Zia Rahman - In the Light of What We Know

Fiona threw the party in a vast private room at a restaurant off Sloane Square. From the doors to the roof terrace, eddies of cool air softened the blows of perfume and cigarette smoke. They drank Bellinis as the waiting staff tiptoed about them daring to interrupt with canapés, and the young ladies shriveled their noses. Now what might that be? cried Gemma. A barely straightened forefinger seemed poised to motion the food away. Gemma worked in public relations and knew Fiona from Wycombe Abbey. Gemma wore jeans and an engagement ring with a rock the size of a minor African state, and she lived in a house she’d just bought in Fulham, around the corner from Brasserie Émile , she said, with a glance to see if I knew the place. A test? Oh, yes , I lied.

It was all about networks, though they would never have said it themselves. Like apes knuckling down to a forest clearing to groom each other, they thronged to the drinks parties and dinner parties, the art openings and first nights. I could never feel myself present.

I heard a confident male voice say, I should introduce you to my friend Richard Pembridge at the Foreign Office. He’s at the embassy in D.C., but I think he’s taking up an ambassadorship. Some hardship post in Asia. Pakistan or Bangladesh, I think. I glanced over and saw a young man, tall and handsome, speaking to Emily. His unkempt blond hair fell and rose in bluffs across his forehead, improbably fluttering over his brow. The flirting was transparent: the broad chest and robust chin pushed out, hands open, arms wide, inflated to make the beast appear bigger, never covering the body, the broken glances reattached, and the incessant rhythmic smiling. That subtle play of gestures to mark in-group familiarity; beneath it, the thrust of sexual advance.

And to think that at the beginning I imagined me showing off her. I daydreamed about it, sitting on the bus going somewhere, I daydreamed about going to dinner parties with her. Have you met my girlfriend? I’d say. Who am I kidding? Have you met my wife? That’s what I said. And I watched as I grew in the estimation of the men and women. I saw myself swelling before them. What I didn’t count on was that my new milieu would consist of people who weren’t just familiar with Emily’s pedigree and status but were drawn from the same stock, and whose very association with her was part of that status, so that rather than finding myself in a position to brag about her, the question any idiot must have been asking — the question I was asking — was: What the dickens was she doing with him? It took me much longer even to begin asking myself what the dickens I was doing staying with her.

I met a man called Hugh at the party. He was wearing a rugby shirt and in one hand he clenched two bottles of beer by their necks. Every party has a Hugh at the edges. His right arm craned up and down, over and over, so that his fat hand could parry away the inevitable locks of wavy hair that came tumbling over his forehead. Hugh and I exchanged names, and when he asked me whom I knew, I said that the host, Fiona, was a friend of my girlfriend.

Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?

I live in Brixton, I said.

He let out a guffaw, gently nudging me on the shoulder, relishing what his drunken imagination took for mutual amusement. I acquiesced with a grin.

No, I mean really, Zephyr. Where are you from?

* * *

When I was eight years old or so, the local authority’s social services had taken an interest in our family, and one summer at their suggestion and expense we took our first vacation, in Clacton-on-Sea. At the holiday camp, there were talent contests, games for children, darts tournaments for men, and a pub. I expect there were plenty of things to do besides, but I spent most of my time away from my parents playing pool by myself. I remember being fascinated by the motion of the balls on the table. My mother cooked pungent Bangladeshi food in the chalet — that’s what they called those terraces of two-room self-catering units — and the smell pervaded the entire camp.

I made friends with Charlie, an eight-year-old from Manchester with a thick accent. Can I play, too? he asked, and that was enough to begin a friendship, my first. Charlie didn’t seem to show any hint of the wariness of the children at the virtually all-white school I attended in London. At the end of our first game, after maintaining a running commentary of every ball either of us played, and cheering me on with an enthusiasm that I instantly saw was genuine, he asked me my name.

I don’t know why but I said it was George. George. George? How much more English can you get? I still don’t know why I did that. I can think of possible reasons, but I don’t know which one is most relevant. Shame? Or just that I didn’t want this boy who was nice to me to get my name wrong.

One day, after I returned from practicing on the pool table by myself, my mother said, as she set down a plate of food in front of me, that three “white people,” a boy and his parents, had come by asking for George.

Oh? I said. But I did not look up to meet her eye and we never spoke about it further. After that I was too ashamed to play with Charlie again and avoided him for the remaining few days of the vacation.

* * *

I let Hugh’s mispronunciation drop.

I was born, I said, in Bangladesh, on the eastern side of India.

Marvelous. Do you go back often?

I’ve spent some years there.

But your family’s moved here, has it?

Yes.

Political reasons? Let me guess — father’s a diplomat but the new regime was no longer friendly. Am I right?

Politics is everywhere, I said, making as much sense as a drunk could stomach.

Love India, said Hugh. Marvelous place. And I simply love curry. I’d curry everything if I could.

Everything?

Everything!

Curry favor, too?

What?

Curry’s flavorful.

Exactly!

He exclaimed this as if I’d shared some terrific insight.

What do you do here?

I’m a lawyer.

Immigration lawyer?

I hesitated as a wicked thought tempted me.

Yes, I said.* As a matter of fact, I’m back in India next week to give master classes on how to beat U.K. immigration controls. I don’t just do immigration, though. No, in two weeks, I’ll be in the High Court resisting an application from the Algerian government for the extradition of alleged terrorists from the U.K. Blew up a children’s hospital in Paris before bolting for Blighty. Guilty as sin, as far as I can tell. But we’re British, old chap, and they deserve a fair trial, don’t you think? Should be a lot of fun.

Hugh looked shocked.

More champagne, I said to him, raising my empty glass, and I walked off leaving him open-mouthed.

For a while I stood against the bar, sipping my drink while viewing the crowd. More people arrived and I watched the women turn, almost as one, a ruffle across the room, to look at the newcomers. They only glanced at the males, but as they looked over the new females joining the herd, their eyes screwed into points and their brows tightened, each touching her own hair. Nothing bears as much severity, as much unsparing regard, as one woman’s appraisal of another.

The man standing next to me at the bar turned to face me. It was the tall blond who had promised to introduce Emily to his friend at the Foreign Office.

Funny, isn’t it? he said.

What is? I replied.

The way they size each other up. They can’t help it.

Human, don’t you think?

He extended his hand. The name’s Toby.

Zafar.

We shook.

What do you do, Zafar?

I looked at him and wondered how this might go. He’d pronounced the name correctly.

Have a guess.