The Emperor Waltz. Philip Hensher
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to be looking after him and he’s going to be sent up here.’
‘I look forward to that,’ Nathan said, using a sarcastic phrase they’d heard, with admiration, from Mr Andropoulos next door whenever he’d been told about something really boring or unpleasant about to happen, like the Notting Hill Carnival and Mrs Barley promising to make him her Facebook friend and his garden being bought up to make room for Crossrail and shit.
‘Yeah, I look forward to that too, all right,’ Nick said. ‘And their daughter’s coming in here in a bit, Mrs Khan said. She said she was coming back from something, from orchestra or something, and she’d come and sit with us and have dinner and play cards and that.’
‘Fuck me, Anita Khan,’ Nathan said. ‘I’d forgotten about Anita fucking Khan. She’s fucking mental.’
‘She jezzy,’ Nick said. ‘She’s never gone to orchestra with her flute – she’s out being fucked by the gangsters all the afternoon. She’s just told her dad she’s gone to orchestra.’
‘Poor old Mr Khan,’ Nathan said. ‘She’s piff, but I wouldn’t fuck her. She takes after her mother in that.’
‘Shut your mouth, wallad, she mother coming,’ Nathan said.
There was a noise on the stairs that Nathan had heard, a creak and a clink of glasses. The twins made huge eyes at each other; Nick dug his heels into the carpet to stop his chair and Nathan sat up on the sofa, pulling the bottom of his jeans down. The door to the study opened, and Mrs Khan came in, pushing it backwards and carrying a tray. Behind her came a much smaller woman, carrying another tray. Nick leapt up and held the door open – ‘Oh, thank you so much, you are kind,’ Mrs Khan said. Bina, the housekeeper, set her tray down and left. Mrs Khan set her tray down, also on the desk, but stayed. She was a thin woman with a streak of white in her black hair; her dress was a mauve raw silk with an octagonal neckline showing a slightly wrinkled bosom. She was a sex-bomb, the twins had heard their father say, in a jocular manner, and their mother respond that she was a very good sort all round. Which she was, they hadn’t decided on just yet. She was sket, but the twins described every woman they knew as sket.
‘Hello, boys,’ Mrs Khan said.
‘Hello, Mrs Khan,’ Nathan said, and Nick echoed him.
‘Is Anita not in here yet?’ Mrs Khan said, setting the tray down on the desk. ‘I’m sorry to be leaving you without anything or anyone to entertain you, boys.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs Khan,’ Nick said. ‘You don’t need to make any special effort to entertain us.’
‘We were just chatting,’ Nathan said.
‘It’s so nice to see brothers who get on so well. You could put the television on, you know. I brought it in here because I thought you might like it.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Khan,’ Nick said, ‘but we’re all right, we’re happy just chatting.’
‘How’s Mr Khan?’ Nathan said. ‘Is he well?’
‘Yes, thank you, very well,’ Mrs Khan said, eyeing them strangely. ‘He’ll be up to say hello in a while.’
‘There’s no need for that, Mrs Khan,’ Nathan said. ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb him. We saw him only last week, at the garden centre.’
‘At the garden centre?’ Mrs Khan said. She was fitting a cigarette into a cigarette holder. ‘Are you sure? It might have been someone who just looked like Mr Khan. Don’t worry, I’m not going to light this one in here. I know all about you young people not liking passive smoking.’
‘Last Friday afternoon, it would have been, Mrs Khan,’ Nick said. ‘It was definitely Mr Khan. He was looking at shrubs with … It would have been his secretary, maybe – she was blonde and in a short skirt, a pretty girl it was, Mrs Khan.’
‘Well, then, it certainly wasn’t Mr Khan,’ Mrs Khan said. ‘His secretary is fifty and very fat – I don’t think she would go out in a short skirt. And actually last Friday—’
‘Maybe it wasn’t his secretary, then,’ Nathan said disconsolately.
‘Last Friday I called for Mr Khan at lunchtime and we spent the afternoon together, so it must have been someone else you saw. Now – these are chicken samosas, and this is what we call chaat, and these are pakoras, vegetable pakoras, and these are just little fritters. They are Indian, but there’s nothing to be frightened of. I’m sure you’ll like them. And this is salad, you’d make me so proud if you ate even some of it. Lemon squash, Coke – the television? You’re sure? There’s a pack of cards on Mr Khan’s desk if you want to play whist – Anita will teach you if you don’t know.’
‘Thanks for everything, Mrs Khan,’ Nathan said, as she walked out. There was a click, the noise of a cigarette lighter striking. ‘You’ve been very kind, thank you very much. Man, that sket is bare long.’
‘I thought she’d never shut it and fuck off. I was going to call the feds,’ Nick said.
‘Yeah, and she call the feds on you, wallad,’ Nathan said. ‘Wagwarn with Mr Khan and the jezz at the garden centre? Oh, she blonde, she hot, she short-skirt sket. You know you trouble? You say too much detail when you tell lie, is it. Friday afternoon, blond secretary – she know, Mrs Khan, she know what her man doing Friday afternoon. You leave it vague and imprecise, fool, you plant seed of doubt in Mrs Khan mind.’
‘Yeah, I do better next time,’ Nick said. ‘I buy packet of seeds at garden centre – packet of seeds of doubt and plant them in Mrs Khan mind.’
Nathan and Nick looked at each other, and burst out laughing.
The door opened again. There was Anita Khan. She stood against the jamb, kicking it gently, looking from Nick to Nathan. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it out, letting it drop again. ‘You’re Nick,’ she said, ‘and you’re like Nathan.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Nick said. ‘You’re good. Most people can’t tell the difference.’
‘I can’t tell the difference,’ she said. ‘I was just guessing in like a totally random way, you know, and in my random way I was right? I could have said the other way round, easy. I’m supposed to like entertain you. How old are you anyway?’
‘I’m thirteen,’ Nathan said.
‘Oh, kay,’ she said. ‘And how old are you, little boy?’
‘We’re twins, man,’ Nick said. ‘That means we are like exactly the same age, only by minutes. That’s what twins means.’
‘Wow, is that the case?’ Anita said, coming in and letting the door slam behind her. ‘I never knew that. I was always hearing about twins, you know, but I never believed they like really existed? I was like they’re, like unicorns and shit, mythical beasts, yeah? But here you are. And you’re like the same age, the exact same age, and you have the same birthday, you know what I mean? Wow. Cool. Anyway.’
‘Oh, come on, Anita,’ Nathan said. ‘You know you got to stay in here with us to make sure we don’t trash the place.’
‘Whatever. That’s the best time I ever heard of,’ Anita said. She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Like, spending a whole evening in a room with two thirteen-year-old boys. That sounds like incredible?’
‘There’s an eleven-year-old boy coming as well,’ Nathan said. ‘And they be thirteen-year-olds in the ghetto in Chicago done be killing they third man, so you don’t be treating us like kindergarten, you feel me, Anita. Ain’t they told you that one, about the eleven-year-old? His mum’s coming on her own – she’s that sket where the husband he left her, and she’s wondering why. You get me? She lives down there, ten doors down, is it, and she’s fat but no tits, you know the one.’
The doorbell rang downstairs; a four-toned chime.
‘That’s