Asymmetry - Lisa Halliday Page 0,53

table and three metal chairs. The upper half of one of the walls was composed of a dimmed glass in which my reflection was less a mirror image than a silhouette. Running horizontally under the glass was a long strip of red plastic, or rubber, like the tape you press on a bus to request a stop. A notice had been taped to the glass: PLEASE DO NOT LEAN ON THE RED STRIP AS IT SETS OFF AN ALARM.

Denise and I sat facing each other, my passports and her fat manila folder on the table between us. Then Denise thought better of this configuration and shuffled her chair around so that we were positioned at a right angle to each other instead. Sitting very erect, she opened her folder and took out a small stack of paper that she tapped vertically into alignment. Then she explained that she was going to ask me a series of questions, my answers to which she would write down and give me the opportunity to review. If I were happy with what she had written, I would sign my name at the bottom of each page, indicating my approval. I could see no fairer alternative to this process, and yet as it was explained to me I began to have the sinking feeling you get when you agree to a game of Tic-Tac-Toe in which the other person gets to go first.

For the next twenty minutes, Denise and I repeated almost verbatim the same conversation we’d had nearly three hours earlier, when I’d first reached the end of the metal maze. This iteration took longer, of course, because Denise had to write everything down in her loopy, schoolgirlish handwriting, and then, whenever she reached the end of a sheet of paper, there was the time it took for her to swivel it toward me and wait while I read it over and signed my assent. Naturally, answering questions I’d already answered felt like a waste of time—but soon enough I regretted my impatience, because when we finally did move on it was into more sinister territory.

Have you ever been arrested?

No.

Is Amar Ala Jaafari the name you were given at birth?

Yes.

Have you ever used another name?

No.

Never?

Never.

You have never told a law enforcement officer that your name is anything other than Amar Ala Jaafari?

No.

Denise studied me intently for a moment before writing this last no down.

Can you tell me in more detail what you were doing here in 1998?

I’d just graduated from college and had a yearlong internship at the Toynbee Bioethics Council. I also volunteered at a hospital on weekends.

What was your address during your stay?

Thirty-Nine Tavistock Place. I don’t remember the flat number.

And how was it that you came to live there?

It was my aunt’s apartment.

Is it still?

No.

Why not?

She died.

I’m sorry. How?

Cancer.

The pen hovered.

Pancreatic, I said.

And now you’re returning to London for the first time in ten years? To see some friends?

To meet up with Alastair Blunt, yes.

For only two days?

I looked at my watch. Yes.

I’m just thinking . . . It’s a long way to come for only forty-eight hours. Not even forty-eight hours.

Well, like I said, I’m flying on to Istanbul on Sunday. It was the cheapest ticket I could find.

What is your relationship to Mr. Blunt?

We’re friends.

Do you have a girlfriend? A partner?

No.

No partner?

Not at the moment, no.

And no job.

No.

Denise smiled at me sadly. Well, I guess it’s not a good time to be looking, is it?

For a moment I thought she meant for a girlfriend. Oh, I said airily. Something will come along.

By the time she had run out of questions our combined handwriting had filled nearly thirteen pages. All right, Denise said brightly, standing and tugging her trouser thighs back into place. I’m just going to take you to our holding room while I make some general inquiries.

Then what?

Then I’ll be discussing your case with the chief immigration officer on duty.

When?

I don’t know.

I’m sorry, I said, I know you’re just doing your job, but could you please give me a sense of what you’re discussing? What the problem is?

There’s no problem; we just need to check a few things. The background of your passports, that’s all. As I’ve already explained to you. Just some general inquiries.

I looked at her.

Are you hungry?

No.

Do you need to use the toilet?

No. But I’m worried about my friend. I’m supposed to meet him in town in less than an hour.

We’ve explained things to Mr. Blunt. He knows you’re here. He knows we’re just making