Authors: Monica Ali
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.