White Teeth

owner and caff customer – you tell Samad he has two options. He can either send them back to the old country, back to India-’

‘Bangladesh,’ corrected Archie, nicking a chip from Samad’s meal.

‘Whereverthefuckitis. He can send ’em back there and have ’em brought up proper, by their granddads and grandmums, have ’em learn about their fucking culture, have ’em grow up with some fucking principles. Or – one minute – CHIPS, BEANS, PATTIE AND MUSHROOMS! FOR TWO!’

Denzel and Clarence ever so slowly sidled up to the hot plates.

‘Dat pattie look strange,’ said Clarence.

‘ ’Im try to poison us,’ said Denzel.

‘Dem mushroom look peculiar,’ said Clarence.

‘ ’Im try to infiltrate a good man with de devil’s food,’ said Denzel.

Mickey slapped his egg slice down on Denzel’s fingers, ‘Oi. Morecambe and fucking Wise. Get a new fucking routine, all right?’

‘Or what?’ persisted Archie.

‘ ’Im tryin’ to kill an ’ol man. An ’ol, weak man,’ muttered Denzel, as the two of them shuffled back to their seats.

‘Fucking ’ell, those two. They’re only alive ’cos they’re too stingy to pay for the fucking cremation.’

‘Or what?’

‘What?’

‘What’s the second option?’

‘Oh, yeah. Well, second option’s obvious, innit?’

‘Is it?’

‘Accept it. He’ll have to accept it, won’t he. We’re all English now, mate. Like it or lump it, as the rhubarb said to the custard. And that’ll be two fifty, Archibald, my good man. The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over.’

The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers ended ten years ago. For ten years Mickey had been saying, ‘The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over.’And that’s what Archie loved about O’Connell’s. Everything was remembered, nothing was lost. History was never revised or reinterpreted, adapted or whitewashed. It was as solid and as simple as the encrusted egg on the clock.

When Archie returned to table eight, Samad was like Jeeves: if not exactly disgruntled, then some way from being gruntled.

‘Archibald, did you take a wrong turn at the Ganges? Weren’t you listening to my dilemma? I am corrupt, my sons are becoming corrupt, we are all soon to burn in the fires of hell. These are problems of some urgency, Archibald.’

Archie smiled serenely and stole another chip. ‘Problem solved, Samad, mate.’

‘Problem solved?’

‘Problem solved. Now, the way I see it, you have two options…’

Around the beginning of this century, the Queen of Thailand was aboard a boat, floating along with her many courtiers, manservants, maids, feet-bathers and food tasters, when suddenly the stern hit a wave and the Queen was thrown overboard into the turquoise waters of the Nippon-Kai where, despite her pleas for help, she drowned, for not one person on that boat went to her aid. Mysterious to the outside world, to the Thai the explanation was immediately clear: tradition demanded, as it does to this day, that no man or woman may touch the Queen.

If religion is the opium of the people, tradition is an even more sinister analgesic, simply because it rarely appears sinister. If religion is a tight band, a throbbing vein and a needle, tradition is a far homelier concoction: poppy seeds ground into tea; a sweet cocoa drink laced with cocaine; the kind of thing your grandmother might have made. To Samad, as to the people of Thailand, tradition was culture, and culture led to roots, and these were good, these were untainted principles. That didn’t mean he could live by them, abide by them or grow in the manner they demanded, but roots were roots and roots were good. You would get nowhere telling him that weeds too have tubers, or that the first sign of loose teeth is something rotten, something degenerate, deep within the gums. Roots were what saved, the ropes one throws out to rescue drowning men, to Save Their Souls. And the further Samad himself floated out to sea, pulled down to the depths by a siren named Poppy Burt-Jones, the more determined he became to create for his boys roots on shore, deep roots that no storm or gale could displace. Easier said than done. He was in Poppy’s poky little flat, going through his own household accounts, when it became obvious to him that he had more sons than money. If he was to send them back, he would need two dowries for the grandparents, two amounts for the schooling, two amounts for the clothes. As it was he could barely cover both air fares. Poppy had said: ‘What about your wife? She’s from a rich family isn’t she?’ But Samad had not yet revealed his plan to Alsana. He had only tested the water, mentioning it in a passing, hypothetical way to Clara while she did her gardening. How would she react if someone, acting in Irie’s best interest, took the child away to a better life? Clara rose from her flower bed and stared at him in silent concern, and then laughed long and loud. The man who did that, she said finally, brandishing a large pair of garden shears inches from his crotch, chop, chop. Chop, chop, thought Samad; and it became clear to him what he was going to do.

‘One of them?’

O’Connell’s again. 6.25. One chips, beans, egg and mushroom. And one omelette and mushrooms with peas (seasonal variation).

‘Just one of them?’

‘Archibald, please keep your voice down.’

‘But – just one of them?’

‘That is what I said. Chop, chop.’ He divided the fried egg on his plate down the middle. ‘There is no other way.’

‘But-’

Archie was thinking again, as best he could. The same old stuff. You know, why couldn’t people just get on with things, just live together, you know, in peace or harmony or something. But he didn’t say any of that. He just said, ‘But – ’ And then, ‘But-’

And then finally, ‘But which one?’

And that (if you’re counting air fare, dowry, initial schooling fee) was the three thousand, two hundred and forty-five quid question. Once the money was sorted – yes, he remortgaged the house, he risked his land, the greatest mistake an immigrant can make – it was simply a matter of choosing the child. For the first week it was going to be Magid, definitely Magid. Magid had the brains, Magid would settle down quicker, learn the language quicker, and Archie had a vested interest in keeping Millat in the country because he was the best striker Willesden Athletic FC (under fifteens) had seen in decades. So Samad began stealing Magid’s clothes away for surreptitious packing, arranged a separate passport (he would be travelling with auntie Zinat on 4 November) and had a word in the ear of the school (long holiday, could he be given some homework to take with him, etc.).

But then the next week there was a change of heart and it was Millat, because Magid was really Samad’s favourite, and he wanted to watch him grow older, and Millat was the one more in need of moral direction anyway. So his clothes were pilfered, his passport arranged, his name whispered into the right ears.

The following week it was Magid until Wednesday and then Millat because Archie’s old penpal Horst Ibelgaufts wrote the following letter, which Archie, familiar now with the strangely prophetic nature of Horst’s correspondence, brought to Samad’s attention:

15 September 1984

Dearest Archibald,