Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘It’s like a portable bread oven inside that thing,’ Karim clucks. ‘Crazy! My current philosophy is that if I give her enough rope …’

He simulates sudden asphyxiation (hands at his throat, eyes popping, tongue out), then removes a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and vigorously blows his nose on it.

‘I tell her it’s a form of cultural hysteria’ — he dabs at his nostrils, fastidiously — ‘an emotional anorexia. Not about faith! Ha! Not remotely. God is Love! God is Wisdom! God is Truth! God is Generosity — Ya Karim , eh?’

Valentine smiles, obligingly (although she’s not entirely sure what she’s smiling at).

‘God isn’t just dotted here or there, boxed into a series of little, sacred spaces,’ Karim expands, scowling, ‘hidden under that piece of black fabric — swirling around like a tiny whirlwind inside the cool shadows of the mosque — trapped within the vowels of a prayer … Heavens, no! He’s everywhere, inside every created thing …’ He throws out his hand, expressively (the white handkerchief waving its fleeting surrender between his fingers). ‘God is the invasive gaze of an arrogant stranger!’ he exclaims. ‘God is the modest curl of a pretty lip into a welcoming smile. God is the warmth of the sun on a beautiful girl’s bronzed shoulder. God is the exquisite brush of cool silk against a tautening nipple. God is life , eh?’ He grins. ‘He enlivens us! He stimulates! He titillates! God opens us up, he doesn’t shut us down. He didn’t give us the whole, wide world so that we should wrinkle up our noses and turn away from it, full of haughty condemnation, riddled with disgust …’

Valentine nods, intimidated (her arms folded, defensively, across her chest), then glances over towards his wife again.

‘She’s just acting out,’ Karim grumbles. ‘It’s a pointless charade — a farce! Forget modesty or reserve or decency or restraint — it’s sheer bloody-mindedness. It’s all about control …’

Karim pats the handkerchief over his forehead and then shoves it back into his pocket. ‘Of course she won’t listen,’ he mutters, ‘so what can I do? It’s embarrassing. People think I’m a monster. She loves it. She absolutely loves it. She’s my second wife. Only twenty-one years of age. Attended Catholic school. Grew up in Barking. Is barking, to my way of thinking …’

‘What happened to your first wife?’ Valentine wonders.

‘Nothing happened to her.’ Karim’s indignant. ‘She’s perfectly fine! She lives in Delhi. She nurses my ailing mother.’

‘I see.’ Valentine chews on her lower lip, somewhat apprehensively. ‘D’you have children?’

‘Yes I do.’ He nods. ‘Three. Two by my first wife — both sons — and one daughter by Aamilah.’ He thumbs, contemptuously, towards the window. ‘Milah’s an awful mother. The child — Badriya — is very fat. Milah just feeds her and feeds her. We share our home with Milah’s sister, Farhana. She loves to cook. All they do is feed each other and watch DVDs. And sometimes they watch daytime TV — awful TV — and pass haughty pronouncements on it. “Oh that woman is so ugly! Oh that man is so degenerate!” I tell them, “Nobody is forcing you to watch it!” but they don’t pay me the slightest heed. I might as well be invisible for all they care. The house is a terrible mess. A pigsty! They’re completely useless. The child is huge. Like a balloon. It’s ridiculous. I mean the woman has an A-level in politics and economics, but she lives like an imbecile.’

Noel returns holding a tray with a lone can of Coke on it. He proffers it to their guest.

‘Couldn’t you find a glass?’ Valentine murmurs, embarrassed.

‘I’m fine with a can, just so long as it’s good and cold,’ Karim insists. He takes the can, cracks the ring-pull and takes a long, deep draught.

‘I’ll fetch Mum,’ Noel volunteers, then promptly heads out of the room again, still clutching the tray, before Valentine has a chance to react.

She stares after him, scowling. Karim looks around for somewhere to place his can.

‘Sorry … here … please …’ Valentine unfolds a small, occasional table in front of their guest so that he can put his drink down on it.

‘Don’t be sorry.’ Karim smiles up at her. ‘An attractive girl need never be sorry.’

‘And a plain girl?’ she counters.

‘A plain girl should be constantly apologizing!’ he exclaims. ‘What else?!’

She gazes at him for a moment, shocked, her eyes widening.

‘Yes, yes, I’m incorrigible!’ He chuckles. ‘I was an incorrigible baby — so my mother always tells me — who grew into an incorrigible boy, then into an incorrigible teenager. And now I am an incorrigible man. My life is packed full of incorrigibility. There’s nothing to be done about it. Nothing at all.’

‘It’s just …’ Valentine yanks on her fringe, unsettled. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m still not … I mean Noel didn’t get around to telling me what it is that you actually …’

‘Because he doesn’t know himself!’ Karim expostulates, delighted.

‘… what it is that you do , exactly,’ Valentine finishes off, confused.

‘Let me lay my cards on to the table.’ Karim leans forward and spreads his hands across the small, drinks table in a symbolic gesture. ‘It’s never what people think, okay? The service varies from client to client. It’s basically tailor-made — I believe the fashionable lingo is “boutique” …’

He emits a snuffling laugh.

‘It certainly isn’t just wham-bam-thank-you-mam,’ he expands, ‘if that’s what you’re imagining! It’s much deeper, much more profound than that. It’s about intimacy . Enjoying something intimate . A special bond. A closeness. Sometimes we sing spiritual songs or I recite to them from learned texts during a hand or foot or head massage. Sometimes they play with my finger’ — he holds up his index finger — ‘or gently stroke my belly’ — he pats his rotund stomach, beatifically. ‘I teach a special kind of pelvic bouncing. It’s extraordinarily effective, if I say so myself! A person’s sexuality can take myriad forms. I can make a woman come by clapping my hands together …’

He claps his hands. ‘Or by making them laugh, or with simple eye contact …’

He gazes at her, owlishly. Valentine blinks, then shudders.

‘That’s right,’ Karim repeats, holding her gaze, ‘just by simple eye contact. Although I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty …’ He lifts a plump, graceful hand, to illustrate. ‘It’s a tailor-made service, but it’s a complete service. Satisfaction is guaranteed …’ He pauses for a moment, mid-sentence, inspecting his raised hand, fastidiously. ‘My hands are actually dirty. I do apologize. I polished my car after breakfast. I’d booked the morning off, then your brother phoned …’

‘It’s a lovely car,’ Valentine interjects, peering over towards the window again (happy for the distraction). ‘Is it an old Citroën?’

‘A Citroën ? Heavens, no!’ Karim scoffs. ‘It’s a Tatra. It’s Czechoslovakian. Very rare. There’s only a couple of them in the country as we speak.’

Valentine moves still closer to the window and inspects the car more thoroughly.

‘The engine is in the boot,’ he informs her.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she muses. ‘Is that a third headlight in the middle of the bonnet?’

‘Yes,’ Karim confirms, proudly, ‘and there’s a bonus fin on the back.’

‘It’s like something from an old film or a cartoon,’ she marvels. ‘ Batman or The Jetsons …’