Salman Rushdie - The Satanic Verses

In spite of his inability to relax and take for granted Chamcha's residence upstairs, something in Jumpy Joshi was eased by receiving, in this unusual way, his predecessor's blessings. Able to reconcile the imperatives of love and friendship, he cheered up a good deal, and found the idea of fatherhood growing on him. One night he dreamed a dream that made him weep, the next morning, in delighted anticipation: a simple dream, in which he was running down an avenue of overarching trees, helping a small boy to ride a bicycle. ‘Aren't you pleased with me?’ the boy cried in his elation. ‘Look: aren't you pleased?’

Pamela and Jumpy had both become involved in the campaign mounted to protest against the arrest of Dr Uhuru Simba for the so-called Granny Ripper Murders. This, too, Jumpy went upstairs to discuss with Saladin. ‘The whole thing's completely trumped-up, based on circumstantial evidence and insinuations. Hanif reckons he can drive a truck through the holes in the prosecution case. It's just a straightforward malicious fit-up; the only question is how far they'll go. They'll verbal him for sure. Maybe there will even be witnesses saying they saw him do the slicing. Depends how badly they want to get him. Pretty badly, I'd say; he's been a loud voice around town for some while.’ Chamcha recommended caution. Recalling Mishal Sufyan's loathing for Simba, he said: ‘The fellow has – has he not? – a record of violence towards women...’ Jumpy turned his palms outward. ‘In his personal life,’ he owned, ‘the guy's frankly a piece of shit. But that doesn't mean he disembowels senior citizens; you don't have to be an angel to be innocent. Unless, of course, you're black.’ Chamcha let this pass. ‘The point is, this isn't personal, it's political,’ Jumpy emphasized, adding, as he got up to leave, ‘Urn, there's a public meeting about it tomorrow. Pamela and I have to go; please, I mean if you'd like, if you'd be interested, that is, come along if you want.’

‘You asked him to go with us?’ Pamela was incredulous. She had started to feel nauseous most of the time, and it did nothing for her mood. ‘You actually did that without consulting me?’ Jumpy looked crestfallen. ‘Doesn't matter, anyhow,’ she let him off the hook. ‘Catch him going to anything like that .’

In the morning, however, Saladin presented himself in the hall, wearing a smart brown suit, a camel coat with a silk collar, and a rather natty brown homburg hat. ‘Where are you off to?’ Pamela, in turban, army-surplus leather jacket and tracksuit bottoms that revealed the incipient thickening of her middle, wanted to know. ‘Bloody Ascot?’

‘I believe I was invited to a meeting,’ Saladin answered in his least combative manner, and Pamela freaked. ‘You want to be careful,’ she warned him. ‘The way you look, you'll probably get fucking mugged.’

What drew him back into the otherworld, into that undercity whose existence he had so long denied? – What, or rather who, forced him by the simple fact of its (her) existence, to emerge from that cocoon-den in which he was being – or so he believed – restored to his former self, and plunge once more into the perilous (because uncharted) waters of the world and of himself? ‘I’il be able to fit in the meeting,’ Jumpy Joshi had told Saladin, ‘before my karate class.’ – Where his star pupil waited: long, rainbow-haired and, Jumpy added, just past her eighteenth birthday. – Not knowing that Jumpy, too, was suffering some of the same illicit longings, Saladin crossed town to be nearer to Mishal Sufyan.

He had expected the meeting to be small, envisaging a back room somewhere full of suspicious types looking and talking like clones of Malcolm X (Chamcha could remember finding funny a TV comic's joke – ‘Then there's the one about the black man who changed his name to Mr. X and sued the News of the World for libel’ – and provoking one of the worst quarrels of his marriage), with maybe a few angry-looking women as well; he had pictured much fist-clenching and righteousness. What he found was a large hall, the Brickhall Friends Meeting House, packed wall-to-wall with every conceivable sort of person – old, wide women and uniformed schoolchildren, Rastas and restaurant workers, the staff of the small Chinese supermarket in Plassey Street, soberly dressed gents as well as wild boys, whites as well as blacks; the mood of the crowd was far from the kind of evangelical hysteria he'd imagined; it was quiet, worried, wanting to know what could be done. There was a young black woman standing near him who gave his attire an amused once-over; he stared back at her, and she laughed: ‘Okay, sorry, no offence.’ She was wearing a lenticular badge, the sort that changed its message as you moved. At some angles it read, Uhuru for the Simba ; at others, Freedom for the Lion . ‘It's on account of the meaning of his chosen name,’ she explained redundantly. ‘In African.’ Which language? Saladin wanted to know. She shrugged, and turned away to listen to the speakers. It was African: born, by the sound of her, in Lewisham or Deptford or New Cross, that was all she needed to know... Pamela hissed into his ear. ‘I see you finally found somebody to feel superior to.’ She could still read him like a book.

A minute woman in her middle seventies was led up on to the stage at the far end of the hall by a wiry man who, Chamcha was almost reassured to observe, really did look like an American Black Power leader, the young Stokely Carmichael, in fact – the same intense spectacles – and who was acting as a sort of compere. He turned out to be Dr Simba's kid brother Walcott Roberts, and the tiny lady was their mother, Antoinette. ‘God knows how anything as big as Simba ever came out of her,’ Jumpy whispered, and Pamela frowned angrily, out of a new feeling of solidarity with all pregnant women, past as well as present. When Antoinette Roberts spoke, however, her voice was big enough to fill the room on lung-power alone. She wanted to talk about her son's day in court, at the committal proceedings, and she was quite a performer. Hers was what Chamcha thought of as an educated voice; she spoke in the BBC accents of one who learned her English diction from the World Service, but there was gospel in there, too, and hellfire sermonizing. ‘My son filled that dock,’ she told the silent room. ‘Lord, he filled it up . Sylvester – you will pardon me if I use the name I gave him, not meaning to belittle the warrior's name he took for himself, but only out of ingrained habit – Sylvester, he burst upwards from that dock like Leviathan from the waves. I want you to know how he spoke: he spoke loud, and he spoke clear. He spoke looking his adversary in the eye, and could that prosecutor stare him down? Never in a month of Sundays. And I want you to know what he said: “I stand here,” my son declared, “because I have chosen to occupy the old and honourable role of the uppity nigger. I am here because I have not been willing to seem reasonable. I am here for my ingratitude.” He was a colossus among the dwarfs. “Make no mistake,” he said in that court, “we are here to change things. I concede at once that we shall ourselves be changed; African, Caribbean, Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Cypriot, Chinese, we are other than what we would have been if we had not crossed the oceans, if our mothers and fathers had not crossed the skies in search of work and dignity and a better life for their children. We have been made again: but I say that we shall also be the ones to remake this society, to shape it from the bottom to the top. We shall be the hewers of the dead wood and the gardeners of the new. It is our turn now.” I wish you to think on what my son, Sylvester Roberts, Dr Uhuru Simba, said in the place of justice. Think on it while we decide what we must do.’