Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

And, according to Ali, in the world of accountants it was usual to meet women, drink alcohol and practise usury.

‘But it’s well-paid work,’ Parvez argued. ‘For years you’ve been preparing!’

Ali said he was going to begin to work in prisons, with poor Muslims who were struggling to maintain their purity in the face of corruption. Finally, at the end of the evening, as Ali was going to bed, he had asked his father why he didn’t have a beard, or at least a moustache.

‘I feel as if I’ve lost my son,’ Parvez told Bettina. ‘I can’t bear to be looked at as if I’m a criminal. I’ve decided what to do.’

‘What is it?’

‘I’m going to tell him to pick up his prayer mat and get out of my house. It will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but tonight I’m going to do it.’

‘But you mustn’t give up on him,’ said Bettina. ‘Many young people fall into cults and superstitious groups. It doesn’t mean they’ll always feel the same way.’

She said Parvez had to stick by his boy, giving him support, until he came through.

Parvez was persuaded that she was right, even though he didn’t feel like giving his son more love when he had hardly been thanked for all he had already given.

Nevertheless, Parvez tried to endure his son’s looks and reproaches. He attempted to make conversation about his beliefs. But if Parvez ventured any criticism, Ali always had a brusque reply. On one occasion Ali accused Parvez of ‘grovelling’ to the whites; in contrast, he explained, he was not ‘inferior’; there was more to the world than the West, though the West always thought it was best.

‘How is it you know that?’ Parvez said, ‘seeing as you’ve never left England?’

Ali replied with a look of contempt.

One night, having ensured there was no alcohol on his breath, Parvez sat down at the kitchen table with Ali. He hoped Ali would compliment him on the beard he was growing but Ali didn’t appear to notice.

The previous day Parvez had been telling Bettina that he thought people in the West sometimes felt inwardly empty and that people needed a philosophy to live by.

‘Yes,’ said Bettina. ‘That’s the answer. You must tell him what your philosophy of life is. Then he will understand that there are other beliefs.’

After some fatiguing consideration, Parvez was ready to begin. The boy watched him as if he expected nothing.

Haltingly Parvez said that people had to treat one another with respect, particularly children their parents. This did seem, for a moment, to affect the boy. Heartened, Parvez continued. In his view this life was all there was and when you died you rotted in the earth. ‘Grass and flowers will grow out of me, but something of me will live on —’

‘How?’

‘In other people. I will continue — in you.’ At this the boy appeared a little distressed. ‘And your grandchildren,’ Parvez added for good measure. ‘But while I am here on earth I want to make the best of it. And I want you to, as well!’

‘What d’you mean by “make the best of it”?’ asked the boy.

‘Well,’ said Parvez. ‘For a start … you should enjoy yourself. Yes. Enjoy yourself without hurting others.’

Ali said that enjoyment was a ‘bottomless pit’.

‘But I don’t mean enjoyment like that!’ said Parvez. ‘I mean the beauty of living!’

‘All over the world our people are oppressed,’ was the boy’s reply.

‘I know,’ Parvez replied, not entirely sure who ‘our people’ were, ‘but still — life is for living!’

Ali said, ‘Real morality has existed for hundreds of years. Around the world millions and millions of people share my beliefs. Are you saying you are right and they are all wrong?’

Ali looked at his father with such aggressive confidence that Parvez could say no more.

One evening Bettina was sitting in Parvez’s car, after visiting a client, when they passed a boy on the street.

‘That’s my son,’ Parvez said suddenly. They were on the other side of town, in a poor district, where there were two mosques.

Parvez set his face hard.

Bettina turned to watch him. ‘Slow down then, slow down!’ She said, ‘He’s good-looking. Reminds me of you. But with a more determined face. Please, can’t we stop?’

‘What for?’

‘I’d like to talk to him.’

Parvez turned the cab round and stopped beside the boy.

‘Coming home?’ Parvez asked. ‘It’s quite a way.’

The sullen boy shrugged and got into the back seat. Bettina sat in the front. Parvez became aware of Bettina’s short skirt, gaudy rings and ice-blue eyeshadow. He became conscious that the smell of her perfume, which he loved, filled the cab. He opened the window.

While Parvez drove as fast as he could, Bettina said gently to Ali, ‘Where have you been?’

‘The mosque,’ he said.

‘And how are you getting on at college? Are you working hard?’

‘Who are you to ask me these questions?’ he said, looking out of the window. Then they hit bad traffic and the car came to a standstill.

By now Bettina had inadvertently laid her hand on Parvez’s shoulder. She said, ‘Your father, who is a good man, is very worried about you. You know he loves you more than his own life.’

‘You say he loves me,’ the boy said.

‘Yes!’ said Bettina.

‘Then why is he letting a woman like you touch him like that?’

If Bettina looked at the boy in anger, he looked back at her with twice as much cold fury.

She said, ‘What kind of woman am I that deserves to be spoken to like that?’

‘You know,’ he said. ‘Now let me out.’

‘Never,’ Parvez replied.

‘Don’t worry, I’m getting out,’ Bettina said.

‘No, don’t!’ said Parvez. But even as the car moved she opened the door, threw herself out and ran away across the road. Parvez shouted after her several times, but she had gone.

Parvez took Ali back to the house, saying nothing more to him. Ali went straight to his room. Parvez was unable to read the paper, watch television or even sit down. He kept pouring himself drinks.

At last he went upstairs and paced up and down outside Ali’s room. When, finally, he opened the door, Ali was praying. The boy didn’t even glance his way.

Parvez kicked him over. Then he dragged the boy up by his shirt and hit him. The boy fell back. Parvez hit him again. The boy’s face was bloody. Parvez was panting. He knew that the boy was unreachable, but he struck him nonetheless. The boy neither covered himself nor retaliated; there was no fear in his eyes. He only said, through his split lip: ‘So who’s the fanatic now?’

I’m at this dinner. She’s eighteen. After knowing her six months I’ve been invited to meet her parents. I am, to my surprise, forty-four, same age as her dad, a professor — a man of some achievement, but not that much. He is looking at me or, as I imagine, looking me over. The girl-woman will always be his daughter, but for now she is my lover.

Her two younger sisters are at the table, also beautiful, but with a tendency to giggle, particularly when facing in my direction. The mother, a teacher, is putting a soft pink trout on the table. I think, for once, yes, this is the life, what they call a happy family, they’ve asked to meet me, why not settle down and enjoy it?

But what happens, the moment I’m comfortable I’ve got to have a crap. In all things I’m irregular. It’s been two days now and not a dry pellet. And the moment I sit down in my better clothes with the family I’ve got to go.

These are good people but they’re a little severe. I am accompanied by disadvantages — my age, no job, never had one, and my … tendencies. I like to say, though I won’t tonight — unless things get out of hand — that my profession is failure. After years of practice, I’m quite a success at it.