What Changes Everything (26 page)

window. "In fact, every time you talk to him." Then he waved as she pulled away, heading to the airport and back home.

       Clarissa leaned out toward the window, a blanket wrapped over her shoulders. She was on a military flight, surrounded by soldiers, still an hour and a half from Ramstein military air base. A base she‟d never heard of before yesterday but now would probably never forget. This is where she would be reunited with Todd. She believed he was there already; they‟d been intentionally vague about that, but she imagined him showered, shaven, fed and now sleeping. She herself couldn‟t sleep. Both she and Ruby had been able to speak to Todd, but briefly; he‟d still been in Afghanistan then, in U.S. hands. That felt solid to her but there‟d been a tentative quality to the tone of the American official who had called her and then put Todd on the line for a few compressed minutes. She‟d understood that he couldn‟t yet answer all the questions she had, and she couldn‟t yet share all the thoughts and emotions crowded inside her like unruly schoolchildren. It was as if nothing could truly be certain until he‟d departed from Afghan soil.

The plan was for Todd to spend two days in Germany for debriefing and a physical checkup—there were injuries, she‟d been told, but nothing too serious. And then they‟d be flown home. She‟d suggested to Ruby that they both go to Germany, but yesterday, Ruby had called and said Clarissa should go alone, she would connect with her father later, it would only be a few more days anyway. It had been a generous gesture, one of reconciliation.

       She‟d been calm and strong all the way through this last part, except with Mikey an hour

before she‟d left to catch the flight.

"You did good, Clarissa."

       She shook her head. "I‟d let Todd lift the pain of those other losses, so when I thought I was going to have to go through it all again, I…you know."

       "Grief is stubborn. It holds on a long time," Mikey said. "When you think it‟s over, something touches it off again. But you weren‟t like with Mom and Dad, Clari. If the worst had happened, you‟d have found the resources."

       She wasn‟t sure. She decided not to be too hard on herself now, though. Now was a time to feel gratitude—especially for Amin. He‟d given her something she really, deep down, hadn‟t thought possible: a happy ending. Thinking about how close they‟d come, she leaned against Mikey.

       "I know," he murmured as he let her cry. "I know."

       He left directly before dawn and stopped only once, pulling the mat from the trunk to pray by the side of the road. He tried not to let his eagerness to get home make him rush through the praise of Allah, because it was surely Allah Himself who had cupped Amin in His hands this time and seen him through this venture. But except for the prayer, he sped as quickly as he could over the pockmarked roads that led from his uncle‟s home to his own. It was still early when he arrived. Though she‟d been given no word as to when he might appear, his wife stood at the door as if she‟d been expecting him, and he for his part was not surprised to see her there. He lifted her palms to his face, smelling on her the scent of dawn, and of his home.

       "And so, my wife of little faith," he said lightly.

       "Congratulations, husband," she responded as she led him inside. "You have returned. You took a risk."

       "Not such a risk."

       She laughed. "Such confidence rides on your voice."

       "I confess to a certain doubt at one point about whether Mr. Todd would agree to this compromise with his kidnappers," he said. "But I reminded myself that the past is not the present. Najib was asked to sneak from his own homeland. That‟s different."

       "Except that a man‟s pride is as powerful as it is illogical," she said, pouring him a cup of
chai. "I
t can lead him to embrace an unreasonable act or refuse a reasonable one."

       "You speak not of me, of course, but of Najib and Mr. Todd," he said, allowing himself to smile.

       She ran her fingers lightly along his arm. "And now, husband. Can we consider that whatever debt you thought you owed has been paid?"

       "So you regard an infidel as adequate payment for an Afghan president?"

       She shook her head. "To me, such calculations always seem to be the work of men, not women."

       If he were a different sort of man, he thought, or if they were from a different country, he would laugh with a wide mouth and scoop his wife into his arms. She filled him with pride; she was strong and determined, and she would raise their children well in a place that tore its offspring from the ground by their roots and flung them into sharp-toothed canyons of fate. There were sorrows ahead, he was sure; there were always sorrows here. But with her, he could meet them. He drank deeply of the c
hai, control
ling the leap of his heart within his chest.

       She left him alone then, sensing in some way his need, and he sank onto a
toshak
. Mr. Todd—a thinner, weaker, limping Mr. Todd—had been both apologetic and grateful, and willing without question to do as Amin had promised the elders he would. He would leave immediately. He would never return. The elders could count this as a victory. There remained a much larger battle to be fought here, but someone else would fight it. Amin had been relieved.

       "Crazy as it sounds," Mr. Todd had said, "I heard your voice sometimes. Telling me what to do."

       Amin laughed. "And so you?"

       "Did it." Mr. Todd smiled. "Mostly."

They‟d shaken hands. Amin wondered if they would ever see one another again.

Probably not—but neither would they forget.

       One man is not the same as another. Success in one venture does not make up for horrible failure in another. And yet, in some way, this was a private commemoration.
Dear Najib,
Amin thought. Y
ou were large and flawed and prophetic and bull-like. I admired you, and still I could
not save you. I will never stop being sorry. But at least, at least there was this
.

—Ivor Gurney

       
Only now has it fallen quiet, as if finally the day is finished, though in fact it is almost
midnight. Only now have the distant gunshots stilled, the rockets stopped making exclamation
points in the darkness. It is not, however, a peaceful silence, this Amin feels deep within his body.
It is the hush of muscles tensed, breath contained, knees bent in readiness to pounce.

       
Both Najib and his brother are awake. They are in the room Najib uses for welcoming
visitors. Najib, standing, wears socks but no shoes and the Afghan-style clothing he has favored
here all along; his brother, who sits, is dressed as if a Western man. Only one of the two
bodyguards remains outside the door. The other eloped into the warning night without
explanation, and no one has mentioned his disappearance. It is, at the moment, too small a detail
to be of import.

       
Amin could go, too. His services are not required. Najib has barely eaten for days; he
won‟t want food now. And the brothers have chai enough to last them through to morning, if
morning still comes. They do not need him. They are as if in a bubble together, communicating
with only a few words but with enormous intimacy. They seem, in fact, to have forgotten his
presence. But Amin can‟t bring himself to depart.

       
"These men are illiterate," Shahpur says. "They are animals. They
all believe their
swords must be reddened."

"They are our Pashtun cousins," Najib insists.

       
"This is not a fairytale. These are Talibs. You are too smart to be fooled by them,"
Shahpur says. "You have cursed the mujahideen, but these fighters will make t
he mujahideen
seem like princes."

       
"They have honor, I‟m sure of it." Najib paces toward the window. "At least some. And
besides, perhaps there is still time for…" His voice trails off, as if he himself can no longer
believe his optimistic words. He drops into a chair and his shoulders slump in a way Amin has
not seen in all these years.

       
"Perhaps," Shahpur offers in a tone of appeasement, "they will put you on trial, hoping
to legitimize their government in international eyes."

       
"You think they care about international eyes?" Then Najib straightens. "You remember
when we organized the protest, and threw eggs at Spiro Agnew? Perhaps they will throw eggs at
me." He laughs, but it is not a Najib laugh. It is weaker.

       
"Those were more innocent times. We ourselves were more innocent."

       
"You want innocence?" Suddenly Najib grows animated. "Remember when we

       
"What‟s all this memory?" Shahpur asks, and he laughs, but his laughter sounds fearful.

       
"There are still things I can do; I c
an control my thoughts. I want to think of those times.
You are given the task of helping me. Can you recite some lines of poetry Father taught us?"

       
"Now?" Shahpur spreads his hands helplessly. "I am honored to be your brother, but I
have not your wit or w
illpower."

       
"All right then, we‟ll make music. A thing they would forbid, those foolish boys. Join me,
brother." Najib begins to play the arms of his chair as if they were drums, and he sings—
at least
it is intended as song, Amin knows, and meant to summon bravery. But it emerges as a wordless,
wide-mouthed tune from deep in the belly, from a soul in sorrow. Shahpur drops his head in his
hands, and Amin himself cannot bear it anymore.

       
He should have stepped forward then, out of the shadows. He should have offered an
escape route again; the plan was no longer ready for immediate launching but the two men
might have followed him home and hidden there until something, something could be done. He
doesn‟t repeat his offer. The depth of his emotions, the complexity o
f the moment and his undone
plans defy him. This, then, is his failure. Unable to think or to see through the water of his eyes,
he hurries into the night. He believes he has witnessed history enough.

"Destiny is a saddled ass; he goes where you lead him."

<