So. First came the musical-living-arrangements, as everybody shifted one place to the right or left. Millat returned at the beginning of October. Thinner, fully bearded and quietly determined not to see his twin on political, religious and personal grounds. ‘If Magid stays,’ said Millat (De Niro, this time), ‘I go.’ And because Millat looked thin and tired and wild-eyed, Samad said Millat could stay, which left no other option but for Magid to stay with the Chalfens (much to Alsana’s chagrin) until the situation could be resolved. Joshua, furious at being displaced in his parents’ affections by yet another Iqbal, went to the Joneses’, while Irie, though ostensibly having returned to her family home (on the concession of a ‘year off’), spent all her time at the Chalfens, organizing Marcus’s affairs so as to earn money for her two bank accounts (Amazon Jungle Summer ’93 and Jamaica 2000), often working deep into the night and sleeping on the couch.
‘The children have left us, they are abroad,’ said Samad over the phone to Archie, in so melancholy a fashion that Archie suspected he was quoting poetry. ‘They are strangers in strange lands.’
‘They’ve run to the bloody hills, more like,’ replied Archie grimly. ‘I tell you, if I had a penny for every time I’ve seen Irie in the past few months…’
He’d have about ten pence. She was never home. Irie was stuck between a rock and a hard place, like Ireland, like Israel, like India. A no-win situation. If she stayed home there was Joshua berating her about her involvement with Marcus’s mice. Arguments she had no answer for, nor any stomach: should living organisms be patented? Is it right to plant pathogens in animals? Irie didn’t know and so, with her father’s instincts, shut her mouth and kept her distance. But if she was at the Chalfens’, working away at what had become a full-time summer job, she had to deal with Magid. Here, the situation was impossible. Her work for Marcus, which had begun nine months earlier as a little light filing, had increased seven fold; the recent interest in Marcus’s work meant she was required to deal with the calls of the media, sackfuls of post, organize appointments; her pay had likewise increased to that of a secretary. But that was the problem, she was a secretary, whereas Magid was a confidant, an apprentice and disciple, accompanying Marcus on trips, observing him in the laboratory. The golden child. The chosen one. Not only was he brilliant, but he was charming. Not only was he charming, but he was generous. For Marcus, he was an answer to prayers. Here was a boy who could weave the most beautiful moral defences with a professionalism that belied his years, who helped Marcus formulate arguments he would not have had the patience to do alone. It was Magid who encouraged him out of the laboratory, taking him by the hand squinting into the sunlit world where people were calling for him. People wanted Marcus and his mouse, and Magid knew how to give it to them. If the New Statesman needed two thousand words on the patent debate, Magid would write while Marcus spoke, translating his words into elegant English, turning the bald statements of a scientist disinterested in moral debates into the polished arguments of a philosopher. If Channel 4 News wanted an interview, Magid explained how to sit, how to move one’s hands, how to incline one’s head. All this from a boy who had spent the greater proportion of his life in the Chittagong Hills, without television or newspaper. Marcus – even though he had a lifelong hatred of the word, even though he hadn’t used it since his own father clipped his ear for it when he was three – was tempted to call it a miracle. Or, at the very least, extremely fortuitous. The boy was changing his life and that was extremely fortuitous. For the first time in his life, Marcus was prepared to concede faults in himself – small ones, mind – but still… faults. He had been too insular, perhaps, perhaps. He had been aggressive towards public interest in his work, perhaps, perhaps. He saw room for change. And the genius of it, the master stroke, was that Magid never for a moment let Marcus feel that Chalfenism was being compromised in any way whatsoever. He expressed his undying affection and admiration for it every day. All Magid wanted to do, he explained to Marcus, was bring Chalfenism to the people. And you had to give the people what they wanted in a form they could understand. There was something so sublime in the way he said it, so soothing, so true, that Marcus, who would have spat on such an argument six months before, gave in without protest.
‘There’s room for one more chap this century,’ Magid told him (this guy was a master in flattery), ‘Freud, Einstein, Crick and Watson… There is an empty seat, Marcus. The bus is not quite full capacity. Ding! Ding! Room for one more…’
And you can’t beat that for an offer. You can’t fight it. Marcus and Magid. Magid and Marcus. Nothing else mattered. The two of them were oblivious to the upset they caused Irie, or to the widespread displacement, the strange seismic ripples, that their friendship had set off in everyone else. Marcus had pulled out, like Mountbatten from India, or a satiated teenage boy from his latest mate. He abrogated responsibility, for everything and everybody – Chalfens, Iqbals and Joneses – everything and everyone bar Magid and his mice. All others were fanatics. And Irie bit her tongue because Magid was good, and Magid was kind, and Magid walked through the house in white. But like all manifestations of the Second Coming, all saints, saviours and gurus, Magid Iqbal was also, in Neena’s eloquent words, a first-class, one hundred per cent, bona fide, total and utter pain in the arse. A typical conversation:
‘Irie, I am confused.’
‘Not right now, Magid, I’m on the phone.’
‘I don’t wish to take from your valuable time, but it is a matter of some urgency. I am confused.’
‘Magid, could you just-’
‘You see. Joyce very kindly bought me these jeans. They are called Levis.’
‘Look, could I call you back? Right… OK… Bye. What, Magid? That was an important call. What is it?’
‘So you see I have these beautiful American Levi jeans, white jeans, that Joyce’s sister brought back from a holiday in Chicago, the Windy City they call it, though I don’t believe there is anything particularly unusual about its climate, considering its proximity to Canada. My Chicago jeans. Such a thoughtful gift! I was overwhelmed to receive them. But then I was confused by this label in the inner lining that states that the jeans are apparently “shrink-to-fit”. I asked myself, what can this mean: “shrink-to-fit”?’
‘They shrink until they fit, Magid. That would be my guess.’
‘But Joyce was percipient enough to buy them in precisely the right size, you see? A 32, 34.’
‘All right, Magid, I don’t want to see them. I believe you. So don’t shrink them.’
‘That was my original conclusion, also. But it appears there is no separate procedure for shrinking them. If one washes the jeans, they will simply shrink.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘And you appreciate at some juncture the jeans will require washing?’
‘What’s your point, Magid.’
‘Well, do they shrink by some pre-calculated amount, and if so, by how much? If the amount was not correct, they would open themselves up to a great deal of litigation, no? It is no good if they shrink-to-fit, after all, if they do not shrink-to-fit me. There is another possibility, as Jack suggested, that they shrink to the contours of the body. Yet how can such a thing be possible?’
‘Well, why don’t you get in the fucking bath with the fucking jeans on and see what happens?’
But you couldn’t upset Magid with words. He turned the other cheek. Sometimes hundreds of times a day, like a lollipop lady on ecstasy. He had this way of smiling at you, neither wounded nor angry, and then inclining his head (to the exact same angle his father did when taking an order of curried prawns) in a gesture of total forgiveness. He had absolute empathy for everybody, Magid. And it was an unbelievable pain in the arse.