Refuge (6 page)

Maybe she’s not as in to the reporter as Ivor thinks.

Charlie orders a Heineken and jumps off his stool.

“Might as well throw my hat in the ring,” he grins.

“This should be fun.”

“Fortune favors the brave, that’s what my mother always used to say.”

“So did Saddam Hussein and look where that got him.”

“Come on, be my wingman.”

“I prefer to watch explosions from afar.”

“That’s why I’m a deminer, I don’t.”

The Heineken arrives. Charlie winks at Ivor and winds his way over to Elma’s table.

“You guys mind if I join you?”

“I don’t,” the reporter says. “Jurgen, Elma?”

It’s clear neither of them are thrilled, but they don’t object. Charlie squeezes in next to the reporter, and places the Heineken in front of Elma.

“Thought I’d bring something over to remind you of home.”

“I don’t drink beer,” Elma says.

“Then maybe one of you guys would like it.”

The reporter swipes it.

“One lesson I’ve learned in life‌—‌never turn down a free beer.”

Charlie sticks out his hand.

“Charlie Matthews.”

“Rod Baylor.”

“You were embedded with the Fifth Cav, right?”

“A New Yorker reader,” Rod grins. “I’m impressed.”

“My mom was an addict.”

“Were you out there?”

“Was with the First Infantry Division.”

“The Fighting First. What you doing here?”

“Heading up a demining outfit called Mine Aware. Least temporarily.”

Jurgen laughs.

“What are you eighteen?” he says in a German accent.

“Twenty-four.”

Jurgen turns to Elma.

“This is a joke, no?”

“I have no reason to disbelieve him,” Elma says.

“Going to meet my first group of recruits tomorrow,” Charlie says. “Should have them up and ready in a couple of months.”

Jurgen laughs.

“Oh, dear boy, if you’d said six months I’d have thought you impossibly naïve. I was just telling Rod here that the thing about Afghans is they have absolutely no ability to stick to a plan. It makes them a devil to fight, especially when you combine it with that idiotic bravery of theirs. But these qualities, well let’s just say they make for pitiful deminers.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” Charlie says.

An awkward silence hangs over the table.

“Jurgen heads up UNMAPA,” Elma says.

“So?”

“The United Nations Mine Action Program for Afghanistan.”

“Without my permission, dear boy,” Jurgen smiles, “you’ll never get into Afghanistan let alone demine a field out there.”

Charlie glances at Ivor. Ivor raises his Coke in mock salute. Charlie turns back.

“Hey, Jurgen,” he says.

Jurgen looks at Charlie like he’s a child he’s tired of humoring.

“I know you have your fancy job and all, but have you ever actually taken a mine out of the ground? You know picked one up, knowing that despite having done everything right, that bastard could blow your dick off and lodge it in the back of your throat.”

Jurgen goes beet red. Elma and Rod stare at Charlie in disbelief.

“Thought not.”

Charlie stalks away only to discover Ivor’s gone. His business card sits on the bar. Charlie turns it over; on the back Ivor has scrawled his home phone number and a short note:

Warned you it’d blow up in your face!!! Stay safe sapper.

Charlie climbs up onto the stool and orders a Jack Daniels from the bartender. He cranes his neck back and looks around the bar for a set of friendly faces. He sees none.

Strange. I’ve never had a problem making friends in the past.

His drink comes and he downs it. He slaps a twenty dollar on the bar and orders another.

Screw it. I’ll drink by myself.

SIX

“MR. MATTHEWS, MR.
Matthews, it is I, Wali, I am here to take you to the office.”

Charlie forces his eyes open. Wali comes into focus. He’s standing over the bed beaming.

“What time is it?” Charlie says.

“Ten o’clock,” Wali says.

Charlie groans.

“I think you had a late night, Mr. Matthews”

“No, no, it’s just jet lag. Just give me five will you.”

“Five what?”

“Minutes.”

“Oh, most certainly.”

Charlie stumbles to the bathroom. In the shower he tries to recollect the night before. He remembers meeting a couple of Canadian aid workers, and doing a round of shots with them, but after that nothing. How he got to his bed, he has no clue.

He comes down to the kitchen to find Wali chattering away to Mukhtar and a breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice and scrambled eggs awaiting him. He sits down at the table and begins scarfing down the eggs.

“Now that’s a good breakfast, no?” Wali says.

“Great.”

Wali translates for Mukhtar, and Mukhtar grins.

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” Mukhtar says.

Wali slaps Charlie on the back, and Charlie feels his brain shatter into a million pieces.

“Did I not tell you it was a good thing to have a cook?”

“You sure this can’t wait until tomorrow?” Charlie says.

“I wish it could, Mr. Matthews, but everyone is waiting for you.”

“I know but—”

“I mean literally waiting for you; in a line since eight o’clock this morning.”

Charlie stands and has to put a hand on the table to steady himself. Wali continues talking to Mukhtar jabbing him in the shoulder to make his point. Finally he engulfs Mukhtar in a warm embrace and turns towards Charlie.

“Mukhtar says he is going to make you the finest dinner you can imagine. Sheep’s eyeballs; it’s a local delicacy.”

Charlie feels the urge to vomit. Wali giggles hysterically.

“I’m joking. Now come, we must go.”

Wali leads Charlie out to the driveway where his Pajero is parked. The broiling heat hits Charlie, and he sways. Wali opens the passenger door for him and runs around the car to get in his side. He turns the ignition and the chorus of
Material Girl
erupts from the speakers. Cold air blasts from the AC. Charlie thinks his head is going to explode. He lunges for the cassette player and turns it off.

“Would I be right in thinking that you’re not a fan of Miss Madonna?”

“It’s just Madonna, Wali.”

“You positive?”

“Positive.”

Wali gets out his pad and records this new piece of information. He takes off down the driveway and accelerates down a tree-lined street. Up ahead Charlie can see a main road; blue exhaust fumes hang over it like mist over a lake.

“Jamrud Road,” Wali says.

Wali slips into a gap in the traffic. A barrage of horns blast away at them. Charlie’s never seen such chaos. Rickshaws, mini-vans, cheap Japanese cars, Mercedes buses, motorcycles, bicycles, horse-drawn carts, even man-drawn carts are all fighting for their piece of the road.

Charlie looks out his window at the open-fronted stores. There’s one with blocks of candy in every shape, size and color; a tea shop with a vast cauldron of boiling tea up front; shop after shop selling swirls of bright fabric; open air restaurants with what look like hamburgers frying in cylindrical pans the size of paddling pools. After that come the butchers, first the chicken sellers; their live merchandise cooped up front in rope cages while their unlucky brethren are behind having their necks chopped off on benches awash with blood; then the sheep shops, with whole carcasses hanging on hooks in the morning heat while young boys with swatters fight a losing battle against the endless swarms of flies; and then the beef sellers, their upfront displays dominated by cow hooves and calves’ heads, the calves’ eyes glazed over, their tongues hanging out as though they’ve had one drink too many.

I know how you feel.

Eventually the shops peter out and are soon replaced with mud huts stretching as far as the eye can see.

“Kacha Gari refugee camp,” Wali says.

To Charlie, the huts look like something a child might conjure up in a sandbox; single storey, misshapen, no windows, some with crooked doors, others with just cloth hanging in their entrances. On the side of the road, refugees in turbans and rolled up caps swarm around wooden stalls. Some are missing an arm, some a leg, and an unfortunate few have lost both legs and are getting around on what look like skateboards. Bony dogs wander amongst them, trash swirls in the dirt and streams of putrid green water meander from the camp’s alleys and down the side of the road. Boys are everywhere, shirtless ones pushing tires, others shoving long sticks of sugarcane into juicers, while others wait by the edge of the road holding cigarettes, candy, bottles of soda, nuts and fruit. The traffic snarls up, and they dive into it, a swarm surrounding the car, begging Charlie to buy their wares.

“Do not say a word,” Wali says, “it only encourages them.”

He edges forward seemingly oblivious to whether he might run over their feet.

“This where Mine Aware is?” Charlie says.

“Oh no, Mr. Matthews, our office is in Hayatabad.”

The traffic picks up. Charlie looks back at the camp.

“Jesus, what a shithole.”

Wali’s pen and notepad come out.

“Shithole?”

“You know awful place to live”

“It is where I live.”

Charlie looks at Wali. For once Wali has a straight face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Trust me, it’s quite alright, Mr. Matthews, you are most correct, it truly is a shithole.”

Charlie notices a woman wearing a billowing, green burqa. He finds it the strangest thing; it’s impossible not to miss these women yet they might as well not exist at all.

“Most women round here wear burqas?” he says.

“In the camps and villages, yes. Amongst wealthier families not so much unless the husband is a very religious man.”

Wali turns left and drives down a wide, four-lane avenue. Half-a-mile down they come upon a grid of recently laid streets, dotted with two-storey houses sitting behind high outer walls. They drive up to a small compound of red brick buildings that remind Charlie of his old barracks. Out front, three men are waiting for them in the late morning sun.

Jesus,
Wali wasn’t joking.

“Come, come,” Wali says, “let me introduce you.”

They get out, and Wali takes Charlie down the line as though he were a visiting head of state. First up is a man with a trim beard and movie star looks.

“This is Mocam,” Wali says. “He is in charge of all equipment.”

“As-salaam Alaykum,” Mocam says.

“That means ‘peace be upon you’,” Wali says.

“How’d you say it again?” Charlie says.

“As-salaam Alaykum.”

“Well as-salaam Alaykum to you, Mocam.”

Mocam grins. Wali moves onto a man with a skull cap on his head and a beard so long that it looks like a child’s bib.

“This is Qasim, our accountant and office manager.”

Charlie exchanges greetings with Qasim, and they move on to a bearded man who’s curiously shaved his mustache.

“And this is Fahran, our esteemed cook and driver.”

They exchange greetings. Charlie breathes a sigh of relief.

That wasn’t too hard.

He spies a building with AC units and starts towards it.

“Mr. Matthews, wait,” Wali says.

Charlie turns back to see Mocam holding a piece of paper.

“Mocam has a speech.”

Mocam steps forward.

“It is utter pleasure to meet you, Mr. Matthews, and may I take liberty of saying we thank Allah for your presence here to help us, and our glorious nation, Afghanistan, and inshallah we do most wonderful things together and take out many mines from ground.”

Mocam folds the paper and steps back.

“Thanks,” Charlie says, “good to be here too.”

The men all stare at Charlie. Charlie looks over at Wali.

“We done?” Charlie says.

“Where is your speech?” Wali says.

“I’m meant to have one?”

“It is customary on such occasions.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew such things.”

“Why would I? I’m new here.”

“Well you should make one anyway.”

The front of Charlie’s head begins to pound. He closes his eyes. It doesn’t help.

“Mocam, Qasim, Farhad,” he says. “I’m excited to be here‌…‌to help Afghanistan
‌…‌
and together we’re going to do great‌…‌that’s it.”

The men applaud.

“Oh, a most wonderful speech, Mr. Matthews,” Wali says. “Now let me show you your office.”

Wali guides Charlie through a glass set of doors and a lobby with black-and-white posters of limbless refugees to an office in the back. The furniture is rudimentary, but all Charlie cares about is that it has a couch. On top of a filing cabinet a photo frame is propped up for all to see. It’s of a stout, bearded man and Wali; Wali’s smile is as wide as the Suez Canal; the man’s is forced to say the least.

“Skeppar?” Charlie says.

“The one and only,” Wali says. “Now come sit, sit.”

Wali shepherds Charlie around the desk and into his office chair. He picks up a sheet of paper.

“This is the letter I was telling you about?”

Charlie spies a phone on his desk.

“Hey, could you do me a favor?” he says.

“Most certainly,” Wali says.

“You mind finding me up the number for Dutch Aid.”

“Of course. Qasim should have it.”

Wali heads out of the room. Charlie picks up the letter.

Dear Charlie:

I apologize for the circumstances of your arrival, but unfortunately my condition’s become chronic and I’m flying home for further treatment.

All is not lost. We’ve found a replacement for me in Stephen Adams, an Australian who heads up a demining project in Mozambique. The only downside is that he’s unable to arrive until December.

This means that, for now, you are nominally in charge. I am confident you’ll do fine if you follow one simple rule – “first, do no harm.’ In the months I’ve been here I’ve built up a solid Afghan staff. All you need do is keep an eye on them and make sure they are faxing their cost reports and approvals to Stockholm.