Anglais - Bac blanc Sebastian FAULKS, A Week in December (2009)

Anglais  - Bac blanc

Sebastian FAULKS, A Week in December (2009)



Text 1

In April Hassan’s father, Farooq al-Rashid, had received a letter in an envelope marked “On Her Majesty’s Service”. Assuming it was from the taxman, he opened it cautiously. He had to read it several times before he understood its astonishing contents. From 10 Downing Street, someone who was his “obedient servant” told him “in strict confidence” that the Prime Minister had it in mind on the forthcoming list of Birthday Honours1, to submit Mr. al-Rashid’s name to the Queen for…

For what? He had to start again, blinking. Queen, Empire, Prime Minister… He thought for a moment that he was being crowned king. At last it became clear: he was, if it was “agreeable” to him, to be appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire. Surely, he thought, this was something normally given to TV comedians or Olympic winners. And the great British honour was to be granted him for…

“Lime pickle,” he said. “Who’d have thought it?”

Nasim stood up and kissed her husband on the cheek. He hugged her close.

Farooq al-Rashid had started his first factory at Renfrew in Scotland twenty-two years ago, in the month of Hassan’s birth. He himself had come to Britain as a thirteen-year-old in 1967.

His parents had left the Mirpur Valley in Pakistan-administered Kashmir and, like many others from the region; they had at first found work in the textile mills of Bradford. After leaving school at sixteen, Farooq had studied for a diploma in business studies and decamped to Glasgow, where he found a clothing company run by the grandfather of a Mirpur friend.

His business interest, however, was not in textiles but in provisions, and he quickly saw that food from the subcontinent might be sold not only in cheap restaurants but through supermarkets to a population becoming interested in strong-tasting, foreign dishes. Within ten years he was a millionaire. He had married the most beautiful girl in Bradford, sticking to Mirpur traditions by choosing a bride whose parents were from the same village as his own, and they had a dark-eyed handsome son – the apple, or the lime as Farooq put it, of his father’s eye. Farooq al-Rashid made friends in Glasgow; his demeanour appealed to the old Scots. He couldn’t join them in pubs, where the true intimacy was forged, but he wasn’t squeamish about their profanity, their football or their godlessness.

“Does this mean we have to call you Sir Farooq?” asked Nasim, looking up with worried eyes.

“No, don’t be silly.”

“But on the letters, do they…”

“That is if you’re a knight. Then I would be Sir Farooq al-Rashid. But as it is, I am Farooq al-Rashid OBE.”

“It’s quite ironic, isn’t it?” said Hassan. “That you should be an officer of the empire that conquered and partitioned your homeland.”

“That was a long time ago, Hassan. As you know. We are friends now.”

Sebastian FAULKS, A Week in December (2009)

Text 2

Nazneen, a young Bangladeshi woman, has been married off to an older man, Chanu, who has taken her to London. Dr Azad, their doctor, has been invited to dinner.

“Come,” said Dr Azad, when Nazneen was hovering behind the table ready to serve. “Come and sit down with us.”

“My wife is very shy.” Chanu smiled and motioned with his head for her to be seated.

“This week I saw two of our young men in a very sorry state,” said the doctor. “I told them straight, this is your choice: stop drinking alcohol now, or by Eid[1] your liver will be finished.

Ten years ago this would be unthinkable. Two in one week! But now our children are copying what they see here, going to the pub, to nightclubs. Or drinking at home in their bedrooms where their parents think they are perfectly safe. The problem is our community is not properly educated about these things.”

“Eat! Eat” said Chanu. He scooped up lamb and rice with his fingers and chewed. He put too much in his mouth at once, and he made sloppy noises as he ate. When he could speak again, he said, “I agree with you. Our community is not educated about this, and much else besides.

But for my part, I don’t plan to risk these things happening to my children. We will go back before they get spoiled.”

“This is another disease that afflicts us,” said the doctor. “I call it ‘Going Home Syndrome’.

Do you know what that means?” He addressed himself to Nazneen.

She felt a heat on the back of her neck and formed words that did not leave her mouth.

“It is natural,” said Chanu. “These people are basically peasants and they miss the land. The pull of the land is stronger even than the pull of blood.”

“And when they have saved enough they will get on an aeroplane and go?”

“They don’t ever really leave home. Their bodies are here but their hearts are back there. And anyway, look how they live: just recreating the villages here.”

“But they will never save enough to go back.” Dr Azad helped himself to vegetables.

Monica ALI, Brick Lane (2003)