White Teeth by Zadie Smith


  Title Page

  International Acclaim




  ARCHIE 1974, 1945

  1. The Peculiar Second Marriage of Archie Jones

  2. Teething Trouble

  3. Two Families

  4. Three Coming

  5. The Root Canals of Alfred Archibald Jones and Samad Miah Iqbal

  SAMAD 1984, 1857

  6. The Temptation of Samad Iqbal

  7. Molars

  8. Mitosis

  9. Mutiny!

  10. The Root Canals of Mangal Pande

  IRIE 1990, 1907

  11. The Miseducation of Irie Jones

  12. Canines: The Ripping Teeth

  13. The Root Canals of Hortense Bowden

  14. More English Than the English

  15. Chalfenism Versus Bowdenism


  16. The Return of Magid Mahfooz Murshed Mubtasim Iqbal

  17. Crisis Talks and Eleventh-Hour Tactics

  18. The End of History Versus The Last Man

  19. The Final Space

  20. Of Mice and Memory

  About the Author


  International Acclaim for Zadie Smith’s

  White Teeth

  “An astonishingly assured debut, funny and serious, and the voice has real writerly idiosyncrasy. I was delighted by White Teeth and often impressed. It has . . . bite.”

  —Salman Rushdie

  “Not since Mary Shelley composed Frankenstein at the age of 19 has a bookish young woman made such an extraordinary debut.”

  —The Baltimore Sun

  “This extravagant novel bursts with optimism about people, about language. . . . Zadie Smith’s wide-eyed enthusiasm is contagious.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “As gut-busting and auspicious a debut novel as Pynchon’s V.”

  —The Village Voice

  “White Teeth is a white hot debut.”

  —Vanity Fair

  “White Teeth is a wild and generous ride, unstinting on comedy and electric with ideas.”

  —Talk Magazine

  “An astonishing debut. White Teeth shines in the dark.”


  “[White Teeth] is a magnificent and audacious novel, jam packed with memorable characters and challenging ideas.”

  —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “A writer of mighty potential.”

  —The Times Literary Supplement

  “A rich, ambitious, and often hilarious delight.”

  —The Independent

  “Poised and relentlessly funny. . . . A major new talent.”

  —The Guardian

  To my mother and my father.

  And for Jimmi Rahman

  What is past is prologue

  —Inscription in Washington, D.C., museum


  I am grateful to both Lisa and Joshua Appignanesi for contriving between them to get me a room of my own when it was most required. Thanks are due to Tristan Hughes and Yvonne Bailey-Smith for providing two happy homes for this book and its author. I am also indebted to the bright ideas and sharp eyes of the following people: Paul Hilder, friend and sounding-board; Nicholas Laird, fellow idiot savant; Donna Poppy, meticulous in everything; Simon Prosser, as judicious an editor as one could hope for; and finally my agent, Georgia Garrett, from whom nothing escapes.


  1974, 1945

  Every little trifle, for some reason, does seem incalculably important today and when you say of a thing that “nothing hangs on it” it sounds like blasphemy. There’s never any knowing—how am I to put it?—which of our actions, which of our idlenesses won’t have things hanging on it for ever.

  —E. M. Forster, Where Angels Fear to Tread


  The Peculiar Second Marriage of Archie Jones

  Early in the morning, late in the century, Cricklewood Broadway. At 0627 hours on January 1, 1975, Alfred Archibald Jones was dressed in corduroy and sat in a fume-filled Cavalier Musketeer Estate facedown on the steering wheel, hoping the judgment would not be too heavy upon him. He lay in a prostrate cross, jaw slack, arms splayed on either side like some fallen angel; scrunched up in each fist he held his army service medals (left) and his marriage license (right), for he had decided to take his mistakes with him. A little green light flashed in his eye, signaling a right turn he had resolved never to make. He was resigned to it. He was prepared for it. He had flipped a coin and stood staunchly by the results. This was a decided-upon suicide. In fact, it was a New Year’s resolution.

  But even as his breathing became spasmodic and his lights dimmed, Archie was aware that Cricklewood Broadway would seem a strange choice. Strange to the first person to notice his slumped figure through the windshield, strange to the policemen who would file the report, to the local journalist called upon to write fifty words, to the next of kin who would read them. Squeezed between an almighty concrete cinema complex at one end and a giant intersection at the other, Cricklewood was no kind of place. It was not a place a man came to die. It was a place a man came to in order to go other places via the A41. But Archie Jones didn’t want to die in some pleasant, distant woodland, or on a cliff edge fringed with delicate heather. The way Archie saw it, country people should die in the country and city people should die in the city. Only proper. In death as he was in life and all that. It made sense that Archibald should die on this nasty urban street where he had ended up, living alone at the age of forty-seven, in a one-bedroom flat above a deserted chip shop. He wasn’t the type to make elaborate plans—suicide notes and funeral instructions—he wasn’t the type for anything fancy. All he asked for was a bit of silence, a bit of shush so he could concentrate. He wanted it to be perfectly quiet and still, like the inside of an empty confessional or the moment in the brain between thought and speech. He wanted to do it before the shops opened.

  Overhead, a gang of the local flying vermin took off from some unseen perch, swooped, and seemed to be zeroing in on Archie’s car roof—only to perform, at the last moment, an impressive U-turn, moving as one with the elegance of a curve ball and landing on the Hussein-Ishmael, a celebrated halal butchers. Archie was too far gone to make a big noise about it, but he watched them with a warm internal smile as they deposited their load, streaking white walls purple. He watched them stretch their peering bird heads over the Hussein-Ishmael gutter; he watched them watch the slow and steady draining of blood from the dead things—chickens, cows, sheep—hanging on their hooks like coats around the shop. The Unlucky. These pigeons had an instinct for the Unlucky, and so they passed Archie by. For, though he did not know it, and despite the Hoover tube that lay on the passenger seat pumping from the exhaust pipe into his lungs, luck was with him that morning. The thinnest covering of luck was on him like fresh dew. While he slipped in and out of consciousness, the position of the planets, the music of the spheres, the flap of a tiger moth’s diaphanous wings in Central Africa, and a whole bunch of other stuff that Makes Shit Happen had decided it was second-chance time for Archie. Somewhere, somehow, by somebody, it had been decided that he would live.

  The Hussein-Ishmael was owned by Mo Hussein-Ishmael, a great bull of a man with hair that rose and fell in a quiff, then a ducktail. Mo believed that with pigeons you have to get to the root of the problem: not the excretions but the pigeon itself. The shit is not the shit (this was Mo’s mantra), the pigeon is the shit. So the morning of Archie’s almost-death began as every morning in the Hussein-Ishmael, with Mo resting his huge belly on the windowsill, leaning out and swinging a meat cleaver in an attempt to halt the flow of dribbling pur

  “Get out of it! Get away, you shit-making bastards! Yes! SIX!”

  It was cricket, basically—the Englishman’s game adapted by the immigrant, and six was the most pigeons you could get at one swipe.

  “Varin!” said Mo, calling down to the street, holding the bloodied cleaver up in triumph. “You’re in to bat, my boy. Ready?”

  Below him on the pavement stood Varin—a massively overweight Hindu boy on a misjudged traineeship program from the school round the corner, looking up like a big dejected blob underneath Mo’s question mark. It was Varin’s job to struggle up a ladder and gather spliced bits of pigeon into a small Kwik-Save shopping bag, tie the bag up, and dispose of it in the bins at the other end of the street.

  “Come on, Mr. Fatty-man,” yelled one of Mo’s kitchen staff, poking Varin up the arse with a broom as punctuation for each word. “Get-your-fat-Ganesh-Hindu-backside-up-there-Elephant-Boy-and-bring-some-of-that-mashed-pigeon-stuff-with-you.”

  Mo wiped the sweat off his forehead, snorted, and looked out over Cricklewood, surveying the discarded armchairs and strips of carpet, outdoor lounges for local drunks; the slot-machine emporiums, the greasy spoons, and the minicabs—all covered in shit. One day, so Mo believed, Cricklewood and its residents would have cause to thank him for his daily massacre; one day no man, woman, or child on the Broadway would ever again have to mix one part detergent to four parts vinegar to clean up the crap that falls on the world. The shit is not the shit, he repeated solemnly, the pigeon is the shit. Mo was the only man in the community who truly understood. He was feeling really very Zen about this—very goodwill-to-all-men—until he spotted Archie’s car.


  A shifty-looking skinny guy with a handlebar mustache and dressed in four different shades of brown came out of the shop, with blood on his palms.

  “Arshad!” Mo barely restrained himself, stabbed his finger in the direction of the car. “My boy, I’m going to ask you just once.”

  “Yes, Abba?” said Arshad, shifting from foot to foot.

  “What the hell is this? What is this doing here? I got delivery at six-thirty. I got fifteen dead bovines turning up here at six-thirty. I got to get it in the back. That’s my job. You see? There’s meat coming. So, I am perplexed . . .” Mo affected a look of innocent confusion. “Because I thought this was clearly marked ‘Delivery Area.’ ” He pointed to an aging wooden crate that bore the legend NO PARKINGS OF ANY VEHICLE ON ANY DAYS. “Well?”

  “I don’t know, Abba.”

  “You’re my son, Arshad. I don’t employ you not to know. I employ him not to know”—he reached out of the window and slapped Varin, who was negotiating the perilous gutter like a tightrope-walker, giving him a thorough cosh to the back of his head and almost knocking the boy off his perch—“I employ you to know things. To compute information. To bring into the light the great darkness of the creator’s unexplainable universe.”


  “Find out what it’s doing there and get rid of it.”

  Mo disappeared from the window. A minute later Arshad returned with the explanation. “Abba.”

  Mo’s head sprang back through the window like a malicious cuckoo from a Swiss clock.

  “He’s gassing himself, Abba.”


  Arshad shrugged. “I shouted through the car window and told the guy to move on and he says, ‘I am gassing myself, leave me alone.’ Like that.”

  “No one gasses himself on my property,” Mo snapped as he marched downstairs. “We are not licensed.”

  Once in the street, Mo advanced upon Archie’s car, pulled out the towels that were sealing the gap in the driver’s window, and pushed it down five inches with brute, bullish force.

  “Do you hear that, mister? We’re not licensed for suicides around here. This place halal. Kosher, understand? If you’re going to die round here, my friend, I’m afraid you’ve got to be thoroughly bled first.”

  Archie dragged his head off the steering wheel. And in the moment between focusing on the sweaty bulk of a brown-skinned Elvis and realizing that life was still his, he had a kind of epiphany. It occurred to him that, for the first time since his birth, Life had said Yes to Archie Jones. Not simply an “OK” or “You-might-as-well-carry-on-since-you’ve-started,” but a resounding affirmative. Life wanted Archie. She had jealously grabbed him from the jaws of death, back to her bosom. Although he was not one of her better specimens, Life wanted Archie and Archie, much to his own surprise, wanted Life.

  Frantically, he wound down both his windows and gasped for oxygen from the very depths of his lungs. In between gulps he thanked Mo profusely, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands clinging to Mo’s apron.

  “All right, all right,” said the butcher, freeing himself from Archie’s fingers and brushing himself clean, “move along now. I’ve got meat coming. I’m in the business of bleeding. Not counseling. You want Lonely Street. This Cricklewood Lane.”

  Archie, still choking on thankyous, reversed, pulled out from the curb, and turned right.

  Archie Jones attempted suicide because his wife, Ophelia, a violet-eyed Italian with a faint mustache, had recently divorced him. But he had not spent New Year’s morning gagging on the tube of a vacuum cleaner because he loved her. It was rather because he had lived with her for so long and had not loved her. Archie’s marriage felt like buying a pair of shoes, taking them home, and finding they don’t fit. For the sake of appearances, he put up with them. And then, all of a sudden and after thirty years, the shoes picked themselves up and walked out of the house. She left. Thirty years.

  As far as he remembered, just like everybody else they began well. The first spring of 1946, he had stumbled out of the darkness of war and into a Florentine coffeehouse, where he was served by a waitress truly like the sun: Ophelia Diagilo, dressed all in yellow, spreading warmth and the promise of sex as she passed him a frothy cappuccino. They walked into it blinkered as horses. She was not to know that women never stayed as daylight in Archie’s life; that somewhere in him he didn’t like them, he didn’t trust them, and he was able to love them only if they wore haloes. No one told Archie that lurking in the Diagilo family tree were two hysteric aunts, an uncle who talked to eggplants, and a cousin who wore his clothes back to front. So they got married and returned to England, where she realized very quickly her mistake, he drove her very quickly mad, and the halo was packed off to the attic to collect dust with the rest of the bric-a-brac and broken kitchen appliances that Archie promised one day to repair. And in that bric-a-brac was a Hoover.

  On Boxing Day morning, six days before he parked outside Mo’s halal butchers, Archie had returned to their semidetached in Hendon in search of that Hoover. It was his fourth trip to the attic in so many days, ferrying the odds and ends of a marriage out to his new flat, and the Hoover was one of the last items he reclaimed—one of the most broken things, most ugly things, the things you demand out of sheer bloody-mindedness because you have lost the house. This is what divorce is: taking things you no longer want from people you no longer love.

  “So you again,” said the Spanish home-help at the door, Santa-Maria or Maria-Santa or something. “Meester Jones, what now? Kitchen sink, sí?”

  “Hoover,” said Archie, grimly. “Vacuum.”

  She cut her eyes at him and spat on the doormat inches from his shoes. “Welcome, señor.”

  The place had become a haven for people who hated him. Apart from the home-help, he had to contend with Ophelia’s extended Italian family, her mental-health nurse, the woman from the council, and of course Ophelia herself, who was to be found in the kernel of this nuthouse, curled up in a fetal ball on the sofa, making lowing sounds into a bottle of Bailey’s. It took him an hour and a quarter just to get through enemy lines—and for what? A perverse Hoover, discarded months earlier because it was determined to perform the opposite of every vacuum’s objective: spewing out dust instead of sucking it in.

?Meester Jones, why do you come here when it make you so unhappy? Be reasonable. What can you want with it?” The home-help was following him up the attic stairs, armed with some kind of cleaning fluid: “It’s broken. You don’t need this. See? See?” She plugged it into a socket and demonstrated the dead switch. Archie took the plug out and silently wound the cord round the machine. If it was broken, it was coming with him. All broken things were coming with him. He was going to fix every damn broken thing in this house, if only to show that he was good for something.

  “You good-for-nothing!” Santa whoever chased him back down the stairs. “Your wife is ill in her head, and this is all you can do!”

  Archie hugged the Hoover to his chest and took it into the crowded living room, where, under several pairs of reproachful eyes, he got out his toolbox and started work on it.

  “Look at him,” said one of the Italian grandmothers, the more glamo-rous one with the big scarves and fewer moles, “he take everything, capisce? He take-a her mind, he take-a the blender, he take-a the old stereo—he take-a everything except the floorboards. It make-a you sick . . .”

  The woman from the council, who even on dry days resembled a long-haired cat soaked to the skin, shook her skinny head in agreement. “It’s disgusting, you don’t have to tell me, it’s disgusting . . . and naturally, we’re the ones left to sort out the mess; it’s this idiot here who has to—”

  Which was overlapped by the nurse: “She can’t stay here alone, can she? . . . Now he’s buggered off, poor woman . . . she needs a proper home, she needs . . .”

  I’m here, Archie felt like saying, I’m right here you know, I’m bloody right here. And it was my blender.

  But he wasn’t one for confrontation, Archie. He listened to them all for another fifteen minutes, mute as he tested the Hoover’s suction against pieces of newspaper, until he was overcome by the sensation that Life was an enormous rucksack so impossibly heavy that, even though it meant losing everything, it was infinitely easier to leave all baggage here on the roadside and walk on into the blackness. You don’t need the blender, Archie-boy, you don’t need the Hoover. This stuff’s all dead weight. Just lay down the rucksack, Arch, and join the happy campers in the sky. Was that wrong? To Archie—ex-wife and ex-wife’s relatives in one ear, spluttering vacuum in the other—it just seemed that The End was unavoidably nigh. Nothing personal to God or whatever. It just felt like the end of the world. And he was going to need more than poor whiskey, novelty crackers, and a paltry box of Quality Street candy—all the strawberry ones already scoffed—to justify entering another annum.

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