Refuge (8 page)

My bad, my bad.

She can’t get the expression out of her head. She’s never heard it before. She assumes it’s an American way of saying ‘I’m sorry’.

What an odious man
.

The American had amused her at first, but the way he had stared at her, blocked her path…

Noor hears someone running towards her. Her heart quickens. She turns just as they come around the bend. A man bowls in to her, and she tumbles to the ground. The man comes to a rest on top of her.

Her hands search for her assailant’s face. She scratches at his eyes, cheeks, nose, whatever she can dig her nails into. The man screams in pain. She shoves him off of her and clambers to her feet. She makes sure her weekly wage is still secure in her pocket.

“Stop, please stop,” the man says in an American accent.

The man raises his head, his face smeared with dirt and blood. He recognizes her.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” she says.

She gathers up her fallen books. The man tries to help her.

“Don’t,” she says.

She gets up and sees him standing there with the mango in his hand.

“I just had to find you,” he says. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Noor gives him a withering glare and turns for home.

“Wait, you forgot something,” he says.

“Keep the mango,” she says.

“No, something else.”

Noor looks back. The American is holding out a piece of paper. Down the way she hears some men approaching. She edges over to him and snatches the piece of paper. She hurries away and doesn’t stop until she’s outside their hut. She stands there with her back against the wall and gathers herself. If it wasn’t for the paper in her hand she could be convinced that she’d just had an hallucinatory experience.

She pushes open the corrugated metal door and steps inside. It’s hotter in the hut than it is outside. Her father sits on a stool reading by the light of a flickering lamp. Bushra squats nearby stirring daal in a blackened pot.

“Evening my love,” her father says.

Noor nods a greeting, and her father rises.

“We’ll leave you to bathe. Come on Bushra”

He opens the door and a gust of wind rushes in. Noor places the books on the floor and unfolds the crumpled piece of paper. It’s a hundred rupee bill. She turns it over and sees the man has written on it.

‘If you’re married or engaged—’

Those words alone make her shiver.

‘Please throw this away.’

It’s what I should’ve done. In fact I should’ve never taken it in the first place.

‘But if you aren’t, maybe we could meet tomorrow at 5PM in the lobby of the Pearl Continental.’

Of course, the Pearl Continental; the greatest den of inequity in the whole of Peshawar.

“Noor, you done yet?” Bushra shouts.

“Nearly,” she shouts back.

At the bottom he’s scrawled his name. Charlie Matthews.

Noor stuffs the bill in her pocket with her wage. She glances at the circular metal tub in the corner, the soap scum on its surface evidence that Bushra and her father have already used it. Noor undresses and hangs her clothes on a nail on the wall. She steps into the tub and using a thin bar of soap scrubs her body as hard as she can.

Was this Charlie Matthews trying to buy my services?
Does he really think an Afghan girl’s honor can be bought so cheap?

She shudders knowing that many are. She dries herself with a towel and puts on her nighttime shalwar kameez. She retrieves the bills and puts them in her pocket.

“I’m done,” she shouts.

Her father and sister waste little time in coming inside. They sit down on the floor mat, and Bushra doles out the daal. They each say a short prayer. Noor places a spoonful in her mouth and chews it over and over. She learned long ago that it makes the dish seem more substantial than it truly is.

“Are you unwell my love?” her father says.

Noor continues to stare at her food.

“Noor.”

She looks up. Her father is peering over his reading glasses at her.

“You seem out of sorts, my dear.”

“No. A little tired perhaps, but I’m otherwise fine.”

Making sure not to hand over the bill the American gave her, she gives four hundred rupees to her father and one hundred to her sister.

“Here,” she says.

“You have given me too much,” her father says.

“Your British Council library fee is due this week.”

“Given our changed circumstances, I don’t need to—”

“Baba, you know you’d be lost without your books.”

He doesn’t argue. She returns to her daal.

“I finished Midnight’s Children,” her father says.

“That’s good,” Noor says.

“I did not care for it much. This man Rushdie, his storytelling is too convoluted for my taste.”

Noor doesn’t say anything.

“I do not mean to denigrate his writing ability, his characters are marvelous; I just think he digresses too much.”

“Fine, he’s not for you,” Noor says.

Silence returns to their dinner.

“That’s it,” her father says. “You told me you loved it.”

“I did, you didn’t, what else is there to say?”

“I don’t know how either of you can read that man’s books,” Bushra says. “He’s an enemy of Islam?”

Noor can’t help but be drawn to Bushra’s plate. Bushra never fails to give herself the largest portion.

“Why do you say that?” Noor says.

“Mullah Razzaq says so,” Bushra says.

“Mullah Razzaq is illiterate. He hasn’t read The Quran let alone The Satanic Verses?”

“Have you?”

“No. Hence why I have no way of knowing if Salman Rushdie is an apostate or not.”

Noor picks up her plate and places it in the tub. She lays out her prayer mat and performs the Isha prayer. She feels her irritation seep away. By the time she finishes, Bushra is in the midst of her own set of rakkahs. Noor retrieves her mattress from against the wall and lies down. It’s so thin she often wonders why she doesn’t just sleep on the earthen floor. Noor looks at her father; he’s pretending to read, but she knows he’s watching her.

“Night, Baba,” she says.

“Night, my love.”

He returns to his book. She turns her back on him and slips her hand into her pocket and pulls out the hundred-rupee bill. She stuffs it into a slit in her mattress. It can stay there with the other three hundred and twenty seven rupees in her emergency fund. She closes her eyes and tries her best to go to sleep, but soon images of the American infect her mind. She sits up and searches for her shoes.

“I’m going for a walk.”

“On tonight of all nights?” her father says.

“It’s just wind, Baba, nothing more.”

Noor shoves the door open and heads out into the graveyard. The eucalyptus trees’ leaves rustle in the wind, and the flags that mark the graves flap like sails in a storm. Her eyes adjust to the dark, and she notices a pack of dogs coming her way. They alter their course and go around her. She prays they stay away from the rabbit. For her part, she has no worries about her own safety. Muslims may not believe in ghosts, but she hasn’t come across one yet who would willingly go into a graveyard at night.

Except you,
a voice in her head says.

Yes, except me.

She comes upon a crude headstone and kneels in front of it. Carved into its face in childish lettering is her mother’s name‌—‌Mariam Khan. Noor closes her eyes and searches for her mother’s face. Of late it’s become harder to recall, as if all memory of her mother is seeping away. Back in the camp a corrugated roof comes loose and clatters to the ground.

“Mamaan, I think I’m starting to lose my mind. I feel the world encroaching upon me from every angle. There are times recently when I feel like I can’t breathe, worse yet I no longer know where to look, for fear of attracting trouble. I’ve lost all patience. I mean look how I lashed out at Bushra just now, at the administrator this morning.”

The American’s face appears front and center in her brain, and she squeezes her eyes tight.

“What’s going on, Mamaan? Please tell me. What did we do to bring this on ourselves? How much longer can I be expected to hang on?”

There is no answer. She pushes herself back up and stares at the gravestone. She’s always wondered what happened to her mother’s body. She assumes she was dumped in an unmarked grave, perhaps into the same one they tossed Aunt Sabha and Uncle Aasif.

“I love you, Mamaan,” she says.

Noor stands and comes upon a worn path. The American’s image once again appears. She quickens her pace.

Forget about him.
He’s not worth it.

She breathes in through her nose and lengthens her stride. Her arms swing back and forth, and the graves fly past her like ships in the night. The American recedes further from her consciousness until at last, to her relief, he’s forgotten altogether.

SEVEN

CHARLIE AND WALI
stand inside the lobby and observe the new recruits. Charlie glances at his watch‌—‌four ten; still plenty of time before he has to head off to the Pearl Continental. He has a good feeling the girl will come.

After all she didn’t say no
.

“Admit it,” he says to Wali, “this is a better bunch of guys.”

“In all honesty I do not detect any difference, but if you’re satisfied I suppose I am too.”

“Well their average age is below ninety-five, that’s got to be a plus.”

“Mr. Matthews I understand that in America youth is prized, but we, Afghans, like to honor our elders.”

“Jesus, what crawled up your butt?”

Wali stares straight ahead.

“It’s because you had to spend the night in the Pajero, isn’t it?” Charlie says.

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“I offered to keep you company.”

“I would not have heard of such a thing.”

“Then get that smile back on your face. I mean you still managed to get three of your relatives on the payroll.”

“Two,” Wali says before catching himself.

Charlie grins and slaps Wali on the back.

“Gotcha. Now come on, let’s do this.”

Charlie pushes open the doors, and they walk outside.

“Oh yeah, one other thing, I’m looking for a motorcycle,” he says.

“The Pajero is fixed.”

“Appreciate that, but it’s just not my style, that’s all. Shit find me a decent one for under a thousand bucks and the Pajero’s yours.”

For the first time that day a smile graces Wali’s face.

“Oh, Mr. Matthews, you need not worry, I will find you the best motorbike in the whole of Peshawar.”

“Counting on it.”

The recruits see them coming and jump to their feet.

“As-salaam Alaykum,” Charlie says.

A chorus of wa-alaykum asalaams come back his way.

“Good to have you all here, my name’s Charlie Matthews and I’m going to be your instructor these next few months. Now what I thought we’d do is just chat a little, you know introduce ourselves, that kind of thing, and then tomorrow at ten we can start on the training; nothing too strenuous, just a basic orientation. What do you say?”

Most of the recruits nod. Charlie turns to Wali.

“They really speak English?”

“I assure you they do.”

Charlie looks at his watch again. Four fifteen.

“By the way, how long does it take to get to the Pearl Continental from here.”

“Forty-five minutes, maybe fifty. Why?”

Shit, I got to get out of here
.

Charlie turns back to the recruits.

“Okay, we’ll just do names today, and then we’re done.”

He points at a fat, Chinese-looking recruit on the far left of the first row.

“What’s your name?”

“Shafiq, sir.”

He points at the man beside him, a recruit with an uncanny resemblance to Abraham Lincoln.

“And you?”

“My name is Najib, sir, and I sincerely want to thank you for the opportunity you’ve given us.”

“No problem.”

Charlie points at a teddy bear of a man.

“You?”

“Bakri, sir.”

He nods at a scrawny, young man with round glasses and a desperate wisp of a moustache.

“Obaidullah, sir, and may I, on behalf of all recruits, assure you we will not let you down in this endeavor.”

“Good to hear.”

Obaidullah raises his hand.

“We’re just doing names right now, Obaidullah,” Charlie says.

“I understand, Mr. Matthews, but as our most esteemed instructor and out of my fervent admiration and worry of you I desire that you believe that there is no God but God, and Mohammed, upon him be peace and blessings, is Messenger of God.”

“Again?” Charlie says.

“I wish you become Muslim, sir.”

The other recruits nod.

“You’re kidding, right?” Charlie says.

“Most sincerely no,” Obaidullah says.

“Why would I want to become a Muslim?”

Obaidullah gasps. A number of the recruits shift positions.

“Sorry,” Charlie says, “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No, no,” Obaidullah says, “I understand, you Christian.”

“Nope.”

“You Jew?”

“No, I just don’t believe in God.”

The whole class gasps. Wali slides up beside Charlie.

“Mr. Matthews, may I have a word?”

“Wali, really not got the time for—”

“I think now would be most appropriate.”

Wali grips Charlie’s arm and leads him into the lobby.

“This is very bad, Mr. Matthews. Very, very bad.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to become a Muslim.”

“I understand, but you should never have told them that you don’t believe in God. To most Afghans, that is crazy talk, and they will not be able to accept you as their instructor.”

“So we’ll find another thirty guys.”

“They won’t accept you either. Word will spread.”

“Amongst three million refugees?”

“Mr. Matthews, believe me, this is not good.”

Charlie looks out the window. The recruits are on their feet, a couple gesticulating towards them as if they want to burn down the building.