‘I’m sorry… I have a lot on my mind…’
‘That lady friend of yours, eh?’
‘Keep your voice down, Shiva.’
‘They tell me I’m spoilt, a rich broad who means trouble,’ sang Shiva in the strangest of Hindified transatlantic accents. ‘Oi-oi, my chorus. But whatever love I’m given I pay it back double.’
Shiva grabbed a small aquamarine vase and sang his big finale into its upturned end. ‘But no amount of money, will make my honey mine… You should take that advice, Samad Miah,’ said Shiva, who was convinced Samad’s recent remortgage was funding his illicit affair, ‘it’s good advice.’
A few hours later Ardashir appeared once more through the swing doors, breaking up the singing to deliver his second-phase pep-talk. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! That is more than enough of that. Now, listen up: it’s ten-thirty. They’ve seen the show. They’re hungry. They got only one pitiful tub of ice-cream in the interval and plenty of Bombay gin, which, as we all know, brings on the need for curry and that, gentlemen, is where we come in. Two tables of fifteen just came in and sat at the back. Now: when they ask for water what do you do? What do you do, Ravind?’
Ravind was brand new, nephew of the chef, sixteen, nervy. ‘You tell them-’
‘No, Ravind, even before you speak, what do you do?’
Ravind bit his lip. ‘I don’t know, Ardashir.’
‘You shake your head,’ said Ardashir, shaking his head. ‘Simultaneous with a look of concern and fear for their well-being.’ Ardashir demonstrated the look. ‘And then you say?’
‘ “Water does not help the heat, sir.” ’
‘But what helps the heat, Ravind? What will aid the gentleman with the burning sensation he is presently feeling?’
‘More rice, Ardashir.’
‘And? And?’
Ravind looked stumped and began to sweat. Samad, who had been belittled by Ardashir too many times to enjoy watching someone else play the victim, leant over to whisper the answer in Ravind’s clammy ear.
Ravind’s face lit up in gratitude. ‘More naan bread, Ardashir!’
‘Yes; because it soaks up the chilli and more importantly water is free and naan bread is one pound twenty. Now cousin,’ said Ardashir, turning to Samad and waggling a bony finger, ‘how will the boy learn? Let the boy answer for himself next time. You have your own business: a couple of ladies on table twelve requested the head waiter specifically, to be served only by him, so-’
‘Requested me? But I thought I might stay in the kitchen this evening. Besides, I cannot be requested like some personal butler, there is too much to do – that is not policy, cousin.’
And at this moment Samad feels panicky. His thoughts are so taken up with the 1 a.m. abduction, with the prospect of splitting his twins, that he does not trust himself with hot plates and steaming bowls of dal, with the spitting fat of clay-oven chicken, with all the dangers that accost a one-handed waiter. His head is full of his sons. He is half in dream this evening. He has once again bitten every nail beyond the cuticle and is fast approaching the translucent high-moons, the bleeding hubs.
He is saying, he hears himself saying, ‘Ardashir, I have a million things to do here in the kitchens. And why should-’
And the answer comes, ‘Because the head waiter is the best waiter and naturally they tipped me – us – for the privilege. No quibbling, please, cousin. Table twelve, Samad Miah.’
And perspiring lightly, throwing a white towel over his left arm, Samad begins tunelessly to hum the show-stopper as he pushes through the doors.
What won’t a guy do for a girl? How sweet the scent, how huge the pearl?
It is a long walk to table twelve. Not in distance, it is only twenty metres in distance, but it is a long walk through the thick smells and the loud voices and the demands; through the cries of Englishmen; past table two, where the ashtray is full and must be cupped by another ashtray, lifted silently and switched for the new ashtray with perfect insouciance; stopping at table four, where there is an unidentifiable dish that was not ordered; debating with table five, who wish to be joined with table six, no matter the inconvenience; and table seven wants egg fried rice whether or not it is a Chinese dish; and table eight wobbles and more wine! More beer! It is a long walk if you are to negotiate the jungle; attending to the endless needs and needless ends, the desires, the demands of the pink faces that strike Samad now as pith-helmet-wearing gentlemen, feet up on the table with guns across their laps; as tea-slurping ladies on verandas cooling themselves under the breeze of the brown boys who beat the ostrich feathers-
What lengths won’t he travel, how many hits of the gavel
By Allah, how thankful he is (yes, madam, one moment, madam), how gladdened by the thought that Magid, Magid at least, will, in a matter of four hours, be flying east from this place and its demands, its constant cravings, this place where there exists neither patience nor pity, where the people want what they want now, right now (We’ve been waiting twenty minutes for the vegetables), expecting their lovers, their children, their friends and even their gods to arrive at little cost and in little time, just as table ten expect their tandoori prawns…
At the auction of her choosing, how many Rembrandts, Klimts, De Koonings?
These people who would exchange all faith for sex and all sex for power, who would exchange fear of God for self-pride, knowledge for irony, a covered, respectful head for a long, strident shock of orange hair-
It is Poppy at table twelve. It is Poppy Burt-Jones. And just the name would be enough right now (for he is at his most volatile, Samad; he is about to split his own sons in two like that first nervous surgeon wielding his clumsy spit-wet knife over the clodded skin of the twins of Siam), just the name would be enough to explode his mind. The name alone is a torpedo heading for a tiny fishing boat, blowing his thoughts out of the water. But it is more than the name, the echo of a name spoken by some thoughtless fool or found at the bottom of an old letter, it is Poppy Burt-Jones herself in the freckled flesh. Sitting cold and determined with her sister, who seems, like all siblings of those we have desired, an uglier, mis-featured version.
‘Say something, then,’ says Poppy abruptly, fiddling with a Marlboro packet. ‘No witty rejoinder? No crap about camels or coconuts? Nothing to say?’
Samad doesn’t have anything to say. He merely stops humming his tune, inclines his head at exactly the correct deferential angle, and puts the nib of his pen preparedly to paper. It is like a dream.
‘All right, then,’ Poppy is saying tartly, looking Samad up and down, lighting up a fag. ‘Have it your way. Right. To start with we’ll have lamb samosas and the yoghurt whatdyamacallit.’
‘And for the main,’ the shorter, plainer, oranger, snub-nosed sister is saying, ‘Two Lamb Dawn Sock and rice, with chips, please, waiter.’
At least Archie is right on time; right year, right date, right hour; 1984, 5 November, 1 a.m. Outside the restaurant, dressed in a long trench-coat, standing in front of his Vauxhall, one hand tickling some spanking new Pirelli tyres, the other pulling hard on a fag like Bogart or a chauffeur or Bogart’s chauffeur. Samad arrives, clasps Archie’s right hand in his own and feels the coldness of his friend’s fingers, feels the great debt he owes him. Involuntarily, he blows a cloud of frozen breath into his face. ‘I won’t forget this, Archibald,’ he is saying, ‘I won’t forget what you do for me tonight, my friend.’
Archie shuffles about awkwardly. ‘Sam, before you – there’s something I have to-’
But Samad is already reaching for the door, and Archie’s explanation must follow the sight of three shivering children in the back seat like a limp punchline.
‘They woke up, Sam. They were all sleeping in the same room – a sleepover, like. Nothing I could do. I just put coats over their pyjamas – I couldn’t risk Clara hearing – I had to bring them.’