Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

The Operative gives him a mocking look.

‘We never disclose formulas. We have heard that there are people who are mixing their own poisons at home. This will make your skin bubble like leprosy, and your bones soften like rubber. It could be fatal. Leave these things to the experts.’

Baxter writes a cheque for five packs. At the end of the afternoon, he sees the Operative has parked his unmarked van outside the bearded man’s house and is going in with plastic bags. The man glances at Baxter and give a little shrug. Several of the local inhabitants are making slow journeys past the house; as Baxter moves away he notices faces at nearby windows.

Baxter discovers his wife examining the chequebook.

‘Another cheque!’ she cries. ‘For what?’

‘Three packs!’

‘It doesn’t work.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Just look!’

‘It might be worse without the poison.’

‘How could it be worse? You’re throwing money away!’

‘I’m trying to help us!’

‘You don’t know where to start!’

She blinks and nods with anger. The baby cries. Baxter refuses to recount what the Operative said. She doesn’t deserve an explanation. It does occur to him, though, to smash her in the mouth, and at that instant she flinches and draws back. Oh, how we understand one another, without meaning to!

What suggestions does she have, he enquires, trying to keep down self-disgust. She doesn’t have to consider this; she has intentions. Tired of the secrecy, she will discuss the contagion with a friend, when she has the energy. She wants to go out into the world. She has been lonely.

‘Yes, yes,’ he agrees. ‘That would be good. We must try something new.’

A few days later, as soon as his wife has left for the park, there are several urgent taps on the window. Baxter ducks down. However, it is too late. At the door, with a triumphant twirl, his female neighbour presents a paint pot. She wrenches off the lid. It contains a sticky brown substance like treacle. Her head is thrown back by the reek.

Holding the paint pot at arm’s length, she takes in the room. By now they have, piece by piece, removed a good deal of the furniture, though a few items, the curtains and cushions, have been replaced by spares, since it is imperative to uphold belief. Baxter and his wife can’t encourage visitors, of course. If old friends ring they arrange to see them outside. The only person who visits regularly is his mother-in-law, from whom his wife strives to conceal all signs of decay. This loyalty and protectiveness surprises and moves Baxter. When he asks his wife about it, she says, ‘I don’t want her to blame you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re my husband, stupid.’

The neighbour says, ‘Put this out.’

Baxter looks dubiously at the substance and grimaces. ‘You’re not an expert.’

‘Not an expert? Me?’

‘No.’

‘Who told you to say that?’

‘No one.’

‘Yes they did. Because who is, may I ask? You don’t know, do you?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Experts steal our power and sell it back to us, at a profit. You’re not falling for that, are you?’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘Look.’

She sticks her finger in the stuff, puts it on her tongue, waggles it at him, tastes it, and spits it into a napkin.

‘Your wife’s not going to eat that, even if you smother it in honey,’ she says, gagging. ‘But it’ll draw the little devils from all over the room.’ She gets on her knees and makes a cooing sound. ‘You might notice a dungy smell.’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case — open the window. This is an early prototype.’

She puts out the treacle in his saucers. There is no doubt that the flies are drawn by it, and they do keel over. But they are not diminishing; the treacle seems to entice more and more of them.

She turns to him. ‘Excellent! The ingredients were expensive, you see.’

‘I can’t pay!’ he says forcibly. ‘Not anything!’

‘Everybody wants something for nothing. This then, for now.’ She kisses his mouth. ‘Remember,’ she says, as she goes. ‘Passion. Passion!’

He is staring into the overrun saucers when his wife comes in, holding her nose.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘An acquaintance. A kind neighbour.’

‘That harridan who stares at me so? You’re swayed by the oddest people. Any fool’s flattery can seduce you.’

‘Clearly.’

‘But it stinks!’

‘The houses are old, the century is old … what do you expect?’

He sticks his finger in the muck, licks it and bends forward, holding his stomach.

‘Baxter, you are suffering from insanity.’ She says softly, ‘You would prefer her opinion to mine. But why? Is something going on there?’

‘No!’

‘You don’t care about me now, do you?’

‘I do.’

‘Liar. The truth counts for nothing with you.’

He notices she has kept her coat on. She puts the baby in his cot. She has finally arranged to visit her best friend, a well-off snobbish woman with two children whose exhibitions of affluence and happiness can be exasperating. He notices now the trouble his wife has taken to look her best. A woman’s face alters when she has a baby, and a new beauty may emerge. But she still looks shabby in her ragged clothes, and strained, as if from the effort of constantly keeping something bad away.

From the window he watches her go, and is happy that at least her determination hasn’t gone. There is, though, nothing left of their innocence.

Baxter digs a hole in the garden and throws in the odoriferous paint pot and saucers. To avoid his neighbour, he will have to be sure to look both ways and hurry when leaving the house.

He gets the boy up and lies on the floor with him. The kid crawls about, banging a wooden spoon on a metal tray, a noise which delights him, and keeps away all flies. He seems unaffected by the strange tensions around him. Every day he is different, full of enthusiasm and curiosity, and Baxter doesn’t want to miss a moment.

He looks up to see the Operative waving through the window. Baxter has never seen him so genial.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’ve nabbed some of the latest development and rushed it straight to you.’ He puts several tins of a sticky treaclish substance on the table. ‘It’s a free sample.’

Baxter pushes him towards the door. ‘Get out.’

‘But —’

‘Pour the tins over your head!’

‘Don’t shove! You’re giving up, are you?’ The Operative is enraged but affects sadness. ‘It is a common reaction. You think you can shut your eyes to it. But your wife will never stop despising you, and your child will be made sick!’ Baxter lunges at him. The man skips down the steps. ‘Or have you got a solution of your own?’ he sneers. ‘Everyone thinks that at some time. But they’re deceived! You’ll be back. I await your call but might be too busy to take it.’

When Baxter’s wife returns they sit attentively opposite one another and have a keen discussion. The visit to her friend has animated her.

‘She and the house and the children were immaculate and practically gold-plated, as usual. I kept thinking, I’m never going to be able to bring the subject up. Fortunately the phone rang. I went to the bathroom. I opened her closet.’ Baxter nods, understanding this. ‘She loves clothes, but there was virtually nothing in there. There were powders and poisons in the bottom.’

‘They’ve been married six years,’ says Baxter.

‘He’s lazy —’

‘She’s domineering —’

‘He’s promiscuous —’

‘She’s frigid —’

‘Just shut up and listen!’ She continues, ‘The rich aren’t immune but they can afford to replace everything. When I brought up the subject she knew what I was talking about. She admitted to a slight outbreak — from next door.’ They both laugh. ‘She even said she was thinking of making a radio programme about it. And if there’s a good response, a television investigation.’ Baxter nods. ‘I’m afraid there’s only one thing for it. There’s this man they’ve found. All the top people are using him.’