot. Sometimes it’s worked, sometimes it ain’t. Two lovely American girls. Fell head-over-heels for a Parisian stunner. Even spent a year with a Romanian. But never an English girl. Never works. Never.’
‘Why?’ asked Samad, attacking his thumbnail with his teeth and awaiting some fearful answer, some edict from on high. ‘Why not, Shiva Bhagwati?’
‘Too much history,’ was Shiva’s enigmatic answer, as he dished up the Chicken Bhuna. ‘Too much bloody history.’
8.30 a.m., the first Wednesday of September, 1984. Samad, lost in thought somewhat, heard the passenger door of his Austin Mini Metro open and close – far away in the real world – and turned to his left to find Millat climbing in next to him. Or at least a Millat-shaped thing from the neck down: the head replaced by a Tomytronic – a basic computer game that looked like a large pair of binoculars. Within it, Samad knew from experience, a little red car that represented his son was racing a green car and a yellow car along a three-dimensional road of l.e.d.’s.