I met my first real-life racist at lunchtime in a central London caf. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a fawn felt overcoat, crisp white shirt and a brick-red tie. He was a small, wiry figure, with a wide forehead, thinning blond hair and grey eyes behind rimless glasses. He was well-spoken, uttered not a single obscenity and had good teeth. And he didn't raise a hand towards me in anger.
He sat down on the stool next to me, balancing his lunch tray on his lap. My sandwich, salad and soft drink were taking up most of the space on the table, so I mumbled an apology and made room for his tray. "Well, Ramadan's obviously over," he said, abruptly.
"Sorry?"
"Ramadan," he said, pointing his chin towards my multiple plates. "It's over, isn't it?"
"Looks like it," was the best I could do.
"You people eat so much the rest of the year," he continued, "it's a wonder you can skip lunch for an entire month."
This was getting odder and odder. And his tone - it had initially seemed jokey, but now sounded harsh and snide - was even more puzzling. He was looking at me, expecting a reply. Nonplussed, I could only shrug.
"So what happens during the rest of the year, do you pray only four times a day to make time for lunch?"
The penny dropped: he had taken me for an Muslim. I might have corrected him at this point, but my mouth was full. By the time I'd finished swallowing, I was not sure I wanted to continue a conversation. We ate quietly for a while, before he spoke up again.
"It must be a hard time to be an Arab in the West." he said. (No surprise there: I've been mistaken for an Arab before.) "After Sept. 11, it must be quite frightening for you."
I decided to play along: it would be easy enough. I didn't feel in any danger. It was a very public place, and he didn't look the violent sort. Besides, I was twice as big as he.
"I don't feel frightened," I said.
"Oh, come on!" he said, jerking his head away in disbelief, then looking at me again with the smile of a mischievous boy. "The whole world is coming after you and you have no friends anywhere. And you know, you've been asking for it, for a long, long time."
His directness was so surprising, it took me a while to come back. "Why do you say that?" I asked.
"Look," he said, now taking on a conciliatory tone, "for all I know, you're a perfectly nice fellow. You were probably educated in this country, and you are Westernized. But your religion..." He shook his head.
"What about it?" I asked.
"Well, it's savage and medieval and... savage," he said. "It's not polite to say these things these days, but they need to be said. And after what happened in America, it can't be hidden any longer."
"Why is it savage?"
"It's full of hate, isn't it? It teaches your people to be hostile, towards us, towards anybody who disagrees with you. And women, too, your own women."
He then favored me with his thesis on Islam. Muslims, in his view, allowed their clergy ("the Imams," he called them) to run their lives. They - we - were brainwashed to be unquestioning and unthinking, to aspire to a medieval way of life. He liked the word "medieval," and used it repeatedly. Islam, he added, had failed to "snap out of its medieval trance and recognize that the world has moved on."
He spoke in a quiet voice that would have been polite if it hadn't been so filled with hatred. The words came in short bursts, and he frequently ran out of breath midway through sentences. I wondered if this was his normal speech, a function of small lungs - or was his throat so compressed with hate that it was somehow constricting his oxygen supply. Despite his low tone, he was obviously deeply angry, at me, at all Arabs. Maybe this rage had come from something that had happened to him recently, some specific event, like the loss of a job or a contract (or a wife?) to an Arab. Or did he carry his loathing with him all the time, coiled up in his gut like a wounded rattlesnake, ready to lash out at anybody. I wanted to ask, but didn't know how.
"You seem to have done some reading on Islam," I said.
"A lot more than you think," he replied. "I've read a lot of religious books." He looked pleased with himself, rather like a debater who had just scored a point. "And I have been to your countries."
I noted the plural. "Which ones?"
"Lots of them. Dubai, and others. I used to be in oil."
"What did you think of Dubai?" I asked, almost reflexively. "Quite nice, isn't it?"
"I suppose so. But that's because of the Americans, isn't it? It's ironic. The Americans and the British helped you build your countries - or God knows what you'd have done with that oil. And still you lot hate us. Come on, surely you can see there's something wrong with the religion if it makes you hate the people who helped you? I mean, you look like an educated man. You can see how your religion has no place in the 20th century, can't you?"
"The 21st century..." Immediately, I regretted saying it.
"Oh alright, you've got me there," he said impatiently, as if to an impudent child. "But I'm right about the rest, aren't I? It's not polite to say these things nowadays," he repeated this phrase two more times, like he was setting up the taboo before smashing it. "But it's got to be said: in the 21st century," he paused and mock-bowed to me, "some religions are just too far behind the modern world."
I didn't much feel like clashing theological swords with him, and anyway I can't claim to be an expert on Islam. I tried to change the subject. He said he had worked in oil. I asked him what he did. "I work near here," he said, flicking a wrist in the direction of the Strand outside. I felt he was not really being evasive, he just didn't think it worth his while to tell me about himself. "Where do you work?" he asked, instead.
"I work for Time Magazine," I said. I wondered if he would be mortified at the thought of talking so openly with a journalist. But he simply didn't believe me.
"No, really, what do you do?"
"I work for Time Magazine."
"I don't believe you." His tone was not hostile or condescending, but strangely patient and paternalistic; my father used to talk to me that way when he knew I was lying about something and wanted to coax the truth out of me.
I gave him my business card. He looked at it carefully, then exclaimed, with some satisfaction: "It says Time Asia. That's not the real Time Magazine."
"It's the Asian edition," I said.
"No it's not; you're just using the Time name to give your magazine some credibility, aren't you?"
"Why is it hard for you to believe that I work for the real Time Magazine?" I asked, exasperated.
"Well, they're American, aren't they? They'd never hire you. Not after Sept. 11."
This was getting so absurd, I let it drop. He looked at my card again. "What do your parents feel about your using a Christian name?" (My nickname, Bobby, is supplied on the card, for the benefit of those who find Aparisim hard to pronounce.)
"They game me the nickname," I said.
"Oooh, that must have gone down well with the Imam," he said.
The sarcasm was clearly intended to get a rise out of me. I let the bait dangle for a few moments as we chewed on our lunches. Then I asked for his name.
"You can call me Sir."
Again, this was so directly offensive, I had to pause before responding.
"That's not fair," I said, lamely. "After all, you know my name."
"You can call me Sir," he said again, with that small boy's smile.
I didn't know where to take the conversation next. We continued eating in silence, until he had finished his sandwich. As he got up to leave, he said, suddenly and surprisingly: "Have a nice day." No smile this time, just a quick nod of the head. My mouth full of food, I was only able to grunt back at him before he strode out.
Then, as I watched the fawn felt overcoat merge into the crowd of pedestrians outside the caf, I felt a rage rise in me. I was angry at myself, and ashamed. Throughout our conversation, I had not once challenged this man, not told him to his face that he was a racist nut and that his notions about Arabs and Muslims were all warped and ugly and wrong. As a journalist, I'm so used to holding my own opinions while seeking out those of others that I sometimes let nonsense go unchallenged. Or - and this was the shameful part - perhaps it was because, not being an Arab or a Muslim, I was unable to take his bigotry personally. And finally, coming from such an incongruous figure, his words had seemed more amusing than offensive - at the time. But now I felt like chasing after him on the crowded pavement and confronting him in the street, humiliating him in public.
The moment passed. I told myself it would serve no purpose, because his mind was closed. Besides, he had given me something valuable, an insight into his prejudices. And, probably more precious, a real face to put on my mental image of a racist. I will never forget it.