such behavior makes people unhappy. In the long run. I am telling you.”
“England’s not like that. Not really.”
“But I have seen it.”
“Then it must be a funny place, St. John’s Wood, that’s all I can say.”
Yasmin never raised her voice, never insisted; just plowed her lonely furrow. Almost every day she would unveil some new, astonishing viewpoint. Shams was on her knees in the hall, working on the carpets with a brush and pan, on red hand-knotted rugs whose seamless geometry recalled the unfathomable nature and eternal vigilance of Allah himself. The kitchen filled with steam.
When she was back in Flat 1 Frances found she could not follow Yasmin’s recipes. “Oh, you just take a handful of this,” Yasmin would say, “and take some of that—”
“How much?”
“Oh, just what you think you need …”
And to Frances’s objections, and queries, she would say, “It comes with practice. All English food,” she would say, “is boiled. That is why it has no taste.” She would tap her spoon against the
side of the pan, and exhale with theatrical weariness, and hold out her hands so that Frances could pass her a towel to wipe them; the artistry was over, Shams would clear up the mess. “I will send you some of this, later,” she would say. “Shams will bring you a dish of it across.”
Frances got Andrew to take her uptown, to the lending library run by the British community. “I want to borrow some cookery books,” she said, “and get it all straight in my mind. Listen, Andrew, why doesn’t Yasmin distinguish … why doesn’t Yasmin distinguish … between private morality and public order?”
“Because Islam doesn’t,” he said, his voice toneless, his eyes on the moving traffic. “This country is governed by the Sharia law, which is Allah’s own sentiments as revealed to the Prophet Muhammad. In Islam there are no private vices.”
“So there is no difference between sins and crimes.”
“Not that I can see.”
“So if you commit a crime—”
“You appear before a religious court. This is a theocracy. God rules, OKAY? Frances, shut up now, I’m driving.”
KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD AND AVOID DISTRACTION, a notice warned. The city passed: Shesh Mahal Restaurant, Electric Laundry, Wheels Balanced Here; a sculpture, twenty-five feet high, made of blue metal tubes like organ pipes. Small children swarmed loose in the speeding cars, scrambling over the seats, pulling at the drivers’ ghutras, while the women in charge of them sat like black pillars, their hands in their laps; in any given year, how many of these little mites must crash howling through the windscreen to death or mutilation? “Haven’t they heard of seat belts?” Frances inquired.
“Bit of a dodgy concept,” Andrew said. “Allah has appointed a term to every life.”
“Who tells you this stuff?”
“Oh, guys at work.”
It was sunset; oily colors mingled in the sky. An airplane hung low over Prince Abdullah Street, unmoving, its roar drowned
out by the usual noises of the city. On their left was a private villa built to resemble one of the minor Loire châteaux. On their right was a big expatriate housing compound, where the apartments looked like packing cases, stacked one on top of the other. YOU ARE FAST, said a sign, BUT DANGER IS FASTER. Another sculpture; a human fist.
At the British Community Library there were several excellent cookery books. They enrolled, and were given tickets. It all seemed so normal; there was a lady volunteer behind the desk, who wore a nice white blouse with a tie neck, and behaved as if she were in Tunbridge Wells. There was a notice-board, giving details of forthcoming concerts, and offering cars and hi-fi sets for sale. “So many people are going home,” the nice lady said, “you’ve come in at the end of things really. We’ve done seven years, it’s passed in a flash. Well, yes, I’d say I’ve got a lot out of it really, I don’t think it’s
“England’s not like that. Not really.”
“But I have seen it.”
“Then it must be a funny place, St. John’s Wood, that’s all I can say.”
Yasmin never raised her voice, never insisted; just plowed her lonely furrow. Almost every day she would unveil some new, astonishing viewpoint. Shams was on her knees in the hall, working on the carpets with a brush and pan, on red hand-knotted rugs whose seamless geometry recalled the unfathomable nature and eternal vigilance of Allah himself. The kitchen filled with steam.
When she was back in Flat 1 Frances found she could not follow Yasmin’s recipes. “Oh, you just take a handful of this,” Yasmin would say, “and take some of that—”
“How much?”
“Oh, just what you think you need …”
And to Frances’s objections, and queries, she would say, “It comes with practice. All English food,” she would say, “is boiled. That is why it has no taste.” She would tap her spoon against the
side of the pan, and exhale with theatrical weariness, and hold out her hands so that Frances could pass her a towel to wipe them; the artistry was over, Shams would clear up the mess. “I will send you some of this, later,” she would say. “Shams will bring you a dish of it across.”
Frances got Andrew to take her uptown, to the lending library run by the British community. “I want to borrow some cookery books,” she said, “and get it all straight in my mind. Listen, Andrew, why doesn’t Yasmin distinguish … why doesn’t Yasmin distinguish … between private morality and public order?”
“Because Islam doesn’t,” he said, his voice toneless, his eyes on the moving traffic. “This country is governed by the Sharia law, which is Allah’s own sentiments as revealed to the Prophet Muhammad. In Islam there are no private vices.”
“So there is no difference between sins and crimes.”
“Not that I can see.”
“So if you commit a crime—”
“You appear before a religious court. This is a theocracy. God rules, OKAY? Frances, shut up now, I’m driving.”
KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD AND AVOID DISTRACTION, a notice warned. The city passed: Shesh Mahal Restaurant, Electric Laundry, Wheels Balanced Here; a sculpture, twenty-five feet high, made of blue metal tubes like organ pipes. Small children swarmed loose in the speeding cars, scrambling over the seats, pulling at the drivers’ ghutras, while the women in charge of them sat like black pillars, their hands in their laps; in any given year, how many of these little mites must crash howling through the windscreen to death or mutilation? “Haven’t they heard of seat belts?” Frances inquired.
“Bit of a dodgy concept,” Andrew said. “Allah has appointed a term to every life.”
“Who tells you this stuff?”
“Oh, guys at work.”
It was sunset; oily colors mingled in the sky. An airplane hung low over Prince Abdullah Street, unmoving, its roar drowned
out by the usual noises of the city. On their left was a private villa built to resemble one of the minor Loire châteaux. On their right was a big expatriate housing compound, where the apartments looked like packing cases, stacked one on top of the other. YOU ARE FAST, said a sign, BUT DANGER IS FASTER. Another sculpture; a human fist.
At the British Community Library there were several excellent cookery books. They enrolled, and were given tickets. It all seemed so normal; there was a lady volunteer behind the desk, who wore a nice white blouse with a tie neck, and behaved as if she were in Tunbridge Wells. There was a notice-board, giving details of forthcoming concerts, and offering cars and hi-fi sets for sale. “So many people are going home,” the nice lady said, “you’ve come in at the end of things really. We’ve done seven years, it’s passed in a flash. Well, yes, I’d say I’ve got a lot out of it really, I don’t think it’s
Similar Books
