Zia Rahman - In the Light of What We Know

— attributed to Winston Churchill in Zafar’s notebooks

As Zafar gave his account of tea with Penelope Hampton-Wyvern, I let him speak uninterrupted. But I could barely conceal my discomfort in those flashing moments when rage took hold of him. I could not recall having seen anything like it in him before. Even when, those years ago, he struck down the neo-Nazi in that cobbled mews in Notting Hill, his manner and conduct — the quiet, unassuming South Asian of his own description — had shown restraint and control which, while in its own way alarming, had evidenced no deep well of anger. But in the course of merely recounting tea with the Hampton-Wyverns, even where there was no prospect of physical violence, when he was talking to me , he seemed to be raging against some unseen enemy and spoke of such things as class, privilege, and networks with shocking ferocity.

A few days later, once the dust had seemed to settle, I tried to broach these subjects. We were sitting in a café in Bloomsbury, next to the window, looking onto the British Museum. I brought up his meeting Penelope, but the conversation didn’t seem to be moving.

Do you see what the little girl is doing? he asked.

Zafar was watching a child sitting with her mother. The little girl was eating chocolate cake.

The girl’s putting the spoon on her plate, he continued, then breaking off a small piece of cake and putting it on the spoon. Watch this—

The girl lifted the spoon, but when it was hovering in front of her face, instead of doing what you’d expect with the utensil, she picked off the crumbling piece of cake with her hand again and popped it into her mouth.

How cute is that? he asked.

Don’t we choose to be victims? I asked.

A young waitress in a short skirt finally brought us our coffee. I moved the voice recorder away from the mugs. That device had quickly slipped into the rituals when we sat and talked, signifying a reassuring continuity, a means of keeping track, at a time when things were changing, things were breaking, when further changes looked certain to come.

The British class structure is terrible, isn’t it? I added idiotically, like an incompetent chat show host, trying to provoke a guest.

Zafar was looking out across the road. High above the main entrance of the museum, the Union Jack fluttered from a pole. The door to the café opened and cold air blustered in behind an elderly couple complaining about the weather.

Aren’t they all? asked Zafar.

What do you mean?

Aren’t all class structures terrible?

Don’t you think it’s something we can fix? At least the way we deal with it.

We? Listen to you, the class warrior.

As individuals, I mean. I’m not talking about class war, I said.

No one does. The Cold War’s over, socialists scattered to the winds and with them all talk of class.

Maybe you can’t change the world, but at least you can change the way you look at things and how they affect you.

The world is what it is and our task is to see it rightly?

Exactly, I said.

What if you can’t see things as they are? Zafar asked.

You learn. Isn’t that what education is all about?

He said nothing.

I don’t buy your take on it, I said.

What’s my take?

Education isn’t about gaining power. It’s about opening our eyes and letting in the light.

He did not answer. I thought he was being deliberately obtuse.

In the street, a young man dashed across the road and, as he did so, dropped something, a phone perhaps. A car drove over it and carried on without stopping.

Zafar’s gaze went out toward the British Museum, upward, through the leafless trees, toward the bright British flag beating against a gray December sky. His eyes looked still, as if time itself were lingering in the air above him, waiting for an opening. My father had a similar gaze when he was lost in thought, perhaps in some idea of physics or, equally likely I think, in something mundane. My mother used to say he was staring off into space-time.

Do you know why they fly flags at half-mast?

Because someone has died? I replied.

I mean where the tradition comes from.

No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.

I bet you ten pieces of cake.

You want to eat ten pieces of cake? I asked him.

No. If I win, you have to eat ten pieces of cake.

Tell me why flags are flown at half-mast. You’ve actually got me quite curious now.

You’ve always been curious.

Very droll.

Pay attention. With the accession of James I in 1603, British ships flew two flags, the English cross and Scottish saltire. But there was another existing convention. When a battle or military exchange had taken place, the victor’s flag was hung at the top with the loser’s just below. The question of which flag should go on top, after a military victory, against the Spanish, say, was resolved by letting English ships fly the cross in the superior position and Scottish ships the saltire.

But why are flags flown at half-mast when someone dies?

Flying a flag at half-mast or, to be precise, not halfway down the pole but one flag shy of the top is to make room for the invisible flag of Death, the victor over all men.

I think Zafar and I both pondered the image for a few moments. Now I saw it differently.

Why, I asked, were two flags flown after James I became king?

James I of England was also James VI of Scotland.

Yes, of course.

Actually, I say British ships, but there was in fact no Britain to speak of. Given the historical enmity of the English and Scots, James went out of his way to appeal to the English, quite literally. When he traveled from Scotland to assume the throne in London, he stopped off at towns and villages throughout England, ingratiating himself with his new subjects. But here’s the thing. What’s called the Union of the Crowns did not actually mean the union of Scotland and England. There was still no Great Britain. That had to wait another hundred years. James was king of two separate sovereign states. So let me ask you this: If anyone can be described as English, surely the monarch of England is a good candidate?

Unless he’s German, like the Windsors.

Ah, you may joke, but James also ruled Ireland. My question is, do you think today’s patriotic Brit is likely to regard his queen as British or not?

Point taken.

And yet here was James, king of England, king of Ireland, and king of Scotland. He was an Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scot, and king of separate sovereign states. So when an English patriot asks if it’s possible to be both British and Pakistani or British and Bangladeshi, it might be worth pointing out that for over a hundred years, the monarch of England had more than one national identity.

For a while, we sat in silence.

Do you know Poggendorff’s illusion? asked my friend.

No. Tell me about Poggendorff’s illusion, I said in sudden good spirits brought on by the instant recognition, a familiar sense, that Zafar wanted to play.

He pulled out a pen, took a napkin, and drew a straight vertical line before asking me if we should get another coffee.

I’ll order them — I need the bathroom anyway. Finish your drawing, I said.

The voice recorder is a way of eavesdropping on yourself. It is the equivalent of a door, slightly ajar, letting you listen in on yourself at a time that is past. One of the surprises contained in the recordings are the tiny things I missed the first time around. Listening to the recording of that discussion in the café, for instance, I realized that with the pretext of wanting more coffee, Zafar might very well have engineered my removal from the table so that he could put together his diagram without giving the game away.