Zia Rahman - In the Light of What We Know

I knocked and we waited.

Any guess which St. Thomas this is named for? I asked Emily.

The Apostle Thomas?

Now that would be an irony.

Why?

St. Thomas went east, while the other apostles remained in the Mediterranean. Thomas landed up in India and founded a church there.

Really?

Indians practiced Christianity for fifteen centuries before Western missionaries came along and forced them to convert to the Church of Rome. There were Nazranis, for instance, part of the Jewish diaspora long settled in the south of India, who converted to the church of St. Thomas well before Vasco da Gama or Ferdinand Magellan set foot there. The Portuguese rooted them out because they were deemed heretics from the true faith. The unforgivable crime of Indian Christians was to disturb the European’s understanding of himself, and the only proper response was to kill such people. Vanity of vanities. All is vanity. I know what you’re thinking.

What am I thinking?

You’re wondering, why the irony, though? Here is a Roman Catholic church bearing the name of the saint who founded the church that was destroyed by Rome.

How do you know about all this? Emily asked me.

You don’t?

No.

Since I wasn’t there at the time and I don’t know anyone who was, I can only assume it must be from books.

A bolt opened behind the church door. Greeting us was a squat, rather well-fed South Asian man wearing a shalwar kameez and, strikingly, a clerical collar. He addressed Emily.

Good morning. What can I do for you?

We’re getting married and we wanted to talk to a vicar, she said.

The priest looked surprised.

I am happy to talk to you, he said.

He stepped out, pulled the door shut, and led us to a small building next to the church. Inside, in his private chambers, we sat down and he offered us tea, which we declined.

We are a Catholic church, which means that I’m not a vicar but a priest. Are you Catholics? he asked, looking at me.

He had an odd verbal tic, flashing his tongue out between phrases, pursing his lips, calling to mind a dog lapping at water.

Anglicans, said Emily, stepping in. But we’d be very happy to talk to you, if you don’t mind helping us.

I was wondering what in heaven’s name there was to talk about. What were we doing here? Emily never showed a religious disposition. But of course! It was all ceremony and ritual. There was a process, a procession, of things to do.

If you don’t mind helping us , she had said. A nice piece of manipulation at work. But how, really, could a priest help? It was, from my perspective, a decidedly odd thing to do, to reach for a priest, but everything Emily suggested seemed to come naturally to her, as if it were taken from an order of ceremonies.

And it tickled me to be in a church in Pakistan, a nation founded for the Muslims of India. I knew there were churches in Islamabad, I knew that there was one in particular that expat Christians attended, and I thought that perhaps this one might be it. It was in the right neighborhood. But counting against that possibility was, I thought, the fact that the priest was Pakistani.

If there was anything that needed discussing, any pastoral steer to give, this priest offered little. He was far too curious about us, as individuals and as a couple.

Where are you from?

We’re British, said Emily.

And you? he asked turning to me.

I was born in Bangladesh.

Ah, Bangladeshi. I see.

What is bringing you to Pakistan?

I’m working in Afghanistan, said Emily.

Oh, really? You have the work cut out.

He chuckled.

You wish to be married here?

No, she replied, we’ll be married in Italy.

In Italy? He looked confused.

Yes, my grandmother has a house there.

Your grandmother, she is Italian?

No.

He looked even more confused. He then turned to me.

What is your job?

I’m a lawyer.

Excellent.

Apart from addressing the priest’s curiosities, the conversation didn’t seem to be going anywhere. I could hardly blame him, two people outside his congregation appearing at his doorstep, asking for what exactly?

When he seemed to have satisfied himself that he had his bearings, he asked Emily if he could see me alone.

I’ll wait outside, she replied. Perhaps I can look around the church?

The door is unlocked, he said.

When she left, the man turned to me and gave me a broad smile.

I have to ask you this and you can tell me the truth in confidence. Why do you want to marry her?

I didn’t know quite where to begin and he must have seen that.

Do you love her?

Yes, I said.

But, he said, this love thing is a tricky business, don’t you agree?

Again, I didn’t know how to respond, and he did seem to want some kind of response, if only to let him progress along some route he had in mind.

You must be honest. Are you marrying her for the passport?

No.

Are you quite sure about this? The devil always helps us deceive ourselves.

I’m quite sure, I said.

Where will you live?

I don’t know, I said, as I remembered a trite homily I’d read somewhere: A bird and a fish can fall in love, but where will they make a home? Unlikely, I thought. They only meet when the bird has the fish in its claws. Fall in love?

I was holding back information, and I saw that if I left it too late, he would feel insulted that I hadn’t shared it sooner.

Perhaps I can help — I have a British passport.

Oh, I see! he said. He fell silent for a moment, lapping his tongue away, as if gathering his thoughts.

I think this lady is from a moneyed family. Am I right?

They’re well-off.

May I ask — are you from a moneyed family?

No, I’m not.

I see.

Again, the pause and lapping.

Then you must think hard before taking this step.

He glanced at his watch. I would very much like to see you again, he added. I’m sorry, but I’m late already for a pressing matter.

Outside, we joined Emily and again he repeated his request to meet again. I had the impression it was me he wanted to see. We made promises, which I think we knew would not be kept.

What did he ask you?

So much for the privilege of confession, I replied.

Come on, said Emily.

He wondered if you were marrying me for my passport or my money, I said. Of course, it was the memory of what Rebecca Sonnenschein had once said, long ago, returning now to inform my reply.

Really?

More or less, I said with a smile.

We had lunch in the hotel restaurant.

I asked her if she’d booked a ticket on the same flight as me for that afternoon, knowing I hadn’t actually told her which flight I was booked on. But before she could answer, her phone rang. How I hated that phone. It rang, she answered hello and then set off away from the table to take the call. She’d come back, I thought, and not say a word about the call. What right, I used to tell myself, did I have to know who she was talking to? None. But why it troubled me, every time, had nothing to do with rights. One expects it of anyone, if a call interrupts a conversation or a meal, an explanation will be given, however cursory— that was so and so, had to take it, sorry , or even, simply, just work. Is it not how people are supposed to behave?

She came back and resumed her meal.

Are you coming with me this afternoon? I asked, again, even though her doing so should already have been implicit in everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. The very act of asking, against that background, evidenced my doubts, signaled that I knew things weren’t quite right and that she wasn’t being entirely straight. And the fact that I wasn’t making any more of this than to ask a question the answer to which had no reason to change, the fact that I wasn’t confrontational, only added to the abasement. I was so careless of the dignity that every man must guard so that he can face himself each day. That I count chief among my regrets, the relegation of dignity.