Zia Rahman - In the Light of What We Know

For the first time I saw Zafar smile, for the first time since he had appeared on my doorstep in the morning, so many hours earlier. Most faces are transformed by smiling. Some become beautiful. Some even lose their menace, a menace that suddenly seems implausible in the first place. It was as if every trace had been removed from my mind of the unrecognizable human being that had first appeared at the doorstep. More remarkable still is the degree to which our regard for a person is transformed by his or her smile. We are defenseless against ourselves, against an instinct that is the opposite of the flight instinct, as if we have been overcome by a flood of endorphins leaving us craving more, the particular effect of which in Zafar’s smile, I should say, was to make you complicit in his toying with you.

I’ve been here and there, Zafar replied.

That’s not like you, Zafar, so vague. I’d expect that from Emily but not from you. Where was your last stop? Somewhere exotic, I hope.

This was Meena, Meena who knew what she wanted, sometimes only what she wanted. I had been sitting with Zafar, listening for hours, if not for years, to a story unfolding, and in comes Meena, jumping to chapter ten, cutting to the chase, the film-actress drama junkie, and lo she brings up the name of Emily. In the years I have known her, a dozen years in which she was shaped by the rigors of investment banking — or i-banking as she now calls it — Meena has gone from a tenderhearted and generous spirit to a maestro in making the inappropriate sound merely careless. I can hear him now, for I’m sure Zafar would remind me of what I myself have said: They were the same years she was married to me.

Afghanistan, replied Zafar.

How thrilling!

Yet even as she said this something in her voice expressed no surprise at all.

What took you there? Or should I say who? Come. Tell all.

Watching the two of them, I was reminded of that charm my friend had, charm that one could not easily describe as boyish because of the sense one had that there was some deft control behind it. Women liked him. I remember now a walk in Central Park years ago, when I was in New York for work — the same walk, in fact, during which he suggested the poem that I would later recite to Meena. I remember that we were stopped by two people, a handsome young man and a beautiful young woman, coasting along on bicycles. They looked only a few years younger than us, perhaps college students, but at that time of life a few years’ seniority is taken for a world of experience. The two had lost their way and wanted directions, yet before I could respond to the woman, Zafar interrupted.

Forgive me, but I have one question, he said, looking at the woman.

He and I stood in our sharp suits, collars open, while the young woman, dressed in Lycra, stood astride the crossbar of her bicycle. She had a face and figure that Zafar would later describe as unbearable.

The clip you’re wearing, said Zafar, in your long brown hair — do you always wear it so, or are you wearing it like that now in order to keep the hair from falling across your face while you ride your bike?

You’re right, she said, nodding and smiling. It’s to keep the hair out of my eyes.

The young man was also smiling. I’m sure Zafar noticed that. How, I thought, could he bring himself to say long brown hair ? I gave her the directions she’d asked for, but even as she listened to me she glanced at Zafar and continued smiling at him.

As they were about to turn to go, Zafar spoke up again.

I have one more thing I’d like to say.

Oh, yes? said the young woman.

If this man is your boyfriend, then he’s very lucky indeed.

I don’t think I’ve ever understood how Zafar managed either to bring himself to say such things or to get away with them. Perhaps it’s the former that compels the latter.

The young woman smiled and let her weight fall on the pedal of her bicycle. As she moved off, her back to us, she said: He’s not my boyfriend.

My name is Zafar. What’s yours?

She stopped, as then did her friend, and the two of them pushed back toward us.

My name is Eva, said the young woman.

I’m pleased to meet you, Eva.

Zafar introduced me and continued: You could follow the directions my friend gave you, or you could walk with us a little before carrying on with your journey.

The young man was chuckling. I don’t know if you’re interested, he said, but my name is Bruce.

Hello, Bruce, said Zafar, beaming at the young man. Of course I’m interested. Without you, Eva might not have stopped two young men for directions.

At those words, laughter tipped out over the group of us.

* * *

Meena wanted details about Afghanistan.

How are you, my dear? asked Zafar.

You dreadful tease. You can’t throw such words around willy-nilly, she said.

What words? I asked her.

Afghanistan, she said, shooting me a dismissive look.

Tell all and tell it now, she said, as she made her way toward the drinks cupboard.

Still impatient, I see, said my friend.

Life is short, Zafar—

And patience comes to those who wait, said Zafar.

Meena, I interjected, why don’t you pour one for Zafar?

Whisky? she asked Zafar, who nodded.

Meena caught my eye then, and though Zafar was not looking at either of us at that moment, I had the thought that I have often had in Zafar’s company, that he was nevertheless aware of being watched. Meena’s brow was furrowed with unmistakably genuine concern, as if to say, My God, he looks dreadful. I thought to myself, If only she had seen him before he’d slept, before he’d washed and shaved.

As I think now of that moment, all those months ago, of Meena’s searching look to me to corroborate her concern for Zafar, I am struck not just by its tenderness but by the instant bond between her and me, if only briefly, forged by the sincerity of her plea. I think now that perhaps this is what we had lacked by never having had children, a common enterprise of concern and love beyond ourselves or each other, whose effect might have been to bring us closer together. Of course I know that the facts speak against such a romanticized view of family, I know that many marriages fail in the year following the birth of the first child, but because Meena and I had never had children, a vacuum was left for such speculation.

Has he told you yet? They’re going to fire him, she said to Zafar.

She set down a tumbler of whisky in front of him.

We don’t know that, I said.

Wake up and smell the whisky, said Meena. You saw the email today?

I saw several emails.

The badly drafted email about badly drafted emails?

The message about using profanities in emails — I did, I replied.

Meena gave no response. The firm had issued a warning against the use of obscene language in emails, and the warning had made it onto the financial news wires, which, I imagine, is how Meena had heard about it.

Are you still doing MBSs? asked my friend.

To the extent that anyone is, which is pretty much not at all. The business is dead in the water. Now it’s all about unwinding trades that everyone thinks should never have taken place. But where were they in the heydays, banging on the phone for more, screaming across the trading floors for more and more? They couldn’t get enough of the stuff. Where were the fuckers then?

When you say they, asked Zafar, which they are you talking about?

All of them — bankers, investors, consumers, even the brainless bloody regulators — the whole world was gorging itself.

But you’re not thinking of all of them, are you? Who is they ?

He was right, of course. There was one group I hated above all others, one group that drew most of my fury. I was a new partner in the firm. Last in, first out. My career had been built on mortgage-backed securities, collateralized debt obligations, credit derivatives, and everything else that was now being laid for a bonfire, while my own firm was readying to tie me to the stake to satisfy a public’s lust for blood. This was a temporary discipline, the villagers running amok at night to purge their own souls, only to return at daybreak to the old ways in the perverse belief that they had been cleansed by sacrifice.