Hanif Kureishi - Something to Tell You

Omar’s lifelong penchant for skinheads, childhood friends who’d kicked him around, had got him into less trouble than it might have done at an earlier time. It was ironic to think of how Omar meshed with his times. His commendable antiracism had made him into the ideal committeeman. Now, as an Asian, gay millionaire with an interest in a football club, he was perfect leadership material. He was disliked by Muslims for his support of the government’s fondness for bombing Muslims, and hated by the Left and Right for good reasons I was unable to remember. But he was protected by a political ring fence. No one could bring him down but himself.

If Lord Ali was smug, it was because he had long been ahead of the game. He’d never had any scruples about combining cunning business practices with Labour Party socialism. Now, of course, many ex-leftists were turning-or trying to turn-towards business and the Thatcherite enterprise culture they had so despised. It had become acceptable to want more money than you could sensibly use, to enjoy your greed. With retirement coming up, the ex-leftists saw they had only a few years to make “proper” money, as so many of their friends had done, mostly in film, television and, occasionally, the theatre.

“Still supporting the war?” Henry asked him. Henry had been drinking champagne quickly, as he did when he attended such functions. By the time we came to leave, he’d be ready for a monologue. “You must be the only one left.”

Omar was used to this. “But of course. Removing dictators is a good thing. You want to argue with that?” He looked at me. “I know who you are, though I find your stuff difficult to read.”

“Excellent.”

“We both have Muslim backgrounds, and wouldn’t we agree that our brothers and sisters have to join the modern world or remain in the dark ages? Haven’t we done the Iraqis a favour?” I could see Henry becoming annoyed, and so could Omar, who had a cheeky face and liked Henry’s annoyance so much he went on: “As a gay Muslim, I believe other Muslims must have the opportunity to enjoy the liberalism we do. I won’t be hypocritical-”

Henry interrupted. “So you urged Blair to kick the shit out of as many innocent Iraqis as he could?”

“Look, these Iraqis, they have no science, no literature, no decent institutions and only one book. Can you imagine relying on just that?…We must give them these things, even if it means killing a lot of them. Nothing worthwhile was ever done without a few deaths. You know that. I told Tony, once you’ve done Baghdad, you can start on some of those other places. Like Bradford.” Omar made a camp gesture and said, “I don’t know why I’m saying all this. I’m a moderate, and I always have been.”

Alan, who was standing nearby, said, “Only politically.”

“All I’ve ever wanted was to relieve the condition of the working class.”

“Oh yeah, that’s all we need-someone who came up the hard way.”

Henry said, “Blair’s problem is self-deception. It doesn’t help that he’s surrounded by people like you who only tell him what a good guy he is.”

Omar said, “You old Communist lefties, you can’t let it go, can you?”

Later I would remind Henry that he hadn’t always been as anti-Blair as he-and many of our friends-liked to make out. In fact, Henry and Valerie had been invited to Chequers, the prime minister’s country place, early on in his first term. It had said “casual” on the invitation, and Henry wore a suit and open-necked shirt. The other guests included a well-known but dull ex-footballer, a female newsreader and either a runner or a rower, Henry wasn’t sure. Blair, who to Henry’s surprise told him he’d once considered becoming an actor, was wearing what looked like overtight Lee Cooper jeans and an unbuttoned purple shirt, with ruffles, and shiny black shoes. Henry had expected a tribune of the working class, not a tribute to Brian May.

While Omar Ali and Henry were arguing, I noticed that Mustaq, the practised party host, was moving among the guests, introducing people, keeping an eye on things. Not that he had forgotten about me. I became aware that one of my purposes there was to be present when Mustaq told Alan-something I imagined he must have known already-that he and I had been brought up in the same neighbourhood, and that I’d known his father and sister.

Alan didn’t seem fascinated and drifted away. But Mustaq told me he wanted to continue, leading me into a neat sitting room and shutting the door.

As he uncorked more champagne, I said, “Does Ajita ever come to London?”

“Would you like to see her?”

“I would.”

“I think she and her husband are planning to come later this year. What’s that look-is it scepticism?”

I said, “It means opening a door I tried to close a long time ago.”

“Why close it in the first place?”

“I was in love with your sister, but one day she went away for good.”

“I can see why you’d want to reject that,” he said. “It was only recently that I was able to get interested in the past. Because of my ‘pop’ name and fair skin, I haven’t been mistaken for a Paki for years-not unlike Freddie Mercury, another who ‘disappeared’ into fame.

“I never talked about the factory and the strike, even when it was brought up by journalists. I didn’t try to hide it, but I never advertised it. I just said it had been a ‘bad time’ and anyhow I’d been young. Weren’t all those pop boys, like Bowie, trying to reinvent themselves?”

I asked, “Now you want to go back?”

“Did you ever see the factory while the strike was on?”

“I remember Ajita being taken inside-in the back of your father’s car.”

“He made me do that, a few times. I would cry and shit myself before we set out. It was terrifying, the screams, bricks, lumps of wood flung at us.”

“Why did he do it?”

“We were supposed to take over the business when the time was right, so he wanted us to know what went on in the real world.” Mustaq got up. “I want to talk more, but I must get back to the party.” I thought he was going to shake my hand, but he wanted to look at my wrist. “You’ve taken the watch off.”

“I don’t wear it all the time.”

“I’m not going to let this go,” he said.

“It is obviously important to you.”

“I’m thinking about my father a lot. I tried to be someone without a childhood. But there’s something I need to get to the bottom of. He was murdered, after all, and no one was punished for it. Didn’t you keep up with the case?”

“I tried to, but I wasn’t aware of any outcome.”

“There was no closure. He was just another Paki, and the strike was causing a nuisance to the politicians.”

I said, “I thought some men were arrested.”

“It was the wrong men, of course. The killers are still out there. But not for much longer.” He was leading me to the door, where Henry was waiting for me to join him for a curry. Mustaq said, “The men who were picked up were nowhere near our house. So who was it? Why would they do it? What would be the motive?” Then he said, “I have a place in Wiltshire. Not an English country house-my crib is comfortable and warm. Will you come? We will have time to talk.” He looked at Henry. “Will you both come?”

“Yes,” said Henry. “We will.”

I said, “Mustaq, will you give Ajita my number?”

“Of course. But she will be as nervous of speaking to you as you are of her. Please-will you go easy on her?”

“Oh, my darling Jamal, it’s been so long, kiss me and kiss me again.”

“Better keep your hands on the wheel, Karen.”