Zadie Smith - White Teeth

But every time Irie felt herself closer to it, to the perfect blankness of the past, something of the present would ring the Bowden doorbell and intrude. Mothering Sunday brought a surprise visit from Joshua, angry on the doorstep, at least a stone and a half lighter, and much scruffier than usual. Before Irie had a chance to express either concern or shock, he had flounced into the lounge and slammed the door. ‘I’m sick of it! Sick to the back fucking teeth with it!’

The vibration of the door knocked Capt. Durham from his perch on Irie’s windowsill, and she carefully re-erected him.

‘Yeah, nice to see you too, man. Why don’t you sit down and slow down. Sick of what?’

‘ Them . They sicken me. They go on about rights and freedoms, and then they eat fifty chickens every fucking week! Hypocrites!’

Irie couldn’t immediately see the connection. She took out a fag in preparation for a long story. To her surprise Joshua took one too, and they went to kneel on the window seat, blowing smoke through the grate up into the street.

‘Do you know how battery chickens live?’

Irie didn’t. Joshua explained. Cooped up for most of their poor chicken lives in total chicken darkness, packed together like chicken sardines in their chicken shit and fed the worst type of chicken grain.

And this, according to Joshua, was apparently nothing on how pigs and cows and sheep spent their time. ‘It’s a fucking crime . But try telling Marcus that. Try getting him to give up his Sunday hog-fest. He’s so fucking ill informed. Have you ever noticed that? He knows this enormous amount about one thing, but there’s this whole other world that… Oh, before I forget – you should take a leaflet.’

Irie never thought she would see the day when Joshua Chalfen handed her a leaflet. But here it was in her palm. It was called: Meat is Murder: The Facts and the Fiction , a publication from the FATE organization.

‘It stands for Fighting Animal Torture and Exploitation. They’re like the hardcore end of Greenpeace or whatever. Read it – they’re not just hippy freaks, they’re coming from a solid scientific and academic background and they’re working from an anarchist perspective. I feel like I’ve really found my niche, you know? It’s a really incredible group. Dedicated to direct action. The deputy’s an ex-Oxford fellow.’

‘Mmmm. How’s Millat?’

Joshua shook off the question. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Barmy. Going barmy. And Joyce is still pandering to his every whim. Just don’t ask me. They all sicken me. Everything’s changed.’ Josh ran his fingers anxiously through his hair, which just reached his shoulders now in what Willesdeners affectionately call a Jew-fro Mullet. ‘I just can’t tell you how everything’s changed. I’m having these real… moments of clarity .’

Irie nodded. She was sympathetic to moments of clarity. Her seventeenth year was proving chock-a-block with them. And she wasn’t surprised by Joshua’s metamorphosis. Four months in the life of a seventeen-year-old is the stuff of swings and roundabouts; Stones fans into Beatles fans, Tories into Liberal Democrats and back again, vinyl junkies to CD freaks. Never again in your life do you possess the capacity for such total personality overhaul.

‘I knew you’d understand. I wish I’d talked to you before, but I just can’t bear to be in the house these days and when I do see you Millat always seems to be in the way. It’s really good to see you.’

‘You too. You look different.’

Josh gestured dismissively at his clothes, which were distinctly less nerdy than they had been.

‘I guess you can’t wear your father’s old corduroy for ever.’

‘I guess not.’

Joshua clapped his hands together. ‘Well, I’ve booked my ticket for Glastonbury and I might not come back. I met these people from FATE and I’m going with them.’

‘It’s March. Not till the summer, surely.’

‘Joely and Crispin – that’s these people I met – say we might go up there early. You know, camp out for a bit.’

‘And school?’

‘If you can bunk, I can bunk… it’s not as if I’m going to fall behind. I’ve still got a Chalfen head on my shoulders, I’ll just come back for the exams and then fuck off again. Irie, you’ve just got to meet these people. They’re just… incredible. He’s a Dadaist. And she’s an anarchist. A real one. Not like Marcus. I told her about Marcus and his bloody FutureMouse. She thinks he’s a dangerous individual. Quite possibly psychopathic.’

Irie thought about this. ‘Mmm. I’d be surprised.’

Without stubbing out his fag, he threw it up on to the pavement. ‘And I’m giving up all meat. I’m a pescatarian at the moment, but that’s just half measures. I’m becoming a fucking vegetarian.’

Irie shrugged, not certain what the right response should be.

‘There’s a lot to be said for the old motto, you know?’

‘Old motto?’

‘ Fight fire with fire . It’s only by really fucking extreme behaviour that you can get through to somebody like Marcus. He doesn’t even know how out there he is. There’s no point being reasonable with him because he thinks he owns reasonableness. How do you deal with people like that? Oh, and I’m giving up leather – wearing it – and all other animal by-products. Gelatin and stuff.’

After a while of watching the feet go by – leathers, sneakers, heels – Irie said, ‘That’ll show ’em.’

On April Fool’s Day, Samad turned up. He was all in white, on his way to the restaurant, crumpled and creased like a disappointed saint. He looked to be on the brink of tears. Irie let him in.

‘Hello, Miss Jones,’ said Samad, bowing ever so slightly. ‘And how is your father?’

Irie smiled with recognition. ‘You see him more than we do. How’s God?’

‘Perfectly fine, thank you. Have you seen my good-for-nothing son recently?’

Before Irie had a chance to give her next line, Samad broke down in front of her and had to be led into the living room, sat in Darcus’s chair and brought a cup of tea before he could speak.

‘Mr Iqbal, what’s wrong?’

‘What is right?’

‘Has something happened to Dad?’

‘Oh no, no… Archibald is fine. He is like the washing-machine advert. He carries on and on as ever.’

‘Then what?’

‘Millat. He has been missing these three weeks.’

‘God. Well, have you tried the Chalfens?’

‘He is not with them. I know where he is. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. He is on some retreat with these lunatic green-tie people. In a sports centre in Chester.’

‘Bloody hell.’

Irie sat down cross-legged and took out a fag. ‘I hadn’t seen him in school, but I didn’t realize how long it had been. But if you know where he is…’

‘I didn’t come here to find him, I came to ask your advice, Irie. What can I do? You know him – how does one get through?’

Irie bit her lip, her mother’s old habit. ‘I mean, I don’t know… we’re not as close as we were… but I’ve always thought that maybe it’s the Magid thing… missing him… I mean he’d never admit it… but Magid’s his twin and maybe if he saw him-’

‘No, no. No, no, no. I wish that were the solution. Allah knows how I pinned all my hopes on Magid. And now he says he is coming back to study the English law – paid for by these Chalfen people. He wants to enforce the laws of man rather than the laws of God. He has learnt none of the lessons of Muhammad – peace be upon Him! Of course, his mother is delighted. But he is nothing but a disappointment to me. More English than the English. Believe me, Magid will do Millat no good and Millat will do Magid no good. They have both lost their way. Strayed so far from the life I had intended for them. No doubt they will both marry white women called Sheila and put me in an early grave. All I wanted was two good Muslim boys. Oh, Irie…’ Samad took her free hand and patted it with sad affection. ‘I just don’t understand where I have gone wrong. You teach them but they do not listen because they have the “Public Enemy” music on at full blast. You show them the road and they take the bloody path to the Inns of Court. You guide them and they run from your grasp to a Chester sports centre. You try to plan everything and nothing happens in the way that you expected…’