Dear Infidel (8 page)

Sitting back on his heels his eyes swept across the rug, one of the set of mats that Imtiaz had bought him as a housewarming present. Functional but soulless, the rugs and his brother, he concluded neatly. Contempt was frothing in his stomach. Whilst the pile was still long, it had now lost its lift, its previous restitution, and it looked lank and lifeless. His face stayed spoilt as he considered the imminent prospect of his brother’s company. What a dullard. And then there was Salman.
Fucking hell
. His innate effervescence, his once indefatigable
joie de vivre
, was dampening fast. It had become more vulnerable these days.
A sign of age
, he conceded, trying not to dwell on his fast approaching thirty–ninth birthday.

Predictably enough he soon found the top and he screwed it back on, without dispensing any of the Cool Water inside. This was expensive, quality stuff – to be applied only when in company. Female company. He felt sexy when he put this on, or rather it confirmed to him that he was sexy – big difference. Either way today was not such a day, and he reluctantly put it back, holding onto the bottle a moment longer than necessary. He needed to reassure himself, and the Cool Water, that normal service would be resumed soon.

Returning from Eid morning prayers, Aadam pulled up outside his house. Sighing deeply he decided to be gentle with himself – the day may indeed have just begun but the month gone by had been long. He was exhausted, but his fatigue ran deeper than the physical.

Outside an ill wind blew hollow, hitting discordant notes. Leaves rustled and tin cans rattled, protesting their violent displacement. Aadam adjusted the mirror ... His face bore a sobriety unbecoming of his thirty-two years. He rubbed his jaw line, trying to stimulate his pallid skin, but gave up: a massage was not the answer. Work, friends, London life – none of it really captured him any more. He’d drifted from a lot of people and others had drifted from him. He didn’t like it, but anyway, Nazneen was it – his one silver lining.

He remembered when he first laid eyes on her – in a gym of all places – with her cranking up the pace on a treadmill. Her hair had been tied back in a simple ponytail, bobbing up and down, up and down, up and down ... And her skin shimmered with the hollow of her neck – a teardrop; hues dancing like sunshine on olive oil. He recalled sitting down on a nearby workbench, hunger tugging at his soul, and thanking the Lord for the miracle of lycra.

But that was yesteryear. He still loved her, of course, beyond question, but he felt like he was at war – in a state of standing revolution. He wanted to leave the country but his ideas were vague: difficult to share, reluctant to communicate. And besides, he was the man – this was his burden.

He turned towards his modest home. What had been a generously-sized four-bedroom, post-war, detached property had been converted into two less-than-generous flats. It was cramped and a bit rough round the edges, but it was theirs. He checked his watch. The day was still young; they could have a good couple of hours alone together, before they’d have to leave for Arwa Aunty’s. It was time to have his furrowed brow smoothed out.

He walked delicately towards the front door, hoping that Nazneen hadn’t spotted the car from their bedroom window. Inserting the key slowly, he measured its progress click-by-click, until fully in. Again there was precision in how he turned it, and he negotiated the resistance to minimise noise. Aadam pushed and the light door swung silently. He heard the muffled, tinny noise of the radio coming from the kitchen – the sound of home. Picking up some letters, he began climbing the stairs, distributing his weight so as to avoid creaking.
Which room was she in?
He could still hear the radio, so bereft of any other clues he headed for the kitchen.

She stood with her back to him. Jagjit Singh was singing, crying Ghalib’s poetry, and Nazneen was evidently lost in the lament. Picture perfect. Wearing an old short-sleeved
shalwar kameez
, her pale wheaten arms shimmered under winter sunlight, streaming in through the window. He gently placed his belongings by the foot of the door and moved swiftly. Once upon her he pressed right up from behind, sweeping arms across her waist and torso. Tea spilt as she knocked a mug, buckling under the force.

‘Hello beautiful,’ whispered a voice by her ear. She inhaled greedily and twisted round.

‘Aadam, don’t ever do that again!’ She half-screamed, half-coughed her protest and attempted a slap, but was encased in his embrace. His face was now buried in her neck, lips running against soft skin, his nose inhaling a delicate scent.

‘Aadam, you really ... Don’t do it again – it wasn’t funny.’

He pulled away slightly, his arms still embracing her. Cupping her face, he kissed her on the third eye, his lips lingering. He gazed down, drinking in her royal features.

‘Hello, beautiful,’ he sighed again, wearing an almost pained expression. With eyes closed, his focus shifted: the feel of her breasts, the vibrations of her beating heart. His greedy hands swept over her, up to her warm, sticky-soft neck, touching, smearing lips, and then
plummeting down, down to find the rise of her smooth curve. Nazneen made to protest but she was now giggling, declaring too easily that her resistance was fake. Easy prey. With her back to him, he squeezed with some force, nuzzling against her, working into her crevice. His hands dived underneath her tunic, negotiating their way around her layers. Done. Skin on skin. And then the doorbell rang.

‘Leave it,’ Nazneen immediately ordered, but an invisible cord had been snapped. The bell was no gentle
ding-dong
; no
excuse me
, but a heavy, monotonous drill. Forget simply hearing it; they actually felt it from where they stood.
But what should I do? Who can it be?
The postman? If so, the package could be important; work-related. Someone else? His brother? Had there had been a problem? He resisted the temptation until the bell rang a second time. Muttering something, he let go and hastily made his way out, deliberately avoiding the eye contact Nazneen was trying to make.

‘
Eid Mubarak, Bhai!
’ said Kishore on the doorstep, doing his best to sound full of festive cheer. Aadam looked his friend up and down, a big grin jarring with his appearance. This he wasn’t expecting. Sensing his friend’s alarm, Kishore began explaining, whilst Aadam bent down to play with Bina, Kishore’s little girl. ‘Kirti’s away on a week-long conference so I decided to go out on the lash.’

‘On a Monday frigging night? Bloody hell, Kishu, couldn’t you at least wait until midweek? And anyway, what about this little one?’ He spoke whilst unzipping the waterproof covering of the buggy.

‘She’s staying at her granny’s so I decided to take advantage. I never bloody learn. I’m getting too old for this. I felt so rough this morning I phoned in sick. I was just moping around so I decided to go for a walk, help clear my head.’

‘And then you picked up Bina from her
nani-ma’s
’?

‘Yeah, I needed quality time with my daughter. I work like a dog.’

‘And pushing her around on a November morning whilst you nurse a hangover, counts as quality time?’

Kishore flinched.

‘Look, I just needed to see my daughter, OK? I don’t claim to be perfect.’ He paused for a moment and looked genuinely vulnerable. ‘Kirti’s mum lives two streets away. It’s sometimes a good thing but...’

‘But mostly a bad thing. I know,
Bhai
, I know the score.’ Aadam swept Bina up in his arms, having finally dealt with every zip, fastener and buckle. ‘You been looking after Daddy, then?’ he enquired of the
little one, tickling her on the tummy. Bina beamed and nodded exaggeratedly, glowing at being made to feel so important.

‘Anyway, let’s not chat on the porch. It’s freezing out here.’ And, rubbing his hands, he moved to step into the flat.

‘Whoa, one second Kishu. We’re going to an Eid function shortly. You’ve picked a really bad day to turn up unannounced.’

‘Come on, Aadam. Are you going right now? You don’t look dressed. Just half an hour. I just want to get out of this cold, have a cup of
chai
. I’ve even brought the
chappu,
’ he added, producing the day’s newspaper from a pouch on the buggy. It was crisp and clearly unread. He must have bought it with this visit in mind. Aadam’s will was relenting. ‘What do you say,
Bhai
? Do you have any
chai masala
?’ And he smiled a smile that said
help me out. I’m but a poor boy from a poor family,
which was untrue on both counts. Aadam held Kishore’s gaze warmly, sharing an unspoken moment with his Hindu friend. Kishore completed that step.

Nazneen
, thought Aadam. He hastened his climb, hoping to inform her before Kishore came into view. He entered the kitchen carrying Bina. Nazneen blinked hard, trying to control her reaction.

‘Look who’s here, darling. Kishore and Bina have popped by.’ Aadam spoke louder than necessary and with an intonation more appropriate when talking to a child. She got up and tickled Bina on the calf before turning towards Kishore.

‘Hi, Nazneen,’ he said. ‘Oh, and
Eid Mubarak
.’

‘Thank you, Kishore.’ She nodded stiffly before turning to Aadam, straining to maintain composure. ‘Darling, we haven’t got time for this. We’ve got to leave for your Aunty’s soon.’

‘I know that my dear, but I thought Kishore could stay a while – just half an hour. We’ll go soon.’

Nazneen condemned him in silence, her eyes sparing him no mercy.

‘I’m off out,’ she offered simply. ‘Your tea is cold.’

‘Does it have
masala
in it?’ asked Kishore.

‘No.’

Aadam stood still and listened to her walk into the bedroom. There was silence before she came back out and cantered down the stairs. The front door shut with a bang.

Imtiaz woke abruptly. He’d been sleeping on his back and he rotated to face the clock radio – 1.36 am declared the luminous green dial, staring back impassively. His nose was blocked, his mouth bone dry. The pillow under his cheek felt cold, though instead it was damp; saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth. He felt so drained. The radio had been on all night but it wasn’t the broadcaster that had woken him, but the fireworks. Fireworks? Of course: Eid. Dragging himself out of bed, he put his glasses on and shuffled to the window but his vantage point was not ideal. A thin fog hung in the air, but from his first floor flat it was irrelevant – he simply wasn’t high up enough. He couldn’t see anything but each rocket’s last moments of life.

He lived in Watford, in a block of flats that backed onto the high street, but he couldn’t see the life outside from where he was. A row of purposely-laid conifers separated the shops, pubs and restaurants from his residential complex, and he was just below their tops. He liked those trees. Tall, evergreen and dense of shrub, they did a surprisingly good job of blocking the sights, smells and sounds emanating from the world outside, providing an almost hermetic seal. It wasn’t impenetrable, however, and on a Saturday night he could often hear the
boom-boom
being pumped out from Destiny’s nightclub, just a short walk away. But this was early Tuesday morning and Watford’s youth still had days of sobriety to endure, before
kismet
would once again come calling.

On this night it was the fireworks from the park nearby that had woken him, and he wondered how – from where he stood this was no
extravagant display. In fact, “sparse” was the defining adjective. Rather than a festival of lights and sound being sprayed into the night sky, he’d seen four modest affairs in the last three minutes. It was as if each rocket was being launched with all the care, forethought and hesitancy of a homing pigeon. And they were clearly not expensive: instead of their last moments being an orgy of colour and noise, each whimpered along its final arc apologetically, before expiring. He really was staggered that this had woken him and made a mental note to buy some more Night Nurse; only alcohol and paracetamol would guarantee a deep sleep these days.

He remembered Eid from his childhood, recalling the almost surreal pleasure of that day. Couples – even jaded parents – had love in their eyes, and children were fussed over and made to feel so special. Imtiaz began drawing mental pictures: he could see little faces wrapped up against the cold, and sparkling eyes peeking out from under coat hoods. The sense in which a child became everyone’s child, society’s child, was a beautiful aspect of traditional culture and he took a surprising amount of comfort from acknowledging the fact. All on his own, though, the irony of his take on tradition soon made him uncomfortable; he couldn’t even indulge in romanticising.

It had started to rain, no – spit gently – and he watched nascent droplets pitter-patter down, illuminated by the lamps accompanying every second tree along the boundary. The lamps straddled the entire perimeter, providing light where needed most along the parking bays. He felt tired and considered ending his window-side vigil, but he also knew he couldn’t sleep without drinking something. A trip to the kitchen would be needed but right now that seemed too far. What to do? He felt sedated, numbed or, more accurately, lobotomised; he couldn’t reach a decision. He eventually concluded he was comfortable enough, and so inertia settled the dilemma.

A heavy, low creaking noise came from outside, as the gates providing vehicular access slowly opened. A car waited for what seemed like an age before idling through and swinging into a bay directly under Imtiaz’s gaze. Glad for the distraction and safe from being spotted, he followed the car as it ground to a halt, the gravel crunching satisfyingly under wheels. The whirr of the engine died along with the headlights and moments later his neighbour got out, exaggerating a shiver. Rubbing his hands, he jogged round to help his wife, emerging laden with bags. Imtiaz looked on in respectful silence
as the man adjusted the scarf around his wife’s neck. He was saying something, and although Imtiaz couldn’t catch the exact words, his tone was encouraging and he wore a warm smile.