Refuge (2 page)

“Mamaan.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Are you alright?”

Her mother doesn’t answer. Her father looks across.

“What’s the matter?” he says.

Her mother pulls up the front of her burqa. Even in the pale light of dawn Noor can see her mother’s kameez is soaked in blood. Noor cries out.

“Shh,” her mother says, “don’t draw attention to us.”

Up ahead, just before the turn for the river, a group of Russian soldiers have set up a checkpoint. The traffic slows. Her father yanks on the reins and tries to turn the cart around. It’s impossible, a bus is right behind them.

“They’ll see me,” her mother says to her father.

“No, just stay where you are. We will be past this at any moment, and we will go find a doctor.”

“Aamir, it’s too late for that.”

“Nonsense.”

The cart edges forward, and her mother rests her burqa on top of her head. Her cheeks, so rosy even in the coldest weather, are drained. She looks at each of her children as though she wants to burn their images into her soul.

“I love you all,” she says, “more than you’ll ever know.”

“No,” Tariq screams.

Up ahead a soldier looks in their direction. Tariq wraps his arms around his mother.

“Don’t go, don’t go,” he says.

Her mother strokes his hair and whispers into his ear. The cart trundles forward again; they’re now only three vehicles away from the checkpoint.

“Please, Aamir,” her mother says.

Her father stares at her, unwilling to grasp what’s unfolding in front of him.

“For their sake,” she says.

Somehow he manages to nod. Her mother leans forward and kisses her father on the forehead.

“I love you, Aamir,” she says. “Look after them for me.”

She extricates herself from her son’s grasp, and Noor’s father wraps his arms around Tariq. Tariq fights back, his legs kicking out, his arms flailing.

“Take the reins,” her mother says to Noor.

Noor scrambles into the front seat. Her mother grabs her by shoulders.

“Never compromise who you are. You hear me?”

Her mother places the reins in Noor’s hand and pushes herself off the cart. Noor looks back. Her mother lies there in the street, blood already staining the snow around her. With whatever life she has left she struggles back up onto her feet. Tariq breaks free and crawls to the back of the cart.

“Mamaan,” he screams. “Mamaan.”

Her mother looks stricken. From beneath her burqa she pulls out the envelope containing Dr. Abdullah’s letter. She collapses on the ground, and a woman in the bus behind lets out a piercing shriek. Soon soldiers are running past them until her mother’s body is lost amidst a sea of green uniforms. With the checkpoint no longer manned the donkey picks up its pace. The road bends to the left, and soon the checkpoint is out of sight.

Noor turns back and sees her father’s eyes are brimming with tears. In the back her brother lies on the straw sobbing while her sister sits immobile as a statue. Noor takes her father’s hand in hers, gives the donkey a whack with the reins, and they continue on out of the city.

PART I

encounter
Peshawar, September 1991
10 years later

TWO

CHARLIE MATTHEWS WALKS
into the arrivals hall, his head already spinning. It’s got to be the jetlag, he tells himself, but the longer he looks around the less sure he is. The hall is chaotic, packed with men wearing what look like long-shirted pajamas, passengers pushing over laden carts, and groups of veiled women being shepherded through the throng like livestock at a county fair. And then there’s the smell
;
it’s been there ever since he stepped off the plane, a sweet and overpowering combination of b.o. and mothballs.

He drops his holdall and lights a cigarette. A sea of expectant faces stare back at him‌—‌all mustached, all with wavy black hair, all wearing shalwar kameez. They all fit the description of the man who’s picking him up.

Which one is he?

“Taxi, sir, need taxi‌—‌best prices in town,” one says.

“Not today thanks,” Charlie says.

“Sir, sir, nicest ride in Islamabad,” another says, pushing the first man aside. “Please I am showing you, you most impressed.”

“It’s okay, I got a ride lined up.”

The man grabs his arm, and Charlie has to jerk it away. He spots a man coming towards him; unlike everyone else his mustache is pencil thin, his hair spiked and his smile wide.

“I am Wali,” he says, “you are Mr. Charlie Matthews, I presume.”

“The one and only,” Charlie says.

“The one and only, oh, that is quite fabulous, I must use that myself some time. Pardon me while I write it down.”

Wali pulls out a notepad and pen from inside his waistcoat. Another taxi driver grabs Charlie from behind.

“Sir, this man no good driver. Me, I assuredly most excellent.”

Wali sends a barrage of Urdu in the man’s direction. The man shrinks backwards, and Wali goes back to writing. He finishes and puts the pen and pad away.

“Like your technique,” Charlie says.

“Forgive me but I don’t understand,” Wali says

“The way you handled that guy.”

“Oh that is most kind, but you have to, I’m afraid. Now please, let me take your bag.”

“I got it.”

“But I insist.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal to me, Mr. Matthews.”

“Call me Charlie.”

“Please, Mr. Matthews, for my honor please let me take your bag.”

“Really? For your honor?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Well in that case,” Charlie grins.

Charlie hands over his stained army-issue duffle bag.

“I am most obliged,” Wali says. “Now what do you say to leaving this terminal?”

“Lead the way.”

Wali guides Charlie through the seething morass as if he’s cutting a path through the jungle, and they burst out the main entrance. Despite only the barest whiffs of orange streaking the dawn sky, it is already sweltering. Wali leads Charlie towards a silver SUV idling by the curb. A grubby kid leans against it munching on a samosa. Wali hands the kid a couple of bills and throws Charlie’s bag in the trunk. Charlie goes to get in only for a bearded man to barrel past. A burqaed woman trailing in the man’s wake, trips and tumbles to the ground. Charlie kneels down beside her.

“You alright there?” he says.

The woman turns her masked face in his direction. She looks like she’s wearing a Darth Vadar costume.

Jesus, who’d put a woman in such a thing?

Charlie offers her his hand only for the bearded man to grab him by the collar and jerk him up. He shouts at Charlie in a strange, guttural language.

“Hey, what the hell?” Charlie says.

The man pokes Charlie in the chest. Charlie pokes him back. Wali slides in between them.

“Please, Mr. Matthews, it is best if you come with me.”

He places Charlie inside the SUV, all the while uttering apologies to the man, before jumping in and taking off. Charlie looks back. The bearded man is slapping the woman about the head.

“What was that guy’s problem?”

“My advice to you Mr. Matthews, do not attempt to help another woman the rest of the time you are here. The men do not take kindly to it.”

Charlie pulls out his Lonely Planet guide.

“I read something about that, but I didn’t think it was that serious.”

“I would not concern yourself with that book, Mr. Matthews.”

“You’re right. My mom always said you could never understand a country from one.”

“And all you must understand about Pakistan is that it’s a crazy place filled with crazy people.”

“That’s it?”

“The other day the United Nations publishes a list of the world’s most corrupt countries, and Pakistan is number two. ‘Why’, everyone asks, ‘did we not bribe them more so we could be number one?’”

Charlie laughs and fishes a pen from his pocket. He scribbles on the guide book’s inside cover.

“Okay. One‌—‌never help women. Two‌—‌crazy place filled with crazy people.”

“You need know nothing more.”

Wali merges onto a four-lane highway without a second glance.

“So how’s Skeppar doing?” Charlie says.

“Not well, I’m afraid.”

“Still laid up, huh?”

“He flew back to Stockholm two days since. I am telling you, he looked like a Chinaman he was so yellow.”

“You’re shitting me.”.

“I’m not familiar with this expression.”

“Same as you’re kidding me.”

Wali gets out his notepad and begins writing. The SUV veers towards the opposing lanes. Charlie leans in and corrects the wheel. Wali puts his notepad away and grins.

“Oh, Mr. Matthews, this is most marvelous. You must know, it is my first and most important endeavor to speak like an American.”

“Then don’t say ‘it is my endeavor’ just say ‘I want to speak like an American’.”

“Understood.”

Charlie floats his pack of Marlboros in Wali’s direction. Wali takes a cigarette. Charlie lights it and one for himself.

“So who’s in charge?” Charlie says.

“You are, of course.”

“I mean who’s running the office?”

“You are.”

“Don’t think so; not what I was contracted to do.”

“Mr. Skeppar explained everything in his letter to you.”

“You read it?”

“Mr. Skeppar did me the greatest honor of promoting me on his final day, and as your deputy I presumed it my duty. He says it will be three months before a replacement arrives.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I am not shitting you in the slightest.”

Wali grins at Charlie.

“This is great news no? For now you can live in his house.”

Charlie ruminates on this new piece of information. Responsibility is the last thing he’s looking for.

“So I’m guessing you’ve got a ton of experience with mines?” Charlie says.

“Most definitely.”

“Where’d you get your training?”

“Interesting you should ask. I’m not certain if you’re aware of this, Mr. Matthews—”

“Charlie—”

“But my sister, she was killed by a mine in Afghanistan.”

“Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“She was coming to visit me; took a wrong step, that’s the expression, am I not correct?”

“Yeah, just never heard it used so literally.”

“That’s the Afghans for you, you’ll see; everything and anything terrible that could happen to a people has happened to us‌—‌quite literally.”

For a moment Wali appears almost tranquil, and Charlie takes the opportunity to stare out the window. The land is green and flat, dotted with one-story mud homes. They remind him of the adobe huts in Peru‌—‌just these ones don’t have windows. Shoeless kids toss balls at each other, women in scarves balance large ceramic jars on their heads, and old men plow their fields with horned cows.

A smattering of rain drops patter on the windshield and then, just like that, the heavens open. Wali turns on the wipers and leans closer to the windshield. The one thing he doesn’t do is slow down. Outside the highway begins to resemble the surface of a lake.

They come upon a couple of trucks whose gaudy murals look like they were created for a seventh grade art project. Wali honks at them to make way. The trucks belch out clouds of soot. Wali spits out a Pashtun curse and swings the SUV into the first of the opposing lanes. A car’s heading right for them.

Charlie grabs his seatbelt; the buckle fails to click.

Fuck.

Wali wrenches the wheel to the right and they slide into the next lane. No better luck. A white mini-van’s fifty feet away.

Wali pulls the SUV onto the side of the road sending brown water cascading down onto the windscreen. For a second they are blind. When the wipers swipe it away they see the rear-end of an emaciated cow in front of them. Wali swings the SUV back across the two opposing lanes until they’re on their side of the road, the trucks now behind them.

Charlie lights another cigarette and takes a deep drag.

“Wali,” he says.

“Yes, Mr. Matthews.”

“You probably should get my seatbelt fixed.”

“It’s not necessary, see I don’t wear one.”

“You probably should get it fixed all the same.”

“You’re the boss.”

That sounds strange. I’ve never been the boss of anyone before.

Outside the rain stops as quickly as it began. Wali searches the floor beneath him and comes up with a cassette. He pops it into the player.

“I have a feeling you are not a fan of Indian music so I have something I am absolutely certain you’ll relish.”

The opening of
Like A Virgin
blasts from the speakers, and Wali sings along with the gusto of a backing singer. On ‘
I didn’t know how lost I was until I met you,’
he points at Charlie with a gargantuan grin on his face.

Shit, the guy’s hitting on me.

Charlie decides it’s best not to encourage him.

“I’m beat,” he says, “You mind if I get some shut-eye.”

“Shut-eye?” Wali says.

“Sleep.”

“Of course, of course. Now shuteye is that one word or two?”

“One I think.”

Wali retrieves his notepad.

“Do not worry yourself,” he says, “you’re in a most safe pair of hands.”

“Don’t doubt it.”

Charlie closes his eyes and is soon out for the count.

***

CHARLIE AWAKES TO
find Wali’s face mere inches from his own. He jerks back.

“Mr. Matthews, we’re here.”

Charlie realizes that Wali is standing outside the car. He wipes away the drool from his mouth and climbs out. For a moment he thinks his jetlag’s playing tricks. A mansion fit for an ambassador stands in front of him.

“May I present your house.” Wali says.

“You’re kidding?”

“I do not shit you. Mr. Skeppar called it his ‘precious gem’.”

“I bet he did.”

“Come, come, let me show you inside.”

Wali sweeps open the front door and guides Charlie through the house’s domed hall and up its sweeping staircase to his bedroom. With its four poster bed, large Afghan rug and antique writing table it looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since the days of the Raj, and nor do any of the other bedrooms that Wali leads him through. Charlie loses count of how many there are; at least five on the top floor, another on the ground floor to go along with a book laden room that Wali calls the library, and a slightly less book laden room which he calls the sitting room. There’s a study with mounted heads of exotic animals and a vast kitchen straight from the 1930s. Standing in its center are two men; the younger, a rail-thin man with a sporadic beard, keeps nodding his head, while the older one stares at the black-and-white tiled floor, all the while sweeping a twig brush back and forth.