The Black Album [antikvár]

ONE One evening, as Shahid Hasan came out of the communal hall toilet, re-secured the door with a piece of looped string, and stood buttoning himself under a dim bulb, the door of the room next to his opened and a man emerged, carrying a briefcase. He was slight, wearing an open-necked shirt, brown shoes and a suit that was not fawn or much of any colour - it wasn't that kind of suit. Shahid was surprised. The college had allocated him a bed-sitting-room in a house beside a Chinese restaurant in Kilbum, north-west London. The many rooms in the six-floor building were filled with Africans, Irish people, Pakistarus and even a group of English students. The various tenants played music, smoked dope and filled the dingy corridors with the smell of bargain aftershave and boiled goat, which odour, amongst others, caused the wallpaper to droop from the walls like ancient scrolls. At all hours, though favouring the night, the occupants disputed in several languages, castigated their dogs, praised their birds and practised the trumpet. But until that moment Shahid hadn't heard a sound from next door. Presuming the room wasn't let, he had, he was afraid, made uninhibited noises, of which he was now embarrassed. The light bulb gave out: each flight of stairs was illuminated by a push-button light sweetly timed to switch off before you reached your destination, however swiftly you moved. The man blinked at Shahid through the gloom and seemed to bar his way. Shahid was about to apologize when his neighbour said a word in Urdu. Shahid replied, and the man, as if having an idea confirmed, took another step forward, offered his hand and introduced himself as Riaz Al-Hussain. Shahid's initial impression had been that Riaz was in his forties.