Zadie Smith - White Teeth

Magid did not smile.

‘You suffer from a serious endocrine disorder. By which I mean, it is not simply adolescent acne caused by the over-excretion of sebum, but a condition that comes from a hormonal defect. I presume your family share it?’

‘Er… yeah, as it happens. All my brothers. And my son, Abdul-Jimmy. All spotty bastards.’

‘But you would not like it if your son were to pass on the condition to his sons.’

‘Obviously, no. I ’ad terrible trouble in school. I carry a knife to this day, Magid. But I can’t see how that can be avoided, to be honest with you. Been goin’ on for decades.’

‘But you see,’ said Magid (and what an expert he was at the personal interest angle!), ‘it can certainly be avoided. It would be perfectly simple and much misery would be saved. That is the kind of thing we will be discussing at the launch.’

‘Oh, well, if that’s the case, you know, count me in. I thought it was just some bloody mutant-mouse or sommink, you see. But if that’s the case…’

‘Thirty-first of December,’ said Magid, before walking down the aisle to his father. ‘It will be wonderful to see you there.’

‘You took your time,’ said Archie, as Magid approached their table.

‘Did you come by way of the Ganges?’ inquired Samad irritably, shifting up to make space for him.

‘Pardon me, please. I was just speaking with your friend, Michael. A very decent chap. Oh, before I forget, Archibald, he said that it would be perfectly acceptable to pay in Luncheon Vouchers this evening.’

Archie almost choked on a little toothpick he was chewing on. ‘He said what ? Are you sure ?’

‘Quite sure. Now, Abba, shall we begin?’

‘There’s nothing to begin,’ growled Samad, refusing to look him in the eye. ‘I am afraid we are already far into whatever diabolic plot fate has in store for me. And I want you to know, that I am not here of my own volition but because your mother begged me to do this and because I have more respect for that poor woman than either you or your brother ever had.’

Magid released a wry, gentle smile. ‘I thought you were here because Amma beat you in the wrestling.’

Samad scowled. ‘Oh yes, ridicule me. My own son. Do you never read the Qur’ān? Do you not know the duties a son owes to his father? You sicken me, Magid Mubtasim.’

‘Oi, Sammy, old man,’ said Archie, playing with the ketchup, trying to keep things light. ‘Steady on.’

‘No, I will not steady on! This boy is a thorn in my foot.’

‘Surely “side”?’

‘Archibald, stay out of this.’

Archie returned his attention to the pepper and salt cellars, trying to pour the former into the latter.

‘Right you are, Sam.’

‘I have a message to deliver and I will deliver it and no more. Magid, your mother wants you to meet with Millat. The woman Chalfen will arrange it. It is their opinion that the two of you must talk.’

‘And what is your opinion, Abba?’

‘You don’t want to hear my opinion.’

‘On the contrary, Abba, I would very much like to hear it.’

‘Simply, I think it is a mistake. I think you two can do no possible good for each other. I think you should go to opposite corners of the earth. I think I have been cursed with two sons more dysfunctional than Mr Cain and Mr Abel.’

‘I am perfectly willing to meet with him, Abba. If he will meet with me.’

‘Apparently he is willing, this is what I am told. I don’t know. I don’t talk with him any more than I talk with you. I am too busy at the moment trying to make my peace with God.’

‘Er…’ said Archibald, crunching on his toothpick out of hunger and nerves, and because Magid gave him the heebie-jeebies, ‘I’ll go and see if the food is ready, shall I? Yes. I’ll do that. What am I picking up for you, Madge?’

‘A bacon sandwich, please, Archibald.’

‘Bac -? Er… right. Right you are.’

Samad’s face blew up like one of Mickey’s fried tomatoes. ‘So you mean to mock me, is that it? In front of my face you wish to show me the kaffir that you are. Go on, then! Munch on your pig in front of me! You are so bloody clever, aren’t you? Mr Smarty-pants. Mr white-trousered Englishman with his stiff- upper-lip and his big white teeth. You know everything, even enough to escape your own judgement day.’

‘I am not so clever, Abba.’

‘No, no, you are not . You are not half as clever as you think. I don’t know why I bother to warn you, but I do: you are on a direct collision course with your brother, Magid. I keep my ear to the ground, I hear Shiva talking in the restaurant. And there are others: Mo Hussein-Ishmael, Mickey’s brother, Abdul-Colin, and his son, Abdul-Jimmy – these are only a few, there are many more, and they are organizing against you. Millat is with them. Your Marcus Chalfen has stirred a great deal of anger and there are some, these green-ties, who are willing to act. Who are crazy enough to do what they believe is right. Crazy enough to start a war. There aren’t many people like that. Most of us just follow along once war has been announced. But some people wish to bring things to a head. Some people march on to the parade ground and fire the first shot. Your brother is one of them.’

All through this, as Samad’s face contorted from anger, to despair, to near-hysterical grins, Magid had remained blank, his face an unwritten page.

‘You have nothing to say? This news does not surprise you?’

‘Why don’t you reason with them, Abba,’ said Magid after a pause. ‘Many of them respect you. You are respected in the community. Reason with them.’

‘Because I disapprove as strongly as they do, for all their lunacies. Marcus Chalfen has no right . No right to do as he does. It is not his business. It is God’s business. If you meddle with a creature, the very nature of a creature, even if it is a mouse, you walk into the arena that is God’s: creation. You infer that the wonder of God’s creation can be improved upon. It cannot. Marcus Chalfen presumes . He expects to be worshipped when the only thing in the universe that warrants worship is Allah. And you are wrong to help him. Even his own son has disowned him. And so,’ said Samad, unable to suppress the drama queen deep within his soul, ‘I must disown you.’

‘Ah, now, one chips, beans, egg and mushroom for you, Sammy-my-good-man,’ said Archibald, approaching the table and passing the plate. ‘And one omelette and mushrooms for me…’

‘And one bacon sandwich,’ said Mickey, who had insisted on breaking fifteen years of tradition in bringing this one dish over himself, ‘for the young professor.’

‘He will not eat that at my table.’

‘Oh, come on, Sam,’ began Archie gingerly. ‘Give the lad a break.’

‘I say he will not eat that at my table!’

Mickey scratched his forehead. ‘Stone me, we’re getting a bit fundamentalist in our old age, ain’t we?’

‘I said-’

‘As you wish, Abba,’ said Magid, with that same infuriating smile of total forgiveness. He took his plate from Mickey, and sat down at the adjacent table with Clarence and Denzel.

Denzel welcomed him with a grin, ‘Clarence, look see! It de young prince in white. ’Im come to play domino. I jus’ look in his eye and I and I knew ’im play domino. ’Im an hexpert.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ said Magid.

‘Def-net-lee. Gwan.’

‘Do you think I should meet with my brother?’

‘Hmm. I don’ tink me can say,’ replied Denzel, after a spell of thought in which he laid down a five-domino set.

‘I would say you look like a young fellow oo can make up ’im own mind,’ said Clarence cautiously.