My Friend Matt And Hena The Whore

Adam Zameenzad

Description

A continent of permanent revolution, of marauding rebels and despotic governments, yet one of love and laughter, compass

Informations

• Publié par: Ziji Publishing
• Date de parution: 28 juillet 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781908628121
• Langue: English

Extrait

Adam Zameenzad was born in Pakistan and spent his early childhood in East Africa. His first novel, The Thirteenth House, won the David Higham Award for best novel of 1987. He is also the author of three other highly acclaimed novels: My Friend Matt and Hena the Whore, Love, Bones and Water, and Cyrus Cyrus. He lives in Kent, England.
Copyright Adam Zameenzad 1988
The right of Adam Zameenzad to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the below publisher of this book.
Published by Ziji Publishing Ltd. in 2016
www.ziji publishing.com
First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate Limited 1988
First published in the United States of America by Penguin Books 1993
Distributed by Turnaround Distribution Services Ltd
www.turnaround-uk.com
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ISBN: 978-1-908628-12-1
CONTENTS
Part I
THE SPIRIT DANCE (a beginning of sorts)
One Meet Matt, Hena, Grandma Toughtits and Golam
Two The Poor Naked Man
Three The Big Bangs
Four Gonta, At Last
Five The Spirit Dance
Part II
GOLAM S COW (two years later)
One The Missionary s Balls and Aunt Tima
Two The Outsiders
Three White Folk and Farts
Four Murder in the Mountains
Five Golam s Cow
Part III
HENA THE WHORE (one year later)
One The Last Dance
Two The First Rain
Three Stealing the City
Four Black Balls Pink Balls
Five Hena the Whore
Part IV
SPIRITS OF SHIT (going home)
One Tunnel Trouble
Two The Miracle
Three The Black Cat
Four The BASTOs
Five Spirits of Shit
Part V
MY FRIEND MATT (a beginning of another sort)
One An Old Friend and Some New Plans
Two Hena Rules
Three Dust, Ashes and Dallas
Four End of the Line
Five My Friend Matt
In memory of Little Mama Walters and her five children: the un-named, BB, Benjamin, ET, and Chu Chu, all of whom died within six months of her death. Also for Itsy and baby Charlotte. May their bodies make the Earth more fertile for the hungry.
In the hope that at some stage in the life of this planet no man or woman will have to experience the shame of writing another book like this one again.
Part 1
THE SPIRIT DANCE
(a beginning of sorts)
One
Meet Matt, Hena, Grandma Toughtits and Golam
My friend Matt is a real smart-ass. He knows everything. Everything: why birds fly and men don t - their shit is deadly for the ones below; how mama rhino punishes baby rhino - by hiding its hide; when is the worst time to pick your nose - after you ve picked your ass; how to tell the size of a man s dingus without looking - by holding it; where the Spirits of the trees and the Spirits of mountains meet for their nightly dance - at each other s bases. He also knows when cows will and when cows won t; which water-holes are deep and which water-holes are shallow; where the dead go when they die; which clouds are rain clouds and which raise dust The list is endless. The list of all the things Matt knows. I just mention some of the more important ones.
And, he s only young! Of course he is a year older than me, which makes him ten. Not exactly what I d call a child, but still fairly young.
Fairly young for a smart-ass, that is.
He s always right, too. Well, nearly always.
Even when he isn t, he ends up making you feel stupid. Like it was your fault for believing him in the first place. Like he was joking and having you on and you got took.
But we don t mind. At least not so s you d notice. For no longer than three bats of an eyelid, as he is a true pal and will lay his life down for a friend. And when all s said and done, that s what truly counts. Ask Grandma Toughtits if you don t believe me.
She is another one who knows everything. Only more as she is old. About four hundred and seventy-three years old. Mam says it s only seventy-three. But I like to think it s four hundred and seventy-three.
I like to think that for I never ever want her to die.
Neither does Matt nor Golam nor Hena nor any of the other children in the village, as we like to pull her tits.
They hang so, Grandma Toughtits tits, and flap so, like living leather. She refuses to cover them up in what she calls modern fashion . Vulgar she calls it; hiding what the spirits have made and lifting it up to look like what it s not.
She runs after us when we pull her tits, screaming and shouting and threatening to strangle us with her waist scarf. We run for a while and then pretend to fall over so she can catch hold of us. Which she does. Then she hugs us hard and rocks us in her arms and gives us her best made sweets and tells us stories of good Spirits and bad Spirits and good mountains and bad mountains and good men and bad men and good rains and bad rains and good animals and bad animals and loves us to bits. We never ever want her to die.
Matt says she will. Smart-ass. I hate him. But I m also his best friend.
Golam is his other best friend. The three of us are best friends. Matt says that s how it should be, for all the best things in life come in threes. One head with two eyes, one nose with two nostrils, one dingus with two balls, one mouth and one asshole with two cheeks each - and so on and so on.
One Matt and two friends. Golam and Kimo.
Kimo is my name.
Hena is also our friend but sort of different from a friend. We like her and we don t like her.
No-one knows how old she is but I expect she s at least nine, nine and a half.
She don t know everything, like Matt and Grandma Toughtits, but she knows quite a lot. More than Golam and me put together.
She always knows what anybody is thinking whether they let on or not.
Most of all she knows what she wants and how to get it. No matter what, no matter how. Of course it s easy for her on account she is rich. She can eat as much as she wants whenever she wants and no questions asked. And she has lots of things. I can t tell you what most of them are for I don t know myself what most of them are.
Her Dada won t let us near them.
We do most things together. Matt starts us off, usually; Golam and me follow, usually. Hena turns up somehow - if she wants to.
Like the other night, not long ago, when Matt comes running to me. It is long after sundown. Nothing new in that. No one knows when Matt sleeps, if ever.
It s not sleeping that makes him so thin and small, says Grandma Toughtits, but Matt don t care.
He likes to wander at night finding where birds nest and where animals sleep. He sees the pathways of the stars and meets other wandering Spirits and learns from them. And comes to conclusions.
Let s bunk school tomorrow, says he.
Now that is new.
Unlike the rest of the world, Matt loves going to school. He s such a smart-ass he loves to show off in front of the Master - and the rest of us!
He knows the language of the North and he knows the language of the South; he can read and write the language of the South; he can read and write the English language and he speaks another language of the white man. He can add, take away and multiply; and he knows all there is to know about science.
Of course he can t sing or dance half as good as me. And that, says Grandma Toughtits, is the best learning of all. But she don t like flash talk so I best not go on about it.
Let s bunk school, says Matt, all out of breath for having run all the way to my house.
Why? go I.
Why! he goes, why - because we re going to Gonta, you knucklehead, that is why.
Just like that.
Not, Will you come to Gonta with me? or We could go to Gonta, maybe tomorrow, or I hear Gonta looks good this time of the year, or something polite like that. No sir. But straight out, We re going to Gonta, you knucklehead.
Now Gonta is the next village, some twenty hours walk to the west of us. I ve heard of it, but no more. It s near enough to the big city to be quite famous. Or so I ve heard. The thought of going there is truly exciting, but I try not to show it. I try to show my strength. Like I have a mind of my own.
Maybe I don t want to go to Gonta tomorrow, say I, trying to hold my excitement from showing. I ve got history in school tomorrow and I like history.
And that is the truth. History is the only lesson I like at school. All those stories. I like them. I don t believe them, but I like them.
Matt believes them but don t like them.
He finds them scary. He finds them scary, because, he says, they re real. Me, I find pretend stories more scary. Stories about ghosts and ghouls and monsters.
Matt s more afraid of real people. He won t admit it to no one. But he is. I know it for I know him.
You don t want to go to Gonta tomorrow? says Matt with that naughty note in his voice which makes me prick up my ears, wondering what s coming next. You ve nothing to worry then, have you, he carries on, still with the same voice, for we are going to Gonta tonight.
Tonight? I shout.
I mean, I know he roams around like a nameless Spirit most nights, and many is the time I ve walked with him - but going to Gonta in the middle of the night!
Why that s many days walk away, say I, making it out to be further than it is. Just so it sounds more impossible.
No it isn t, goes Matt. We d be in the heart of Bader if we walked that far.
Bader is the big city further west.
Matt carries on. Gonta can t be more than a day or two away.
That s far enough for me, I reply, trying to be difficult.
I can walk if Matt can. After all I am twice his size. Nearly.
But I am being difficult.
If we take the path, Matt carries on, and leave the big road, we can cut it by a good few hours.
Now that truly puts the wind up me. The path goes through thick copses before the desert, then up the mountains. No one goes there these d