Refuge (13 page)

“That’s only four months away,” Noor says.

“That’s why I asked you how good you were.”

Noor looks up at Elma with tears in her eyes.

“I can do it.”

Elma smiles.

“Then I have but one request in return. This Friday I’d love you to take me and Rod on a tour of Kacha Gari.”

“It’d be my honor.”

“Perfect, we’ll meet you here at ten.”

Elma heads for the door.

“Miss Kuyt,” Noor says. “Can you play tennis at this university?”

Elma smiles.

“If you’re successful I’ll introduce you to Betty Stove when you get there.”

Elma leaves. Noor sits down at her desk. She tries to read the application but the text is obscured by her tears.

TWELVE

TARIQ STARES ACROSS
the rug at his father-in-law.

“He wants what?”

“A new fourth wife,” his father-in-law says. “He feels he’s mourned enough.”

“Does he have anyone in mind?”

“No, but the Prince wants her to be Afghan, he thinks it would be a way to honor the jihad.”

Why haven’t I heard of this?
No one mentioned it in the office.

Tariq’s father-in-law tears a wing off the chicken and proceeds to gnaw it until it’s mere bones.

“I suggested Badia to him,” his father-in-law says, using his sleeve to wipe the grease off his hands.

Of course you did. You were clever to hold Badia back all this time.

“It would be a great honor for our family,” his father-in-law says.

For you, you mean
.
It gets me nothing but having to listen to you wax lyrical every night about your royal son-in-law.

“How did he respond?” Tariq says.

“He said he’d heard how beautiful she was and asked to see her.”

“That’s good.”

“I said ‘no’. It’s not Pashtun custom, he should take my word.”

You idiot. The Prince surely knows there’s a vast disparity in this world between the number of women who’re beautiful and the number whose fathers think they are.

“You made the right decision,” Tariq says, “nothing’s more important than your honor.”

“He’s still interested—”

Maybe the Prince is a bigger fool than I imagined
.

“—but it would help matters if someone else spoke favorably about her.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“You. He’ll consider you more impartial than her brothers.”

“But I’ve never met her.”

His father-in-law shouts out Badia’s name, and a teenage girl enters. Her eyes remain fixed on the floor.

“Look at your brother-in-law,” Salim Afridi commands.

Badia does as she’s told. She’s as beautiful as any virgin a martyr might meet in paradise.

If only I had this delight to come home to rather than that swine of a wife.

There’s only one woman Tariq knows who surpasses her beauty.

Noor.

An idea forms in his mind.

“You can go,” his father-in-law says.

Badia scurries away.

“I’ve arranged for you to sit down with the Prince tomorrow,” his father-in-law says. “I told him you had some excellent thoughts regarding the coming offensive.”

Tariq tries his best to contain his growing excitement. He looks over the empty dishes; there’s nothing left for his father-in-law to devour. Hopefully he’ll dismiss him soon.

“Your wife has mentioned some things to her mother,” his father-in-law says.

What’s the bitch been saying?

“She says when you fuck you don’t finish inside of her.”

“She’s mistaken,” Tariq says.

“It’s been almost two years.”

“I’m more aware of that than anyone.”

“Maybe stay in there a little longer at the end, eh.”

Maybe if you’d married me to your other daughter I would.

“Of course,” Tariq says

“You’re a good man, Tariq. Things will only grow more concrete between us once you have a child.”

“That’s all I desire,” Tariq says.

His father-in-law grunts. It’s his way of telling Tariq he’s dismissed. Tariq walks away, his mind working overtime.

THIRTEEN

CHARLIE STUDIES THE
pen gun. It looks just like a black, metal, fountain pen. He twists the cap off. It seems simple enough; just place a bullet in the barrel, screw the cap back on, pull back the pen clip, and press.

He hears someone coming down the verandah and turns to find Mukhtar with a dish in his hands.

“Narenj Palau,” Mukhtar grins.

“Thanks, but no one’s coming to lunch this week.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Mukhtar says, placing it on the table.

Charlie pulls out his wallet and hands Mukhtar two fifty rupee notes.

“For you and Rasul. Go buy something for yourselves after mosque, okay?”

“Thank you, sir.”

Charlie watches Mukhtar head towards his hut. Halfway there he does a little jig. Charlie laughs.

Now what the hell am I going to do?

He’s already been for a run, sketched a grinning Mukhtar’s portrait and finished
A Short Walk In The Hindu Kush
. One thing’s for sure, he isn’t going to stay locked up here all day. He sees the Naranj Palau sitting on the table and can’t help but think of Aamir Khan, and how he’d devoured his two portions the previous week.

He could use this a hell of a lot more than me.

Charlie grabs the dish and a ball of twine, and goes out front to his motorcycle. With the dish tied down, he speeds towards Jamrud Road. For once it’s empty; the whole city seems to be at Friday prayers. At Noor’s bus stop, he begins retracing the path he chased her down. A throng of boys trail after him.

“Hello, mister, how are you?” a kid in a Soviet army beret says.

“Good thanks.”

“You have dollars?” another in a skull cap asks.

“If you can help me.”

The kid in the beret pushes the one in the skull cap to the ground and jumps on the back of the bike.

“Hey, watch the dish,” Charlie says.

“Where you go?” the kid says.

“You know a man called Aamir Khan?”

The boy points down the alley.

“This a way,” he says.

“You sure?”

“Go.”

They hurtle down one mud-walled alley after another, the kid hooting and hollering, until they come to a halt beside a hut the size of a garden shed. A toddler in a grubby pink dress sits out front dipping a bowl into a puddle of green, stagnant water. The kid shouts out a stream of Pashtu and grins at Charlie.

“Aamir Khan,” he says.

A hacking cough emanates from within, and a gnarled old man pulls back some sewn-together cloths.

“This isn’t Aamir Khan,” Charlie says.

“No. Aamir Khan,” the kid says pointing at the man.

“Not mine, mine different. This man too old.”

The kid’s smile disappears. The group of boys come running around the corner, and the boy in the skull cap sucker punches his rival. Before long the two boys are on the ground exchanging blows. The others form a circle around them.

Charlie apologizes to the man and pushes the bike back the way he thinks they came. The kid in the beret comes running up to him, his nose bleeding.

“Please, sir, please, sir, no go,” the kid says.

“Sorry buddy, just not my day.”

The kid rushes over to a group of young, bearded men exiting a mud walled mosque. He jabbers away while pointing at Charlie.

Shit, where’s this going?

A man, who seems to be wearing mascara, walks over.

“As-salaam Alaykum,” the man says.

“Wa-alaykum asalaam,” Charlie says.

“I hear you’re looking for someone.”

“Yeah, a friend‌—‌Aamir Khan.”

“There are many Aamir Khan’s in this camp, you’ll need to be more specific.”

“In his fifties, grey hair, no mustache‌—‌was an English professor back in Kabul.”

The man turns to his friends and speaks to them in Pashtu.

“My friend knows where this Aamir Khan, you talk about, lives,” the man says. “Come I take you.”

Charlie goes over to the boys. He pulls out a five dollar bill and holds it up.

“For all of you,” he says making a circular gesture.

“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” the kid in the beret says. “Understand. Hundred percent.”

The kid grabs it and takes off running. The group chases after him. Charlie shakes his head.

The man leads him through the camp, down one mud-walled alley after another. It’s as though they’ve entered a Byzantine maze, and the deeper they go the more Charlie wonders if he’s being set up.

Shit, maybe he wants to kill me for my bike?

The mud huts fall away, and they come upon an open expanse of land dotted with fluttering flags. Charlie imagines the man’s compatriots waiting to pummel him to death. The man stops and points behind Charlie.

“That is where he lives,” he says.

Charlie is loathe to turn his back on him. He takes out a fifty rupee note.

“Please, sir,” the man says, “no need.”

“I insist.”

The man shakes his head.

“When a stranger seeks help, it is a Muslim’s duty to be of service.”

The man walks away leaving Charlie feeling like a fool. He turns to find a row of mud huts. Outside one, he sees Aamir Khan laying a rug on the ground and a woman in a headscarf cooking over a small fire. He pushes his motorcycle towards them. Aamir Khan looks up.

“Charlie?” he says.

“I brought you something.”

Charlie unties the dish and hands it to Aamir Khan.

“Oh my, Narenj Palau, you truly did not have to do this.”

“It’d have gone to waste otherwise.”

“Well that is most kind.”

Aamir Khan says something to the woman in Pashtu, and she stands.

“Charlie, may I introduce to you Bushra, my oldest daughter.”

“Good to meet you, Bushra,” Charlie says.

The woman gives him a timid nod. Charlie can’t help but think how different she is from her sister. Not in looks so much, though she’s not nearly as beautiful as her sister. It’s in her eyes. Unlike Noor’s which burn with such righteous fury, hers are lifeless, as if she gave up the fight long ago.

Aamir Khan hands Bushra the dish, and she disappears inside the hut. Charlie leans in to see if Noor is in there but the interior is too dim for him to tell.

“I want to apologize for last Friday,” Aamir Khan says.

“No big deal. Trust me, I’ve been in crazier situations.”

“I want you to know it is as much my fault as Noor’s, after all I am the one who condemned her to this life. It does not excuse her lashing out at you the way she did, but hopefully it makes it understandable.”

Bushra comes back out and places some naan and cutlery on the rug.

“Well the offer still stands,” Charlie says. “If there’s anything I can do to help.”

“That is most kind of you, but since we last met I won’t say we’ve experienced a miracle, but there has been a very hopeful development in our lives. Another aid worker, the head of Noor’s charity, to be precise, has offered to help her obtain a scholarship.”

“That’s amazing.”

“We expect her here shortly.”

Aamir Khan gives Charlie an awkward smile.

“You need me to skedaddle, don’t you?” Charlie says.

“Trust me, I would like nothing more than for you to join us, but I fear your presence could have a ruinous effect on Noor and by extension her prospects.”

“Totally get it. “

Charlie climbs on his bike.

“How about you come by my place next Friday?” he says. “No Noor, just you by yourself.”

“That is most kind but it would not be worth the anguish.”

“Oh come on, you’re a free man, you can do what you want.”

Aamir Khan shakes his head.

“Maybe when you have daughters you will understand.”

“Well it was good seeing you again, Aamir.”

“And you, Charlie.”

Charlie surges forward just as a group of people are emerging from a side alley. He skids to a halt and finds Noor, Elma and Rod standing there in shock.

“Charlie, right?” Rod says.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh you know, just visiting one of my recruits. He’s been sick as a dog. I got a little lost on the way back, and Aamir Khan here was cool enough to give me directions.”

“Yes, yes,” Aamir Khan says stepping towards them. “As-salaam Alaykum, I am Aamir Khan, Noor’s father, it is an honor to meet you.”

Elma and Rod introduce themselves, and while they do Charlie can’t help but glance in Noor’s direction. Set against the bleakness of the graveyard, her veil loose around her sweeping hair, she resembles an angel sent to destroy him.

“So where’s your friend?” Elma says.

Charlie turns to find Elma eyeing him suspiciously.

“Friend?”

“Ivor.”

“The guy bought me a drink, hardly call him a bosom buddy”

Elma pauses as if she’s reevaluating Charlie in light of this new information.

“Well I guess I’ll leave you to your lunch,” Charlie says.

“Why don’t you join us?” Rod says.

“No, it’s okay, look what happened the last time I sat down with you guys.”

“I don’t think Jurgen’s yet recovered,” Elma says.

“See what I mean.”

“Oh, go on,” Rod says. “Be fun to swap war stories. I mean if that’s okay by you, Aamir Khan?”

Aamir Khan looks stricken.

“Yes, of course” he says.

***

NOOR SITS ON
the rug and does her best to remain calm.

The tour had been going so well. Both Elma and Rod had been attentive, Rod especially so, and as he’d asked her more and more questions she’d felt Elma draw closer to her.

And then he had shown up.

At first she’d thought she was hallucinating, but no there he was, and there he is now, sitting across from her, stealing furtive glances. Since they’ve sat down she’s tried to affect a carefree attitude but then something will throw her off; his incessant chatter, her father’s jittery treatment of their guests, Elma remarking on the quality of the Naranj Palau when, to Noor, it seems utterly incongruous amidst the rest of the simple fare. Her opinion of him is unchanged. If anything it’s worse for she can’t help but think he’s part of some elaborate conspiracy to thwart her from ever leaving this camp.