Free White Teeth by Zadie Smith Page A

You’re the worst fucking waiter I’ve ever seen! You couldn’t get a tip if you mugged the bastards! I hear you trying to talk to the customer about biology this, politics that — just serve the food, you idiot — you’re a waiter, for fuck’s sake, you’re not Michael Parkinson. “
Did I hear you say Delhi
” ’ — Shiva put his apron over his arm and began posturing around the kitchen (he was a pitiful mimic) — ‘ “I was there myself, you know, Delhi University, it was most fascinating, yes — and I fought in the war, for England, yes — yes, yes, charming, charming.” ’ Round and round the kitchen he went, bending his head and rubbing his hands over and over like Uriah Heep, bowing and genuflecting to the head cook, to the old man arranging great hunks of meat in the walk-in freezer, to the young boy scrubbing the underside of the oven. ‘Samad,
Samad
 . . .’ he said with what seemed infinite pity, then stopped abruptly, pulled the apron off and wrapped it round his waist. ‘You are such a sad little man.’
    Muhammed looked up from his pot-scrubbing and shook his head again and again. To no one in particular he said, ‘These young people — what kind of talk? What kind of talk? What happened to respect? What kind of talk is this?’
    ‘And you can fuck off too,’ said Shiva, brandishing a ladle in his direction, ‘you old fool. You’re not my father.’
    ‘Second cousin of your mother’s uncle,’ a voice muttered from the back.
    ‘Bollocks,’ said Shiva. ‘Bollocks to that.’
    He grabbed the mop and was heading off for the toilets, when he stopped by Samad and placed the handle inches from Samad’s mouth.
    ‘Kiss it,’ he sneered; and then, impersonating Ardashir’s sluggish drawl, ‘Who knows, cousin, you might get a rise!’
    And that’s what it was like most nights: abuse from Shiva and others; condescension from Ardashir; never seeing Alsana; never seeing the sun; clutching fifteen pence and then releasing it; wanting desperately to be wearing a sign, a large white placard that said:
     
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I AM NOT A WAITER. I HAVE BEEN A STUDENT, A SCIENTIST, A SOLDIER, MY WIFE IS CALLED ALSANA, WE LIVE IN EAST LONDON BUT WE WOULD LIKE TO MOVE NORTH. I AM A MUSLIM BUT ALLAH HAS FORSAKEN ME OR I HAVE FORSAKEN ALLAH, I’M NOT SURE. I HAVE A FRIEND — ARCHIE — AND OTHERS. I AM FORTY-NINE BUT WOMEN STILL TURN IN THE STREET. SOMETIMES.
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    But, no such placard existing, he had instead the urge, the need, to speak to every man, and, like the Ancient Mariner, explain constantly, constantly wanting to reassert something, anything. Wasn’t that important? But then the heart-breaking disappointment — to find out that the inclining of one’s head, poising of one’s pen, these were important, so important — it was important to be a good waiter, to listen when someone said—
    Lamb Dawn Sock and rice. With chips. Thank you.
    And fifteen pence clinked on china. Thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.
     
     
    On the Tuesday after Archie’s wedding, Samad had waited till everyone left, folded his white, flared trousers (made from the same fabric as the tablecloths) into a perfect square, and then climbed the stairs to Ardashir’s office, for he had something to ask him.
    ‘Cousin!’ said Ardashir, with a friendly grimace at the sight of Samad’s body curling cautiously round the door. He knew that Samad had come to inquire about a pay increase, and he wanted his cousin to feel that he had at least considered the case in all his friendly judiciousness before he declined.
    ‘Cousin, come in!’
    ‘Good evening, Ardashir Mukhul,’ said Samad, stepping fully into the room.
    ‘Sit down, sit down,’ said Ardashir warmly. ‘No point standing on ceremony now, is there?’
    Samad was glad this was so. He said as much. He took a moment to look with the necessary admiration around the room, with its relentless gold, with its triple-piled carpet, with its furnishings in various