Dear Infidel (3 page)

Aadam switched off his workstation and checked the contents of his overcoat: phone, coin wallet, travelcard – he was good to go. Buttoning up, he marched swiftly towards the stairwell but, as he was about to ascend, George spotted him.

‘Aadam.’

He jolted to a halt on the first step, cursing silently.

‘Hi, George. I was just ...’

‘I know – a minute of your time, please.’

He made his way to his boss’s office, closing the door behind him.

‘It’s Eid tomorrow, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, George. That’s right.’

‘Spending the day with the family? Taking the wife out?’ He was sounding pleasant but his gaze made Aadam nervous.

‘Family tomorrow, George – I guess Nazneen and I will do something over the weekend.’

‘Good, good. Do give her my regards.’

‘I will,’ he said, trying to mask a growing unease.

‘How do you feel about working with Stanley?’

Aadam swallowed hard.

‘Fine. I reckon I can capture everything within a week and then ...’

‘He seemed hostile. You can handle him though, right?’ Again, those scrutinising eyes.

‘Sure.’

George moved towards the window and tweaked the blinds, revealing an empty pavement, a bare hedgerow and a dusk shroud.

‘Do you know how long I’ve been here?’ He paused for just a fraction before continuing. ‘Twenty–seven years. I was the first employee who hadn’t been to Oxbridge, apart from the tea lady. I’m from Hull myself, though the years down here have washed away my accent.’

Aadam made to respond but his throat caught.

‘You won’t know this, but when I was a boy, journalists interviewing politicians used to finish with something like: “
Minister, is there anything further you wish to say to a grateful nation
?” He gestured theatrically before turning to gauge the reaction. Mute and with his head down, Aadam gave few clues. George turned back to his view – nobody passed, nothing blew by – he might as well have been gazing at a still. He tweaked the blinds shut again but otherwise didn’t move.

‘These are difficult times, Aadam, especially for you – I can see that. But what the hell did you think you were doing back there?’ ‘Sorry, George – I’m not sure I ...’

‘Gawping at the bloody widescreen, Aadam. Don’t play the innocent with me.’

‘No, of course not. I was just ...’

‘
Just
nothing. You think the Iraq war has a place in this company? What if it was Terry that you’d put off instead of Stanley? You’re damn lucky he was more interested in the bloody biscuits – otherwise we’d be nearly £1m worse off right now.’

‘George, I didn’t mean ...’

‘I don’t care. This is where you work. We don’t pay you to be preoccupied with the War on Terror? Understood?’

‘Absolutely. It’ll never happen again.’

‘You’re damn right. I have my views and no doubt you have yours, but when you’re here, stay focussed. You
will
stay focussed, OK?’ He finally turned around, demanding a response.

‘Of course, George. My work’s very important to me.’

‘I know it is, son, I know it is. And despite impressions to the contrary, this is an egalitarian country – you mustn’t forget that. Don’t waste your chance. You belong here.’

Aadam remained rooted to the spot – arms straight, head still down.

‘
Eid Mubarak
, son.’ And a speechless Aadam shook George’s extended hand.

Right here, right now. This was his prize: just him and her. Meditating on the deliciousness of anticipation realised, he suddenly felt giddy. He took a step back to find the bed’s edge, but hit the cabinet instead. Disorientated, he stalled. Seconds passed and the only movement was from his heel, slowly coming to rest on the carpet – sweat denying his foot purchase. Moisture around his buttocks coalesced, forming beads of sweat that trickled downwards, tickling his clammy skin. Finding this amusing he came to, allowing him to regain control – he wanted this to last.

He remembered how long he’d waited for this, this precious time. He had the whole evening with her, and he inhaled purposefully whilst holding the thought. Convinced once more of his mettle he looked at her through fresh eyes, drinking in her languid body. She was absolute perfection: trim waist, shapely thighs and buttocks that were tight, unblemished and fleshy, though not large. Her auburn hair was straight and past the shoulders in length with a few wisps resting on her chest, contouring the rise of her breasts. And her taut skin, though flushed with excitement, hinted at a Mediterranean heritage. Perfect tones.

Slowly and deliberately he sat on the bed, his eyes moving down to her hips – slim, but naturally so. She smiled at him, such a carefree smile, and all of a sudden he felt jealous. Jealous of her toned, svelte form, convincing himself that it hadn’t been achieved but was merely a gift: a gift from the gods, from the lottery of conception. ‘
One should choose one’s parents with great care
,’ a Sri Lankan doctor had once
jovially advised him. It was a cute line and it had stuck in his mind, but he didn’t appreciate it at the time.

He snapped back, noticing his shallow breath, the product of wan thoughts. Inhaling deeply with intention his discipline again floundered, getting lost in harmonic motion, the gentle swaying of her hips. She was teasing him, looking him in the eyes and grinning as she moved in time to some music in the background, fingering the lace of her knickers. He gave up his battle with himself. He slumped back against the headboard, his body arched – one leg on the bed, the other dangling. He closed his eyes and felt semen working its way out – it was a pleasant sensation. There was a knock on the door and she was startled out of her idle play in front of the mirror. Jolted back into reality, she forgot her robe as she cantered to the door, which made the strapping plumber on the other side grin.

He shut his burning eyes and cursed. Pornography had come a long way in recent years, yet he had been flogged some rubbish from ten-odd years ago. He couldn’t even get buying porn right. The film continued playing and the guttural exchanges in German between Bored Housewife and Plumber just cranked up his frustration.

‘What you looking for?’ the wide-boy pirate had asked him over the phone. Imtiaz was in the mood for a treat – no squinting at a low-quality stream on his laptop tonight; only a DVD would do.

‘Oh, something modern, and American or British. No foreign stuff.’
This is a clinical, discreet business transaction
, he’d assured himself, and there was no need to become nervous –
just state what you want
.

‘I’ll be round in forty minutes,’ assured wide-boy, and for the next seventy he paced his small flat, getting excited: a whole evening alone – him, a couple of drinks and some porn. He wandered from room to room, working himself into a state. Scenes from past movies flooded his mind and he began rubbing his penis from the pocket of his trousers. A steady trickle of pre-cum had begun leaking out and his pants were already damp.

‘Proper stuff, this,’ wide-boy declared confidently on arriving.

‘Great, thanks,’ muttered Imtiaz, and he handed over some notes before shutting and locking the door. He sprinted round to his bedroom and tore the DVD out of its plastic case. His mouth was parched but he dropped the thought, focusing solely on inserting the disc. Once in, (and it had taken a few seconds to steady his hand), it began playing ...
And there she is, alone. Bored. Considering herself in front of a mirror. There’s some music in the background – anodyne, contrived – and her slim hips sashay in time. She undoes a clip and releases wave upon wave of auburn hair, flowing, undulating in slow motion. Adjusting her garter belt she puckers suggestively, mocking her absent lover.

Imtiaz was under a spell. Outside of space and time there was no distraction
–
just a focal point, a flickering flame on which to meditate. But then a
ding-dong
and the illusion was shattered – for him and for her – and she cantered to the door, forgetting to put her robe back on.

* * *

Ripped out of the moment, the weight of disappointment pinned him to the spot.
Water,
he eventually thought.
I need some water.
But for the moments it took to fill a glass his mind became a canvas; a smorgasbord of pornographic imagery. Standing at the sink he closed his eyes and saw nothing but flesh: pink flesh, splayed flesh, sweat, movement, rhythm, sighs and screams. His mind was saturated, scrambled, and he had to hold on to the edge for support whilst drinking.

Sounds from the running film interrupted his reverie, and as he walked back he glimpsed how this would make him feel. He’d pay back for this, and with interest. Mentally he’d be low, physically he’d feel sluggish, and this would last for days. The price was high, too high – all this had long stopped being a simple pleasure. And besides, Bored Housewives and Plumbers?
Oh purleese
... Even he had more refined tastes. But then he was drowned out. First a whimper – speculative, contained, but then a howl – a low, prolonged shiver of animal satisfaction; a bolt of pain, washed away by pleasure.
No,
he ordered himself,
turn around, walk away. You can do this
. But inevitably ...

Imtiaz stood still, watching his TV screen with childlike wonder. She was perched on top of the washing machine, heels supported by corners. The plumber was bent down in front, pleasuring her with his tongue. Imtiaz’s eyes bore into her, burning their way through. A feverish sweat precipitated on his brow, with every pore of his body open, begging to absorb – be absorbed – to dive into his TV. But still he hesitated, and dreamed – of walks in the park, hand-in-hand on a sunny day. Happiness ... It was still possible.
Was it still possible?
And of course tomorrow was Eid-al-Fitr, the festive day celebrating
the end of Ramazan, and he was going to his mother’s for the feast. Everyone would be there. So many people and it just got harder and harder – he had nothing to say. The thought made him shudder, but that was tomorrow – another day. And, as inevitable as it was, this was now, and there was no force strong enough to prevent him from indulging.

Imtiaz gazed at the Event Horizon. In front of him, nirvana: suspension of sorrow, extinction of self, immersion in bliss. And behind? A sad, lonely and simple man, with nothing to look forward to and no answers left. But still he hesitated, still he dreamed –
Switch it off. Change your life
... But just then the plumber entered her – slowly, cautiously, measure-by-measure. She buckled, bringing herself a little closer and opening herself up wider to ease his passage. Imtiaz was powerless and conceded defeat.
The more I sink into fantasy, the further I get from reality
.

Salman was sitting alone in the
masjid’s
main hall, enjoying the peace and quiet. Most of the congregation had now left to start their own celebrations, as would he eventually, but not for a while. His wife, his two kids, his parents – they’d all be expecting him home soon enough, but he could buy himself a little time. Well, either way, he was going to indulge.

He’d been hoping for a quiet Eid, just the immediate family, but then the whole thing had snowballed. First his brother Aadam had invited himself along, which he was OK with, but then his mother had gone and ruined the whole day.

‘We’re going to Arwa
Masi’s
for Eid,’ she’d declared nonchalantly a few days back. ‘Pasha and Imtiaz are going to be there.’ His heart had sunk. He’d protested but the damage had been done – there was no getting out of it. He liked his Aunty, his Arwa
Masi
, but her husband was a fool. And as for her sons, well ...

He and Pasha were once close, but the words of a wise man offered consolation: ‘
He who accords his wisdom to overcome his voraciousness is more elevated than the angels, and he who accords his voraciousness to overcome his wisdom, is lower than the animals
.’ He felt vindicated. But he still couldn’t stem the bitter memories from surfacing. Him and Pasha. School days. Their so-called happy days.

Sunday, Monday ...

trying the latest moves with two left feet.

Tuesday, Wednesday ...

stepping up and stepping out. Hanging loose, looking bored and being ...
COOOL
...

Thursday, Friday ...

snub what you like and love what you hate. Staying out till 3am, drinking Plonk de Plonk.

Saturday ...

beers, birds and baltis. Lager, chicks, kebabs. Meat markets and cows. It was non-stop action with zero-participation. Salman was the Boy in the Bubble.

It was the best thing he did to break from that life. Leave the British to drown in their own swill. Salman felt privileged – saved. Unlike Pasha, still lost somewhere in that Saturday night, the bloody coconut. Brown on the outside and white on the inside. There really was nothing worse.

It was 5.51 am and Pasha was already awake. Even though the day due to break was a weekday, he wasn’t going to the office. Not today. He knew this last night when he’d left his alarm off, but nevertheless here he lay, wide-awake, minutes from when it would ordinarily have rung. Damn his internal clock – he didn’t know how to switch that one off. He’d always operated with Teutonic efficiency, which of course was a very British quality (if you follow). Thinking, though, about how his minions would fare in his absence, he wondered if that still applied to this generation. He mused on the point, letting his mind drift.
These people’s great-great-grandparents built an empire
. They were once a disciplined people, the British. And now? Pasha concluded that it was a great time to be him; a great time to be alive. Such smug satisfaction ... Ibrahim Pasha Walayat – Pasha to his friends, Pasha to everyone. He’d always preferred his lush, Turkic, middle name, to his Arabic first name. No-one ever called him Ibrahim, except his mother.

Birds chirping outside distracted him and he turned to see how far into the dawn chorus they’d reached. The drawn curtains were opulent and thickly-set, but had the sun already risen there would have been light leaking in – and yet he lay in total darkness. There was still time. If he got out of bed now he could say his prayers on this auspicious day, this Eid morning, before the day broke – just as it was meant to be. He remained unmoved, though. At a practical level he wasn’t even sure he could remember the recitations. And before starting he’d have to bathe, perform ablutions to cleanse the stains from his decadent life. This really was an increasingly difficult sell. Stretching under the
warm duvet, tilting from the recovery position to lie virtually flat on his front, he settled on enjoying the morning in bed. His penis, trapped between himself and the mattress, burgeoned into an erection. He could have really done with his girlfriend right now. She wasn’t by his side, though; not this morning. His lifestyle and the day to come were just too jarring. Feeling so healthy, however; so full-of-blood, he now regretted asking her to leave. He had an animal’s urge to nuzzle up to her, to sink into her. He cursed his bad decision but was quickly consoling himself – her riches would be his again, and soon. He ran by the idea: sex as a prize, his prize for enduring Eid. Sold.