Zadie Smith - White Teeth

‘Whattareya tryin’ to do to us, Sammy?’ asked Johnny, a mournful-looking stick of an ex-Orangeman, who was leaning over the hot plate to collect some bubble and squeak. ‘Overrun us, are ya or sumthin?’

‘Oo ’im?’ demanded Denzel, who had not yet died.

‘Your batty bwoy?’ inquired Clarence, who was also, by God’s grace, hanging on in there.

‘All right, gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed. It is simply my son. Magid, Mickey. Mickey, Magid.’

Mickey looked a little dumbfounded by this introduction, and just stood there for a minute, a soggy fried egg hanging off his spatula.

‘Magid Mahfooz Murshed Mubtasim Iqbal,’ said Magid serenely. ‘It is a great honour to meet you, Michael. I have heard such a great deal about you.’

Which was odd, because Samad had never told him a thing.

Mickey continued to look over Magid’s shoulder to Samad for confirmation. ‘You what? You mean the one you, er, sent back ’ome? This is Magid?’

‘Yes, yes, this is Magid,’ replied Samad rapidly, pissed off by all the attention the boy was getting. ‘Now, Archibald and I will have our usuals and-’

‘Magid Iqbal,’ repeated Mickey slowly. ‘Well, I bloody never. You know you’d never guess you was an Iqbal. You’ve got a very trusting, well, kind of sympathetic face, if you get me.’

‘And yet I am an Iqbal, Michael,’ said Magid, laying that look of total empathy on Mickey and the other dregs of humanity huddled around the hot counter, ‘though I have been gone a long time.’

‘Say that again. Well, this is a turn-up for the books. I’ve got your… wait a minute, let me get this right… your great- great -grandfather up there, see?’

‘I noticed it the moment I came in, and I can assure you, Michael, my soul is very grateful for it,’ said Magid, beaming like an angel. ‘It makes me feel at home, and, as this place is dear to my father and his friend Archibald Jones I feel certain it shall also be dear to me. They have brought me here, I think, to discuss important matters, and I for one can think of no better place for them, despite your clearly debilitating skin condition.’

Mickey was simply bowled over by that, and could not conceal his pleasure, addressing his reply both to Magid and the rest of O’Connell’s.

‘Speaks fuckin’ nice, don’t he? Sounds like a right fuckin’ Olivier. Queen’s fucking English and no mistake. What a nice fella. You’re the kind of clientele I could do wiv in here, Magid, let me tell you. Civilized and that. And don’t you worry about my skin, it don’t get anywhere near the food and it don’t give me much trouble. Cor, what a gentleman. You do feel like you should watch your mouth around him, dontcha?’

‘Mine and Archibald’s usual, then, please, Mickey,’ said Samad. ‘I’ll leave my son to make up his mind. We will be over by the pinball.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mickey, not bothering or able to turn his gaze from Magid’s dark eyes.

‘Dat a lovely suit you gat dere,’ murmured Denzel, stroking the white linen wistfully. ‘Dat’s what de Englishmen use ta wear back home in Jamaica, remember dat, Clarence?’

Clarence nodded slowly, dribbling a little, struck by the beatific.

‘Go on, get out of it, the pair of you,’ grumbled Mickey, shooing them away, ‘I’ll bring it over, all right? I want to talk to Magid here. Growing boy, he’s got to eat. So: what is it I can get you, Magid?’ Mickey leant over the counter, all concern, like an over-attentive shopgirl. ‘Eggs? Mushrooms? Beans? Fried slice?’

‘I think,’ replied Magid, slowly surveying the dusty chalkboard menus on the wall, and then turning back to Mickey, his face illumined, ‘I should like a bacon sandwich. Yes, that is it. I would love a juicy, yet well-done, tomato ketchup-ed bacon sandwich. On brown.’

Oh, the struggle that could be seen on Mickey’s kisser at that moment! Oh, the gargoylian contortions! It was a battle between the favour of the most refined customer he had ever had and the most hallowed, sacred rule of O’Connell’s Pool House. NO PORK.

Mickey’s left eye twitched.

‘Don’t want a nice plate of scrambled? I do a lovely scrambled eggs, don’t I, Johnny?’

‘I’d be a liar if I said ya didn’t,’ said Johnny loyally from his table, even though Mickey’s eggs were famously grey and stiff, ‘I’d be a terrible liar, on my mother’s life, I would.’

Magid wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

‘All right – what about mushrooms and beans? Omelette and chips? No better chips in the Finchley Road. Come on, son,’ he pleaded, desperate. ‘You’re a Muslim, int ya? You don’t want to break your father’s heart with a bacon sandwich.’

‘My father’s heart will not be broken by a bacon sandwich. It is far more likely that my father’s heart will break from the result of a build-up of saturated fat which is in turn a result of eating in your establishment for fifteen years. One wonders,’ said Magid evenly, ‘if a case could be made, a legal case, you understand, against individuals in the food service industry who fail to label their meals with a clear fat content or general health warning. One wonders.’

All this was delivered in the sweetest, most melodious voice, and with no hint of threat. Poor Mickey didn’t know what to make of it.

‘Well, of course,’ said Mickey nervously, ‘hypothetically that is an interesting question. Very interesting.’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Yeah, definitely.’

Mickey fell silent and spent a minute elaborately polishing the top of the hot plate, an activity he indulged in about once every ten years.

‘There. See your face in that. Now. Where were we?’

‘A bacon sandwich.’

At the sound of the word ‘bacon’, a few ears began to twitch at the front tables.

‘If you could keep your voice down a little…’

‘ A bacon sandwich ,’ whispered Magid.

‘Bacon. Right. Well, I’ll have to nip next door, ’cos I ain’t got none at present… but you just sit down wiv your dad and I’ll bring it over. It’ll cost a bit more, like. What wiv the extra effort, you know. But don’t worry, I’ll bring it over. And tell Archie not to worry if he ain’t got the cash. A Luncheon Voucher will do.’

‘You are very kind, Michael. Take one of these.’ Magid reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper.

‘Oh, fuck me, another leaflet? You can’t fucking move – pardon my French – but you can’t move for leaflets in Norf London these days. My brother Abdul-Colin’s always loading me wiv ’em an’ all. But seein’ as it’s you… go on, hand it over.’

‘It’s not a leaflet,’ said Magid, collecting his knife and fork from the tray. ‘It is an invitation to a launch.’

‘You what?’ said Mickey excitedly (in the grammar of his daily tabloid, launch meant lots of cameras, expensive-looking birds with huge tits, red carpets). ‘Really?’

Millat passed him the invite. ‘Incredible things are to be seen and heard there.’

‘Oh,’ said Mickey, disappointed, eyeing the expensive piece of card. ‘I’ve heard about this bloke and his mouse.’ He had heard about this bloke and his mouse in this same tabloid; it was a kind of filler between the tits and the more tits and it was underneath the byline: ONE BLOKE AND HIS MOUSE.

‘Seems a bit dodgy to me, messing wiv God an’ all that. ’Sides I ain’t that scientifically minded, you see. Go right over my head.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. One just has to look at the thing from a perspective that interests you personally. Take your skin, for example.’

‘I wish somebody would fuckin’ take it,’ joked Mickey amiably. ‘I’ve ’ad a-fucking-nuff of it.’