Zia Rahman - In the Light of What We Know

I recognized the woman. Emily! I exclaimed, as I drew near. She smiled to see me and she then looked lovelier than I ever remembered her, lovelier than James’s skinny older sister, lovelier than the reserved eighteen-year-old Oxford undergraduate I’d known, with little to say for herself; she had blossomed. Of course, I know that Zafar says he didn’t find her quite so beautiful, but I don’t buy it. I just don’t.

I made introductions, and if there had been at that moment any indication of recognition on Zafar’s part, or, for that matter, any sign of mutual attraction, then I failed to notice it. Perhaps I was distracted in my own way.

We exchanged information, where we were, what we were doing. I explained that I’d just joined the firm where Zafar was already a trader in the New York office. I was in New York for induction before going back to London. I explained to Zafar my connection with Emily through her brother and also through a mutual family friend. As I think of it now, I remember that Zafar said only a few words throughout this. Emily explained — but only after I’d pressed her on her connection with the event — that she’d come to the reception as a guest of Aisha Marwan, our mutual friend, the Pakistani socialite who was apparently in New York for a wedding. Aisha hadn’t arrived yet (and would never show).

It was hard going getting anything out of Emily. Zafar has described her personality as secretive, and I now wonder if by this he meant something more than that she withheld information, if perhaps he was identifying some underlying character trait that caused her to withhold her presence before people. Even if I had not seen her in two or three years, I knew the reputation she had acquired, which was of a hugely ambitious person, dedicated to advancement. But it seems to me likely that such deprecatory remarks as have circulated from time to time might owe more than a little to the envy of other women. Nevertheless, the evident ambition suggests one line of analysis, which is that Emily saw her relationships and exchanges with people purely through the prism of function, so that unstructured social banter was foreign to her mental makeup.

Emily explained — not without some coaxing — that after Oxford she’d spent two years at Harvard studying public policy, which she was just finishing, and was thinking about going back to England to train as a lawyer, although at some point she wanted to work in international development.

After hearing out her answers, Zafar leaned forward.

You don’t seem sure about it? he asked her.

What was the it ? I thought.

I’m trying to decide.

The three of us hung loosely together, drifting back and forth. I introduced my friends to Hamid Karzai, now president of Afghanistan but at that time a rather shady figure involved in the oil business. We chatted pleasantries, Karzai expressing an embarrassingly effusive friendliness toward me, and he asked me to pass on his good wishes to my grandfathers, “both of them,” he said with baffling emphasis.

Inevitably, I reluctantly encountered the Afghan businessman, but when he quite obviously took a shine to Emily I found my moment to slip away. Zafar had already wandered off.

I toured the exhibits, taking in the rugs and other items. From time to time, I looked over at Emily, who now had a little gathering around her, which included Karzai as well as a small, wiry figure whom I did not recognize but who seemed to be holding forth to the circle around him. This man, I would learn much later, was Mohammed Jalaluddin.

When I saw Zafar, I stopped to regard him and could not resist a grin; he was going from one vinyl wall panel to the next, reading the explanatory text without stopping to look at the rugs.

I think I was still grinning when I looked over at Emily — perhaps I had in mind to share the observation with a nod — but as I watched her, I saw that she was stealing glances at Zafar.

* * *

The following day, when Zafar thanked me for taking him along to the reception, I brought up a rather odd moment that I had wanted to ask him about. At a certain point in the evening, I had been standing with Karzai, Zafar, Emily, and the wiry fellow, along with two or three other men who said nothing and grinned inanely from time to time, after the fashion of hangers-on. Karzai praised my grandfather before the assembled group for some or other business decision. I thanked him for his kind words and was about to ease away when Karzai shot a forefinger into the air.

You must have my tickets. You’re a cultured man, he said to me. I have two tickets for the New York City Ballet. You must have them.

Before I could respond, he had plucked them from his breast pocket and pushed them into my hands. Two seats. I hated ballet.

I’m sorry, I said, but I’m afraid I’m already fixed for that evening.

Then you must pass them on.

I handed them to Zafar.

I couldn’t possibly accept. These are excellent seats, said Zafar, looking at the tickets.

But you must, said Karzai, smiling not at Zafar but at me. It is my gift.

I wished Zafar would just thank him so we could all move on.

All right, said Zafar, coming to my rescue. However, addressing Hamid Karzai, he added: But you have to tell me what your favorite charity is.

Hamid Karzai looked a little confused.

What is your favorite charity, Mr. Karzai?

I can’t have been the only one wondering if Karzai might not have a favorite charity. Emily and I exchanged looks.

UNICEF, he said finally.

Excellent, said Zafar, pulling out his checkbook.

Zafar tapped my shoulder, I turned, and against my back he wrote out a check.

They’re expensive tickets, Mr. Karzai, said Zafar, but then UNICEF is such a deserving cause, he added.

As he tore off the check, I saw that it was made out in the amount of three hundred dollars.

Would you like to send this to UNICEF, or shall I?

Why don’t you ? replied Karzai, whose smile was visibly forced.

As I say, the following day I asked Zafar why he’d written a check to UNICEF.

The man said it was his favorite charity, replied Zafar.

You know what I mean.

A man like Karzai doesn’t give gifts, he exchanges favors.

You think ballet tickets put you in debt to him?

No, but it makes it just that much easier to call you and inquire how I enjoyed the ballet before asking you a favor. They trade on the stuff; this is how these people work.

Afghans?

Elites. Why should you, of all people, need tickets for the ballet? Your grandfather could buy the whole First Ring faster than a Russian could say Mikhail Baryshnikov.

Maybe he was just being friendly, I said.

You don’t believe that.

Zafar, I thought, was overanalyzing.

What in the world could he want from you? I asked.

I was introduced to him as your friend.

Which means I might have owed him something, not you.

Zafar had paid off Karzai, made a show of giving UNICEF, Karzai’s favorite charity, an amount equal to the face value of the tickets, in order that I wouldn’t be beholden to the man.

Wait a minute, I said. Does that mean I owe you a debt?

I suppose it does, replied Zafar. I might even call on it one day, he added with a grin.

I laughed.

What are you going to do with the tickets?

I’ve never been to a ballet.

You’ve got two tickets.

I considered the possibility, even without any good basis, that he might invite Emily. But Zafar said nothing.

I’m surprised Emily’s going to become a lawyer, I said. I never pegged her for that.

But she didn’t say she was becoming a lawyer.

She did. She said she’s going to law school.