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Authors: Hanif Kureishi
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might be legitimate to rid the world of the weak, stupid or evil in order that others might flourish. Who had the right to kill? It was, after all, only the most perversely pacifistic who could not accept killing in any circumstances. To supplement this speculation, Valentin and Wolf watched crime or Sylvester Stallone movies on TV; they’d never miss anything with Steve McQueen in it. “Career guidance,” I called them. Ajita would lie around with us, before running away squealing, “Too many electric chairs!”
“That’s where he’s going to be sitting,” I’d murmur to Valentin, nodding at Wolf, Valentin looking sharp in his dark suit, bow tie and shiny shoes, ready to go to the casino where he worked at night. That must have been where I got my black-suit style from, now I think about it. Val was Eastern European, educated to be a Commie; he had good manners and was worldly, way beyond Western hippy frippery.
Wolf was an adventurer, and his stories—of spanking air hostesses and waitresses, and of fucking Playboy bunnies—never failed to pick me up. I admired his boys’-own style: smuggling diamonds out of South Africa up his arse; seeing Idi Amin and Kim Philby—together—in Tripoli, before being arrested, suspected of being American. Running drugs into Mexico, and being poisoned by a dirty needle when visiting a doctor; discussing the quality of brothels in Ipanema, Brazil. He was a man often suspected of not being a criminal but, worse, a cop!
Like a lot of gangsters, he had a smear—more than that, a large patch—of psychosis. He wasn’t neurotic like me, or most people I knew, but supernormal, rational, intense, convincing, great at lying. He’d be up early in the morning making breakfast for everyone. Or we’d find him doing press-ups and lifting weights. Extra-organised: he loved making plans and getting everyone involved.
In contrast, Valentin liked to be amused. He was attractive; you’d say he was elegant or chic, particularly if he was wearing a dark polo shirt and black jacket. But he was Kierkegaard dark; being so wounded, he lacked Wolf’s endearing self-belief, boastfulness and earnestness.
How I loved being with the unassailable men. Me, the eager little kid, they would patronise as I tried to please them with jokes, tough talk and a swaggering walk. Often Wolf and Valentin spoke in French or German, but so what? I was used to being surrounded by people whose language I didn’t understand.
When Father was in London—he visited at least twice a year and stayed some weeks—it was only occasionally that he would see Miriam and me alone. His many male friends, his “chumchas,” speaking Urdu and Punjabi, in suits or salwar kameez, drinking and telling political jokes, were always with him, in the service flats near Marble Arch or Bayswater which Dad rented.
Sometimes he would take just us out to lunch, and talk politics. He was left-wing, probably a Communist, an anti-imperialist—naturally—and also a supporter of Mao, the Vietcong and students. In India, as a child, Father explained, being the son of a rich landowner, he had felt as alienated from the Indian masses in the villages as he did in any English village. But, having been bullied by his father, an army colonel, he’d always felt some identification with those who were called, in those days, the “downtrodden.”
On the evenings of these visits, when Miriam and I would be thinking of returning to the suburbs on the train (or at least I would; she’d often go to parties in London, staying in the city for a couple of days), Dad’s girlfriends, amazing beauties with brains, would turn up.
I was happy to see Father, whether he was alone or not, but Miriam, either on speed or trancs or both, could feel very disappointed. She had imagined the two of them sitting together for hours, exchanging their secrets and their despair. Her father would want to know her; how could he not be fascinated? His kind words would stop
“That’s where he’s going to be sitting,” I’d murmur to Valentin, nodding at Wolf, Valentin looking sharp in his dark suit, bow tie and shiny shoes, ready to go to the casino where he worked at night. That must have been where I got my black-suit style from, now I think about it. Val was Eastern European, educated to be a Commie; he had good manners and was worldly, way beyond Western hippy frippery.
Wolf was an adventurer, and his stories—of spanking air hostesses and waitresses, and of fucking Playboy bunnies—never failed to pick me up. I admired his boys’-own style: smuggling diamonds out of South Africa up his arse; seeing Idi Amin and Kim Philby—together—in Tripoli, before being arrested, suspected of being American. Running drugs into Mexico, and being poisoned by a dirty needle when visiting a doctor; discussing the quality of brothels in Ipanema, Brazil. He was a man often suspected of not being a criminal but, worse, a cop!
Like a lot of gangsters, he had a smear—more than that, a large patch—of psychosis. He wasn’t neurotic like me, or most people I knew, but supernormal, rational, intense, convincing, great at lying. He’d be up early in the morning making breakfast for everyone. Or we’d find him doing press-ups and lifting weights. Extra-organised: he loved making plans and getting everyone involved.
In contrast, Valentin liked to be amused. He was attractive; you’d say he was elegant or chic, particularly if he was wearing a dark polo shirt and black jacket. But he was Kierkegaard dark; being so wounded, he lacked Wolf’s endearing self-belief, boastfulness and earnestness.
How I loved being with the unassailable men. Me, the eager little kid, they would patronise as I tried to please them with jokes, tough talk and a swaggering walk. Often Wolf and Valentin spoke in French or German, but so what? I was used to being surrounded by people whose language I didn’t understand.
When Father was in London—he visited at least twice a year and stayed some weeks—it was only occasionally that he would see Miriam and me alone. His many male friends, his “chumchas,” speaking Urdu and Punjabi, in suits or salwar kameez, drinking and telling political jokes, were always with him, in the service flats near Marble Arch or Bayswater which Dad rented.
Sometimes he would take just us out to lunch, and talk politics. He was left-wing, probably a Communist, an anti-imperialist—naturally—and also a supporter of Mao, the Vietcong and students. In India, as a child, Father explained, being the son of a rich landowner, he had felt as alienated from the Indian masses in the villages as he did in any English village. But, having been bullied by his father, an army colonel, he’d always felt some identification with those who were called, in those days, the “downtrodden.”
On the evenings of these visits, when Miriam and I would be thinking of returning to the suburbs on the train (or at least I would; she’d often go to parties in London, staying in the city for a couple of days), Dad’s girlfriends, amazing beauties with brains, would turn up.
I was happy to see Father, whether he was alone or not, but Miriam, either on speed or trancs or both, could feel very disappointed. She had imagined the two of them sitting together for hours, exchanging their secrets and their despair. Her father would want to know her; how could he not be fascinated? His kind words would stop
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