Free White Teeth by Zadie Smith Page B

mouth.
    â€œKiss it,” he sneered; and then, impersonating Ardashir’s sluggish drawl, “Who knows, cousin, you might get a raise!”
    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:
    Â 
    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.
    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 heartbreaking 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.
    â€œCousin!” 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.
    â€œCousin, come in!”
    â€œGood evening, Ardashir Mukhul,” said Samad, stepping fully into the room.
    â€œSit 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 shades of yellow and green. One had to admire Ardashir’s business sense. He had taken the simple idea of an Indian restaurant (small room, pink tablecloths, loud music, atrocious wallpaper, meals that do not exist in India, sauce carousels) and just made it bigger. He hadn’t improved anything; everything was the same old crap, but it was all bigger in a bigger building in the biggest tourist trap in London, Leicester Square. You had to admire it and admire the man, who sat now like a benign locust, his slender insectile body swamped in a black leather chair, leaning over the desk, all smiles, a parasite disguised as a philanthropist.
    â€œCousin, what can I do for you?”
    Samad took a breath. The matter was this . . .
    Ardashir’s eyes glazed over a little as Samad explained his situation. His skinny legs twitched underneath the desk, and in his fingers he manipulated a paper clip until it looked reasonably like an
A. A
for Ardashir. The matter was . . . what was the matter? The house was the matter. Samad was moving out of East London (where one couldn’t bring up children, indeed one couldn’t, not if one didn’t wish them to come to bodily harm, he agreed), from East London with its NF gangs, to North London, northwest, where things were more . . . more . . . liberal.
    Was it his turn to speak?
    â€œCousin . . .” said Ardashir, arranging his face, “you must understand . . . I cannot make it my business to buy houses for all my employees, cousin or not cousin . . . I pay a wage, cousin . . . That is business in this country.”
    Ardashir shrugged