Shadow Play (20 page)

When she returned, she had some more to say, but the recorder remained off.

‘I feel this session has come full circle. We began with your refusal of commitment, and everything you said just now confirms that. Don't worry, none of it will go into the essay, but I wonder how one can retain the right to express any real-world opinions they like, publicly, even ones that shift from week to week, and yet have no particular loyalties to a place or movement? I've read my share of novels to agree with you about the freedom of the
writer to explore different perspectives. Yet, when he puts on his non-fiction hat, I wonder what the point is if not consistency or commitment. Otherwise who is he trying to reach?'

The very thought of extending my defence wearied me. In any case, the answer seemed obvious. ‘I've never claimed to be an activist. I agree that political action is slow and requires deep roots and daily involvement. I'm just a disorderly source of ideas. I don't possess any truths, nor do I seek votes. I throw out ideas that might be useful to various people, and I believe that conflicting voices are, at the very least, worth hearing.'

Still she refused to leave, and it was I who moved towards the front door as a hint. But she didn't seem to register this.

‘So what does it take to make the leap from weekly opinion-hopping to acting out some of your real beliefs? And what does it cost: are you saying anyone who lives by their ideals is necessarily less open-minded than you are?'

I was unduly brusque, and the night closed on a tart note. ‘We're at the end, and you're still not letting go. I sensed earlier on that I might have disappointed you with some of my responses. But now, you run the risk of doing the same. There's a faint undercurrent I'm getting that this will develop into a boring old gas about belonging and responsibility and eventually, as ever, about my son and/or mother. I've thoroughly enjoyed your company, and want to leave things that way. You have my email: any little details that need brushing up, I'm always available. Good night, my sweet Ed Murrow, and good luck.'

I believed it would be the first of many encounters with this extraordinary, vivacious young writer. I emerged pleased from that evening at having initiated what I was sure would evolve into lasting friendship, despite the apparent friction. But
six days later, Sharon lay dead in her own doorway, on the eve of a trip to New York.

I didn't register anything for hours after hearing the news. Then my numbness broke, and the first of the aftershocks reached me.

Very early in the police inquiry it would emerge that she'd visited me twice in the week before her murder.

Also, there was the other side, her killers, and the likelihood of their attention.

What will follow presently is the public version of my testimony, while I am still able to record it.

 

I first encountered Asif at Hira Mandi, one of my regular joints in Tooting. No matter where I chose to ramble in South West London – Richmond Park, Putney Heath, Wimbledon Common – I usually caught a bus afterwards that snaked me to the Broadway for a meal. There were similar appointed places throughout the city, on Green Street, in Southall, Bayswater, Edgware Road, the West End, depending on where I was. In each of them, my habits were familiar, and I merely had to nod when one of the regular waiters confirmed whether it would be ‘the usual'.

Asif was new, and walked over to my table as soon as I sat down. So we had to speak, although it was obvious he wasn't especially gregarious. He was of delicate build, in his early forties, with a perpetually concerned expression (at least while he worked) and an unusual gait – he swayed faintly from side to side, as if in the flow of some imperceptible breeze. There was nothing exceptionable about his service manners: he was efficient and polite, and seemed experienced, but for some reason my eyes followed him around the room, although no other waiter had ever held my attention in this way. I couldn't formulate it, but he was different, even as he stood with the
others during a quiet spell. He didn't seem to belong among his compatriots, although I could tell his Urdu was perfect.

At some point he grew aware of me, and we locked eyes inadvertently a few times. I felt embarrassed and looked away as he dealt with my bill. Nothing further happened, and over the next few months we grew accustomed to each other, and the need for words vaporized beyond the initial greeting. Yet I never lost my sense of his slight incongruity, and for this reason there was an unremarked connection between us. I felt everyone there treated us both warily, though not coldly, as though we weren't really Asian under the skin. Perhaps we were too aloof for them, and in their eyes we had both gone native.

Outside of these occasional musings when I was in the restaurant, I never thought of him. And it was further evidence of the similarity in our temperaments that he didn't make any unnecessary overtures either. At that point I hadn't even asked him his name.

One evening, I was about to enter Hampstead station when I realized I was missing my travel-card. I had spent the afternoon rambling round the heath, from Parliament Hill to Kenwood House, and it would normally have been impossible to trace it. Also, it was early November, the clocks had just gone back, and dusk was rapidly giving way to darkness. There was only one spot worth chancing, under the bench I had briefly rested on, and fortunately I recalled exactly where that was.

When I entered the park, already the strollers, prams and duck-feeders had departed to be replaced by a different crowd, young men slowly growing in numbers, just off the paths. My bench was about ten minutes away, and my card was exactly where I'd pictured it: it had slipped out of my back pocket and
through the gap between the boards. I was briskly on my way out again, when I recognized a familiar gait, approaching from the street.

It was impossible to ignore each other. ‘Hello,' I ventured.

‘Hello. Are you leaving?' He was still somewhat diffident, but appeared more at ease here in the open, than he did in his waistcoat and uniform amid all that Asian noise. He didn't seem in any hurry to continue, and it was I who pressed on the pedal.

‘Yes, I have a train to catch. See you sometime.'

‘See you at the restaurant.' He nodded, smiling.

I returned there on Sunday, and learnt something more about Asif when he invited me to attend a recital of fusion music at a converted church in Tufnell Park, where he would be playing the tabla. He seemed to me remarkably self-assured during the various jugalbandis, no matter how complex the improvising grew. Yet he wasn't any more expansive in person, and this made his musical confidence more apparent, since he matched everyone else for audacity, rhetoric, and even the occasional passage of pure, joyful, talent-soaked cheek. This was also the evening I learnt his name, from the stage announcer.

He asked me if I enjoyed walks on holidays, and we discovered we had parks and heaths in common. Neither of us felt the need to clarify anything about the Hampstead evening, and the issue settled itself naturally because it was never mentioned. Ours were long, silent rambles: we didn't grow into great conversationalists. But I was surprised how pleasant it was to have company each Sunday, and somehow we never found each other's choice of venue disagreeable. In our pace, our silences, even in the intervals when we required a rest, we
were well-matched. We bought each other rounds, and I often read the paper with my pint. He didn't seem to mind.

Once he suggested a matinee at the cinema, and I agreed. It was a film I'd noticed myself among the reviews and later, after our drinks, he asked if I wanted to stay out for dinner. We went to a Turkish restaurant, where he'd worked before. The food was above average, but the live belly-dancing wasn't for me. So the next week I recommended a small French place in Islington, and that integrated itself into our routine. Once a month we saw a film, and afterwards shared a meal. Although now we also met during the week, because he played often on the town-hall, library and converted-church circuit of cabaret and world music. I enjoyed watching him perform: he was still recognizably Asif, but enhanced beyond his frame in his gestures and expressions. He emanated himself through his playing, and for me it was as vivid as if he were speaking. I would shut my eyes and still feel his presence close by.

After a few evenings out, I had grown to consider him a friend. It had occurred to me to invite him to the Bells sometime, and introduce him to Patty and the boys, but I decided against it. Patty would understand, but it seemed likely the guys would see me in a new light. They would misinterpret my silence and my habits, and the Bells would cease to be a sanctuary.

I surprised myself by raising the subject of Martina with him one evening, the Sunday after I'd confirmed her house was a brothel. ‘Asif, I think I fancy a woman who is working as a hooker.'

‘That's an odd vein of humour, coming from you,' he smiled.

‘I'm not joking.'

He gazed at me as if not recognizing this newly revealed leg-puller. Why was I attempting such a weird gag? ‘Well then, I have to say you're a hidden diamond. You're the last person I would have expected to associate with such people.'

‘She is very nice. I don't think she chose this line of work.'

Now he appeared more startled by my sharing a confidence than by the words themselves. ‘Is that where you met her?' he asked.

‘No, she comes to my pub quite often, I suppose between shifts. We greet each other with a smile, but I've not yet spoken to her.'

‘Did someone tell you that's what she does?'

‘No, somehow you can guess. She's eastern European, and dresses in a certain way. I'm pretty confident of my suspicions.'

‘Well, if I were you I'd confirm them first, since it's very important to be sure. It would change everything if she isn't. On the other hand, she'll have a most unpleasant crowd behind her if she is working in that line.'

‘You're right,' I replied. ‘That's why I've held off speaking to her. I'm not sure what I would initiate.'

‘Have you ever been married?' he asked after a brief pause, apropos of nothing.

‘I came very near it once,' I said readily, ‘but it didn't work out at the last minute. I'm talking about way back, when I still lived in India.'

‘Did you not agree with your family's choice of bride?'

‘It wasn't like that. She was a love-affair. And it wasn't I who backed out.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘No, it's fine. It's not a painful memory. Anyway, I soon moved to London, and since then there hasn't been anyone even close.'

‘Did you guess that I'm married,' he then ventured, even more uncharacteristically. ‘I'm a father of three, you know.'

‘That's truly amazing,' I responded. ‘How old are they? Are you separated? Surely you don't live together. I'm asking since you spend most of your Sundays with me.'

‘No, we're still happily married. Her name is Razia, and she lives in my village, in Rawalpindi district. We were paired off at eighteen, so believe it or not, my oldest has just turned twenty. The middle one is thirteen, and then there's Laila, my baby of four.'

‘And you never thought of bringing them over. Wouldn't it be better if they studied here?'

‘They love their grandparents too much, and everyone there dotes on them. I couldn't afford to support them here, but in Rawalpindi they get an excellent education. Salman does political science, and Khurram wants to be a pilot, for PIA, I hope. I wouldn't want my son dreaming of bombing you guys.'

‘How frequently can you visit your family?' I smiled.

‘Annually. In fact, I'm leaving in two weeks. There's also the sale of a few fields that I've been interested in for many years. We'll knock the walls down and put two of my nephews to work there.'

‘Do you have plans to return permanently?'

‘Yes, when I'm older. There are no opportunities for my kind of music in that district, not even in Pindi or Islamabad. People don't want to stage it, although I'm sure there would be audiences. It's not Islamic enough for them. But return I will,
definitely. I must. I've missed out on the growing up of both my sons. I need to spend time with Laila before we have to give her away.'

‘Do you miss your wife?'

‘Razia is my best friend. I speak to her almost everyday. She has been to London a few times. She even moved here to live once. I enrolled her on a computer course, while teaching her English at home. But we couldn't keep it up, though it was just the two of us. And it would be impossible being a father of three on my salary.'

‘So you make this big sacrifice just for the sake of your music?' I regretted the question as soon as I uttered it. Its insinuations didn't reflect my nature at all, and certainly not my feelings about Asif. I valued his company, and considered him a decent, gifted man. It actually enhanced my respect that he had raised a family, and I could easily imagine him as a compassionate father.