Brick Lane (43 page)

For a while, as she watched Karim, she lost track of his words and witnessed only the tension in his body as he traced and retraced a path across the stage.

It was supposed to be her. She was supposed to be the one who could not think about the world, who had a head so filled with herself, her week, her day, her hour, that the big things would not fit. But she looked at Karim now: how absorbed he was in his manoeuvrings. If the Questioner had talked about the Lion Hearts, Karim would have talked of Afghanistan. If he said black, Karim would say white. And she felt misery rise like steam from Chanu at her side, and knew that he was lost in his own private torment; Race, Class and Short Theses did not touch him there.

But what was the good of aching for the world if she offered no balm to her own husband?

'Let's go,' she said. He did not hear. She pushed her knee against his and his leg swung away from her.

The meeting wound up. Chanu cleared his throat and tucked his speech inside his folder. 'Better save this for another day,' he said and smiled while his eyes danced on hot coals, darting everywhere and flinching from everything.

'Anyone who is interested in what I was saying, come and see me now,' called the Questioner.

A few boys gathered round him. Nazneen saw Sorupa's eldest among them.

'Insh' Allah, we all stand together,' shouted Karim as people began to file out of the hall.

But God is not willing, thought Nazneen. Oh, Karim, why do you see only what you want to see?

There was no escaping Mrs Islam this time. As Nazneen stepped over the threshold of the butcher's shop she practically stood on the great lady's toes.

'Ah, to be young again and walk around in a dream,' said Mrs Islam.

Nazneen enquired as politely as possible after her health.

Mrs Islam ignored her. 'Dreaming of home? But not long to wait now.'

The smell of meat was intense. Entering the shop was like wandering into a giant intestine. A huge stack of plucked chickens filled the window. It was a plain old massacre, nothing like the polite displays of cello-phaned body parts in the English supermarkets. Behind the high counter the men wore white coats, honestly and decently covered in blood. Inside the counter was every cut of mutton and all the cuts were jumbled together. Sides of beef coated in yellow fat hung from ceiling hooks. At the back, a solitary chill cabinet contained only an empty ice-cream tub, placed there to collect drips when the cabinet was unplugged after a brief and never-to-be-repeated term of service. The chill cabinet never caught on. Nobody wanted to buy meat that had been hidden away in there for who knows how long.

The meaty smell was so thick that when Nazneen opened her mouth it felt like she had licked a raw and fatty chop.

'You are looking very well today, Mrs Islam,' said Nazneen.

Mrs Islam fumbled in her cardigan sleeve. She took out a pink lace-edged handkerchief and coughed into it. It was the first time Nazneen had heard her cough. Maybe she had run out of Benylin Chesty Coughs.

Mrs Islam stuffed the handkerchief back into her sleeve. Both sleeves bulged massively, as if she had elephantiasis of the arms.

'I am dying,' she snapped. 'Perhaps you think it suits me.' Her little black eyes glittered and raged.

Nazneen studied her as closely as she dared. It was true that Mrs Islam seemed a little different today: not in any obvious way, but lacking somehow in substance, as if she had begun to fade out. Nazneen tried to pinpoint it. Had she lost weight?

'So, your husband will have bought the tickets by now,' said Mrs Islam. 'Run home and start packing.'

'What tickets?'

Without warning, Mrs Islam grabbed Nazneen by the chin. Her fingers felt crispy, like dried leaves. 'Such an honest face. All the better to lie with!'

It occurred to Nazneen that, even at such close quarters, beneath the blood-heavy air she could not smell Mrs Islam's sickroom smell. This was what she had lost.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Nazneen. She held Mrs Islam's hand and gently removed it from her face.

'You don't? Of course such an innocent creature as Mrs Ahmed hardly knows a thing. You don't know that your husband went crying to Dr Azad and Dr Azad gave him the money to make his escape?' Her breathing became laboured. She swayed on her feet and Nazneen had to restrain herself from putting her arms out to steady her. 'Dr Azad is a fool. He will never get his money back. I told him, but who listens to an old woman who has reached the end of her life?'

Nazneen stepped back. The doorway was not far behind. She turned her head to see how close it was. She had an urgent desire to get away from this woman.

Reading her mind, Mrs Islam snatched her hand and rubbed it between her papery fingers. She sweetened her voice as much as possible; it was like mixing chillies with sugar, an inadequate disguise. 'I would let you go, my child, give you my money and my blessing – but how would it look to all the others? Let one slip through and they all slip through. I have my sons to think about. Just give what you owe.'

'But it's impossible,' cried Nazneen. 'Whatever we give, it's not enough.'

Mrs Islam let go of Nazneen's hand. 'God always provides a way,' she said, and smiled humbly as she spoke. 'You just have to find it.'

Chanu drove until the early hours of the morning but Nazneen was ready for him when he walked through the door.

'Is this true?' she demanded as if she had already laid everything out before him.

'It's a good question,' said Chanu. 'It is, perhaps, the best of all questions.'

'I want to know . . .'

'Wait then,' said Chanu. 'Wait a minute. Didn't I just step inside a second ago? I still have my coat on.' He tugged at his anorak to ward off denials. 'Isn't it fair to say that you hate it when I come inside and forget to take it off? Isn't it fair to say that you would rather suck a cockroach than watch me eat with my coat still on?'

Her mouth became dry. How did he know that? She had been so careful to hide her feelings.

'Yes,' said Chanu. 'You see, I am not totally blind.' He made no move from the hallway. The light bulb hung over his head. It was a feeble light bulb, the wrong kind. It didn't get rid of the dark; it swept it into the corners, and into the crevices of Chanu's face.

For a while, Chanu just stood there and Nazneen began to fill up with dread, not at anything he might say or do but at what he saw when he looked at her.

'Is this true?' He weighed each word. 'It's a question I like very much. A student of philosophy must enquire all the time: is this the real nature of the world? But so must a student of physics, of history, of literature even and art, for only art which is true is worthy of the name.' He stopped and unzipped his anorak. It immediately slid off the slopes of his shoulders. He picked it up and patted it. 'Whenever we are told something, before we receive it into our minds and hearts, we must put it to the test. We open a book, we turn a newspaper page, we allow the television and the radio to come into our homes. All the things we are told every day – are they true?'

She waited for him to continue.

'When the imam speaks, it is not the word of God. Does he speak true? It is easier to believe than not believe. Just think about gossip. The things our mothers told us, that fill our bones like marrow. We learned them before we learned to question.

'All this. All this, and more. Because it is possible for a man to lie to himself. And a woman too.' Chanu looked away from her. He spoke to his coat. 'A heart says this and that, it shouts and makes a big scene. But put it to the test and sometimes you will find it out for what it is: a big and hollow noise. When you feel something so strongly that it can't be questioned, you
have
to ask yourself – is this true?'

For a few seconds they remained frozen, unable to end the moment.

Then Chanu rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand and shook his cheeks like a man who has just dipped his head in a bowl of water. 'Let's go inside at least, and I'll show you the tickets.'

Nazneen examined the sloping red letters of the Biman Airlines logo on the ticket wallet. She ran her fingers over each ticket and was surprised how flimsy they were, how lacking in substance.

Twenty-seventh of October. Five more days,' said Chanu. 'There is a lot to do.'

'But we will never be ready. What about the flat? We can't just leave it.'

'Dr Azad has come to our aid once more. He has agreed to deal with everything. Rent it out for us, or hand it over to the council – whatever I instruct from Dhaka.'

Nazneen moved around the room. She touched the trolley, the corner cabinet, the glass showcase, the dining table, the coffee table and the bookcase. She stood behind the dung-coloured sofa and gripped the top. Her little finger popped through the fabric and into the stuffing.

'But what will you do in Dhaka? How will we live?'

Chanu patted his stomach. 'Do you think that my stomach will go long without being fed? When I went to the doctor, I went for medicine, not money. Don't worry. The ulcer will soon be gone and I don't plan to live on water alone. There's nothing to worry about. I am going into the soap business.' He cleared his throat prodigiously but there was nothing waiting to get out.

She sat on Razia's windowsill with a big bubble of panic caught in her mouth. Slices of grey sky wedged themselves between the blocks of flats. How small they were. How mean. In Gouripur, when she looked up she saw that the sky reached to the very ends of the earth. Here she could measure it simply by spreading her fingers.

The bubble moved to her chest and lodged just beneath her collarbone. She sat very still. If she moved, the bubble might get into one of her lungs and burst it. A rhythmic knocking came from the bedroom door.

Razia lay on the floor. Her hair, filled with static from the carpet, lifted around her head like a great grey sea anemone.

Nazneen said, 'Shall I see what he wants?'

'No,' said Razia. 'Only one thing he wants.'

There were three more days to go. Three more days to take action, if any action was to be taken. Chanu had bought more suitcases. The girls and Nazneen gathered round them as at a graveside.

The knocking grew louder. It became a pounding.

Razia got up. She rubbed her arthritic knees. Approaching the door, she walked against an unseen drag, as if wading in chest-high water.

Nazneen felt the bubble expand. Her collarbone would snap. She breathed carefully.

Razia stooped and examined the iron bar across the bottom of the door. Then she checked the top bar.

Only three more days to go and then all this would pass. She felt the bubble subside a little. Having won this advantage, Nazneen pressed for more. They would get on the plane and go.

An enormous bang shook the door. Tariq must have thrown himself at it.

Now it was quiet. Perhaps he had knocked himself out.

Razia turned round and back again, like a cat about to curl up. Then she lay down on her side and closed her eyes.

And it was right to go with her husband. Chanu was the one who needed her. Children must have a father. There was no choice but to go.

'You think you're doing what's best for your children,' said Razia, still with her eyes closed. 'But you can never go back and do it a different way and see if that would have been better.'

'How long has he been in there?'

'Two days.' Razia opened her eyes. 'Look at all this space,' she said, as if she had just noticed the furniture had gone. 'It was his idea – the bars, the locking in. He said, "Even if I am calling you all the names under the sun, don't let me out until it is finished, OK-Ma?" And I promised him. Son, your OK-Ma will not let you out.'

Hasina stood by the pond and shook her hair down over her shoulders. 'Come on,' she called to Nazneen. 'Let's jump.' She didn't wait. She never waited. She ran and jumped, disappeared and resurfaced. Her hair streamed behind her, catching little gems of water and sunlight.

Three more days and she could go and find Hasina. She pressed the tips of her fingers together and brought them to her lips. Nazneen tried to conjure an image of her sister that did not belong to yesterday. She tried to see her as a woman with all the scars of her life. All she could see was a girl with pomegranate-pink lips, a face that made your breath catch, and a flick of her shoulders that said she would not wait.

'Ma! Ma!' Tariq sounded like someone who had made an exciting discovery and wished to share it.

Razia, who was scratching her thigh, stayed her hand.

'Come and talk to me, Ma. It's boring in here.'

'What is it?' said Razia, unwilling to be drawn.

'Just come near to me. I don't want to shout.'

'I can hear you very well. No need for shouting.'

Tariq was quiet.

She would not say goodbye to Karim. He was busy with the march. If she was lucky he would not come again. When he did come it would be too late. She imagined him knocking at the flat, then pounding the door, finally breaking it with his shoulder. He raged and he wept. Nazneen gave Razia a rueful little smile.

'Hey, Ma, listen. I'm feeling a lot better. Really a lot better.'

'Good,' said Razia.

'It's all down to you, Ma. I think we've done it now. I think we've cracked it.'

'Good,' said Razia.

'Honestly, honestly, honestly, I could walk out of here now and never touch the stuff again.'

'Good,' said Razia.

'Ma? Why don't you just open up the door for a minute and we'll have a nice cup of tea, you and me.'

'No,' said Razia.

'It's all right. I'll go back in my room afterwards. I don't want to take any risks.'

'I promised you,' said Razia.

'Yeah, Ma. Look, you've done really well. I couldn't have done it without you. Now just open the door.'

Razia drew her legs up so her knees touched her face. She wrapped her arms around them.

Would he find solace, thought Nazneen, with someone else? She pictured Karim falling into a girl's arms and burying his face inside her bosom. Who would it be? She tried to give the girl a face. Perhaps it would be the girl from the meeting, the one who knew everything about the thirty-five thousand children who would never have justice done in their names. She was the kind of girl that Karim
ought
to be with.