White Teeth

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.

He even saw it like that, in that font, like on the movie poster. And when he found himself doing it, he tried desperately not to, he tried to fix it, but Millat’s mind was a mess and more often than not he’d end up pushing upon the door, head back, shoulders forward, Liotta style, thinking:

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a Muslim.

He knew, in a way, this was worse, but he just couldn’t help it. He kept a white handkerchief in his top pocket, he always carried dice, even though he had no idea what a crap game actually was, he loved long camel jackets and he could cook a killer seafood linguine, though a lamb curry was completely beyond him. It was all haraam, he knew that.

Worst of all was the anger inside him. Not the righteous anger of a man of God, but the seething, violent anger of a gangster, a juvenile delinquent, determined to prove himself, determined to run the clan, determined to beat the rest. And if the game was God, if the game was a fight against the West, against the presumptions of Western science, against his brother or Marcus Chalfen, he was determined to win it. Millat stubbed his fag out against the ba

‘Millat!’

‘Amma.’

‘Millat!’

‘Joyce.’

(Great, supwoib, so we all know each other, went Millat’s i

‘All right, gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed. It is simply my son. Magid, Mickey. Mickey, Magid.’

O’Co

‘Whattareya tryin’ to do to us, Sammy?’ asked Joh

‘Oo ’im?’ demanded Denzel, who had not yet died.

‘Your batty bwoy?’ inquired Clarence, who was also, by God’s grace, hanging on in there.

‘All right, gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed. It is simply my son. Magid, Mickey. Mickey, Magid.’

Mickey looked a little dumbfounded by this introduction, and just stood there for a minute, a soggy fried egg hanging off his spatula.

‘Magid Mahfooz Murshed Mubtasim Iqbal,’ said Magid serenely. ‘It is a great honour to meet you, Michael. I have heard such a great deal about you.’

Which was odd, because Samad had never told him a thing.

Mickey continued to look over Magid’s shoulder to Samad for confirmation. ‘You what? You mean the one you, er, sent back ’ome? This is Magid?’

‘Yes, yes, this is Magid,’ replied Samad rapidly, pissed off by all the attention the boy was getting. ‘Now, Archibald and I will have our usuals and-’

‘Magid Iqbal,’ repeated Mickey slowly. ‘Well, I bloody never. You know you’d never guess you was an Iqbal. You’ve got a very trusting, well, kind of sympathetic face, if you get me.’

‘And yet I am an Iqbal, Michael,’ said Magid, laying that look of total empathy on Mickey and the other dregs of humanity huddled around the hot counter, ‘though I have been gone a long time.’

‘Say that again. Well, this is a turn-up for the books. I’ve got your… wait a minute, let me get this right… your great-great-grandfather up there, see?’

‘I noticed it the moment I came in, and I can assure you, Michael, my soul is very grateful for it,’ said Magid, beaming like an angel. ‘It makes me feel at home, and, as this place is dear to my father and his friend Archibald Jones I feel certain it shall also be dear to me. They have brought me here, I think, to discuss important matters, and I for one can think of no better place for them, despite your clearly debilitating skin condition.’

Mickey was simply bowled over by that, and could not conceal his pleasure, addressing his reply both to Magid and the rest of O’Co

‘Speaks fuckin’ nice, don’t he? Sounds like a right fuckin’ Olivier. Queen’s fucking English and no mistake. What a nice fella. You’re the kind of clientele I could do wiv in here, Magid, let me tell you. Civilized and that. And don’t you worry about my skin, it don’t get anywhere near the food and it don’t give me much trouble. Cor, what a gentleman. You do feel like you should watch your mouth around him, dontcha?’

‘Mine and Archibald’s usual, then, please, Mickey,’ said Samad. ‘I’ll leave my son to make up his mind. We will be over by the pinball.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mickey, not bothering or able to turn his gaze from Magid’s dark eyes.

‘Dat a lovely suit you gat dere,’ murmured Denzel, stroking the white linen wistfully. ‘Dat’s what de Englishmen use ta wear back home in Jamaica, remember dat, Clarence?’

Clarence nodded slowly, dribbling a little, struck by the beatific.

‘Go on, get out of it, the pair of you,’ grumbled Mickey, shooing them away, ‘I’ll bring it over, all right? I want to talk to Magid here. Growing boy, he’s got to eat. So: what is it I can get you, Magid?’ Mickey leant over the counter, all concern, like an over-attentive shopgirl. ‘Eggs? Mushrooms? Beans? Fried slice?’

‘I think,’ replied Magid, slowly surveying the dusty chalkboard menus on the wall, and then turning back to Mickey, his face illumined, ‘I should like a bacon sandwich. Yes, that is it. I would love a juicy, yet well-done, tomato ketchup-ed bacon sandwich. On brown.’

Oh, the struggle that could be seen on Mickey’s kisser at that moment! Oh, the gargoylian contortions! It was a battle between the favour of the most refined customer he had ever had and the most hallowed, sacred rule of O’Co