In the Light of What We Know (64 page)

On my way to the hotel two days earlier, I’d seen a great golden cross flashing in the bright sun, rising above a line of trees, as high as a minaret. A short walk down a wide avenue, whose fast-moving traffic made it an exhilarating peril to cross, and we came to St. Thomas’s Roman Catholic Church in the Diocese of Islamabad-Rawalpindi, Pastor Anwar Daniel, M.A.

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.

To Dubai? she asked.

To Dubai, for London?

I’ll get another flight.

Have your plans changed in the last fifteen minutes? I asked.

No.

She was looking me in the eye as she said all this, that gaze I’ve told you about, that look that studies the effect of what she’s saying, that adapts and adjusts for what she sees, as if the purpose was to hold reality steady at the level of words that are spoken, as if that could ever be so.

We passed the rest of lunch in silence. When I suggested coffee, she spoke again.

I have to go to a meeting.

In Kabul?

No, here.

Did you know about the meeting before coming to Islamabad?

I came to see you.

Do you plan to get on the flight tomorrow? Should I wait?

I have to go to Kabul for another meeting.

Tomorrow?

Yes.

In development and reconstruction, it already seemed to me, people were paid not by the hour but by the meeting. Meeting was work, and the work was coordination, and coordination requires a meeting of minds, and so meetings are required in meeting rooms, so that things can be discussed and consensus reached and minutes taken, so work can get done.

Should I wait?

No answer from her. It was infuriating.

What did you imagine I would
do
?

She said nothing.

Do you know if Ariana’s running flights from Kabul to Dubai? I asked.

I don’t think so.

See if you can get yourself to Dubai tomorrow evening. We can catch a flight to London together, probably the day after. There’s a flight at four in the afternoon.

There is a study that comes to my mind now, said Zafar. Patients—

Really? Another study? I interjected.

Do you really think you’re in a position to tease me?

Go on, I said.

The study addressed the failure of patients to show up for appointments, no-shows, something that has always been a problem at doctors’ surgeries. One surgery introduced a system of asking patients to repeat back to the receptionist the time of the appointment they just booked. Apparently, just getting patients to say the time of their appointment resulted in no-shows dropping by fifty percent or something astonishing.

It’s one thing to ask a patient in a surgery to repeat something back—you’re providing a service, after all—but it’s another to do this with a friend, and another altogether to do it with your lover. What ruse can you apply and what price do you pay for applying a ruse to one so dear? I had no ruse.

I explained to Emily that I needed to book flights, or my flight, at any rate, at least a couple of hours beforehand. If I didn’t do so, then I’d have to stay at a hotel in Dubai. Not cheap. Bear that in mind, I said.

Oh, the indignity! There I am asking her to get to Dubai tomorrow but telling her when the last flight to London is on the day after that. Some part of me implicitly conceding, suggesting that she could come later—isn’t that what it was?—giving her an out to every request I made. That was the sum of it, this feeling of being broken into parts. I must have known something wasn’t quite right when she appeared in the room. Her luggage was too small. Did she not count on me saying yes when she asked me to marry her? A carry-on wouldn’t have been enough for her, not if she thought she might be going to London. And yet I shut out the wisdom of my own eyes. One part of me fighting with another.

I should get going soon if I’m going to catch my flight. Can I drop you off somewhere? I asked.

No, that’s fine. I’m going to stay here for a bit; I have a little work to do before my meeting. You should go.

I settled the account, asked at the reception for a taxi to the airport, and went to fetch our bags.

Emily and I kissed outside the hotel and I got into the car and watched her go back inside.

To the airport, sir?

Yes, please. But can you first go to the end of the road, around the roundabout, and come back this way?

Certainly, sir.

As we drove past the hotel, I saw Emily getting into a car that had the livery of a cab company.

Thank you, driver. Let’s go to the airport.

The car I was in was a Land Cruiser, not the Corolla or Nissan one might expect of a taxi. On arriving at the airport, I was not surprised to discover the colonel waiting there.

Hello, Zafar, he said, stretching out his hands and gripping me by my arms.

I’m sorry your visit to Kabul was so short. I trust you’ll be returning soon?

It’s possible.

I would like you to know that I’m here to help—we’re there to help. I don’t suppose you need help, but I want you to know that it is there. I trust you had a pleasant flight with our air force?

It was fine. Thank you for the car, by the way.

My pleasure. It will be here, as will a place for you to stay. Just let me know.

Do I need to?

He chuckled.

How are you? I asked.

I’m well, my boy. Very well. The sun is shining. What more can one hope for? You’re on the PIA flight for Dubai.

Is that a question?

If you need it, you have a room at the Hyatt. In Dubai.

Thank you.

Let’s get you checked in.

A plane roared over us, and under the thundering noise, as before, the colonel leaned forward and spoke into my ear: When you come back, I want to hear what you make of this Crane boy. The Americans want him out of the way.

I thought the colonel was baiting my curiosity. I said nothing.

In Dubai, I checked into the Jumeirah Beach Hotel and began the waiting. In twenty-four hours, she would either be here or not and a decision would be made. What do we so often do when a decision is hard to make? We do nothing. We do not even wait for time to make the decision for us—waiting requires awareness and focus—and we would rather push the matter outside our attention. The word
decision
has roots in the Latin
decidere
, which means to cut off or kill off. You can see it in the word
homicide
, for instance,
to kill a man.
A decision, you see, amounts to cutting off all the options but one. And it is not because the decision is inherently complex that we allow time to step in and take charge of making the decision but because addressing ourselves to the decision to be made fills us with anxieties or distress. When we make a good decision we may enjoy the satisfaction of having made a good decision, or at least the satisfaction of having made a decision at all. But when we let time make the decision for us, we are denied such satisfactions. Instead what we feel is relief, and if we stand to consider this feeling, we see that it is the relief that comes from knowing that we are now freed from having ever to endure the anxiety of confronting that decision. It is only relief. That is what time does to us all. It kills all the lives we might have had, destroys all the worlds we might have known. And that is why a man may commit suicide and never take his own life.