by Tom Corbett
“You know I will die a thousand deaths sending you back into harm’s way.”
“Hey,” she said and smiled at last. “Afghanistan is safer than Chicago and we go there a lot.”
He sighed. She had a point. “I will see what I can do. I am not sure what Karen and the others are up to.”
She nodded. As he walked away, she called out, “Dad, I love you.”
“Hah,” he yelled without looking back, “that’s what all the girls say.”
Azita walked slowly toward St. Mary’s Chapel and the exit back to High Street, lost in her own thoughts. But something intruded at the corner of her awareness. This sense had been there for a while, an irritation, but one that could not quite be identified. With suddenness, she spun around to find a young man standing there.
He stopped, startled. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Why are you following me? Who are you?”
“I…I…”
“Go away!”
But he moved even closer. “Wait, let me explain.”
“I can take care of myself. I survived the Taliban.”
“As did I.”
That stopped her. She looked more closely at this threat. No, he was not a threat, of that she was sure. She had suffered harassment on the streets, many a time, typically from nativists who resented the influx of Muslims into Britain. But that seldom happened in liberal Oxford. Besides, this young man looked scared to death and the color of his skin suggested something familiar to her.
“You did what, did you say the Taliban? Who are you?”
“I am Ahmad Zubair.”
“That means nothing to me.” With that she turned to walk away.
“Wait, please. Do you remember Abdul, the man who helped your father escape Kabul?”
At that, she stopped cold. Slowly, she turned back to look at him again. “Yes…of course. Sweet Abdul. He was my father’s best friend back then. He would visit the clinic often at the end of the day. And he would sometimes bring his obnoxious son, a boy I could not stand. But that boy was fat, an irritating boy who bothered me no end. That could not be you.”
“Guilty. I am the obnoxious, irritating boy he would bring to your father’s clinic. And yes, I was fat then.” With that he held his arms wide and said, “Ta, da.”
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “I do remember you. I would never have recognized you. Yes, you were this pudgy, smelly boy who would follow me around with this silly look on his face. You were always offering me sweets which you would eat yourself when I turned them down.”
“So silly of me, I now shudder at the memories. That was the face of desperate love and, alas, unbridled gluttony.” He laughed nervously as he said that.
Azita could not take her eyes off him. “I will say one thing. You confirmed every nasty thought I had about boys back then.”
“Yes, true enough, I was one of those smelly, obnoxious things. And you were very free with your opinions back then, at least with what you thought of me. Most Afghan girls were retiring, polite. You, however, never held back. Maybe that is why I had a crush on you.”
“You did?”
“Why do you think I was so irritating? I was trying to get you to notice me.”
“Not such a great strategy.” Now she smiled.
“You should be kinder, like a good Muslim girl.” And he smiled back. It melted her even more. “Hell, I was a kid, only a year or two older than you. I had just hit puberty.”
She looked at him hard now. He was lean and muscular, nothing like she recalled. His longish, curly brown hair fell over his ears and down the back of his neck. His face had well cut features that framed a set of kind eyes. His voice was deep. It was not the same one she recalled, which she remembered as shrill and annoying. Beyond being generally irritating, the sounds he usually made were on the precipice of breaking as the boy teetered on the cusp of manhood. “Yes, I have seen you, I think. I cannot recall where or when, but you do look familiar. I think I considered registering you as a threat that women should watch out for. By the way, have you been stalking me?”
“No, of course not…well, maybe, just a little.” Now he was uncertain, not knowing what to say next. “Actually, I had this whole speech I had prepared for you but now I cannot think of a single word. Listen, in truth I have searched for you several times, and tried to get up the courage to talk to you. I knew you were here in Oxford, my father kept track of your family, told me about your parents and brother. I am so sorry.”
“And Abdul?” she asked and began to relax slightly.
“He is fine. We also left Afghanistan when you fled north. My father knew the Taliban would eventually blame him for helping Pamir escape their clutches.”
“Oh, I never thought about that. I am so selfish.”
“No, please don’t! We had to get out no matter what. Helping your family just pushed our timetable along. My father hated the regime. He was sabotaging them whenever and wherever he could. It could not go on forever, he would have been caught soon enough. We eventually made it back to Saudi Arabia and then to Qatar, Abdul had made his first fortune there as a young man. He is now quite rich and happy, though mother has passed.”
“Sorry, I did not know her.” Suddenly, Azita felt a rush of emotion she could not quite place. She drew near and threw her arms around him as he backed up slightly. “Sorry, again. Too forward for a nice Muslim girl, forgive me.”
“No, thank you, perhaps I still have that crush.” He was not sure how to finish that thought. “Anyway, I looked you up some time ago when father told me you were also at Oxford. But I am a coward. I think my self-image is still that of a pudgy boy that no girl could like.”
“But now you are now not so awfully irritating. In fact, you are…”
“Sexy?” He smiled, just like Chris would, and she felt that frisson of unidentifiable emotion again.
“Different.” She smiled back.
“At some point I decided that going through life on a diet of sweets was not in my best interests. When we got to Riyadh, I got into football, or soccer if you prefer, and even some cricket. I like athletics. But I am more than an athlete. I graduated from the London School of Economics and am now doing advanced studies here. So, I know I am well rounded and…”
Azita laughed. “So full of yourself. I think you should just give me your vita.”
He looked down at the ground. “Sorry, I am very nervous I guess.”
“Please,” she said and reached out once again to touch his arm. This time, he did not pull back. “Please tell me why you wanted to connect again. I will be nice, I promise.”
It took him a moment to resume. “Hard to say, really. Even if you were such a terrible Muslim girl back then, I liked that, your spirit. Part of it was wanting to tell you directly how deeply I was touched by the loss of your parents, and brother. I did not know Madeena or Majeeb, but Pamir was a saint. I knew how much you adored him. I had this fantasy when I heard what had happened that I could look you up and somehow comfort you…” He wanted to say more about his feelings, but his courage failed.
“Thank you, Ahmad. That is sweet, it means so much to me.”
“When I finally got around to seeking you out, I was stunned.”
“What? Why?”
“You are so different, so beautiful. I…but then I kept seeing you with this boy. I was too late.”
“Too late for what?” She asked and then regretted the silly question. “Never mind.”
“Every once in a while, I would check back. Then, today, I saw you with him at that restaurant, it was just by accident. Really! You looked so unhappy. My heart sank for you but beat faster for me. This time I followed, trying to get up the courage to say hello. I was walking toward you when that man approached, your new father I figured out. I had heard about the adoption, my father kept track of your family as well. I hate to admit it, but I hung around close by. I heard much of it though I wanted to ask you to talk louder.” He tried a small chuckle.
> “Sad story, no?” She did not smile.
“Not sad, familiar. I have been where you are, am where you are. I mean, not so much with your fiancé, I have no one. But not knowing where I should be. Sometimes, I feel like I am trapped between two worlds. Where do I belong? I remember the first time I used alcohol, here in England. I threw up after one drink, not from too much poison but from guilt.”
“And what happened the first time you seduced a girl?” She asked without expression.
He paused, sensing she was leading him into sensitive territory. “Well, I had nightmares after.”
“I think not,” she broke into a smile. “I suspect the girl had the nightmares.”
“Hah,” Ahmad laughed, “that is why I love you, you always had that wicked tongue.” He realized he had used the word love. Had she heard it? To his relief, her expression did not change.
“Ahmad, that was mean of me. I guess I am not ready to go there…yet. Humor is a great defense. I learned it from Papa, and especially from Chris. His humor is a bit wicked, but perhaps so am I.” She wondered for a moment what he made of her last words. They looked at one another, not sure what to say next. Azita broke the silence. “You really understand, don’t you?”
“Being caught between worlds, not really knowing where you belong or what you are meant to do? Yes, I understand that. Where have I been raised? In Afghanistan, Qatar, and England. My father is secular, my mother was pious, my siblings are all over the place. The thing is that I am a man of reason. I gravitate toward rational arguments and evidence. Still, it is as if something primitive inside keeps pulling me back toward some past understanding of life. I can’t quite embrace the Western world, not fully. I don’t know if the girls I have dated had nightmares or not, but they have all been Western. I kept thinking, go after the Western girls, they are easier to seduce. Why put up with all that old-world garbage? But with them, something was missing. I cannot connect with them, not in the way I want. Okay, I am beginning to ramble now. I am sorry. Perhaps I should let you go.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said. The words slipped out of her. She did not intend them to be so strong. Again, they looked at one another uncertainly. “Ahmad, if you heard my conversation with my Dad, you know I want to visit home this summer. Like I think you were suggesting, I need to connect again, get back to my roots I suppose. I am not even sure why. It is as if I don’t want to slide into things without thinking about them. Back when you knew me, it was all so simple. I would become like my Papa, despite the Taliban. I would spend my life doing good works. He never seemed to have any doubts, never second guessed anything, at least in front of me. He came to study here and returned to Afghanistan without further thought. Too late, I wished I had asked him more about that decision, if he had doubts. In any case, I am getting close to the time when I will need to decide on where to intern and what to focus on for my residency. I am blessed with options, which is also a curse. Those decisions determine the arc of your professional life. Some things I can discuss with Amar, my new mother, and Chris, but there are things they cannot possibly know.”
“Azita,” the boy said softly. “We both escaped hell on earth. We should be ecstatic. But it is never that easy, is it? There are things inside, things that are imprinted deep inside. It doesn’t make sense. I want to ask you something.”
“Of course, anything.” Again, she kicked herself internally for not being more guarded.
“I am wondering. Well, I have things inside…I mean maybe we…” Finally, he took control of his churning emotions. “Azita, let me tell you what I think. You should go back home, to Afghanistan, and think things through. You should figure out how you feel about this boy, Ben. Then, if you want, call me. I will wait. Even of it is only to talk, to sort things out, call me.” He found a piece of paper and wrote out his cell number.
“Ahmad, I can’t explain this but your voice…you are so comforting. I never…” She stopped herself. She felt like a schoolgirl, as lost as he was. Why couldn’t she even express herself?
“One question now. Am I too late?” He looked pathetic.
“Too late?” But she knew what he meant.
“Did I find you too late?”
Azita looked stricken. “I don’t know.”
Ahmad leaned closer and kissed her on the cheek. “Whenever you are ready, if you are ever ready.” With that he turned and walked in the other direction.
He was a distance away when she let out a small cry. “No, no! You are not too late.” He seemed to turn slightly but kept walking. She could not be certain he had heard her words nor certain that she wanted him to have heard.
CHAPTER 3
THE HAIRY HARE
Chris walked toward the small office he kept in Oxford for what had come to be known as the International Services Organization or ISO, this program he developed almost by accident as he finished up his Oxford studies many years ago. It started as a concept that he had nurtured in one of his academic papers. Too many service agencies focused on specific issues. He could never shake the image of several silos standing next to one another yet never touching. Each silo contained a different grain. While each silo’s contents were tasty and nutritious, what people really needed was a medley of grains, the combination of which exceeded the benefits that each grain could provide on its own.
When his Oxford professors acknowledged the merits of his arguments but raised numerous doubts about their feasibility, he was spurred to action. They were so smug in a hubris supported by the isolation of the ivory tower, sitting comfortably in their insulated world. He first took some time to travel to the hot spots in the world at that time, observing and thinking. Satisfied he was on to something he swung into action. A few other academics shared his perspective, particularly two researchers at the University of Wisconsin, though none had his depth of knowledge and insight. He would show that it could be done. His trust fund and the business contacts he had cultivated from his father’s world gave him the means to pursue his vision. He had focused on international affairs in his studies, so he managed to speak with potential funders with authority.
The people he recruited became good at what they did. The early experiences eased his initial doubts about viability. The needs of vulnerable families were multidimensional, particularly in areas bereft of any safety net. They often needed several kinds of assistance simultaneously that were situationally relevant and holistically delivered. He began visiting sites in various international hot spots, diagnosing what was wrong with the current efforts, and then working with existing aid systems to put together comprehensive plans. Soon, he was forging more systemic alliances across systems and raising money to grease these relationships. He did not have to create a new wheel, merely get the existing wheels moving in the right direction. His staff grew with time as did the reach of his ambitions and his efforts.
All these years later, he was proud of his institutional offspring. Still, it was not something that would maintain his interest forever. Now, Karen Fisher, who grew from a questionable and impulsive hire to be his right hand, was the CEO who ran the overall operations. She did not possess his smoothness and charm. In fact, she retained just a bit of her working-class rough edge. She was, however, considerably more organized and focused than he would ever be. She was perfect for an organization moving toward maturity. In the meantime, Chris had periodically taught courses at Oxford but that had evolved into a part-time faculty member role. He had proved a popular instructor: intelligent, humorous, with a seemingly unlimited supply of relevant vignettes. In addition, he cranked out several books on various topics of interest to him, and writing proved a bit of an addiction after a while. Despite a frantic schedule, he remained involved as a consultant and money raiser for his programmatic offspring while devoting more time to pursue long-deferred literary interests.
Through his uber-wealthy father, he had many business contacts on both sides of the Atlantic and was an accomplished schmoozer. Further, his touch with Foundat
ions was legendary, particularly when the project officers were female. Males, the business-types, were tougher but the reputation of his famous father helped in that testosterone-dominated world, some believing that helping the son might bring favor with the patriarch while others concluded that helping the son would irritate a despised business foe. In any case, he was damn good at it. As Karen often joked, he could persuade a starving man to part with half of his last meal, a drunk to share his last drink, a prostitute to give away the goodies for free.
Today, he would be meeting with Karen, who was coupled with her domestic partner and Azita’s older sister, Deena. He had heard a rumor that Kay, his sister, might come down from London where she worked part time with the National Health Service and increasingly helped Karen oversee the medical services which that IPO provided. She also taught a course at the London School of Economics on comparative healthcare systems, which gave her a platform to rant about the failings of America’s healthcare system. She had always exhausted Chris with her boundless energy.
Chris was so glad that he had reconnected with his twin Kay after years where their relationship had struggled. She really was his complement, as if God had perfected the whole from their separate parts. When she married medical officer James Whitehead of her majesty’s military services, Chris had had his doubts. He could not imagine any man getting her to settle down. However, they seemed happy or at least not unhappy. Chris merely dismissed his initial doubts to an inherent inability to understand human relationships. With her husband’s imminent departure from his army medical career, they had options to consider. His retirement was a move that would open new possibilities for them, though they had yet to decide on their future. Chris could never shake the sense that, despite obvious differences, his twin sibling was much like himself. She had a short attention span and would keep seeking the perfect niche in life, if such a thing existed.
