Refuge (32 page)

“I have seen enough,” Shamsurahman says.

He heads down the hill. Charlie looks over at Mocam.

“What do you think that’s all about ?”

Mocam shrugs. The recruits look in Charlie’s direction.

“Okay, that’s it, we’re done.”

The recruits trudge down the hill towards the pick-ups.

“Hey, wait up,” he shouts.

They turn back, their heads bowed.

“All I can say is I’m proud of you. If you were doing something wrong I couldn’t tell, and when I find out what it was we’ll fix it. Now go enjoy the rest of your day.”

The recruits continue down the hill, and Charlie and Mocam spend the next half hour retrieving the dummy mines and reeling in the string.

“You good getting this back to base?” Charlie says.

Mocam nods. Charlie looks at his watch.

Only an hour late. They better still be serving.

If one thing’s consumed his thoughts as much as Noor these last few days it’s been the US Consulate’s holiday barbecue. The idea of burgers and hotdogs is almost too good to be true. Charlie jogs down to his motorcycle and speeds towards town. Twenty minutes later he pulls up at the consulate’s main gate. A spit-and-polish Marine checks him off the list, and Charlie parks his motorcycle at the end of a row of high-end cars. He runs past their chain smoking chauffeurs, through the consulate’s marble floored atrium and out into the garden. Little paper American and Pakistani flags have been strung up between the trees, a tinny speaker set plays
Wouldn’t It Be Nice
, and the aroma of barbecuing hot dogs and burgers laces the air with the familiarity of a long lost friend. Charlie makes a beeline for a billowing grill.

“Thought that was you,” Jurgen says.

Charlie sees Jurgen standing with an unremarkable couple.

Shit,
so close.

“These are my friends Josef and Angela from Stuttgart.”

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

“Nothing like celebrating the pinnacles of American culture, is there? Hot dogs, the Beach Boys, Coca Cola.”

“Yeah, suppose it’s hard to beat bratwurst, Hitler and lederhosen.”

Josef and Angela turn ashen. Jurgen laughs.

“I warned you this one was an acquired taste. Anyway I wanted to be the first to congratulate you. Shamsurahman told me your group passed. I want you in Afghanistan in a week, the village actually where your colleague lost his legs.”

Charlie looks around, convinced this is some sort of practical joke. If it is, no one else seems to be in on it.

“I thought Kenneth took that one,” Charlie says.

“Dear Kenneth had a nervous breakdown.”

“Jesus.”

“This country has the tendency to do a number on people.”

“And Skeppar?”

“You let me deal with him. Just concentrate on getting your men ready.”

Jurgen raises his Coke.

“To your glorious independence.”

“To lederhosen,” Charlie grins.

Jurgen laughs, and he and his friends drift away. Charlie remembers his original reason for coming and orders a hot dog and cheeseburger. He heads over to the condiment table: Heinz ketchup, French’s mustard, and homemade relish.

Ah, it’s almost too perfect.

He sees Ivor winding his way though the crowd.

Ah come on, not now.

Charlie bites into his hotdog. Ivor idles up next to him.

“How you doing kid?

“This is fricking amazing,” Charlie says.

“All courtesy of the US government.”

“I’ll never complain about paying taxes ever again.”

“You’re an ex-pat, you don’t.”

“Oh yeah, forgot.”

Ivor glances in Jurgen’s direction.

“What that fag want?”

“You really know how to insult someone, don’t you?”

Ivor shrugs.

“We’re going into Afghanistan next week,” Charlie says. “We just got our credentials.”

“Well do me a favor, you see anything weird while you’re out there, get word to me.”

“I thought you said you weren’t CIA.”

“Just do it, okay.”

“Chill, Ivor, just pulling your leg.”

Ivor looks for someone better to talk to. Charlie couldn’t care less. He finishes off his first hot dog.

“So did your guy make it?” Ivor says.

“Yeah, he’s doing great, already out of hospital, actually I got him living with me.”

Ivor nods at a couple of passing Pakistani officers.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” Ivor says.

“Don’t see what’s so funny.”

Ivor drags his attention away from the party.

“Look, it’s admirable you feel sorry for him, but there’s three and a half million sad-as-shit refugees round here. You should stick to those who’ve got a future.”

“Wali has a future.”

“His legs were blown off, it’s not like he can drive a cab.”

“So I should just throw him to the curb?”

“No, but you could politely place him there.”

“Sorry, just not that kind of guy.”

Charlie starts away. Ivor grabs his arm.

“Hey, I’m just trying to impart some wisdom here. You forget, I’ve been around this shit longer than you. Life’s a zero sum game, kid. You helping this guy, means you can’t help someone else.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

“Okay, you see an eighty year old man and a five year old kid drowning. You only have time to save one. Who do you haul out of the water?”

Charlie doesn’t answer. It’s the exact kind of scenario his father would throw at him. Ivor lets go of Charlie’s arm.

“Don’t get caught up in lost causes, Charlie. Too many people do‌—‌in dead-end marriages, boring jobs, shitty friendships, stupid-ass wars‌—‌fuck, ask the Soviets about Afghanistan, ask them how that went. Key in life is learning when to cut loose.”

“Sure love to be in a foxhole with you, Ivor.”

“That’s the thing, I’d never get myself in one in the first place.”

Ivor slaps Charlie on the back and wanders into the fray. Charlie looks around. He sees Jurgen and his friends sitting on some wicker chairs laughing with other members of the UN aristocracy; Elma Kuyt by the fish pond chatting with an American diplomat; Mike and Dave propping up the bar. All he wants is to be with Noor. He starts for the door, the cheeseburger forgotten.

***

ELMA ONLY HEARS
the odd word the consul is saying. He is none the wiser. Over the years she’s perfected the nodding head and furrowed brow that makes anyone you’re talking to believe you’re listening intently.

Where is he?

She’s certain Rod said he was flying back today. She feels a tingle in her stomach as if she were a teenager waiting for her crush to appear. These last two weeks without him have been excruciating. She’s immersed herself in paperwork, visited as many projects as possible, taught Noor numerous Dutch lessons, yet everything has felt hollow. Just today she received both good and bad news in regard to the UNDP post, and yet neither seemed to affect her. The good news was that she was on the shortlist with two other candidates. The bad news was that one of those candidates was Andrea Engelson. She’d had no idea Engelson was interested in the position, and her inclusion has only lowered Elma’s chance of being selected.

At any other time in her life, Elma would be crawling up the walls with anxiety. After all Engelson is in New York, no doubt schmoozing with UN decision makers while she couldn’t be further away doing work that actually affects people’s lives, yet work that she knows counts for nothing when it comes to scaling the developmental aid ladder. Yet all of a sudden the job doesn’t seem that important. In fact Andrea Engelson can have it for all she cares.

I need to tell Rod. Everything.

If her relationship with Raymond taught her anything it’s that relationships built on deceit inevitably founder. By now she knows Rod’s character.

He’ll understand. He’ll probably love me even more for it.

In recent days she’s even considered telling Isaac the truth.

My God, if anyone deserves to know it’s him.

The next time she’s in Holland they’ll all sit down. Who knows perhaps Rod will be there too. She knows it’ll be painful, but it is the right thing to do. In the long run they’ll all be better off.

She looks once again towards the atrium doors and sees Rod at the top of the steps, his receding curly hair, his wide forehead, his heavy spectacles resting on the bridge of his stubby nose. In the past she’d never have given him a second glance, but this afternoon he might as well be the best looking man at the party. She excuses herself and works her way through the guests towards him. She wants to throw her arms around his neck but she doesn’t. Not in this company, not with Ivor prowling in the vicinity.

“You made it,” she says.

“Close run thing. The customs guys in Islamabad practically performed a strip search on me.”

“Now that would’ve been something to witness.”

Rod can’t help but redden. She’s glad her comment had an affect on him. She takes him by the arm.

“Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

They make their way over to the bar. He orders a whisky, and she joins him. Usually she never drinks spirits but today feels different.

Why the hell not?

“How was New York?” she says.

“Eventful.”

He takes a hefty slug of his whisky.

“Well don’t hold me in suspense.”

“They offered me London.”

Elma is dumbstruck. She takes a swig, and the whisky scalds her throat.

“You’re kidding?” she says.

“Trust me, was the last thing I expected. Every old fart in that building has been lobbying for the gig.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“I took it. I’ve been traveling from one hot spot to another for so long now, the idea of strawberries and cream at Wimbledon, the Queen, hell just somewhere normal to rest my head for a couple of years, how could I turn it down?”

“You couldn’t, you’d have been mad to.”

Rod smiles.

“I thought you might accuse me of selling out.”

“You’re a great reporter, Rod. Even the best need a break.”

He reddens again and looks at his feet. She loves him all the more for his modesty. He brings his gaze back up.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “In so many ways.”

It’s now Elma’s turn to blush. She can’t remember the last time a compliment had such an effect on her.

“There’s something else,” he says.

Elma holds her breath.

He’s going to ask me to come with him,
she thinks.

They’ll rent a cute apartment in Kensington, and she’ll get a post with the European Community or a British NGO. They’ll buy a dog, a small one they can travel with, have weekend trips to the Continent. And the sex, oh my God, plenty of amazing sex, in a grand antique bed with that constant British rain pattering outside.

Someone catches Rod’s attention, and he stiffens. Elma sees Ivor winding his way towards them. She feels her stomach turn.

“Come on,” she says, “let’s get out of here. There’s something I want to tell you too.”

She grips Rod’s arm and leads him out front where her SUV is parked. They drive away just as Ivor comes out its main doors. She decides that they’ll fuck first. She knows there’s no way she can wait, not anymore.

Then we can talk.

She feels her pulse quicken, closes her eyes a moment as she imagines him entering her. She hears a horn and sees a rickshaw cross in front of her. She swerves and misses the vehicle by an inch.

“Sorry,” she says with a jittery laugh.

“Where are we going?” Rod says.

“My house, of course.”

She places her hand on his thigh and runs her hand up his leg. She feels him harden.

“Elma—”

“Shhh, we’re almost there.”

By the side of the road a couple of men are pushing a cart stacked high with watermelons. She can’t help but smile as she remembers the question that girl in Noor’s class asked.

How long ago that seems.

She pulls into her driveway and comes to a halt outside the front door. She turns off the ignition, Rod’s heavy breathing magnified by the silence. She glances at him. He’s staring straight ahead.

“I need to tell you something,” he says.

“Me too.”

Elma places her hand on Rod’s cheek and turns his face towards her.

“I love you,” she says.

She closes her eyes and moves her lips towards his.

“I’m engaged,” he says.

Elma pulls back and grips the wheel. She tries to take a breath but fails.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t have let it get this far.”

“Who?”

“Amanda, she works at the Times, we’ve been off again on again for years, but on this last visit something clicked, it just felt right.”

“And you’re sure?”

“As sure as I think I’ll ever be.”

Her whole body starts to tremble. He places his hand on her arm, and she drops it away.

Just get out, get out, get out.

“I had no idea you felt this way,” he says, “if I had—”

“No, it’s my fault. It was a fantasy that’s all, stupid really.”

“This won’t effect the piece, I promise.”

Elma begins to sob. She tries to stop herself but finds it impossible not to do so.

“Is there anything I can do?” he says.

She covers her face with her hands and starts rocking back and forth in her seat.

“I meant what I said, Elma. You really are a beautiful woman. You’ll find someone way better than me, I promise.”

She hears the passenger door open and close. His footsteps fade away, and now free of his presence, Elma collapses against the steering wheel and begins to bawl.

THIRTY-SEVEN

“DOES ANYONE KNOW
what they’ll be celebrating in America in two weeks?”

Noor looks out at her class. Half the girls have their hands raised. She nods at Yasmeen, a girl with wide brown eyes.

“Their new year, Miss.”

“Well done. Now who knows what year it will be in their calendar?”

Eight hands go up this time. She’s heartened to see one of them belongs to Hila. She nods at her.