The Satanic Verses: A Novel

by Salman Rushdie

  She flung open sash windows and screamed abuse at the innocent Fields beneath. ‘Die slowly! Burn in hell!’

  Then, weeping, she rang Saladin Chamcha to tell him the bad news.

  Mr John Maslama, owner of the Hot Wax nightclub, the record chain of the same name, and of ‘Fair Winds’, the legendary store where you could get yourself the finest horns – clarinets, saxophones, trombones – that a person could find to blow in the whole of London town, was a busy man, so he would always ascribe to the intervention of Divine Providence the happy chance that caused him to be present in the trumpet store when the Archangel of God walked in with thunder and lightning sitting like laurels upon his noble brow. Being a practical businessman, Mr. Maslama had up to this point concealed from his employees his extracurricular work as the chief herald of the returned Celestial and Semi-Godlike Being, sticking posters in his shop-windows only when he was sure he was unobserved, neglecting to sign the display advertisements he bought in newspapers and magazines at considerable personal expense, proclaiming the imminent Glory of the Coming of the Lord. He issued press releases through a public relations subsidiary of the Valance agency, asking that his own anonymity be guarded carefully. ‘Our client is in a position to state,’ these releases – which enjoyed, for a time, an amused vogue among Fleet Street diarists – cryptically announced, ‘that his eyes have seen the Glory referred to above. Gibreel is among us at this moment, somewhere in the inner city of London – probably in Camden, Brickhall, Tower Hamlets or Hackney – and he will reveal himself soon, perhaps within days or weeks.’ – All of this was obscure to the three tall, languid, male attendants in the Fair Winds store (Maslama refused to employ women sales assistants here; ‘my motto,’ he was fond of saying, ‘is that nobody trusts a female to help him with his horn’); which was why none of them could believe their eyes when their hard-nosed employer suddenly underwent a complete change of personality, and rushed over to this wild, unshaven stranger as if he were God Almighty – with his two-tone patent leather shoes, Armani suit and slicked down Robert de Niro hair above proliferating eyebrows, Maslama didn’t look the crawling type, but that’s what he was doing, all right, on his goddamn belly, pushing his staff aside, I’ll attend to the gentleman myself, bowing and scraping, walking backwards, would you believe? – Anyway, the stranger had this fat money-belt under his shirt and started hauling out numbers of high-denomination notes; he pointed at a trumpet on a high shelf, that’s the one, just like that, hardly looked at it, and Mr Maslama was up the ladder pronto, I’ll-get-it-I-said-I’ll-get-it, and now the truly amazing part, he tried to refuse payment, Maslama!, it was no no sir no charge sir, but the stranger paid anyway, stuffing the notes into Maslama’s upper jacket-pocket as if he were some sort of bellhop, you had to be there, and last of all the customer turns to the whole store and yells at the top of his voice, I am the right hand of God. – Straight up, you wouldn’t credit it, the bloody day of judgment was at hand. – Maslama was right out of it after that, well shaken he was, he actually fell to his actual knees. – Then the stranger held the trumpet up over his head and shouted I name this trumpet Azraeel, the Last Trump, the Exterminator of Men! – and we just stood there, I tell you, turned to stone, because all around the fucking insane, certifiable bastard’s head there was this bright glow, you know?, streaming out, like, from a point behind his head.

  A halo.

  Say what you like, the three shop-attendants afterwards repeated to anyone who would listen, say what you like, but we saw what we saw.

  3

  The death of Dr Uhuru Simba, formerly Sylvester Roberts, while in custody awaiting trial, was described by the Brickhall constabulary’s community liaison officer, a certain Inspector Stephen Kinch, as ‘a million-to-one shot’. It appeared that Dr Simba had been experiencing a nightmare so terrifying that it had caused him to scream piercingly in his sleep, attracting the immediate attention of the two duty officers. These gentlemen, rushing to his cell, arrived in time to see the still-sleeping form of the gigantic man literally lift off its bunk under the malign influence of the dream and plunge to the floor. A loud snap was heard by both officers; it was the sound of Dr Uhuru Simba’s neck breaking. Death had been instantaneous.

  The dead man’s minuscule mother, Antoinette Roberts, standing in a cheap black hat and dress on the back of her younger son’s pick-up truck, the veil of mourning pushed defiantly back off her face, was not slow to seize upon Inspector Kinch’s words and hurl them back into his florid, loose-chinned, impotent face, whose hangdog expression bore witness to the humiliation of being referred to by his brother officers as niggerjimmy and, worse, mushroom, meaning that he was kept permanently in the dark, and from time to time – for example in the present regrettable circumstances – people threw shit all over him. ‘I want you to understand,’ Mrs Roberts declaimed to the sizeable crowd that had gathered angrily outside the High Street police station, ‘that these people are gambling with our lives. They are laying odds on our chances of survival. I want you all to consider what that means in terms of their respect for us as human beings.’ And Hanif Johnson, as Uhuru Simba’s solicitor, added his own clarification from Walcott Roberts’s pick-up truck, pointing out that his client’s alleged fatal plunge had been from the lower of the two bunks in his cell; that in an age of extreme overcrowding in the country’s lock-ups it was unusual, to say the least, that the other bunk should have been unoccupied, ensuring that there were no witnesses to the death except for prison officers; and that a nightmare was by no means the only possible explanation for the screams of a black man in the hands of the custodial authorities. In his concluding remarks, afterwards termed ‘inflammatory and unprofessional’ by Inspector Kinch, Hanif linked the community liaison officer’s words to those of the notorious racist John Kingsley Read, who had once responded to news of a black man’s death with the slogan, ‘One down; one million to go.’ The crowd murmured and bubbled; it was a hot and malicious day. ‘Stay hot,’ Simba’s brother Walcott cried out to the assembly. ‘Don’t anybody cool off Maintain your rage.’

  As Simba had in effect already been tried and convicted in what he had once called the ‘rainbow press – red as rags, yellow as streaks, blue as movies, green as slime’, his end struck many white people as rough justice, a murderous monster’s retributive fall. But in another court, silent and black, he had received an entirely more favourable judgment, and these differing estimations of the deceased moved, in the aftermath of his death, on to the city streets, and fermented in the unending tropical heat. The ‘rainbow press’ was full of Simba’s support for Qazhafi, Khomeini, Louis Farrakhan; while in the streets of Brickhall, young men and women maintained, and fanned, the slow flame of their anger, a shadow-flame, but one capable of blotting out the light.

  Two nights later, behind the Charringtons Brewery in Tower Hamlets, the ‘Granny Ripper’ struck again. And the night after that, an old woman was murdered near the adventure playground in Victoria Park, Hackney; once again, the Ripper’s hideous ‘signature’ – the ritual arrangement of the internal organs around the victim’s body, whose precise configuration had never been made public – had been added to the crime. When Inspector Kinch, looking somewhat ragged at the edges, appeared on television to propound the extraordinary theory that a ‘copycat killer’ had somehow discovered the trademark which had been so carefully concealed for so long, and had therefore taken up the mantle which the late Uhuru Simba had let drop, – then the Commissioner of Police also deemed it wise, as a precautionary measure, to quadruple the police presence on the streets of Brickhall, and to hold such large numbers of police in reserve that it proved necessary to cancel the capital’s football programme for the weekend. And, in truth, tempers were fraying all over Uhuru Simba’s old patch; Hanif Johnson issued a statement to the effect that the increased police presence was ‘provocative and incendiary’, and at the Shaandaar and the Pagal Khana there began to assemble groups of young blacks and Asians determined to confront
the cruising panda cars. At the Hot Wax, the effigy chosen for meltdown was none other than the perspiring and already deliquescent figure of the community liaison officer. And the temperature continued, inexorably, to rise.

  Violent incidents began to occur more frequently: attacks on black families on council estates, harassment of black schoolchildren on their way home, brawls in pubs. At the Pagal Khana a rat-faced youth and three of his cronies spat over many people’s food; as a result of the ensuing affray three Bengali waiters were charged with assault and the causing of actual bodily harm; the expectorating quartet was not, however, detained. Stories of police brutality, of black youths hauled swiftly into unmarked cars and vans belonging to the special patrol groups and flung out, equally discreetly, covered in cuts and bruises, spread throughout the communities. Self-defence patrols of young Sikh, Bengali and Afro-Caribbean males – described by their political opponents as vigilante groups – began to roam the borough, on foot and in old Ford Zodiacs and Cortinas, determined not to ‘take it lying down’. Hanif Johnson told his live-in lover, Mishal Sufyan, that in his opinion one more Ripper killing would light the fuse. ‘That killer’s not just crowing about being free,’ he said. ‘He’s laughing about Simba’s death as well, and that’s what the people can’t stomach.’

  Down these simmering streets, one unseasonally humid night, came Gibreel Farishta, blowing his golden horn.

  At eight o’clock that evening, a Saturday, Pamela Chamcha stood with Jumpy Joshi – who had refused to let her go unaccompanied – next to the Photo-Me machine in a corner of the main concourse of Euston station, feeling ridiculously conspiratorial. At eight-fifteen she was approached by a wiry young man who seemed taller than she remembered him; following him without a word, she and Jumpy got into his battered blue pick-up truck and were driven to a tiny flat above an off-licence in Railton Road, Brixton, where Walcott Roberts introduced them to his mother, Antoinette. The three men whom Pamela afterwards thought of as Haitians for what she recognized to be stereotypical reasons were not introduced. ‘Have a glass of ginger wine,’ Antoinette Roberts commanded. ‘Good for the baby, too.’

  When Walcott had done the honours Mrs Roberts, looking lost in a voluminous and threadbare armchair (her surprisingly pale legs, matchstick-thin, emerging from beneath her black dress to end in mutinous, pink ankle-socks and sensible lace-ups, failed by some distance to reach the floor), got to business. ‘These gentlemen were colleagues of my boy,’ she said. ‘It turns out that the probable reason for his murder was the work he was doing on a subject which I am told is also of interest to you. We believe the time has come to work more formally, through the channels you represent.’ Here one of the three silent ‘Haitians’ handed Pamela a red plastic briefcase. ‘It contains,’ Mrs Roberts mildly explained, ‘extensive evidence of the existence of witches’ covens throughout the Metropolitan Police.’

  Walcott stood up. ‘We should go now,’ he said firmly. ‘Please.’ Pamela and Jumpy rose. Mrs Roberts nodded vaguely, absently, cracking the joints of her loose-skinned hands. ‘Goodbye,’ Pamela said, and offered conventional regrets. ‘Girl, don’t waste breath,’ Mrs Roberts broke in. ‘Just nail me those warlocks. Nail them through the heart.’

  Walcott Roberts dropped them in Notting Hill at ten. Jumpy was coughing badly and complaining of the pains in the head that had recurred a number of times since his injuries at Shepperton, but when Pamela admitted to being nervous at possessing the only copy of the explosive documents in the plastic briefcase, Jumpy once again insisted on accompanying her to the Brickhall community relations council’s offices, where she planned to make photocopies to distribute to a number of trusted friends and colleagues. So it was that at ten-fifteen they were in Pamela’s beloved MG, heading east across the city, into the gathering storm. An old, blue Mercedes panel van followed them, as it had followed Walcott’s pick-up truck; that is, without being noticed.

  Fifteen minutes earlier, a patrol group of seven large young Sikhs jammed into a Vauxhall Cavalier had been driving over the Malaya Crescent canal bridge in southern Brickhall. Hearing a cry from the towpath under the bridge, and hurrying to the scene, they found a bland, pale man of medium height and build, fair hair flopping forward over hazel eyes, leaping to his feet, scalpel in hand, and rushing away from the body of an old woman whose blue wig had fallen off and lay floating like a jellyfish in the canal. The young Sikhs easily caught up with and overpowered the running man.

  By eleven pm the news of the mass murderer’s capture had penetrated every cranny of the borough, accompanied by a slew of rumours: the police had been reluctant to charge the maniac, the patrol members had been detained for questioning, a cover-up was being planned. Crowds began to gather on street corners, and as the pubs emptied a series of fights broke out. There was some damage to property: three cars had their windows smashed, a video store was looted, a few bricks were thrown. It was at this point, at half-past eleven on a Saturday night, with the clubs and dance-halls beginning to yield up their excited, highly charged populations, that the divisional superintendent of police, in consultation with higher authority, declared that riot conditions now existed in central Brickhall, and unleashed the full might of the Metropolitan Police against the ‘rioters’.

  Also at this point, Saladin Chamcha, who had been dining with Allie Cone at her apartment overlooking Brickhall Fields, keeping up appearances, sympathizing, murmuring encouraging insincerities, emerged into the night; found a testudo of helmeted men with plastic shields at the ready moving towards him across the Fields at a steady, inexorable trot; witnessed the arrival overhead of giant, locust-swarming helicopters from which light was falling like heavy rain; saw the advance of the water cannons; and, obeying an irresistible primal reflex, turned tail and ran, not knowing that he was going the wrong way, running full speed in the direction of the Shaandaar.

  Television cameras arrive just in time for the raid on Club Hot Wax.

  This is what a television camera sees: less gifted than the human eye, its night vision is limited to what klieg lights will show. A helicopter hovers over the nightclub, urinating light in long golden streams; the camera understands this image. The machine of state bearing down upon its enemies. – And now there’s a camera in the sky; a news editor somewhere has sanctioned the cost of, aerial photography, and from another helicopter a news team is shooting down. No attempt is made to chase this helicopter away. The noise of rotor blades drowns the noise of the crowd. In this respect, again, video recording equipment is less sensitive than, in this case, the human ear.

  – Cut. – A man lit by a sun-gun speaks rapidly into a microphone. Behind them there is a disorderment of shadows. But between the reporter and the disordered shadow-lands there stands a wall: men in riot helmets, carrying shields. The reporter speaks gravely; petrolbombs plasticbullets policeinjuries water-cannon looting, confining himself, of course, to facts. But the camera sees what he does not say. A camera is a thing easily broken or purloined; its fragility makes it fastidious. A camera requires law, order, the thin blue line. Seeking to preserve itself, it remains behind the shielding wall, observing the shadow-lands from afar, and of course from above: that is, it chooses sides.

  – Cut. – Sun-guns illuminate a new face, saggy-jowled, flushed. This face is named: sub-titled words appear across his tunic. Inspector Stephen Kinch. The camera sees him for what he is: a good man in an impossible job. A father, a man who likes his pint. He speaks: cannot-tolerate-no-go-areas better-protection-required-for-policemen see-the-plastic-riot-shields-catching-fire. He refers to organized crime, political agitators, bomb-factories, drugs. ‘We understand some of these kids may feel they have grievances but we will not and cannot be the whipping boys of society.’ Emboldened by the lights and the patient, silent lenses, he goes further. These kids don’t know how lucky they are, he suggests. They should consult their kith and kin. Africa, Asia, the Caribbean: now those are places with real problems. Those are places where people might have griev
ances worth respecting. Things aren’t so bad here, not by a long chalk; no slaughters here, no torture, no military coups. People should value what they’ve got before they lose it. Ours always was a peaceful land, he says. Our industrious island race. – Behind him, the camera sees stretchers, ambulances, pain. – It sees strange humanoid shapes being hauled up from the bowels of the Club Hot Wax, and recognizes the effigies of the mighty. Inspector Kinch explains. They cook them in an oven down there, they call it fun, I wouldn’t call it that myself. – The camera observes the wax models with distaste. – Is there not something witchy about them, something cannibalistic, an unwholesome smell? Have black arts been practised here? – The camera sees broken windows. It sees something burning in the middle distance: a car, a shop. It cannot understand, or demonstrate, what any of this achieves. These people are burning their own streets.

  – Cut. – Here is a brightly lit video store. Several sets have been left on in the windows; the camera, most delirious of narcissists, watches TV, creating, for an instant, an infinite recession of television sets, diminishing to a point. – Cut. – Here is a serious head bathed in light: a studio discussion. The head is talking about outlaws. Billy the Kid, Ned Kelly: these were men who stood for as well as against. Modern mass-murderers, lacking this heroic dimension, are no more than sick, damaged beings, utterly blank as personalities, their crimes distinguished by an attention to procedure, to methodology – let’s say ritual – driven, perhaps, by the nonentity’s longing to be noticed, to rise out of the ruck and become, for a moment, a star. – Or by a kind of transposed death-wish: to kill the beloved and so destroy the self. – Which is the Granny Ripper? a questioner asks. And what about Jack? – The true outlaw, the head insists, is a dark mirror-image of the hero. – These rioters, perhaps? comes the challenge. Aren’t you in danger of glamorizing, of ‘legitimizing’? – The head shakes, laments the materialism of modern youth. Looting video stores is not what the head has been talking about. – But what about the old-timers, then? Butch Cassidy, the James brothers, Captain Moonlight, the Kelly gang. They all robbed – did they not? – banks. – Cut. – Later that night, the camera will return to this shop-window. The television sets will be missing.