Refuge (31 page)

“What were the books?” Charlie says.

“
The Liberation of Women and the New Woman
by Qasim Amin,
A Room Of One’s Own
by Virginia Woolf and
The Life of Indira Gandhi
by someone whose name has escaped me.”

“Jesus, how long did it take you?”

“Two weeks. As you may guess none of them
are easy reads, especially for a twelve year old, but I soldiered on, reading from dawn until dusk, taking notes as I went. When I wrote the final sentence I went back and counted. I’d written over seven thousand words. I gave Baba the essay and he took it to his bench. Eventually he gestured me over, and I noticed he was crying. ‘Do you believe what you’ve written?’ he asked, and I told him I believed every single word. ‘Then I guess you truly are my daughter,” he said. He hugged me and never had his embrace felt so good.

“That evening, I knocked on Ameena’s door. Her father answered, and I asked to see her. He told me that Ameena no longer lived there, that she had gotten married a week earlier, and I fled back to our hut and once more cried through the night. I never saw Ameena again, and sometime later I heard she’d been married off to a sixty year old cousin. By now I suspect she’s widowed with four, perhaps even five children.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Charlie says.

“I don’t know, you asked about these…”

Noor touches the fading wounds on her face.

“One of my students, Kamila, the same thing’s about to happen to her, so I went to Nasir Bagh camp thinking I could persuade her family to call off the wedding.”

“They did that to you?”

“I think deep down I’ve always felt guilty about Ameena, that there was something I could have done to help her, but now I realize there’s nothing I can do, that anyone can do really. I’m starting to believe that our country is a lost cause.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“That’s because you’re American; you’re an optimistic people.”

Noor looks at the bedside clock. She’s stayed far longer than she intended.

“I have to pray,” she says.

“Right now?”

Noor studies the concentric patterns of the rug.

“I believe in God, in Allah,” she says, “I believe Mohammed was his final messenger.”

“I know.”

“My religion, it’s the most important thing in my life. Without it I’d be lost.”

“Noor, I don’t look down on your beliefs.”

“I understand, I just wanted you to know, that’s all.”

“Why?”

Noor doesn’t answer but instead hurries from the room. She bursts into her room and locks the door.

Why? Why did I feel it so necessary to tell him about my faith?

Because you wished he believed,
a voice inside her says.

In Islam?

No, just in something.

But why?

Surely you don’t need me to answer that.

Noor feels nauseous. She kneels down and begins to pray. She refuses to investigate the question any further.

THIRTY-FIVE

“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE
come,” Charlie says.

The Pajero hits a pothole, and Wali bounces up and down in the passenger seat. Charlie glances at him and detects a poorly concealed wince.

“See what I mean.”

“I assure you, Mr. Matthews, that your crazy mission would be an utter failure without my involvement.”

“And with it?”

“The odds are only moderately improved.”

Charlie steadies the wheel with his aching arm.

“Where did Aamir Khan say the girl lived?”

“Near the main mosque, I believe.”

Charlie parks next to the concrete building and turns off the engine. Outside a one-legged man swings by on crutches, his asymmetrical shadow long in the morning sun. Charlie wonders if Wali is watching him with envy.

“So you think they’ll be here?” Charlie says.

“The wedding always takes place at the bride’s home.”

Wali rolls down his window and lights a cigarette.

“If you do not mind me asking, why are you doing this, Mr. Matthews?”

“You want the bullshit answer or the real one?”

“No bullshit, thank you.”

Charlie exhales.

“I’m in love with her, Wali.”

Wali chuckles.

“I knew it from the moment you first mentioned her.”

“That obvious?”

“You are a bigger fool than I am when you’re around her.”

“So what you think?”

“It’s craziness, Mr. Matthews, even crazier than your venture today.”

“You don’t think she loves me?”

“No, she may very well. I’ve noticed when you’re not looking that she cannot help but watch you, but this is a country where love stories don’t end well. Think about it, most men only meet their wives at the wedding, and trust me most are deeply disappointed by their parents’ choice.”

“I’m guessing the women aren’t so happy either.”

“Undoubtedly, but what this means is that love cannot be allowed to grow. Its very existence is a threat‌—‌to the imams, to the parents, to the politicians, to those who are already married‌—‌and so when it does occur it must be snuffed out.”

“Just like that couple in your village.”

“Exactly.”

Charlie takes the cigarette and inhales.

“Wali, I’m not going to get us killed today.”

“Then may I be so bold as to enquire what your plan is?”

“Someone wise once told me an Afghan is like a lamb.”

“So we are going to the depths of hell?”

Charlie smiles.

“Something like that.”

Charlie flicks the cigarette away and retrieves Wali’s wheelchair from the trunk. He lifts Wali into it.

“Okay, which tent do you think is theirs?”

Wali points at a shimmering spiral of smoke rising into the grey morning sky.

“It doesn’t matter how poor the family is, if their daughter is getting married they must prepare food for their guests.”

As they pass by, tent flaps open and refugees stare out at them; a young boy with a flap of skin over his right eye, a scraggly haired girl in a bright orange shalwar kameez, an old woman, so gnarled she no longer bothers to even cover her hair. Charlie feels like a gunslinger in the Old West entering a town where the inhabitants have fled for cover.

Problem is, I don’t have a gun.

They come upon the source of the smoke; two rusted cauldrons sitting on a stack of burning wood. One is filled with bubbling rice while the other has chunks of meat boiling away in it. Yellowed fat bobs on its surface and flies circle. The cook, his shalwar kameez spotted with grease, stares up at them with a blank gaze. Charlie pushes Wali through the smoke, and they come upon a group of turbaned men sitting on the ground. One of the men notices them, and in an almost telepathic fashion the others turn their way.

“I don’t see the girl,” Charlie says.

“The women are behind there,” Wali says, nodding at a long muslin sheet that’s been strung between two posts.

Charlie sees a couple of Lee Enfield rifles propped up against one of them. He puts his right hand over his heart.

Stay calm.

“As-Salaam Alaykum,” he says.

A smattering of salaams come back his way. Wali speaks up in Pashtu, and an emaciated man replies.

“That is the father, and the man to his right is the groom,” Wali says.

Charlie looks at the groom. His ancient forehead has a thousand lines, his lips are so thin they barely exist, and his ear lobes dangle like overripe fruit on a tree.

“You’re kidding?”

“The father says this is not a good time, that the ceremony is about to begin.”

“Tell him we just need a couple of minutes, that I’ve brought him a prize.”

“Mr. Matthews, I firmly advise—”

“Tell him it’s a hundred dollars, but to give it to him we must speak alone.”

Wali sighs and translates. The men murmur amongst themselves. The father gestures to a nearby tent.

“He says two minutes it is,” Wali says.

Charlie bends down and picks up Wali. The father holds open the flap of a tent.

“This is our last chance to leave, Mr. Matthews,” Wali says.

“Najib told me an old Pashtun saying the other day. ‘The goat who flees from the wolf spends the night in the butcher’s house.’“

“And how does that relate to our present situation?”

“Damned if I know.”

Wali can’t help but laugh, and Charlie carries him into the tent. Inside there is nothing more than a couple of sagging rope beds and a ragged pile of clothing. Charlie puts Wali down on the earthen floor. Wali leans back against one of the beds.

“Comfortable?” Charlie says.

“Absolutely,” Wali says.

“Liar.”

Charlie sits down on the rope bed, the father on the other. Charlie attempts a smile.

“Congratulations, this must be a very proud day for you.”

Wali translates. The father says nothing.

“My colleague and I work for the organization that funds your daughter’s school.”

The father barks a reply before Wali’s finished translating.

“He wants to know if we were the ones who sent that woman the other night,” Wali says.

“Oh no, we’d never interfere in any decision you’ve made about Kamila’s future.”

Wali translates, and the father speaks.

“He asks why we are here then, and what is this prize? In fact that is something I am most intrigued to know myself.”

Charlie pulls out a bundle of hundred dollar bills. He peels one off and hands it to the father.

“Your daughter was asked to write an essay in school this year, and it was submitted for a competition.”

Wali translates. The father drags his gaze away from the hundred dollar bill.

“You should be very proud, over ten thousand girls her age competed, from countries all over the world, and Kamila’s essay was judged to be the best.”

Wali translates, and the father frowns. The father speaks.

“He asks when you say all the world if that includes America?” Wali says.

“Yes, she beat everyone.”

The father’s eyes well up. It takes him a moment to speak.

“He says his wife thinks there is no value in education. Not for a girl.”

“Well tell him that there’s a second part to the prize‌—‌a scholarship. For every year Kamila remains in school, his family will receive five hundred dollars, and if she goes to college that sum increases to a thousand. Unfortunately the only stipulation is that any recipient remain unmarried.”

Wali stares at Charlie wide-eyed.

“That’s way too much. I beg you, allow me to offer a lower amount.”

“No, that’s what I want to do.”

Wali snorts and tells the man. Charlie watches the father closely. For a long time the father sits there stroking his patchy beard. The father glances out the flap at the wedding party who are all looking in their direction. Charlie stands.

“Tell him I understand that this is impossible given his situation but I felt obliged to let him know.”

Wali translates, and Charlie goes to pick him up. The father speaks up.

“He says sit down: this wedding is not yet formalized.”

Charlie returns to his rope bed. The father exits the tent.

“So what now?” Charlie says.

“It’s up to the groom. Perhaps the father can offer him enough to call it off.”

“Any chance the guy could take offense?”

“Of course, but if he does his relatives will shoot the father first before they shoot us.”

“That’s comforting to know.”

Charlie peers out the tent. The father kneels beside the groom and speaks earnestly. The groom launches into a harsh invective, his hands gesticulating wildly. His relatives fling murderous glances in Charlie’s direction. Charlie pulls his head back in.

“You think we should make a run for it?” he says.

Wali looks at his stumps and rolls his eyes.

“You know what I mean?” Charlie says.

Outside the voices become less vitriolic.

“You hear what they’re saying?” Charlie says.

“It’s good, they’re arguing about money.”

The tent flap opens and the now grim-faced father enters. He speaks to Wali.

“He says if this is to work he needs three hundred dollars more for the groom.”

“That’s it?”

“I suggest you pay him before the groom changes his mind.”

Charlie reaches into his pocket and withdraws the roll. He peels off eight hundred dollars and hands them to the father.

“Three hundred for his cousin and five hundred for the first year,” Charlie says.

The father stares at the bills as if they’re a winning lottery ticket. This time he speaks directly to Charlie.

“He says he always hoped his daughter’s education would lead to a better life, and now it has. He would be most honored if we joined him for some food,” Wali says.

The father gestures for them to follow him. Charlie carries Wali outside to where the group are seated. Charlie looks at the gathered men. He receives respectful nods and even some smiles. No one is smiling more broadly than the ex-groom.

“Guess he did well out of the bargain?” Charlie says.

“Oh, extremely,” Wali says. “Besides he’ll find another bride soon enough.”

A bunch of shoeless kids bring over bent metal trays laden with food and lay them in the middle of the rugs. Everyone turns towards Charlie. He places a sufficient quantity on his plate so as not to be considered an ungracious guest.

“Bismallah ar-Rahman, ar-Raheem,” he says.

He rips off a piece of naan and uses it to grab some meat and rice. He shoves it in his mouth.

“Very good,” he says.

The men all smile. Charlie glances at the muslin sheet and sees a girl staring at him through a tear in the material. All he can see are her piercing, intelligent eyes and her forehead with its distinctive birthmark.

Kamila
.

She smiles at him and then just like that she’s gone.

THIRTY-SIX

CHARLIE STANDS WITH
Shamsurahman. The recruits are above them on the rocky hillside, their lanes marked by bright orange string. Some are swaying their detectors back and forth, others are on their bellies probing for mines while others are cutting back long grass so they can push their detection efforts further up the slope. Shamsurahman has been observing them for an hour now and hasn’t said a word.