Born Under a Million Shadows (35 page)

“Oh, come on.” Georgie laughed. “What’s happened?”

“Beyond the usual?”

Ismerai took off his
pakol
to scratch at the few bits of hair left on top of his head.

“Okay. Last week the governor escaped a roadside bomb and there have been a few other incidents, but nothing to get worked up about.”

“Because of the poppy ban?” Georgie asked.

“Poppies, power, the time of the year . . . who knows?
This is Afghanistan. We don’t do peace that easily, as you well know.”

As we traveled to Shinwar, Ismerai tried to take our mind off roadside bombs and “other incidents” by pointing out the places where people had been blown up in the past. “This is where the mujahideen ambushed a Russian convoy toward the end of the jihad,” he said as we came out of Kabul and into the mountains. “Here there was a mighty battle that lasted a full week . . . here we had some of our best sniper positions . . . here we dug tunnels into the hills to escape from the Communists . . .” He then pointed out the death sites of fallen friends and forgotten heroes and basically sent us all into a bit of a depression.

As we slipped down into Nangarhar and on into Shinwar, the sun burned hot through our windows, making it difficult to talk without completely exhausting ourselves, so we fell into our own thoughts and daydreams until we arrived at Haji Khan’s home.

I’d never been to his Shinwar compound before, and though it was smaller than his place in Jalalabad, it was much nicer—more like a home than a palace. Of course it was a home filled with guards carrying guns, but they were more in the shadows than at the other place.

As the Toyota came to a stop in the driveway, Georgie was the first out. Bending to the ground to stretch out her back, she then lifted her arms to the sky, holding them there for a moment, high above her head, as if she was feeling the air between her fingers.

“God, I love this place,” she said to no one, sighing. Then, turning to me, she added, “You know, Fawad, this is where I first fell in love with Afghanistan.”

“And with Haji Khan,” I added for her.

“Yes,” she accepted, “with Haji Khan too.”

I smiled, because this was important. If Georgie was to
make the right decision about her future, she needed to be reminded of everything she loved, not of all the other things that had come to make her sad.

Ismerai came over to join us.

“Go sit on the carpet, and I’ll join you in a minute,” he said. “I’ve just got a couple of phone calls to make.”

Georgie and I nodded, and we walked over to a red carpet that was lying under a huge tree. The air was much cooler under the leaves, and above our heads birds sang to us. Life just didn’t get any better than this.

“It would be sad never to see this place again,” I said to Georgie as she kicked off her sandals and sat back to stretch out her legs.

“Yes, it would,” she admitted. “You know, it’s a shame that so many people don’t get to experience days like this.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. Then, after thinking about it a bit more, I asked, “Why?”

Georgie smiled. “Well, there’s so much more to your country than war, as you can see, but unfortunately we rarely get to hear about it. I don’t think people get the full picture—about what Afghanistan is like, and what Afghans are like.”

“Yes, it is pretty good here,” I said, “as long as you’re not hungry.”

“Or no one’s trying to kill you.”

“Or you don’t get sold by your family.”

“Or you don’t lack electricity or clean water.”

“Or . . . or . . .” I was struggling now. “Or you don’t get your head blown off by a gas cooker.”

Georgie put her chin to her chest and looked at me over her sunglasses.

“It happened once, to a woman in our street,” I explained.

“Oh,” Georgie said, lifting her head back up to the sun that winked at us through the leaves, “well then, you’re right. It’s a pretty good country if you don’t get your head blown off.”

“Or your legs,” I added. “There are still a lot of land mines.”

“Or your legs,” Georgie agreed.

“Actually, what is so good about Afghanistan?” I asked, and we both started laughing.

“Okay,” Georgie said, stopping first. “For one, I’ve never lived anywhere where the sky is so blue it can leave you speechless.”

“It can get very blue,” I agreed.

“And though life is hard here, much harder than we can imagine living in our nice house in Wazir Akbar Khan, there is also kindness hiding behind the walls of these houses, and love.”

“What do you mean?”

“Okay, let me think how to explain. It’s like the books about your country. Most of them would have you believe that Afghanistan is a land of noble savages, heroic men who kill at the first provocation, and in some ways maybe they are right. There is a quick anger within you all and a brutality that is sometimes shocking to us, but mainly the Afghans I’ve been lucky enough to encounter have been simple people with good hearts who are just trying to survive.”

“I wouldn’t call Haji Khan simple.”

“Well, no, you’re right, again,” Georgie admitted, “but although he’s not poor, he still has a good heart. Khalid means well, I know that, it’s just that sometimes . . . Well, hey, come on, let’s not even go there.”

Georgie reached for her cigarettes, and as she suggested, I decided “not to go there” just in case “there” was the place where all the bad memories sat waiting.

As Georgie blew the smoke from her mouth, Ismerai returned. His phone was closed, and he had a smile on his face.

“Come,” he said, struggling a little for breath. “We’ve got something to show you.”

Zalmai
drove us to a place about fifteen minutes away from Haji Khan’s house. Bouncing off the main track, we came to a stop outside a half-finished building where workmen were still busy building walls and moving dirt around in wheel-barrows.

As we stepped out into the air, Haji Khan appeared from the house talking to a man holding a large notebook. When he saw us, he shook hands with the man and walked over, with a smile on his face. He certainly looked a lot happier than the last time I’d seen him, and as usual he was dressed in the finest
salwar kameez
of pale blue with a gray waistcoat matching the color of his
pakol
.

I decided that if I ever got bored of wearing jeans, I would definitely find out who his tailor was.

“So, what do you think?” Haji Khan asked when he reached us. He spoke in English, and I guessed it was to stop the workmen from listening to his conversation.

“It’s a beautiful area,” Georgie said. “Are you building another house then?”

“Yes, I am building a new house,” he said, “but this house is for you. If you choose to accept it or not, this is also a matter for you.”

I was pretty amazed by his words, and I felt my mouth drop open with the weight of a million questions wanting to spill out but not being allowed to.

Georgie said nothing.

“Look,” Haji Khan continued, “come inside and let me show you.”

Before Georgie could refuse him he walked away. So we followed.

Stepping over bags of sand, we entered the house and walked into a square-shaped hall that was cement gray all
around, with bits of wire hanging out of the walls. It wasn’t what you might call “pretty.”

“This will be the seating area,” Haji Khan said, looking at Georgie and waving his hand around the room. “It will be for your guests when they come. When it is finished, the walls will be a very beautiful green—this is my thinking—like the meadows of Shinwar, so that when it is cold you will always have spring.”

Without waiting for Georgie to react, Haji Khan moved to the left where two holes were waiting for doors.

“This room is the kitchen,” he explained, “and the other room is where your guests sleep. I am making also a very beautiful toilet place, side by side—what is it you say?”

“En suite,” replied Georgie.

“Yes”—Haji Khan nodded—“yes, in sweet. I think this is a good idea. Very Europe. Come.”

Haji Khan crossed the hall to where a staircase was being made between the ground floor and the top floor. It wasn’t finished yet, and a ladder leaned against the balcony above so the workmen could get up and down.

“This will be the staircase,” Haji Khan said, which made me laugh because we weren’t stupid. “Your rooms will be upstairs. One is your bedroom, one is a large seating area, and the other room is for maybe the children.”

Haji Khan looked at Georgie from under his heavy eyebrows. I could see he was taking a chance with his words, seeing as he had practically killed their last child.

“Here you can relax and see a wonderful view of the mountains to help keep your mind happy,” he added, and Georgie smiled, which made Haji Khan smile, and because both of them were smiling I smiled.

So far it was going very well, and I thought that if the new house filled with the promise of their children couldn’t keep Georgie in Afghanistan, nothing would.

“So, what is your thinking?” Haji Khan finally asked.

Georgie looked around.

“I think it will be wonderful, Khalid, but—”

“Please, Georgie,” he interrupted, frowning as his eyes fell sad, “not with the ‘buts.’ Please, first, let me show you one more thing.”

Haji Khan moved away and out the door, speaking again as he stepped outside.

“You see this garden to the river and to the road over there? This will all be yours. We will build the walls so you have privacy, and we will put beautiful roses in the ground along here”—he pointed to the left side of the garden—“and here”—he pointed to the right—“and here”—he pointed in front of him. “This way all of the day you will be surrounded by color and beauty.”

Georgie slowly looked around, probably imagining the colors that might shine in her world and what her life might be like surrounded by flowers in the garden and spring in her hallway.

As she considered things, Haji Khan moved away from us, his head bent low and his hands reaching out to each other behind his back. He was really trying, anyone could see that. I could almost feel the hope he was holding inside his hands. I knew that if Georgie really loved him there was no way she could refuse him, but when I searched her face she was looking away into the distance and I saw the worry in her eyes as she lifted a hand to block out the sun.

“Shit!” she suddenly shouted.

I looked to where she had been looking and saw something dark move along the roof of a nearby house. I looked back at Georgie, but she was gone, running toward Haji Khan and shouting at him to get down. As he turned to face her, she threw herself straight into his body. He stumbled backward before catching her in his arms, just as the
bullets cracked in the distance and began to scream over our heads.

I threw myself to the floor as Haji Khan’s bodyguards opened fire, killing our ears with the noise of their guns.

Scared beyond scared, I raised my head to look for Georgie and saw her lying in the arms of Haji Khan. Blood covered her clothes, and her face was pulled into his chest. He was shouting at the guards firing around him. “Get the car!” he yelled, but his words were barely heard over the noise of battle.

“Georgie!” I screamed, and I got to my feet to run toward her.

When I reached them, Haji Khan pulled me flat to the ground. “Keep down, Fawad!” he shouted. His eyes were wide with pain, and I saw blood rushing from his shoulder.

“Georgie,” I whispered, and I pulled myself closer to her face so I could hold it in my hands.

Her life was pouring from her body like a river. Splashes of it colored her skin, which had grown white. Underneath my fingers she trembled as if a terrible wind from winter had suddenly blown over her.

I didn’t want to believe it. I squeezed my eyes hard shut and prayed to my God with all my strength. But I knew she was dying. We were going to lose her.

“Please, Georgie, please,” I begged, “we haven’t time. You have to say the words. You must believe!”

All around me the bullets kept flying, whistling and cracking over our heads and kicking up dirt around the garden that was waiting for Haji Khan’s roses. Above me I could hear him ordering his men and still calling for the car, but all I could see was Georgie’s face, and her dark eyes now hearing my voice and reaching for me.

We had one chance, just one chance, and it was slipping away so fast.

“Georgie, please believe,” I whispered, and I felt the tears tumble from my eyes, blurring her face. “You must believe, or you are lost! Georgie!”

“Fawad,” she breathed into my face, but her sound was too soft and I had to put my ear close to her mouth. “Fawad, don’t worry . . . I believe . . . I promise you, I believe.”

“It’s not enough,” I screamed back at her, because I couldn’t be gentle. There was no time to be gentle. We had only seconds. “You’ve got to say the words, Georgie! Please, you must say the words!”

And as my tears fell onto her lips, I saw her grab at the power deep inside her and she looked at me hard.

“La ilaha,” I told her, pushing the wet hair from her face and pressing my ear to her mouth.

“La ilaha,” she copied.

“Il-Allah,” I said.

“Il-Allah.”

“Muhammad-ur-Rasulullah.”

“Muh . . . Muhammad-ur-Rasulullah.”

There is no God except Allah; Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.

And as Haji Khan’s car arrived, kicking up the dust in front of us, she closed her eyes and Georgie was gone.

Epilogue: One Year Later