Refuge (14 page)

She attempts to focus on the conversation. Charlie is talking to Rod and Elma about the Gulf War.

I can only imagine what a testosterone driven thrill that must’ve been.

“It was weird,” Charlie says, “it was like we were in Saudi Arabia, but we weren’t. They kept us so far out in the desert I didn’t talk to a single Saudi the whole time I was there. For months we just sat around, a bunch of guys going crazy‌—‌no beer, no women, no outlet for all those things that…”

Charlie catches himself too late.

“That men need,” Elma smirks.

Charlie blushes. In Noor’s mind, Charlie’s just confirmed every suspicion she ever had of him.

“And then the bombardment started. We were sent forward to clear a path for our tanks. All day and night artillery would screech over our heads, and in the distance we’d hear these constant, dull booms,”

“Were you scared?” Elma says.

“Definitely, we all thought the Iraqis were going to hit us with nerve gas. Then the order came in to advance. I tell you, it’s the closest thing to hell I’ve ever seen.”

“You mean the burning oil wells,” Rod says.

“More than anything that highway into Iraq.”

“The Highway of Death.”

For the first time since they’ve sat down Charlie falls silent. A woman in a pale blue burqa walks past, her two young sons traipsing behind her.

“What was it about that highway?” Elma asks.

“We were among the first to get there; for miles all we saw were the shells of burned out cars and trucks; there were clothes, TVs, mirrors, even hundred dollar bills fluttering about, but it was the bodies trapped inside the vehicles that I remember most. There was this one guy, the lid had been blown off his truck, and he was sitting at the wheel, his hands resting on the dashboard. He looked like a zombie, his face burned away. On the floor of his truck I saw the remains of his wallet. I opened it up, and inside was a photo of him sitting with two little boys on his knee. I thought of those two boys, how they’d never see their dad again, and I felt responsible.”

Charlie looks in Noor’s direction and blushes as if embarrassed to have revealed something so personal. Noor looks out over the graveyard. The woman is sitting by a grave in silent contemplation, her burqa billowing around her like a sheet on a clothesline. Her two young children run around her playing a game of tag.

“I guess on that highway it sunk in that we’re all just pawns in other people’s games,” Charlie says.

“But don’t you expect that when you join the army?” Elma says. “I mean isn’t that your job, to fight your President’s wars.”

“I guess I didn’t really think about that when I enlisted.”

“So why did you join?”

“You really want to know. To piss my dad off.”

“Did you succeed?”

“We haven’t spoken in five years.”

Noor sits there, unsure what to make of Charlie’s story, worried that her carefully constructed portrait of him has taken a serious hit.

But isn’t this what all former soldiers do?
Try and excuse their service once the atrocities have been committed. And spurning university out of some adolescent desire to wound his father, could there be a more ridiculous act?

Noor feels the comfort blanket of righteous indignation wrap around her once again.

“I like this spot,” Aamir Khan says. “I understand the view is not the most uplifting but at least graveyards are quiet.”

He chuckles.

“I sense them, would you believe it?”

Oh no.

“The dead?” Elma says.

“I tell you many an imam would have me strung up for uttering such blasphemy, but I do.”

“And how are they?” Rod says.

“Relieved. The next world’s a lot easier than this one.”

My God, could this lunch get anymore morbid?

“It’s late,” Noor says to Elma and Rod. “I should walk you back to your car.”

She goes to stand.

“Wait,” Charlie says.

He puts a hand on Noor’s knee. She is so surprised by his touch that she remains where she is.

“See that rabbit,” he says.

Everyone turns. The rabbit is standing on a burial mound, its nose twitching, its ears bolt upright.

“What about it?” Elma says.

“I think it’s coming in our direction.”

Charlie extracts a candy bar and holds it out. The rabbit hops over a couple of mounds and onto the dirt track.

“Come on, little fella,” Charlie says.

The rabbit hops to within a foot of them. Noor notices Elma and Rod holding their breath. Charlie edges his hand out, and the rabbit takes one final hop. It starts nibbling on the bar. Noor coughs, and the rabbit takes off.

“Wow,” Elma says.

“Never seen that before,” Rod says.

“A New Yorker reporter surprised by something,” Charlie grins. “That’s got to be a first.”

Rod laughs.

“This has been really great,” Rod says. “Thanks Aamir, the lunch was delicious, especially that chicken dish.”

Noor glances at Elma and sees she’s smiling.

She’s pleased, so I should be too.

Except she isn’t. In fact she can’t remember the last time she was in this dark a mood.
She stands and makes for the alley. When she reaches its opening, she glances back to make sure Rod and Elma are following her. Charlie is staring right at her. She spins away.

Dear God, please let this be the last time I ever lay eyes on that man.

Some way down the alley, Rod has them stop next to an abandoned hut with a caved in wall. He takes photos of Elma and Noor and then of each of them individually. Noor feels awkward, especially when he asks her to push a lock of hair away from her face. The last time she can remember having her photo taken was when her mother took her to get her passport.

What a wasted trip that was.

They continue on and come upon a wider lane. It is swarming with men, the mosques having released them all at the same time. A few stare at Elma and Noor with a toxic mixture of lust and loathing. Noor pulls her headscarf close. Elma puts her arm through Noor’s.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “you won’t have to endure this much longer.”

Noor feels a tinge of happiness reenter he soul.

They reach Jamrud Road, and to Noor’s relief Elma’s Land Cruiser is still there, unharmed.

Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

They hear a series of beeps behind them and see Charlie speeding towards them on his motorcycle. He flies past and turns to wave. His bike heads straight for an oncoming bus.

“Charlie!” Elma shouts.

He twists back around, and weaves out of the bus’ path. Elma shakes her head.

“I might just have underestimated that Charlie Matthews,” she says. “He’s seen more suffering than most people his age ever will. A little like you really.”

He’s not at all like me.

Rod beeps the horn.

“Sorry guys but I need to get going,” he yells.

Elma rolls her eyes.

“So you ready to start on your Dutch lessons?”

“Absolutely,” Noor says.

“How about we meet at the school, say five o’clock Monday evening?”

“I can do that.”

“Good. Stay safe till then.”

Elma climbs in, and she and Rod take off towards the comforts of University Town. Noor waits until they’re out of sight and turns for home.

FOURTEEN

TARIQ WAITS ALONE
in the vast reception room and wonders if it was designed to remind men like him of their place in this world.

“Remember, always let the Prince talk first,” his father-in-law had said just before he headed out, “then count to five after he finishes a sentence just to be sure. And on no account ever disagree with him.”

It must be marvelous to be a Prince.

He gazes at the crystal chandelier, it alone has to be worth a thousand times his yearly stipend; at the Chinese vases, the gilt edged mahogany coffee tables, the custom made couches, the gold ashtrays and trinkets scattered around the room like careless afterthoughts, the carpet on the floor, so plush that when you walk on it your feet sink an inch.

Yes indeed, it must be marvelous.

“Ah, there you are.”

The Prince and a couple of his Saudi bodyguards enter. The Prince is wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants.

“I apologize,” the Prince says. “I was on a call to Riyadh. Come we can talk while I exercise.”

The Prince exits. Tariq stumbles to his feet and catches up with the Prince halfway down the corridor. A servant opens a door on their left, and they step into a state of the art gym. The bodyguards stand up against the mirrored wall. The Prince gets up on the treadmill and begins jogging at a moderate pace, his soft belly jiggling up and down.

“I have much respect for Salim Afridi—” the Prince says.

“He’s a great man, your Highness.”

The Prince stares Tariq down. Tariq castigates himself. It’s taken him less than a minute to interrupt him.

“He’s taught me much about guerilla warfare,” the Prince continues, “but he’s also a simple man, his motivations plain to see.”

Tariq holds his tongue.

“You don’t have any new interesting concepts on fighting this war, or maybe you do, but the point is that isn’t why you’re here today. You’re here to persuade me of the beauty of Salim’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Tariq waits a moment just to be sure.

“I owe so much to Salim Afridi, your Highness. He has treated me like a son.”

“And I appreciate your loyalty, it is an admirable quality.”

Tariq counts to five.

“My only true loyalty is to Allah, praise and glory be to Him. My prayer and my sacrifice and my life and my death are all for Him.”

The Prince grunts. Despite the moderate pace, he’s already bathed in sweat. Tariq notices a pile of fresh white towels on a stand. He retrieves one and gives it to the Prince. The Prince wipes his face and hands it back.

“I’m tired of this charade already,” the Prince says. “One loose remark in one meeting, and I have emissaries from every self-important fool in Pakistan knocking on my door extolling the beauty and virtue of their benefactor’s daughter. One looks like a willow tree next to a mountain stream, another has the purity of Aisha. This morning the Chief Minister even called and asked me to lunch. From what I’m told he has five unmarried daughters, and I’m sure they will be paraded in front of me like mares at auction. So go for it, give it your best shot, wax lyrical about your sister-in-law.”

Tariq screws up his forehead as if he’s giving the command careful thought rather than preparing the lines he’s spent the previous night memorizing.

“Badia is definitely the prettiest of Salim’s daughters, I can assure you of that—”

“But I sense hesitation.”

“Only because the one other woman I can compare her to is so much more beautiful than she.”

The Prince presses a button, and the treadmill slows to a halt. He gestures at Tariq to give him a fresh towel and takes a moment to catch his breath.

“Who’s this woman?”

“I feel caught between two masters,” Tariq says.

“Let me be clear‌—‌your true loyalty may be to Allah, but as long as you’re in my employ after that it’s to me.”

Tariq affects a look of pained confliction.

“My sister, Noor, your Highness.”

The Prince heads over to the weight rack and selects a twenty pound dumbbell. He sits down on the bench and begins doing repetitions with his right arm.

“You think you can be an unbiased judge when it comes to your own family?”

“Last year my father received fifty marriage proposals alone.”

The Prince pauses.

“I assume that means your sister doesn’t wear the burqa.”

“To my shame, my father forces her not to, but Noor’s a religious woman, literate, reads the Quran in Arabic every day. And strong too. Badia is such a delicate flower, sometimes you fear the wind could snap her in two.”

Unlike your deceased wife, Noor will be able to take a beating.

The Prince switches the dumbbell to his left hand.

“How old is your sister?” the Prince says.

“Twenty-one, your Highness.”

“This Badia is sixteen, correct?”

“She is.”

The Prince grunts, and Tariq castigates himself.

Why didn’t you lie, you fool,
say Noor was seventeen?

The Prince drops the dumbbell on the floor. A bodyguard returns it to the rack.

“And she lives in a refugee camp?”

“She does. Once my family was of some means, but now they could not be much poorer.”

The Prince stands. A guard hands him a glass of water, and he gulps it down.

“Can I see her?” the Prince says.

“I have a photo,” Tariq says.

He pulls out a faded photo of he and Noor from when she was twelve. The Prince studies it.

To think we were once friends.

“How do I know she hasn’t changed?” the Prince says.

“I assure you she is more beautiful than ever. I could bring her here this Friday.”

“No, the refugee camp’s fine. It’s been a while since I’ve been to one.”

Tariq wills himself to count to ten. On eight the Prince speaks up.

“What’s troubling you, Tariq?”

“Salim Afridi will think I betrayed him.”

“It’s not up to Salim Afridi whom I marry.”

“I understand but I hope you realize the delicate nature of the situation.”

“Then we’ll arrange it so he won’t know a thing. First thing Friday you and I will go see her. Understood?”

Tariq nods, and the Prince heads for the door. A servant opens it from the other side, and the Prince turns back.

“It’d be quite something, wouldn’t it?” he says. “All these pompous fools throwing their daughters at me, and I go and marry some miserable refugee.”

It’d be quite something indeed.

FIFTEEN

“ARE THEY PERFORMING
any better?”

Charlie looks up from sketching the recruits to see Wali standing there.

“I must have told them a hundred times to lie on their stomachs.”