Green on Blue (14 page)

Atal stared back, his neck becoming tense, thick, and red.

It is nothing that I know this, said Commander Sabir. I work with the Americans too. The wealth you’ve built through them has given you a great voice with the people of Gomal. Next to Haji Jan, I think you command the most respect, or at least the most power in the shura. So explain to your village that we all must work together. You’ve always been practical in caring for Fareeda. Come, be practical in caring for your village.

With Fareeda, I am practical in fighting her disease, said Atal.

Yes, very practical, and she is alive.

In my village, you are the disease.

That is not the way of it, said Commander Sabir. Gazan is the disease, and with him so active, we too must be active. Then his voice turned very flat: But if nothing is done, well, I imagine you may find yourself in Haji Jan’s position.

Atal became quiet, choosing his words: Do you speak a threat?

I speak only of what is obvious, said Commander Sabir. If my outpost had been built, Gazan would not have struck at Haji Jan so. But if there is no outpost, I think things will end badly for all.

You and Gazan make our homes a battlefield, said Atal with hate in his voice.

There’s a war here, said Commander Sabir. You can’t control that. What you can do is choose a side. To not choose is a luxury you don’t have.

Tell me, how much will you make off the contracts for the outpost? asked Atal. How much more will the Americans pay you? You care nothing for my village. I choose the path that gives you nothing and ends your war.

Commander Sabir poured Atal and then Fareeda another cup of tea. He dabbed his lip and tried to smile at the girl. War’s end? he asked. War only ends for those who allow others to fight for them, but there is always fighting. My brother fought Hafez and the Haqqanis. Then
he was killed. Then I killed Hafez. Now there is Gazan and his Taliban. None of this can be stopped, but maybe I can take the war somewhere else, maybe to a village that isn’t yours, but first the outpost. This is the way of it.

Atal sipped his tea, breathed deeply, and cringed against his breath. There is no difference between you and Gazan, he said. You offer me the same thing.

One of us is more powerful than the other, said Commander Sabir. There is your difference. Perhaps that’s why you’re speaking to me before Gazan and perhaps why you’ve spoken to Mr. Jack before me. It is time to choose.

Without a knock, the door to Commander Sabir’s quarters swung open. Issaq stepped into the room. His face was sweaty. Our eyes rested on him and then on his hands, which were slick with dark greasy blood. Issaq seemed to feel our gazes holding there and wiped his palms against the seat of his pants. He parted his lips as if to speak to Commander Sabir. But as he did, he caught a glimpse of Atal and Fareeda. He breathed in quickly, pulling back his words. Slowly, Issaq shook his head.

Commander Sabir looked at Atal to see if he understood.

Atal set his tea down and strained up to his feet. Thank you for your efforts, he said to Issaq. Then he spoke to Commander Sabir: Now that Haji Jan is dead, I must bury him before the sun sets. If there is nothing else, I’d like to return to my village to do this. That we can both agree is proper under God’s eyes.

Of course, said Commander Sabir. I’ll radio our checkpoints on the north road and tell them you’re coming.

Please do, said Atal. On the way here, we were nearly shot approaching them.

You should’ve come in your HiLux, not the binjo, Commander Sabir said. Had they seen it was you, they would’ve let you pass.

Atal looked toward Fareeda.

Haji Jan and I were unconscious in the rubble, he said. She is the one who went for help. I only awoke on the drive here.

Commander Sabir nodded toward Fareeda with respect. You have Gazan to thank for this, he told Atal. It is time to choose.

I’ll be on my way, he replied.

Yes. On your way, said Commander Sabir. But first let Aziz help you to the clinic.

Atal grimaced as he stepped from the room. Fareeda and I ran to his side. We held him under his elbows. He walked stiffly into a late-morning wind that blew dust across the courtyard of the firebase. I shut the door behind us, catching a glimpse of Commander Sabir. He tapped on the glass bowl with his fingernail, but Omar had lost interest in him. Instead the goldfish paddled his tail, nosing at the last few flecks of food, which had settled along a bed of bright blue, red, and green gravel.

The three of us shuffled to the clinic, where a few curious soldiers still gawked at the windows. I pushed the creaking doors open and Atal thanked me. I tried to follow him in, but he held up his hand and asked if I would wait outside with Fareeda.

I nodded and Atal passed by us.

–

She looked at me, lost. Sit here, I said, and pointed to the long single row of wood benches that rested against the clinic wall. With her one hand, she pulled her skirts flat against the back of her legs and sat. I stood over her. Her dark eyes seemed to reflect a small glimmer of sun despite the mat of clouds that covered the sky. Wisps of perfect black hair fell against her smooth forehead. Her skin was a dim ivory color, fine and deep. She heaved her deformed arm across her lap with the opposite
hand, and then spoke past me and toward the mountains: It is always this way with the dying, isn’t it?

What way? I asked.

That one is killed, she said, and then something must be done.

What will be done for Haji Jan? I asked.

I don’t know, but something will be done, she said. Now my uncle is the most important of the spingaris
.
Commander Sabir will want him to support the outpost and the villagers will want badal for Haji Jan.

Maybe something should be done, I told her. Maybe Haji Jan is dead because nothing was ever done to Gazan, but you are young and a woman. This is not how you should speak.

How do I speak? she asked.

Of killing and of death, I said.

When those things are my life, I speak of my life.

I smiled. If those things are your life, then you are like a soldier.

She smiled back, but her face quickly flattened. To survive in a soldier’s world, all must be like soldiers.

Yes, but to fight is what only the soldier does.

You think it is only the soldier who fights? she asked, her eyes turning to narrow slits. I fight every day to keep this from killing me. She pointed with her good arm to the bad one that lay heavily across her lap, hidden beneath the blue shawl that hung lightly atop her shoulders. She continued, her breath mixing with her words: It spreads across me and without medicine it will consume me.

What does your medicine do? I asked.

It makes it so the blood cannot clot in the arm. Her voice softened: A clot could move and stop my heart.

I felt her vulnerability, but still I continued: So the medicine is expensive?

Yes, she said, and hard to find.

And the opium? I asked.

She threw her eyes from me.

It is only for the pain, she answered. Even though it might carry me away, I have nothing else for the pain.

Then, slowly, her gaze returned to mine.

If the attack had killed my uncle, she said, it would’ve killed me too. When the war killed my father, I had no one to care for me, but my uncle, he saved me and still does.

I sat down next to her on the bench. He is blessed to have you, I said.

And you? she asked. Do you have someone?

I have my brother, but he is in Orgun, in the hospital.

I am sorry, she replied. Still you are blessed to have him.

Yes, I said, but it is difficult.

It is not the difficulties, but to suffer them alone.

Fareeda and I waited outside the clinic for a long time. I offered to bring her to the mess hall for lunch, but she refused. She didn’t want to leave.

May I lie on the bench? she asked. I am tired.

Of course, I said.

She shut her eyes for a moment, then looked up at me, asking: You will wake me when my uncle comes?

Of course, I said again, but there wasn’t enough room for me to sit and for her to lie down, so I sat in the dirt with my back against the wall of the clinic. She lay on her side and as she did, her eyes became level with mine. She seemed happy that I would sit in the dirt for her. Slowly, looking at me, she fell asleep, and I watched over her, and there was such a softness to her face that I knew she was very beautiful.

The double doors of the clinic swung open. Atal and several others from the village heaved a bundle shrouded in a white kafan on their shoulders. None of the men strained against the weight, except for Atal,
who despite his broken ribs took his place among Haji Jan’s pallbearers. He shuddered as he walked, but there was a great dignity to him. He had cleaned the dust from his face and wore a fresh shalwar kameez from our supply locker. Wind blew against him, pulling his shirt tight and I could see the outline of an immense bandage wrapped around his chest.

Another gust snatched the corner of the kafan and flapped up its edge to reveal the black rubber of the body bag beneath. Fareeda leapt from the bench to Atal’s side. He waved her away, determined to carry Haji Jan without help. I followed, but Atal waved his hand again, releasing me from my vigil over Fareeda. The men of Gomal loaded Haji Jan’s body into the back of the second binjo. Atal grabbed the car’s roof as he eased himself into the passenger seat. He leaned against the headrest and his fingertips wiped the weariness from his eyes. Fareeda sat behind him. As she did, she looked out from the backseat, past the body, and caught my eye. I think she knew it was wrong to take a look in this way, but I was glad for it.

The late-afternoon sun broke through the clouds and rested its long shadows in the valleys below the mountains. The early-summer day would hold its light for a few more hours and Atal would return to his village with time to slip Haji Jan into the earth, covering him with the loose shale stones that for the spingari’s entire life had crept slowly, by inches, down the mountainside toward his grave.

Across the courtyard, Commander Sabir stood in the doorway to his quarters, still in his stocking feet. He watched Atal’s departure. The two binjos turned the road to dust and left the firebase, descending into a cloud they’d created. And as the red-and-white gate arm crashed down behind them, Commander Sabir looked at the ground, shook his head, and walked inside.

A
fter Atal left it was time for dinner, but I had no appetite. I returned to our barracks, where Puskie sang quietly in the corner. Mortaza leaned against his foam mattress, holding a long switch bowed under its own weight. When the bird grew silent, he snapped the switch against the cage and Puskie sang again. I walked down the barracks’ empty center aisle. Mortaza wore his uniform and a pair of unlaced white high-tops with a gold stripe across the side. The shoes hung on his feet loosely, in a casual way. When he saw me, he pushed himself up on his elbows. Why aren’t you at dinner? he asked.

Why aren’t you? I asked him back.

Mortaza stared past me. I need a break from them, he said.

Me too, I replied and lay on my bunk, which was alongside his. Neither of us spoke. Instead we listened to Puskie’s chirping. He’d start his tune low: chi-chi-charee, then a little higher:
chi-chi-charee
, and then explode, full-chested, almost hysterical: CHI-CHI-CHAREE-CHI-CHI-CHAREE! Puskie would flap his wings and thump his chest until suddenly, and just as violently, he’d begin again with a low chi-chi-charee, chi-chi-charee. Each time he went through this cycle, Mortaza and I threw one another an amused glance from across our bunks. We saw the futility in Puskie’s song. It always came to the same end.

But now and then Puskie
would forget to begin and Mortaza would strike his cage with the switch, hard, to remind him of his purpose.

Puskie
stalled once more. I looked at Mortaza, expecting him to swat the cage, but he didn’t. Instead he rolled onto his side and spoke to me: I think Haji Jan felt great pain at the end.

Who’s to say? I replied. I didn’t want to think of Haji Jan’s pain.

He was good at the shura, said Mortaza.

He was.

It is a bad thing, he said.

It is.

Do you know what brought me to fight here? asked Mortaza.

I sat up in my bed. You never told me and I never felt I should ask, I replied.

Mortaza laid the switch by his side. He spoke looking past me, toward the cage: It is because the spingaris
in my village were foolish just as Haji Jan was. My family used to have a plot of land. Not much, but enough to farm. My father planted wheat and poppy, sometimes almonds. There was always enough. We took what was ours and gave the rest to the spingaris
as a tax for the land. This was fair and we were happy. My father would farm and my mother kept house. My sister, very young and dear to my mother, would help her. I helped my father in the fields. We always knew of the war, but it was a distant thing. When it finally came, groups of fighters arrived in our village. They offered protection to the spingaris
in exchange for another tax on the land. We never spoke to these fighters, the spingaris
did. They played all the groups off each other, making assurances they could never keep. It was a dangerous game. My family tried to ignore the war. We were happy with our piece of earth, a home, food. It was enough. But this didn’t last. Eventually our village was taught that everyone must make a choice.

It was close to the harvest when it happened. I still don’t know which
group of fighters it was, but my father and I watched from our fields as the mortars fell, one at a time, far-off at first, and then, like the steps of an invisible giant, walking up to our home, stomping it to dust. The two of us ran back and dug through the rubble. We found my mother very quickly. She was still alive. My father screamed over her broken body and I think his spirit died before she did. As we laid her on the ground in her ripped skirts, she lived long enough to ask after my sister, but, thanks to God, not long enough to see me pull her from the tree she’d been blown into. Once I saw her, I rushed into the branches that were familiar from when I’d climbed them as a boy, but it took me another hour to bring her down. By then my father could do nothing but wail over my mother. My sister was only eight years old, small and broken in my arms. And her lips. Blue, so blue.