‘You say he loves me,’ the boy said.
‘Yes!’ said Bettina.
‘Then why is he letting a woman like you touch him like that?’
If Bettina looked at the boy in anger, he looked back at her with twice as much cold fury.
She said, ‘What kind of woman am I that deserves to be spoken to like that?’
‘You know,’ he said. ‘Now let me out.’
‘Never,’ Parvez replied.
‘Don’t worry, I’m getting out,’ Bettina said.
‘No, don’t!’ said Parvez. But even as the car moved she opened the door, threw herself out and ran away across the road. Parvez shouted after her several times, but she had gone.
Parvez took Ali back to the house, saying nothing more to him. Ali went straight to his room. Parvez was unable to read the paper, watch television or even sit down. He kept pouring himself drinks.
At last he went upstairs and paced up and down outside Ali’s room. When, finally, he opened the door, Ali was praying. The boy didn’t even glance his way.
Parvez kicked him over. Then he dragged the boy up by his shirt and hit him. The boy fell back. Parvez hit him again. The boy’s face was bloody. Parvez was panting. He knew that the boy was unreachable, but he struck him nonetheless. The boy neither covered himself nor retaliated; there was no fear in his eyes. He only said, through his split lip: ‘So who’s the fanatic now?’
The Tale of the Turd
I’m at this dinner. She’s eighteen. After knowing her six months I’ve been invited to meet her parents. I am, to my surprise, forty-four, same age as her dad, a professor — a man of some achievement, but not that much. He is looking at me or, as I imagine, looking me over. The girl-woman will always be his daughter, but for now she is my lover.
Her two younger sisters are at the table, also beautiful, but with a tendency to giggle, particularly when facing in my direction. The mother, a teacher, is putting a soft pink trout on the table. I think, for once, yes, this is the life, what they call a happy family, they’ve asked to meet me, why not settle down and enjoy it?
But what happens, the moment I’m comfortable I’ve got to have a crap. In all things I’m irregular. It’s been two days now and not a dry pellet. And the moment I sit down in my better clothes with the family I’ve got to go.
These are good people but they’re a little severe. I am accompanied by disadvantages — my age, no job, never had one, and my … tendencies. I like to say, though I won’t tonight — unless things get out of hand — that my profession is failure. After years of practice, I’m quite a success at it.
On the way here I stopped off for a couple of drinks, otherwise I’d never have come through the door, and now I’m sipping wine and discussing the latest films not too facetiously and my hands aren’t shaking and my little girl is down the table smiling at me warm and encouraging. Everything is normal, you see, except for this gut ache, which is getting worse, you know how it is when you’ve got to go. But I won’t get upset, I’ll have a crap, feel better and then eat.
I ask one of the sisters where the bathroom is and kindly she points at a door. It must be the nearest, thank Christ, and I get across the room stooping a little but no way the family’s gonna see me as a hunchback.
I sit down concerned they’re gonna hear every splash but it’s too late: the knotty little head is already pushing out, a flower coming through the earth, but thick and long and I’m not even straining, I can feel its soft motion through my gut, in one piece. It’s been awaiting its moment the way things do, like love. I close my eyes and appreciate the relief as the corpse of days past slides into its watery grave.
When I’m finished I can’t resist glancing down — even the Queen does this — and the turd is complete, wide as an aubergine and purplish too. It’s flecked with carrot, I notice, taking a closer look, but, ah, probably that’s tomato, I remember now, practically the only thing I’ve eaten in twenty-four hours.
I flush the toilet and check my look. Tired and greying I am now, with a cut above my eye and a bruise on my cheek, but I’ve shaved and feel as okay as I ever will, still with the boyish smile that says I can’t harm you. And waiting is the girl who loves me, the last of many, I hope, who sends me vibrations of confidence.
My hand is on the door when I glance down and see the prow of the turd turning the bend. Oh no, it’s floating in the pan again and I’m bending over for a better look. It’s one of the biggest turds I’ve ever seen. The flushing downpour has rinsed it and there is no doubt that as turds go it is exquisite, flecked and inlaid like a mosaic depicting, perhaps, a historical scene. I can make out large figures going at one another in argument. The faces I’m sure I’ve seen before. I can see some words but I haven’t got my glasses to hand.
I could have photographed the turd, had I brought a camera, had I ever owned one. But now I can’t hang around, the trout must be cooling and they’re too polite to start eating without me. The problem is, the turd is bobbing.
I’m waiting for the cistern to refill and every drip is an eternity, I can feel the moments stretching out, and outside I can hear the murmuring voices of my love’s family but I can’t leave that submarine there for the mother to go in and see it wobbling about. She knows I’ve been in the clinic and can see I’m drinking again; I’ve been watching my consumption, as they say, but I can’t stop and she’s gonna take her daughter to one side and …
I’ve been injecting my little girl. ‘What a lovely way to take drugs,’ she says sweetly. She wants to try everything. I don’t argue with that and I won’t patronise her. Anyhow, she’s a determined little blonde thing, and for her friends it’s fashionably exciting. I can tell she’s made up her mind to become an addict.
It took me days to hunt out the best stuff for her, pharmaceutical. It’s been five years for me, but I took it with her to ensure she didn’t make a mistake. Except an ex-boyfriend caught up with us, took me into a doorway and split my face for corrupting her. Yet she skips school to be with me and we take in Kensington Market and Chelsea. I explain their history of fashion and music. The records I tell her to listen to, the books I hold out, the bands I’ve played with, the creative people I tell her of, the deep talks we have, are worth as much as anything she hears at school, I know that.
At last I flush it again.
Girls like her … it is easy to speak of exploitation, and people do. But it is time and encouragement I give them. I know from experience, oh yes, how critical and diminishing parents can be, and I say try, I say yes, attempt anything. And I, in my turn, am someone for them to care for. It breaks my heart but I’ve got, maybe, two years with her before she sees I can’t be helped and she will pass beyond me into attractive worlds I cannot enter.
I pray only that she isn’t pulling up her sleeve and stroking her tracks, imagining her friends being impressed by those mascots, the self-inflicted scars of experience; those girls are dedicated to the truth, and like to show their parents how defiant they can be.
I’m reaching for the door, the water is clear and I imagine the turd swimming towards Ramsgate. But no, no, no, don’t look down, what’s that, the brown bomber must have an aversion to the open sea. The monstrous turd is going nowhere and nor am I while it remains an eternal recurrence. I flush it again and wait but it won’t leave its port and what am I going to do, this must be an existential moment and all my days have converged here. I’m trembling and running with sweat but not yet lost.