Zadie Smith - White Teeth

Archie looked at the floor. ‘I’d rather not-’

‘Believe me, I take no pleasure from dragging up that which is distasteful to you, my friend. But I am just trying to make you understand my situation. Then, as now, the question is always: What kind of a world do I want my children to grow up in ? You took action on that matter once. And now it is my turn.’

Archie, making no more sense of Samad’s speeches than he had forty years ago, played with a toothpick for a moment.

‘Well… why don’t you just stop, well, seeing her.’

‘I try… I try.’

‘That good is it?’

‘No, well, that is not strictly… what I mean to say is, it is nice, yes… but it is not debauched… we kiss, we embrace.’

‘But no-’

‘Not strictly speaking, no.’

‘But some-’

‘Archibald, are you concerned about my sons or my sperm?’

‘Sons,’ said Archie. ‘Definitely sons.’

‘Because there is rebellion in them, Archie. I can see it – it is small now but it is growing. I tell you, I don’t know what is happening to our children in this country. Everywhere you look, it is the same. Last week, Zinat’s son was found smoking marijuana. Like a Jamaican!’

Archie raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh, I meant no offence, Archibald.’

‘None taken, mate. But you shouldn’t judge before you’ve tried it. Being married to a Jamaican has done wonders for my arthritis. But that’s by the by. Carry on.’

‘Well, take Alsana’s sisters – all their children are nothing but trouble. They won’t go to mosque, they don’t pray, they speak strangely, they dress strangely, they eat all kinds of rubbish, they have intercourse with God knows who. No respect for tradition. People call it assimilation when it is nothing but corruption. Corruption!’

Archie tried to look shocked and then tried disgusted, not knowing what to say. He liked people to get on with things, Archie. He kind of felt people should just live together, you know, in peace or harmony or something.

‘CHIPS, BEANS, EGG, MUSHROOM! OMELETTE AND MUSHROOMS!’

Samad raised his hand and turned to the counter. ‘Abdul-Mickey!’ he yelled, his voice assuming a slight, comic, cockney twinge. ‘Over here, my guvnor, please.’

Mickey looked at Samad, leant on the counter, and wiped his nose with his apron.

‘Now you know better than that. It’s self-service around here, gentlemen. This ain’t the fucking Waldorf.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Archie, sliding out of his seat.

‘How is he?’ asked Mickey under his breath, as he pushed the plate towards Archie.

Archie frowned. ‘Dunno. He’s on about tradition again. He’s worried about his sons, you see. Easy for children to go off the rails in this day and age, you know. I don’t really know what to say to him.’

‘Don’t have to tell me, mate,’ said Mickey, shaking his head. ‘I wrote the fucking book, didn’t I? Look at my littlest, Abdul-Jimmy. Up in juvenile court next week for swiping fucking VW medallions. I says to ’im, you fucking stupid or sommink? What the fuck is the point of that? At least steal the fucking car , if that’s the way you feel about it. I mean, why? ’E says it’s sommink to do wiv some fucking Beetie Boys or some such bollocks. Well, I says to him, that lot are dead as shit if I get hold of ’em, and I can tell you that for fucking nothing. No sense of tradition, no fucking morality, is the problem.’

Archie nodded and picked up a wad of napkins with which to handle the hot dishes.

‘If you want my advice – and you do, ’cos that’s part of the special relationship between caff owner and caff customer – you tell Samad he has two options. He can either send them back to the old country, back to India-’

‘Bangladesh,’ corrected Archie, nicking a chip from Samad’s meal.

‘Whereverthefuckitis. He can send ’em back there and have ’em brought up proper, by their granddads and grandmums, have ’em learn about their fucking culture, have ’em grow up with some fucking principles. Or – one minute – CHIPS, BEANS, PATTIE AND MUSHROOMS! FOR TWO!’

Denzel and Clarence ever so slowly sidled up to the hot plates.

‘Dat pattie look strange ,’ said Clarence.

‘ ’Im try to poison us,’ said Denzel.

‘Dem mushroom look peculiar ,’ said Clarence.

‘ ’Im try to infiltrate a good man with de devil’s food,’ said Denzel.

Mickey slapped his egg slice down on Denzel’s fingers, ‘Oi. Morecambe and fucking Wise. Get a new fucking routine, all right?’

‘Or what?’ persisted Archie.

‘ ’Im tryin’ to kill an ’ol man. An ’ol, weak man,’ muttered Denzel, as the two of them shuffled back to their seats.

‘Fucking ’ell, those two. They’re only alive ’cos they’re too stingy to pay for the fucking cremation.’

‘Or what?’

‘What?’

‘What’s the second option?’

‘Oh, yeah. Well, second option’s obvious, innit?’

‘Is it?’

‘ Accept it. He’ll have to accept it, won’t he. We’re all English now, mate. Like it or lump it, as the rhubarb said to the custard. And that’ll be two fifty, Archibald, my good man. The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over.’

The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers ended ten years ago. For ten years Mickey had been saying, ‘The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over.’And that’s what Archie loved about O’Connell’s. Everything was remembered, nothing was lost. History was never revised or reinterpreted, adapted or whitewashed. It was as solid and as simple as the encrusted egg on the clock.

When Archie returned to table eight, Samad was like Jeeves: if not exactly disgruntled, then some way from being gruntled.

‘Archibald, did you take a wrong turn at the Ganges? Weren’t you listening to my dilemma? I am corrupt, my sons are becoming corrupt, we are all soon to burn in the fires of hell. These are problems of some urgency, Archibald.’

Archie smiled serenely and stole another chip. ‘Problem solved, Samad, mate.’

‘Problem solved?’

‘Problem solved. Now, the way I see it, you have two options…’

Around the beginning of this century, the Queen of Thailand was aboard a boat, floating along with her many courtiers, manservants, maids, feet-bathers and food tasters, when suddenly the stern hit a wave and the Queen was thrown overboard into the turquoise waters of the Nippon-Kai where, despite her pleas for help, she drowned, for not one person on that boat went to her aid. Mysterious to the outside world, to the Thai the explanation was immediately clear: tradition demanded, as it does to this day, that no man or woman may touch the Queen.

If religion is the opium of the people, tradition is an even more sinister analgesic, simply because it rarely appears sinister. If religion is a tight band, a throbbing vein and a needle, tradition is a far homelier concoction: poppy seeds ground into tea; a sweet cocoa drink laced with cocaine; the kind of thing your grandmother might have made. To Samad, as to the people of Thailand, tradition was culture, and culture led to roots, and these were good, these were untainted principles. That didn’t mean he could live by them, abide by them or grow in the manner they demanded, but roots were roots and roots were good. You would get nowhere telling him that weeds too have tubers, or that the first sign of loose teeth is something rotten, something degenerate, deep within the gums. Roots were what saved, the ropes one throws out to rescue drowning men, to Save Their Souls. And the further Samad himself floated out to sea, pulled down to the depths by a siren named Poppy Burt-Jones, the more determined he became to create for his boys roots on shore, deep roots that no storm or gale could displace. Easier said than done. He was in Poppy’s poky little flat, going through his own household accounts, when it became obvious to him that he had more sons than money. If he was to send them back, he would need two dowries for the grandparents, two amounts for the schooling, two amounts for the clothes. As it was he could barely cover both air fares. Poppy had said: ‘What about your wife? She’s from a rich family isn’t she?’ But Samad had not yet revealed his plan to Alsana. He had only tested the water, mentioning it in a passing, hypothetical way to Clara while she did her gardening. How would she react if someone, acting in Irie’s best interest, took the child away to a better life? Clara rose from her flower bed and stared at him in silent concern, and then laughed long and loud. The man who did that , she said finally, brandishing a large pair of garden shears inches from his crotch, chop, chop . Chop, chop, thought Samad; and it became clear to him what he was going to do.