White Teeth

‘CHIPS, BEANS, EGG, MUSHROOM! OMELETTE AND MUSHROOMS!’

Samad raised his hand and turned to the counter. ‘Abdul-Mickey!’ he yelled, his voice assuming a slight, comic, cockney twinge. ‘Over here, my guvnor, please.’

Mickey looked at Samad, leant on the counter, and wiped his nose with his apron.

‘Now you know better than that. It’s self-service around here, gentlemen. This ain’t the fucking Waldorf.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Archie, sliding out of his seat.

‘How is he?’ asked Mickey under his breath, as he pushed the plate towards Archie.

Archie frowned. ‘Du

‘Don’t have to tell me, mate,’ said Mickey, shaking his head. ‘I wrote the fucking book, didn’t I? Look at my littlest, Abdul-Jimmy. Up in juvenile court next week for swiping fucking VW medallions. I says to ’im, you fucking stupid or sommink? What the fuck is the point of that? At least steal the fucking car, if that’s the way you feel about it. I mean, why? ’E says it’s sommink to do wiv some fucking Beetie Boys or some such bollocks. Well, I says to him, that lot are dead as shit if I get hold of ’em, and I can tell you that for fucking nothing. No sense of tradition, no fucking morality, is the problem.’

Archie nodded and picked up a wad of napkins with which to handle the hot dishes.

‘If you want my advice – and you do, ’cos that’s part of the special relationship between caff owner and caff customer – you tell Samad he has two options. He can either send them back to the old country, back to India-’

‘Bangladesh,’ corrected Archie, nicking a chip from Samad’s meal.

‘Whereverthefuckitis. He can send ’em back there and have ’em brought up proper, by their granddads and grandmums, have ’em learn about their fucking culture, have ’em grow up with some fucking principles. Or – one minute – CHIPS, BEANS, PATTIE AND MUSHROOMS! FOR TWO!’

Denzel and Clarence ever so slowly sidled up to the hot plates.

‘Dat pattie look strange,’ said Clarence.

‘ ’Im try to poison us,’ said Denzel.

‘Dem mushroom look peculiar,’ said Clarence.

‘ ’Im try to infiltrate a good man with de devil’s food,’ said Denzel.

Mickey slapped his egg slice down on Denzel’s fingers, ‘Oi. Morecambe and fucking Wise. Get a new fucking routine, all right?’

‘Or what?’ persisted Archie.

‘ ’Im tryin’ to kill an ’ol man. An ’ol, weak man,’ muttered Denzel, as the two of them shuffled back to their seats.

‘Fucking ’ell, those two. They’re only alive ’cos they’re too stingy to pay for the fucking cremation.’

‘Or what?’

‘What?’

‘What’s the second option?’

‘Oh, yeah. Well, second option’s obvious, i

‘Is it?’

‘Accept it. He’ll have to accept it, won’t he. We’re all English now, mate. Like it or lump it, as the rhubarb said to the custard. And that’ll be two fifty, Archibald, my good man. The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over.’

The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers ended ten years ago. For ten years Mickey had been saying, ‘The golden age of Luncheon Vouchers is over.’And that’s what Archie loved about O’Co

When Archie returned to table eight, Samad was like Jeeves: if not exactly disgruntled, then some way from being gruntled.

‘Archibald, did you take a wrong turn at the Ganges? Weren’t you listening to my dilemma? I am corrupt, my sons are becoming corrupt, we are all soon to burn in the fires of hell. These are problems of some urgency, Archibald.’

Archie smiled serenely and stole another chip. ‘Problem solved, Samad, mate.’

‘Problem solved?’

‘Problem solved. Now, the way I see it, you have two options…’

Around the begi

If religion is the opium of the people, tradition is an even more sinister analgesic, simply because it rarely appears sinister. If religion is a tight band, a throbbing vein and a needle, tradition is a far homelier concoction: poppy seeds ground into tea; a sweet cocoa drink laced with cocaine; the kind of thing your grandmother might have made. To Samad, as to the people of Thailand, tradition was culture, and culture led to roots, and these were good, these were untainted principles. That didn’t mean he could live by them, abide by them or grow in the ma

‘One of them?’

O’Co

‘Just one of them?’

‘Archibald, please keep your voice down.’

‘But – just one of them?’

‘That is what I said. Chop, chop.’ He divided the fried egg on his plate down the middle. ‘There is no other way.’

‘But-’

Archie was thinking again, as best he could. The same old stuff. You know, why couldn’t people just get on with things, just live together, you know, in peace or harmony or something. But he didn’t say any of that. He just said, ‘But – ’ And then, ‘But-’

And then finally, ‘But which one?’

And that (if you’re counting air fare, dowry, initial schooling fee) was the three thousand, two hundred and forty-five quid question. Once the money was sorted – yes, he remortgaged the house, he risked his land, the greatest mistake an immigrant can make – it was simply a matter of choosing the child. For the first week it was going to be Magid, definitely Magid. Magid had the brains, Magid would settle down quicker, learn the language quicker, and Archie had a vested interest in keeping Millat in the country because he was the best striker Willesden Athletic FC (under fifteens) had seen in decades. So Samad began stealing Magid’s clothes away for surreptitious packing, arranged a separate passport (he would be travelling with auntie Zinat on 4 November) and had a word in the ear of the school (long holiday, could he be given some homework to take with him, etc.).