Refugees (13 page)

“All the way from Delhi,” Aman bragged about the chai he steeped for Bija. “I have comfreys, mints, and black chais, the finest Hindu cure-alls.”

As Bija drank, she pinched her nose with stubby fingers and her eyelids fluttered. “I'm better,” she announced later that day. How Johar wanted to believe Bija was cured! Her breath still rasped, but the fever was down and enough energy had returned for her to sit in the courtyard and build a dirt palace for her doll.

Despite Aman's affiliations, there was no doubting he was kind. Though Johar was only a servant, Aman told them stories after the evening meal. “Have you heard the
one about the caliph and his camel?” Aman asked. “What about the story of Iqbar and Aqbar, the feuding mullahs from Khost?” His kohl-lined eyes twinkled, and every tale would end in gales of laughter. Johar recited poetry while Aman swayed with pleasure and Bija twirled her doll around like a dancing dervish. Johar worked quickly on Aman's blanket, but he also managed to spindle the loose wool, knit hats and hoard them in a borrowed pack. This journey was not over. Soon they must move on.

The third night Aman hosted the Taliban. Johar shrank with fear from the black-turbaned men who crowded into Aman's for dinner. The thieves who had seized the radio stations and the cities were brushing right up against his sleeve! It wasn't fair that the poor begged for stale rice while these men had robust bellies and clean robes.

He served the men mutton soup and samosas with leeks, then chai from Aman's silver samovar. Bija had been put to bed early, so as not to disturb the conversation. What Johar overheard disturbed him greatly.

“A proper servant boy. I'd like one of those for myself!” one man said. “Can I borrow him?” Laughter all around.

“The boy is inspired with his hands,” Aman bragged as the men clacked over the feast.

“Just like a little wifey,” another noted. Their roars of amusement turned Johar's cheeks crimson, and it was all he could do to hold back an insult.

Later, as the men settled on the mats after the meal, the talk became serious.

“Word is that the Americans are planning to bomb the Al Qaeda camps,” one announced. “They say there is proof it was Al Qaeda who flew those planes into the American towers.” So it was true what the men had said in Charikar,
about buildings falling. And true the Arabs in Kandahar had been the pilots. Bombs! If Americans bombed Kandahar, they might bomb Kabul. A sickening dread shot through Johar. He and Bija were not safe even here. How many days until bombs fell?

“What proof do these Americans have?” asked a graybearded Talib.

“They have not shown the proof because they have none. It's all hearsay.” A barrel-chested man took a pull on his hookah, and peach-tinged haze filled the air. “They claim that the Al Qaeda Arabs in Kandahar are behind it. The Americans say we Taliban are next if we do not throw out our Qaeda guests.
Big bosses,
the Americans!” The Talib puffed out his chest in mockery. “They forget that it was they who lured the Arabs here and gave them money to fight against the Russians. A convenient memory lapse.”

Aman spoke next. “Whoever led those people to our country is not the point now. If the Arabs in Kandahar are responsible for bloodshed, shouldn't we force them to leave? We are
not
Arabs—we are
Afghans.
It was not Afghans who flew those killing planes. If they stay, we will be unjustly blamed and American bombs will fall on our people.” Aman's handsome face creased with worry. “Since Genghis Khan men have invaded our land—Mongols, British, Russians, Arabs, soon maybe even Americans. How many more years of war can we endure?”

Johar glanced from Aman to the irate faces of the Taliban.
Allah help us if the Americans invade,
he thought,
for their army is the most powerful in the world.
Aunt Maryam might be killed, and the people of Baghlan too. He busied himself pouring another round of chai so he didn't miss a word, even though he didn't want to believe what they were saying.

“Why should we cater to America? Al Qaeda is our ally. They've given us money and helped protect our businesses,” shouted a man with a furrowed brow. “Al Qaeda helped us kill Massoud: a device in a television camera— ingenious!”

The Taliban were definitely in cahoots with Al Qaeda! And they had assassinated the great Alliance general Massoud. Johar felt cold. His grip on the samovar tightened. If only Massoud were alive, Johar would not be fleeing. If only Massoud's Alliance had overrun the Taliban, Daq would not have been captured.

“But why?” persisted Aman. “Why did Al Qaeda want to kill Americans who were not even soldiers?”

“Is your mind ill, sahib?” Graybeard muttered disapprovingly. “It is clearly in disrepair tonight.”

“Why does a mouse like to see a dead vulture?” asked Barrel Chest. “Qaeda's jihad is for interference in our affairs, for Americans' obsession in controlling the oilfields in Muslim lands, for the humiliation westerners have brought on us.”

Barrel Chest went on. “They install their puppet leaders in Islamic lands, dictators who oppress the people. Remember the shah of Iran?” A murmur went up. “And Hussein—there was a time when they were shaking his hand in order to quell the Iranian uprisings. Later, when he didn't follow their every order they decided he was the enemy. They switch directions as quickly as the wind.”
They're not the only ones,
thought Johar, remembering the local commanders of the mujahidin.

The man with the dark brows said, “America has no understanding of Islam. They see our men as dogs.” The men buzzed in agreement.

Johar busied himself clearing cups so that they would
not notice his disgust. Maryam had insisted that Johar think as an individual. The American government might be corrupt, but to blame all of its citizens—that was just too easy. No government was innocent. Afghan commanders took bribes and sold opium poppies on the black market. These Taliban weren't dogs, but they passed judgment in the lazy rule of the pack.

“And what about our Muslim brothers in Palestine?” roared Barrel Chest. “Little boys throwing rocks at metal tanks are shot and killed. It's not a fair fight when only one side has the tanks.” The men nodded together, their black turbans rising and falling.

Johar saw Aman's mouth curve down in a frown and open, ready to argue, but then he fell silent. Even in his disgust, Johar considered their points. There were injustices. And it was true the West was at odds with Islam. Aunt Maryam had spoken of how westerners thought Muslims were religious fanatics, simple carpet sellers, or bloodthirsty banshees—

But violence seemed only to lead to more violence. What had been accomplished by the murder of his father and mother? Johar was glad he had never joined an army, even General Massoud's. Johar had to speak. “Can't you all see? Killing hundreds of westerners will only strengthen their prejudice against Islam.” Aman's mouth dropped open, then curled into a faint smile, but the clamor from the Taliban was furious. The dirty cups trembled in Johar's hand.

Barrel Chest turned to Aman. “Teach your impudent servant a lesson!”

“I'd beat him if I were you.” Graybeard paused to scowl at Johar before hobbling out the door.

No matter that the suicide pilots were Arab, not Afghan—westerners would send their bombs here to kill. Daq might be on the front lines by now. Johar pictured Daq fighting in a stranger's army and was filled with despair. His brother's life could end in a hail of explosives as easily as a candle extinguished by a sigh.

Later that night, when Aman gave Johar gifts of kohl to line his eyes and bright polish for his nails, Johar felt only a nostalgic affection for him. He had already decided to leave Kabul. “Aman, you must flee,” he urged. “Kabul will not be spared!”

“It is my home, dear Johar. I cannot leave it.”

Johar dared not tell Aman his plans.

The moment his friend's breathing was even in the next room, Johar scooped up Bija and crept out. He apologized silently for stealing the donkey and a satchel of provisions.
Bless my friend,
he prayed.
Keep him safe.

Johar led their beast toward the outskirts of Aman's neighborhood. He looked up at the night sky and imagined the ominous outlines of American warplanes against the moon. How soon would this sky glow from the butchery of bombs? Clutching Bija, he rode into darkness.

U
p on the balcony of St. Peter's, Dawn set up the sat phone and dialed.

She'd barely uttered hello when Jude burst out with questions. “Where were you? What happened? Why didn't you come back last night?”

“I tried to call, but you were out.”

“Oh, yeah? Did you leave a message?”

“Jude, if you really want to know, something drew me outside. I just couldn't sit around with everything going on, and the longer I stayed out, the more I got swept into it. The memorial at Union Square was incredible.”

“That's nice.” Jude's tone was bitter. “Sander was asking about you, and I couldn't even tell him anything. We both went out searching for you.”

“I'm sorry. Are you okay?”

“I guess. Pax must have taken my parents' call while Sander and I went out. Edith was crying and asking if Pax knew where I was. He was beyond furious for having to lie for me again. So I had to call them. I tried the number ten times before it went through.”

“You spoke to them?” Dawn's heart leaped to her throat.

“Not directly. I left them a message.”

“Have they called back?” Dawn already felt the terror of being alone.

“No. I used Sander's friend's cell phone so they couldn't track me down. I told them I was fine, that I was somewhere in Michigan, and that I needed my space. I said I'd be back soon.” Jude's voice wavered as if he were on the verge of tears. “I don't know how much longer I can string them along, Dawn.”

“I know,” Dawn said softly. “But…Michigan?”

Jude chuckled sourly. “That's where my drama teacher from camp lives.” He paused. “I've been worried about you. Where are you?”

“I'm staying at St. Peter's Church. Last night I had to sneak into the area south of Canal Street, but I peeked out this morning and they're building a barrier just beyond the church. It's as close as I could get.”

“What?
What are you thinking? That's crazy. Come back to the apartment.”

“Come down and stay at the church with me, Jude.”

His tone sharpened. “I'm just not interested in studying for the ministry.”

“You don't have to be so flip.”

“Well, don't be such a martyr.”

“I'll call you later.” Dawn hung up.

Jude was unpredictable. If he freaked and spoke to Edith, their whole plan would be ruined. Even if he didn't spill the beans, Pax would. No way she was going back to Victor. She had to find somewhere else to stay. She stepped outside the church, and acrid smoke caught in her chest. In the gutter she saw evidence of lives—scorched resum's, a business card and a flattened keychain. The area was crawling with National Guard soldiers, cops, and workers erecting a plywood fence just past St. Peter's. A guard came over and suggested she move on. Before she turned to go, she took a long look over the fence at the metal pile and recalled the wonder of her first night in New York—the magical towers, their clean marble concourse. Now, metal poles and tree-sized columns veered at lunatic angles, some eight stories high. A large federal building stood, but its windows had exploded out of their blackened frames.
So this is what war looks like.

Dawn wandered uptown to Union Square. All the fences were plastered with posters, and so many candles had been lit on the courtyard that they formed a waxen sea. Scrolls of brown paper were rolled out with messages written in dozens of languages. A peace sign was painted on the left flank of George Washington's metal horse. On the grass, bouquets of lilies dedicated to a fire brigade were arranged in a coffin shape. A horde of difficult emotions— pity, loneliness, and grief—pressed up against Dawn's throat. She had to play to release them. Dawn crept behind a hedge, took out her flute, gathered her nerve, and trilled out the first pure notes of a serenade while folks walked back and forth in front of the hedge.

A guy about her age came toward her and sat on the
grass. He took off his backpack and set it beside him. “That's pretty music,” he said.

“Thanks.” Dawn replied. She continued to play, gazing straight ahead.

“It's, like, haunting,” said the kid. “What is it?”

Dawn felt the familiar clenching of muscles. “It's Dvok's serenade for flute.” She went on playing, waiting for the guy to get impatient and move on. When the song ended and he didn't leave, Dawn felt panicky.
What now?
she wondered, putting her flute in her lap. She could try to talk to him, but she couldn't think of the right question—any question. Why was it always so hard with anyone but Jude?

The kid beat her to it. “Where are you staying?”

Do I look that down and out?
she wondered. Without meeting his eyes, she murmured, “Nowhere, really. I'm a refugee, I guess.”