In the Light of What We Know Read Free Page B

my friend. A quizzical expression spread across the man’s face.
    Do you speak English? he asked Zafar.
    Zafar looked at him, turned his head toward the shorter man, and then turned back to the alpha male, before replying in the haughtiest Englishman’s accent, affected to perfection: Terribly sorry. Not a word. Good day.
    Zafar touched my elbow and we both turned and walked on. After a few steps, I asked him under my breath, What the hell was that about? When Zafar replied, he told me that from where I had been standing, I could not have seen what he saw.
    Which was? I asked.
    The shoulder of the man in the T-shirt, he said.
    What? That the sleeves had been rolled up to the shoulder?
    Revealing the tattoo of a swastika and beneath it the characters C18 , he added.
    I knew what a swastika meant but I had no idea about C18 .
    C18 , explained Zafar, stands for Combat 18 . The 1 corresponds to the first letter of the alphabet and the 8 to the eighth.
    So what? I asked.
    AH are the initials of Adolf Hitler and Combat 18 is a notoriously violent neo-Nazi group.
    Oh, I said limply.
    After three blocks, Zafar turned sharply into a mews leading us away from Portobello Road, saying that he wanted to take a detour. This seemed odd to me, given that he was already running a little late for supper with Emily.
    Halfway down the empty mews, I heard the sound of footsteps on the cobblestones, and I turned to see the two skinheads now following. Zafar told me not to say a word and pulled to a stop. The men came up to us.
    You being funny? said the man in the white T-shirt to Zafar. Bit of a smart aleck, eh? You dirty little Paki.
    Are you a racist? Zafar asked the man.
    Bit lippy, aren’t we?
    Zafar didn’t reply but turned to me and said, Do you see this gentleman’s shoulder? I looked at the man’s shoulder, as did this man, the alpha male. He looked at his own shoulder.
    And then suddenly the man was on the ground. He was choking and coughing and clutching at his throat, the most hellish, rasping sound coming from his mouth.
    The man in the leather jacket stood stunned. Zafar told him to listen.
    I punched your friend in the throat, said Zafar. You can pick a fight with me or you can call for help and save your friend.
    The man did not move.
    Do you have a phone? he asked him.
    The man nodded.
    Zafar then touched my elbow and we carried on down the mews, at our backs the dreadful gasps of the man on the ground and his friend’s gabbling into the phone. I was stunned.
    Back on Portobello Road, I asked him if he thought they’d go to the police.
    In court, it would be the word of two suits, two meek South Asians, against the word of bullyboy skinheads, one with a swastika and Combat 18 tattoos. What would they say? That we picked a fight?
    We parted ways then. Only later, as images of that evening came back to me, certain questions presented themselves. Had Zafar sought to avoid the two men or had he in fact picked a fight? Had he turned into the quiet mews in order to evade the skinheads or to confront them?
    That evening in 1996, I saw an aspect of Zafar that was new to me. But I didn’t know what to make of it. What had happened seemed almost ridiculous, but it was real. If anyone had told me about it, I would have disbelieved him. *
    *   *   *
    As I write this, I see that Zafar’s return on that September morning in 2008 was welcome not only because it stirred the embers of our early friendship, which had never ceased to glow, but also because it afforded me a chance to shift the focus of my own thoughts. Habits of mind are not easily broken from within. His arrival coincided with a time of reflection in my life, precipitated in some measure by the turmoil in the financial markets and the looming prospect of being called before a congressional or parliamentary committee, all of which had left me, as a junior partner in the firm, with feelings of helplessness. Such feelings are, I am sure, foreign to many men and women in