LETTER FROM LONDON A vague sense of foreboding now fulfilled BY MARY ANN SORRENTINO

The Bayswater section of London boasts quiet streets lined with sedate white marble townhouses. Gray or red brick apartment complexes, and even more occasional private homes, occasionally interrupt the harmony. Some townhouses are now small hotels, and I took a room in one recently since a stay in 2003 had been so pleasant.

The pulse of Bayswater is its main street, Queensway. Bustling with traffic, it is lined with shops and a small mall in an old department store since gobbled up in the new economy. Tourists, expatriates, and families brought to Britain for new opportunities make up Bayswater’s population. In the many sidewalk cafes and shops one often hears Italian, Spanish, French, and the harder sounds of German and Scandinavian tongues. Bayswater’s overwhelming din, however, its new mother tongue, is Arabic. The voices, always male, speak in the rapid-fire cadences of Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt. In the many Arab-owned shops, instrumentals and vocals from tapes land awkwardly on the Western ear. The graceful swirls on signs I cannot understand often stand with no translation, leading one to wonder what they say. I also question the musical tapes, a reputed Al Qaeda recruiting technique.

Scholars say Al Qaeda has more suicide volunteers than it can train. I scan the Queensway and wonder, who might be in training? Who a trainer? Who is wearing explosives beneath his jacket? If only two percent of the Muslims living in London are the enemy, I saw dozens in my time there about six weeks back

I sat next to him in the subway, walked behind him on the escalator, bought a ticket from him at the theater, left him a tip at a restaurant. He is shopping in Harrods or having high tea at the Dorchester. The mood of Bayswater has grown darker since my last trip. Women, seen only rarely, in pairs or small groups, must be hiding and veiled within the district’s dwellings.

The perfume of lilacs competes with the spices of Middle Eastern cuisine wafting from the sidewalk stands and ethnic eateries lining the Queensway. A convenience store carries items tourists may have forgotten at home — toothbrushes, combs, aspirin, and Band-Aids. I note that condoms are for sale, but no hairspray, no cosmetics, no pantyhose — nothing that a woman might need. I count 20 Arabic newspapers beside one lonely copy of the Herald Tribune.

Was my subtle fear present when I visited a few years ago? I do not recall it. Nor do I remember this sense of being so outnumbered. This is how it feels to be the hated one. This is the world my grandchildren may grow up in, if they can. This is the fear — the product of 9/11 — that even the deaths of almost 2000 coalition soldiers in Iraq cannot change.