Philip Hensher - The Emperor Waltz

‘Skeen. And we’re like wagwarn, having to eat all that food and make out you’re liking it, like,’ Nathan said.

‘Leastways,’ Nick said, ‘leastways we don’t have to be eating that food and shit. That looked rank, man.’

‘Don’t laugh at the food, man,’ Nathan said. ‘She said she was bringing us up some food in ten and it ain’t gonna be Claridges.’

‘Oh, man,’ Nick said. ‘I’m glad you bring that bottle of poppers, bro.’

The first speaker was a boy of thirteen, with dark blond hair in curls and thick, adult eyebrows. The second was his identical twin. Both of them had newly deep, grating voices; their faces had grown in large, unexpected directions recently, giving them big noses and angular Adam’s apples. They talked at each other, not looking into each other’s faces, rapidly and with London accents. The room they were in was a large study, with a picnic table set up in the middle with a cloth cast over it. The leather-topped desk had four drawers on either side, and a long drawer under the green leather surface, topped with gold inlay. One drawer to the left was locked, as was the long drawer. The others were all open, but contained nothing interesting: plastic pens, papers of no interest, a ball of string. On the desk sat a small hi-fi system; on it, a man was speaking over the sound of strings playing slowly.

Nick sat in the executive chair at the desk; from time to time he swivelled violently. His twin lay at full length on the green leather sofa to the side of the room, kicking at the underneath of the suspended bookshelves above him, which contained nothing but two dozen boring-sounding books about law.

‘I ain’t eating what they’re eating,’ Nick said.

‘That’s right,’ Nathan said. ‘I’m going to sniff poppers all night, I’m going to get so high, and I ain’t eating that food they’re eating. Did you see that shit?’

‘Who’s coming, apart from us?’ Nick said.

‘There’s that sket whose husband left her,’ Nathan said. ‘She’s got a kid who’s coming.’

‘Who the fuck’s that?’ Nick said.

‘I don’t fucking know,’ Nathan said. ‘She’s that sket with the fat arse down the street.’

‘That why her husband left her?’ Nick said. ‘’Cause her husband’s left her, is it? Was it ’cause she’s so fucking fat, he couldn’t stand it?’

‘Yeah, fat but no tits,’ Nathan said. ‘That’s bad luck in life, man, that’s bad luck. You’re a sket who’s fat, but you’ve got no tits.’

‘Not like Andrew Barley, then,’ Nick said. They convulsed at the thought of Andrew Barley, a boy in their class who was last to be chosen, whom they’d beaten with a torn-off branch from one side of the playground to the other, who’d produced a note from his mum saying that he might be late for chemistry because it was on the other side of school and he couldn’t run because of his weight – it had actually said that, because of his weight. ‘Andrew Barley and his gigantic tits.’

‘Yeah, she’s like that,’ Nick said. ‘She’s coming because they feel sorry for her, is it? And her little boy, we’ve to be looking after him and he’s going to be sent up here.’

‘I look forward to that,’ Nathan said, using a sarcastic phrase they’d heard, with admiration, from Mr Andropoulos next door whenever he’d been told about something really boring or unpleasant about to happen, like the Notting Hill Carnival and Mrs Barley promising to make him her Facebook friend and his garden being bought up to make room for Crossrail and shit.

‘Yeah, I look forward to that too, all right,’ Nick said. ‘And their daughter’s coming in here in a bit, Mrs Khan said. She said she was coming back from something, from orchestra or something, and she’d come and sit with us and have dinner and play cards and that.’

‘Fuck me, Anita Khan,’ Nathan said. ‘I’d forgotten about Anita fucking Khan. She’s fucking mental.’

‘She jezzy,’ Nick said. ‘She’s never gone to orchestra with her flute – she’s out being fucked by the gangsters all the afternoon. She’s just told her dad she’s gone to orchestra.’

‘Poor old Mr Khan,’ Nathan said. ‘She’s piff, but I wouldn’t fuck her. She takes after her mother in that.’

‘Shut your mouth, wallad, she mother coming,’ Nathan said.

There was a noise on the stairs that Nathan had heard, a creak and a clink of glasses. The twins made huge eyes at each other; Nick dug his heels into the carpet to stop his chair and Nathan sat up on the sofa, pulling the bottom of his jeans down. The door to the study opened, and Mrs Khan came in, pushing it backwards and carrying a tray. Behind her came a much smaller woman, carrying another tray. Nick leapt up and held the door open – ‘Oh, thank you so much, you are kind,’ Mrs Khan said. Bina, the housekeeper, set her tray down and left. Mrs Khan set her tray down, also on the desk, but stayed. She was a thin woman with a streak of white in her black hair; her dress was a mauve raw silk with an octagonal neckline showing a slightly wrinkled bosom. She was a sex-bomb, the twins had heard their father say, in a jocular manner, and their mother respond that she was a very good sort all round. Which she was, they hadn’t decided on just yet. She was sket, but the twins described every woman they knew as sket.

‘Hello, boys,’ Mrs Khan said.

‘Hello, Mrs Khan,’ Nathan said, and Nick echoed him.

‘Is Anita not in here yet?’ Mrs Khan said, setting the tray down on the desk. ‘I’m sorry to be leaving you without anything or anyone to entertain you, boys.’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Khan,’ Nick said. ‘You don’t need to make any special effort to entertain us.’

‘We were just chatting,’ Nathan said.

‘It’s so nice to see brothers who get on so well. You could put the television on, you know. I brought it in here because I thought you might like it.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Khan,’ Nick said, ‘but we’re all right, we’re happy just chatting.’

‘How’s Mr Khan?’ Nathan said. ‘Is he well?’

‘Yes, thank you, very well,’ Mrs Khan said, eyeing them strangely. ‘He’ll be up to say hello in a while.’

‘There’s no need for that, Mrs Khan,’ Nathan said. ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb him. We saw him only last week, at the garden centre.’

‘At the garden centre?’ Mrs Khan said. She was fitting a cigarette into a cigarette holder. ‘Are you sure? It might have been someone who just looked like Mr Khan. Don’t worry, I’m not going to light this one in here. I know all about you young people not liking passive smoking.’

‘Last Friday afternoon, it would have been, Mrs Khan,’ Nick said. ‘It was definitely Mr Khan. He was looking at shrubs with … It would have been his secretary, maybe – she was blonde and in a short skirt, a pretty girl it was, Mrs Khan.’

‘Well, then, it certainly wasn’t Mr Khan,’ Mrs Khan said. ‘His secretary is fifty and very fat – I don’t think she would go out in a short skirt. And actually last Friday—’

‘Maybe it wasn’t his secretary, then,’ Nathan said disconsolately.

‘Last Friday I called for Mr Khan at lunchtime and we spent the afternoon together, so it must have been someone else you saw. Now – these are chicken samosas, and this is what we call chaat, and these are pakoras, vegetable pakoras, and these are just little fritters. They are Indian, but there’s nothing to be frightened of. I’m sure you’ll like them. And this is salad, you’d make me so proud if you ate even some of it. Lemon squash, Coke – the television? You’re sure? There’s a pack of cards on Mr Khan’s desk if you want to play whist – Anita will teach you if you don’t know.’