Hanif Kureishi - The Last Word

During dinner, when his friends asked Mamoon what he was doing now, and when he had shrugged and said, ‘Nothing, it’s all too late, the work is there, the work is done, I am finished and only eternal darkness awaits,’ Liana made conversation about dual carriageways, bypasses and ‘the green belt’, as they do in the country.

Having been asked for his views on this matter, Mamoon cleared his throat and said with some decision, ‘I love you all, and I love England — the countryside, the people, even the food, particularly when it is Indian,’ before shutting his eyes.

Liana tapped her glass to bring people to attention; they all looked reverently at Mamoon, waiting for the old man’s lips to begin moving once more.

Finally Mamoon opened his eyes to say, ‘We live in a country which has only a past, but no future. If I am a conservative, it’s because I want to preserve what I consider to be the character of that past, of England and the English people. I am an immigrant, but England is my home. I’ve spent more time in this wilderness of monkeys, this democracy of dunces, than anywhere else, and I prefer its village atmosphere of freedom and fair play to that of anywhere else. I have, too, followed its tragedy and comedy with much interest. When I was a child, Britain was the most powerful country on earth, its representatives both feared and admired. I adore the cynicism it developed in the sixties, the way political figures, far from being idealised, as they too often are elsewhere, are mocked and ridiculed without fear.

‘Apparently, now, though, we writers and artists are not allowed to give offence. We must not question, criticise or insult the other, for fear of being hounded and murdered. These days a writer without bodyguards can hardly be considered serious. A bad review is the least of our problems. Every idiot believing any insanity has to be humoured: it is their human right. The right to speech is always stolen, always provisional. I fear the game is almost up for truth. People don’t want it; it doesn’t help them get rich.

‘We are staying, to adapt György Lukács, in the Grand Abyss Hotel, which has every service and facility: it is beautiful, well lit, comfortable, with keen staff. There is an incredible view, because it is perched on the edge of a cliff. And with its inhabitants burrowing beneath it, looking for oil, it could collapse at any moment. We are surviving, in this pleasant liberal enclave where people read and speak freely, on borrowed time. But for those not inside — the dispossessed of the world, the poor, the refugees and those forced into exile — existence is a wasteland.

‘This increasing separation is deadly. We in the Hotel are the lucky ones, and we must not forget that. Even I appreciate it. I will never go home. It is here that I will die.’

‘Not in this restaurant, I hope,’ said Liana.

Mamoon went on, ‘The news I bring is to say that, man being the only animal who hates himself, the likely fate of the world is total self-destruction.’ He raised his glass. ‘All the best then, my friends. Here’s to a happy apocalypse.’

‘Happy apocalypse,’ murmured the other guests, obediently, raising their glasses.

‘Total self-destruction,’ said Mamoon.

‘Total self-destruction,’ repeated his friends.

‘And death,’ added Mamoon.

‘Death.’

‘Death.’

They sang ‘Happy Birthday’. Then, before the kulfi, one of Mamoon’s acolytes, a young Indian who sometimes did research for him, stood and made a speech praising, as would anyone, Mamoon’s talent, humanity, compassion and understanding. The scholar also referred to Mamoon as a revolutionary, and compared him to Derrida, Fanon, Orwell, Gogol and Edward Said. Fortunately Mamoon had become incapable of facial expression; only bemusement and bafflement remained as the words washed over him.

Harry, realising it might be a good idea to feature this scene of summing up and farewell in his introduction, had been making notes all the while. Once the speeches were over, he went outside for some fresh air and, sitting on a wall, added some information and colour about the guests. He wouldn’t present only the ‘facts’; he wanted a more novelistic, personal tone, presenting the writer in his later years, puffed with success and honours. Coming back in, Harry was pleased to see the guests were being served coffee, though most of them were hopelessly drunk by now. He hurried to a corner of the restaurant and checked his phone. Had she called?

He missed Alice but he didn’t believe she missed him, or anyone. Being low-temperature, she wasn’t like that. Without parents who had time for her, at an early age she had made herself self-sufficient. But since Harry had been at the house for almost five weeks, and was beginning to think he was losing his nerve and becoming depressed over the slow speed of things, he had insisted, and even given a cast-iron guarantee, that if she joined him in the country, no one would say anything pretentious, incomprehensible or even intelligent, while near her. On this basis, Alice had finally agreed to visit. But Harry had received a text message, which he opened now to find that Alice wasn’t sure she’d make it tonight. She wouldn’t know the other guests and, anyway, she was busy. She kept him, as always, ‘on hold’.

‘Darling, help me.’ He felt a hand on his shoulder and an arm around his waist. Liana whispered, ‘We must get out of here. I’ve had enough. Look.’

Harry saw that Mamoon, who after his paean to England had appeared to withdraw into himself, had now dropped from his chair and was sitting on the floor like a bewildered child. Some of the other guests tottered towards him, and helped him up to his seat. Meanwhile Liana was informing their friends that she thought Mamoon had had enough.

It took Harry and two of the staff, their bow ties discombobulated, to get a more or less unconscious Mamoon out through the restaurant and into the back seat of the car. They removed his shoes, put a cushion under his head and a blanket over the rest of him.

‘If I’d known that biography would turn out to be such physical labour, I might have thought twice about it,’ Harry told Liana, once the job had been done and he’d tipped the staff.

‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘Forward, please.’

She told Harry to drive carefully and let Mamoon sleep. He’d wake up in an hour or so and they would have sexy fun later. From the car window, she made her last goodbyes and waved at some of the departing guests, one of whom was vomiting in the gutter.

Since Liana was pouting and swaying ridiculously as if she would burst under some inner pressure, Harry removed one hand from the steering wheel and pressed it against her chest.

‘Careful,’ she cried. ‘I’ve got a rose quartz crystal in my bra!’ When Harry said idly that he thought her guests had enjoyed the food, she said, ‘If you think that, you’re a fool who knows nothing about Indian cuisine. You’ll never be constipated again. Didn’t you see it was a tragedy? I don’t want to be around these grotesques.’

‘What you really want, Liana, is to be a great lady, a fashionable society hostess, with a salon, where Somerset Maugham, Arnold Bennett and, on rare occasions, Thomas Hardy, drop by for tea and talk about what’s on at the theatre.’

She said, ‘I would have to be in London to do that. Have you ever noticed how little Mamoon does for me?’

‘But you’re Tolstoy’s wife,’ said Harry. ‘Aren’t the consolations of status and respect enough?’

‘I only arranged that unappreciated dinner because Mamoon takes me nowhere. You know Dirty Ben, my psychic with the filthy mind?’

‘The short-term psychic? Is that the one you said is a tranny?’