Tabish Khair - How to Fight Islamist Terror from the Missionary Position

Not only did Ms. Marx follow Ravi to my corner, she showed no inclination to leave even after Ravi spotted Lena and abandoned us for her, with (or did I imagine it?) an almost imperceptible wink at me. I offered my seat to Ms. Marx. This woke some ghost of a non-blokish past in the man sitting next to me and he made a bit of space. Ms. Marx, to my surprise, wriggled in between the two of us, her wine glass held at a careful length in rounded bare arms (she was wearing a sleeveless dress of the sort that left most of the back bare too) which I tried not to look at. The blokes around me were not aware of either her arms, which rippled with the soft muscles of regular gym workouts, or her back. That, I have always felt, is the problem with being a bloke. It makes you ignore or vulgarize some of the best things in life.

I wondered whether Ravi considered Ms. Marx plain. I thought that she probably fell within the range of that demarcation for him, though in its higher reaches. It was a definition I would never have applied to Ms. Marx, even though I would not attain the glass-spilling exuberance of Ravi’s love for Lena either. In any case, Ms. Marx—unlike Lena—was not the kind of woman who caught any man’s eye; just as, to be honest, I am by no means the kind of man who turns every woman’s head, at least for a second, as Ravi does. I believe people like Ms. Marx and me receive only half glasses of love and admiration and, at least in my case, that is sufficient.

I was not sure if it was sufficient in Ms. Marx’s case, though. I knew she was divorced, with a child she shared with her ex (with whom she was, as is said, “very good friends”), and I have always suspected that divorced parents who stay good friends tend to have separated not because of any incompatibility but because they yearned for more than half-filled glasses in their lives.

Not only did Ms. Marx join me, she spent most of the party with me. Towards midnight, when the beer momentarily washes away the inhibitions of Danes, she asked me if I wanted to go out for a walk. The moon was almost full and it was surprisingly clear. Providence had rigged things in my favor for a change.

We kissed, more formally than passionately, on our way back to the flat.

Had I been less interested in Ms. Marx, I suppose I would have suspected Ravi’s hand in her sudden interest in me. Or perhaps not, for it is difficult to imagine how any man can get a woman interested in another man. In any case, I had little time or inclination for suspicion. I saw Ms. Marx twice that week. Her interest in me grew every day; she wanted to know everything about me. Sometimes, she asked the same question again, in a slightly modified form, as if she did not believe my first version or wanted to hear it all over again.

The next week, on our third date, I was invited into her row-house flat for a nightcap. Her son, she said, was out on a camping trip with his father for the weekend, exploring some Jutland heath. Consequently, we spent the night at her place, exploring each other.

Next morning, we had a lazy breakfast. I rustled up an omelette, Indian-style, which usually impresses European women used to omelettes that are either flaccid and tasteless or stuffed with too many things to go for breakfast. She asked me how my parents had met; I told her they had been colleagues in the same university. Different departments, but same university. She lifted an eyebrow in surprise.

“They met at a political demonstration at their university. It turned out that a cousin of my father’s was a friend of my mother’s brother. I think that made it easier for them to keep seeing each other. A year later they got their parents to arrange a wedding for them.”

Ms. Marx laughed in disbelief. “Why are you making this up?” she said.

I assured her that I was not making it up.

She left her chair and came over to me. She put her arms around my neck and squeezed affectionately. Her hair fell over my eyes.

“Remember, I am a historian: I expect consistency in historical accounts,” she said. She pulled my chair back from the table—Ms. Marx was pretty strong for her size—and sat in my lap, straddling me. She smelled of orange yogurt. I kissed her. She tasted of orange yogurt too. We ended up making love on the kitchen floor.

It was close to noon when I returned to Karim’s flat. I planned to take a leisurely shower and relax for the rest of the day, savoring the moments of last night and that morning: the slow friction of our flesh, the instant when I entered her, her soft grainy moistness, the smell of her sex, her lips all over me, kissing, sucking, the unhurried rhythm of sex between people who are old enough to know what they are about. I wanted to lie in bed and recall her breasts, which were small and surprisingly girl-like, her arms, which were fleshy and slightly muscular, her hips, her hair, her legs… I was not madly in love with her, but I did not have to be madly, or even eccentrically, in love. Sane attraction was what I wanted. It was enough.

I knew Karim Bhai would be on a day shift and I expected Ravi to be gone: he seldom spent the weekend in the flat anymore. Early on Saturday morning, if they had not already met on Friday night, as soon as he returned from his morning jog, Ravi would grab a toast, slurp some coffee and pedal off to Lena’s flat, armed with aftershave and bike clips.

But when I walked into the flat, Ravi was still there, writing on his laptop.

“Bastard,” he shouted to me from the kitchen, when I was still in the lobby, “you kept me waiting!”

I asked him why he had waited for me. We did not have any plans for the weekend.

Ravi laughed. Then he said, hazarding a guess, “Actually, I was wondering what you are going to tell Ms. Marx about your dad now.”

It was then that the suspicion dawned on me.

“What have you been telling her about my parents, bastard?” I asked him.

“Just, as they say in America, like, the truth, pal.”

“Like the truth?”

“Well, we all know how it is with you fucking fundus in Pak: veiled mother, bearded father, married at the age of fifteen, son divided between his halal mentality and the desire to make it in the pork-eating West, unwilling to acknowledge his religious background in public and unable to relinquish it in private, etcetera, etcetera.”

I was flabbergasted.

“You didn’t tell her all that, Ravi!” I exclaimed.

“Not at once, of course. I did it over days, weeks. For the sake of our friendship, sentimental music! I sacrificed hours of pleasure with Lena. Ms. Marx was kind of primed by the time I sprung her on you at the party, bastard, but I still had to keep selling you… Bits and pieces you know, yaar. You are damned good at queering your own pitch. You were so bloody intent on committing sexual harakiri by making your parents sound like her parents; I had to administer narrative antidotes all the time. I think she is convinced that you make up stories about your parents because you are too embarrassed or afraid to acknowledge your incipient provincial fundamentalism in these, ah, cosmopolitan circles. It appeals to both the Linen and the Marx in her.”

I was so shocked I think I had to sit down. Used though I was to Ravi’s chutzpah, this was still unexpected. When I recovered, I looked him in the eye and said, “Dammit, bastard, you know I am going to explain all this to her at the first opportunity, and she will drop me.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, O Unimaginative Teacher of Eng Lit,” he replied, unplugging his laptop, probably on his way to Lena’s now. “You see, it works like this. You buy a product because it is packaged as bing. What you get is bang. But, mostly, you discover that you quite like bang. That is how capitalism works, bastard: it promises you bing and gives you bang. There is a chance, Sir Adjunkt, that Ms. Marx likes you for bang now. Violins! Play on, if music be the tandoori of love…” With that he left, whistling “Il n’a jamais, jamais connu de loi…”