Refugees (19 page)

Work that day inched by like the stagnant flow of the sewage ditch. Each patient had a story worse than the last. There were victims of misguided bombing raids, people with infected pockets of flesh where shrapnel lodged, victims of frostbite from trekking over icy passes in sandals, children sicker than Bija had ever been. Resources were limited. The clinic had the basics—alcohol to sterilize wounds, gauze for bandages. But there were never enough wooden legs, never enough antibiotics, never enough blood for transfusions. Female patients would only allow Johar to translate for them, not help with procedures, so he helped Dr. Garland with the children and the men.

At dusk he locked the office. Where would he and Bija sleep? Romel's tent was out of the question. So was the clinic. Dr. Garland had already helped enough with the job and ration coupons. He must figure this out on his own. Johar prickled with resentment. Bija was a constant worry. If he were alone, he wouldn't need a tent; he would sleep on the sand. He'd be free to read poetry and to roam the Pakistani desert like some wizened nomad. Begrudging little Bija made him feel even guiltier.

Romel was still away when Johar and Bija reached tent #102. She played with Zabit while Johar collected their belongings. The old man, Wahir, paused long enough from his beads to mutter cynically, “Safar-e khosh.”

“But why are you leaving?” Zabit's eyes saddened to limpid pools. He and Bija had become playmates, and Zabit had even taken to offering her a walnut if he had extras.

“It is time to move out and give you space,” Johar replied. “We will still be at Suryast.” He hadn't been sure, but the words helped to decide it. “You'll still see her.”

Zabit's eyes brightened. “Where will you move to?”

“To the western edge, near the clinic.” Johar spotted Romel strutting toward the tent. “Come, Bija.” He pulled her up by the hand. “Hurry!”

Stars that pierced the heavens like fiery tacks would be their tent for now. Johar and Bija wrapped their garments tight around them as they spread their pattus and quilts near the clinic.

“I left my dolly in your office yesterday,” Bija whimpered.

“We'd better fetch her.” What a perfect excuse to check the computer!

The clinic was dark. Johar groped his way around corners to light the oil lanterns and found Bija's dolly on Dr. Garland's chair. As he bent to pick it up he noticed a photo on the doctor's desk, half hidden behind a stack of memos written in her meticulous script. Dr. Garland was in it, and a girl, a beautiful girl with hair the color of desert sand that waved around her face. This must be Dawn! Her eyes seemed to look out of the photograph into a distant, private place. Johar saw strength in her jaw, sorrow in her eyes and uncertainty in her stance.
She's like me,
he thought.

“Jor, dolly wants to play!” Bija squealed.

“In here,” said Johar. “I'll show you something magical.” He stepped into Nils's office, switched on the computer, lifted Bija to his lap, and logged onto the Net.

“Jor, the machine lights up!” Bija pointed to the bright shapes on-screen. They both jumped when a male voice boomed from the laptop, “You've got mail.”

All the day's misgivings evaporated.

Johar gave Bija a ride on his knee, which set her to giggling. He was surprised that the words of a girl he hardly knew could quell a doubt that had rumbled in his belly like curdled sheep's milk—a girl who was connected to him through a black phone wire, a satellite. Johar clicked Write Mail. He typed Rumi's words:

With his heart hammering, Johar pressed Send. Then, retracing his steps, he shut off the laptop and the lanterns and locked the clinic door.

Once again they were under the stars. Johar nestled Bija under her quilt with the dolly. Then he began the evening namaz. Still standing, he recited three small verses from the Quran. After that he bent with his fingers spread over his knees and said more blessings, then knelt and touched his nose and then his forehead to the pattu, whispering “Allahu Akbar” three times. He sat up, rested his hands on his thighs, uttered more praises, then stood and repeated the process. By the time namaz was done, Johar was shivering with cold. He burrowed under the pile of blankets near Bija.

She was still awake. “Look at the stars, Jor!” she said.

“They are beautiful,” he said. He pointed to a glowing cluster. “Those stars form a goat. See the horns and beard?”

Bija said, “These others make a camel shape.”

“And over there a house,” Johar murmured.

“The stars build things,” said Bija dreamily.

“Yes, they do! We will build a house when war is over and we return to Baghlan.”

Soon Bija's breaths were steady.

Johar raised his face to the constellation. “I will build a school. I will speak up. I am not a coward.” Johar repeated these words in Dari, like a prayer.

W
ith canvas scraps from wheat bags and threads from unraveled blankets Johar fashioned a tent on the plain near the clinic. It was comfortable, and its mosaic of colors cheered him. The day after it was done, Johar worked with Dr. Garland until the sun was a pinwheel of gold on the western horizon. Then he hurried to Anqa's to pick up Bija. When they returned home Johar dropped onto his pattu for namaz. Afterward he and Bija ate a dinner of rice with squash.

As the moon emerged in a sapphire dusk and lizards slunk under rocks, he sat with Bija in front of their tent and recited Firdausi's fantastic dragon poem:

He added lines about Afghanistan from the poet Durrani:

The last lines made him swell with homesickness. Johar longed for his talks with Aunt Maryam and for nights near Daq as they listened to the tinny strains of the oud and rubab on the old transistor radio. Finally he understood Durrani's painful yearning for home.

As Johar spoke on these evenings, children began to gather: a starry-eyed boy named Paj, a feather of a girl Bija's age who wore a poppy-red gown and a beaded ankle bracelet. Her brother, Hoqin, who could easily become an artisan with training, came too. Hoqin's drawings of peacocks and camel caravans scratched in the sand to illustrate Johar's tales could, if rendered in paint, adorn the grandest trucks in Peshawar.

And Zabit—Zabit had found them despite Romel's threats.

“Your brother comes of his own accord,” Johar explained to Romel when Romel found Zabit and dragged him off. “No one holds him here.”

“No one but a spineless mouse!” Romel shot back. Still, Zabit returned with black-and-blue marks. Romel, casting scornful leers in Johar's direction whenever he passed, let his brother stay.

Zabit sat especially close during Johar's knitting demonstrations. Johar had carved a new pair of wooden needles
from a broken crutch to replace the stolen ones, and worked with a handful of amber and brown threads rescued from the saddle before their donkey was sold. What treasures one could cull from so little.

“What are you making?” Zabit asked.

“A hat to replace the one I traded your brother,” Johar replied.

“Can I try?”

“Of course, young man. Pretty soon you'll be selling your hats at the Peshawar bazaar and earning enough riches to buy whole satchels of walnuts.”

“I hope so!” Zabit smacked his gums in anticipation.

“Jor is an artist,” Bija announced proudly, “and Jor is a teacher.”

Hope dappled through Johar. He would never forget how he had run barefoot with Daq to Maryam's house after their sheep were safe in the paddock and her girl students had gone for the day. As the sunset spread melon-hued shafts across the dirt floor they would sit and listen to Maryam's words—words as big as worlds—describing ancient cities and the migrations of Asian tribes. He and Daq would pronounce the Dari alphabet as she wrote it on the blackboard, and copy the letters in their notebooks. And he would always remember Maryam's stories of Rabi'a, who had wandered as an orphan child from Basra to Mecca—it was rumored that she wrote so many poems she never slept! He would always compare Aunt Maryam to Rabi'a, the way she inspired people with words.

Johar gazed into the circle of young faces as he imagined Maryam had. He could fill his students with dreams for the future even if their tiny bellies were empty. “Loop around the left needle, then pull the left loop through the right,” he instructed as his wooden needles clacked like a
pair of hens. The children's faces glowed as they leaned forward to watch the sunburst hat emerge.

There were errands to do that morning in Peshawar. The doctor had sent Johar to buy clean dressings and alcohol from a medical supply store. Peshawar was crowded, and he was away until afternoon. Johar worked feverishly at the clinic to make up the time lost. Finally, at day's end, he closed the clinic door. This time was both awkward and peaceful for him—awkward to be alone with Dr. Garland, peaceful in moments when all was quiet.

Dr. Garland rubbed her eyes wearily. Her glasses dangled from a chain as she leaned her sturdy elbows on the desk. “I received a brief e-mail from my daughter, but I haven't been able to reach her on the telephone,” she said. “It worries me.”

Johar was cleaning the last of the instruments with alcohol. Hearing mention of Dawn, his heart quickened. He knew she was in New York. But he'd promised Dawn he wouldn't talk.

“You said that you've spoken with her,” Dr. Garland ventured. “And she asked about you. Did she tell you where she goes in the afternoon?”

“No. I spoke only for minute.” Johar felt a smoldering guilt at concealing so much. “She say only hello. Tell you no worry.”

“Well, it's very odd. First I thought it was the time difference, but I've gotten up at all hours to call. She's never there. And my husband—” Dr. Garland's cheeks turned pink. She started searching for something in her impeccably neat desk drawer.

Johar was shocked that a man would let his wife travel
so far away without him. And Dawn was in yet another town. Western ways were hard to discern. Johar's family had fractured too, but not of their own choosing. Did they prefer to be apart? He would ask Dawn more about her mother.

“I shouldn't have left her like I did,” Dr. Garland said suddenly. Her gaze met his as if pleading for him to speak. “I'm beginning to think my priorities are all wrong.”

“Priorities?”

“The order of things, starting with what's most important,” Louise explained.

“Ah.” Johar thought of how he'd failed to help Daq and Aunt Maryam. “We try our best,” he answered.

“Sometimes our best isn't very good.” Dr. Garland sighed as she turned off the oil lanterns and fished in her pocket for the door key.

What could Johar say? Westerners were so informal that sometimes it embarrassed him, but she seemed desperate. He should offer solace. “You will find a way.”

“Yes.” Her hard features melted for an instant into an almost girlish smile. “I hope so, Johar.” They bid each other good night, and he watched her trudge toward her tent with her shoulders hunched. Johar felt sorry for Dawn and Dr. Garland, treading their splintered paths. If that was what Western life was like, then he was glad for what little he had.