by Sharon McKay
Yasmine’s throat constricted as she ran alongside the stretcher, bent down, and whispered in Tamanna’s ear, “Tamanna, listen. I will try and cross the border alone, but if I do not make it, tell my parents I love them. Take care of them for me, Tamanna. Live for me.”
“Moving on, Private,” hollered one soldier to another.
Tamanna, lying on her back, between the world of awake and the world of asleep, struggled to look behind. “Yasmine. Yasmine,” Tamanna cried. “Yasmine, Yasmine.”
From a distance Yasmine watched as Tamanna’s arms thrashed the air. She could even hear the medic say, “We know your name, honey. You are going to be fine now.” The doors of a green military ambulance opened. Tamanna was slid inside as the soldiers climbed back into the tanks.
“Hey, Princess.” Yasmine turned. Dan-Danny, almost indistinguishable from the other soldiers in his battle gear, jogged towards her. She recognized his grin and his giant wave. No, he must not see her. He would tell the soldiers who she was! Yasmine spun on her heels and made to run back across the sand and up into the hills. But something else caught her eye. No, not something else, someone else. Kabeer. He was walking across the sand into the middle of the convoy. He was smiling. No, not smiling, grinning—a grin so wide she could see his teeth even from a distance.
“My sister,” he cried as he pointed to Yasmine. Yasmine turned back, half expecting to see Tamanna standing behind her. “My sister,” Kabeer cried again.
“You know him?” yelled the terp.
Why was he calling her his sister? You bring shame to our family but I will restore honor. Information comes slowly, piece by piece, but revelations happen in an instant. The infidels will pass this way soon. They will come in their great convoy of tanks and armored cars and vehicles. You will see how little it takes to destroy them. She had led Kabeer right into the heart of the convoy. If Dan-Danny kept walking at that pace he would soon collide with Kabeer.
Yasmine ran. She felt her legs move, pumping, pumping. She stretched out her arms, screams tore at her throat, her chest heaved as she raced towards Kabeer.
“Bomber! Bomber!” she cried.
Kabeer’s eyes were as big as eggs and just as white. He raised his hands up in the air—no detonator. Still running, she looked up to the mountains.
“Princess,” she heard Dan-Danny call again. The interpreter was screaming too. He knew.
“Suicide bomber!” she cried in English.
“Get me an EOD, now!” bellowed a soldier. And then the ground shook.
She did not hear the sound of the explosion but she felt its mighty force. The first wave of air was warm, the second scalding hot. Yasmine was floating. There was pain as bits of debris embedded themselves in her skin. The explosion was white—bone white, ice white. And a voice called out from deep inside.
Run, run.
“Mother, I am running.”
Hide. Hide. Hide.
“Mother, I am hiding.”
“What the hell was that?” The soldier kicked the door open and jumped out of the ambulance, rolled, and took a position.
The medic grabbed her gun and yelled, “Eyes on the ground. What do you see?” Her eyes were focused directly ahead.
“Pink mist out there,” yelled the soldier. “I can see that big red-headed guy, Dan—he’s down, covered in blood, but I don’t think it’s his own.”
“Wasn’t there another kid out there? A girl?” shouted the medic.
“If there was, there isn’t anymore.”
“You sure?” The medic did not take her eyes off her visual search area.
“Not sure of anything . . . except that we’re sitting ducks,” shouted the soldier.
Tamanna, lying on the cot in the ambulance and more asleep than awake, lifted her head while crying softly, “Kabeer, no.”
Chapter 20
Adrift in Clouds
Hide. Hide. The word reverberated in her head.
Hand over hand, Yasmine crawled behind rocks. Above, helicopters buzzed around like crazed birds. She crouched between rocks, then burrowed down into the ground. Hide. Hide. A wave of sand came over her. She closed her eyes, curled up tight, and fell into a deep sleep.
The stars came out.
Silence. She opened her eyes then slammed them shut against a piercing sun. Her head pulsed, each beat like a fist hammering inside her skull. She raised her hands to brush away the sand. Her hands! They were ugly, brown and bubbly. She moved one finger, then another. At least they worked. One foot looked fiery hot and smeared in black. Her burka was gone. Her skirt and shirt covered her. There was a stink of burning hair but, oddly, she felt little pain. It was quiet, so very still. Yasmine was wedged between two rocks. She looked up. Everything—the sky, the land, objects near and far—was blurry and smudged blue. She closed her eyes against the sun. Moments later she opened them. The stars came out. She dreamed about flying. Her arms dissolved into wings that beat back the air and lifted her up into the light towards Mother.
“Dépêche-toi! Une couverture. Elle est en état de choc.” 1
Ribbons of pain shot up her spine. Her body was on fire. Her lips seemed to be stuck together. A damp cloth brushed her face and her mouth. There were whispers in her ear. A strange and foreign object was gently pushed between her teeth. Cool liquid drifted down her throat. Something cold was smeared on her face and mouth. She coughed.
“Bon!” said a voice.
Her eyes opened. Her lips parted.
“Apportez-moi mon sac médical. Elle est gravement blessée.” 2
“Bonjour.” She heard the word come out of her mouth, but garbled, as if her mouth were filled with stones.
Astonished, the blue-eyed, barrel-chested man gasped. He peered down at her. “Mon Dieu.Vous parlez français?” 3
“Oui.”
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” 4
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“N’ayez pas peur.” 5 He turned and spoke to someone else.
What was he saying? She was not afraid. Why would she be afraid?
“Votre mère est française, alors?” 6
“Non, non. But I speak, je parle, English, too.”
“Unbelievable. Here, in this country, I practice my English.” He waved his hand as someone, just out of sight, passed him a water bottle. The man unscrewed the lid and held the water up to her lips.
“Do not drink too much. I am a doctor. My name is André Latouche. One of your shoulders is dislocated, an arm is broken, and you have a very, very bad sunburn. I think, mademoiselle, that this is just the beginning. Nicolette!” he called over his shoulder. In a moment a tall, foreign woman was beside him. “She speaks a little French but better English,” he explained in French.
“Mon Dieu,” said the woman.
“We speak English, no? Nicolette is a nurse. She will examine you.” The man spoke, then receded into the sun.
Nicolette covered Yasmine’s chest with a crinkly silver blanket, then, running her hands underneath, removed what was left of her shirt and skirt. “Are you in pain?”
There was pain but it was muted, not searing, not sharp. Her neck was stiff, everything was stiff. But there was another feeling—something inside, as if she were filled with air.
“What is your name?” Nicolette asked gently.
Yasmine thought hard. “I do not know.” She was empty and adrift.
“Doctor, look.” Nicolette held up the blackened money-belt that had been tied around Yasmine’s waist. The doctor again came into view. “There must be thousands in here, many different currencies. It’s a good-quality belt—European, I think. It’s amazing that the paper wasn’t incinerated.”
The doctor’s eyebrows knitted together. “It might be drug money—she might be acting as a drug mule. Or she might have stolen it and been on the run, which would mean someone is after her. Given that she’s been in an explosion and somehow crawled into a hiding place, whoever was with her is likely dead.” The doctor shook his head as if to say tha
t there could be many explanations and none of them were good.
“There was an attack on a UN convoy yesterday but it was a kilometer away. Could she have walked that far in this condition?” asked Nicolette.
“Unlikely, but in this country the unlikely is always possible. This explosion could have happened in a courtyard. Boys make homemade bombs that go off all the time. Lock the moneybelt up in the drug box.” He peered down at Yasmine. Her eyes were heavy, so heavy. “Mademoiselle, try not to fall back to sleep. Can you remember how you got these injuries?”
Behind the doctor were ice-white clouds trailing across a light-blue sky. Yasmine fell into a dreamless sleep.
“Mademoiselle, wake up.” The doctor spoke in a gentle but forceful voice. “Nicolette has been working on you for hours. We have given you a drug to dull the pain. You feel better, non?”
Hours? It seemed like minutes. She nodded, but in truth she felt nothing.
“Where is your family?” he asked.
“I am alone,” was all she could think to say. Without moving her head she looked around as best she could. Donkeys tied to a hook that had been screwed into the dirt, Afghan men with flat hats and beads around their necks smoking nearby, and foreigners, some women, dressed in baggy pants and long Afghan shirts. Dogs. Tents beyond. Horses wearing bags on their faces. Yellow air. She looked back into the eyes of the doctor. Blue.
“Can you hear me? What is your name?” He was talking again. Nothing. She remembered nothing. Instead of memory, there was air.
The doctor slipped away and was immediately surrounded by others. They were talking about her, she could tell. Bobbing heads, nodding, shaking. The doctor was gesturing with his hands. Their clothes danced around them, pale and airy, and their shapes seem to twist in the air. He returned and bent down beside her.
“We are a medical caravan. We are a few kilometers away from Spin Boldak. We have many stops, and many clinics to set up. Then we leave Afghanistan for Pakistan through the town of Chaman and on to Quetta. It is a small city by Pakistan’s standards, maybe half a million people, but there are good people there who will help you.” The doctor stopped and looked around. Yasmine watched his eyes scan the horizon. Finally he turned back and sighed. “We cannot stay here, and we cannot leave you here. You will come with us, non?”
Yasmine closed her eyes. What was he saying? She felt no pain. And then she thought, I understand. I am dead. But what a funny thing that God and his angels speak French.
1 “Quickly! A blanket. She’s in shock.”
2 “Bring me my medical bag. She’s badly hurt.”
3 “Good God, do you speak French?”
4 “Hello young woman/lady.”
5 “Do not be afraid.”
6 “Your mother is French?”
Chapter 21
The Border
“Listen to the reed, how it complains
of separation . . .” —Rumi
She was not dead. As the medication wore off she felt less and less dead. Everything hurt—it was as if pins were pushing though her skin. Nevertheless, the pills staved off the worst of the pain.
“Opium?” She looked up at Nicolette.
“Non, ma petite. Do you know the drug?” Nicolette looked concerned.
Opium was bad, addictive, she knew that, but she did not know how or why she knew it. She shook her head and then looked down. Her left arm had been put in a white plaster cast.
“Move your fingers, one at a time,” said Nicolette. “Good. But without a proper X-ray machine, it is impossible to see if the arm was set correctly.”
For travel, they had placed her on a portable cot to which she was secured with ropes wrapped in cloth. The cot had been slipped into the back of a cart. The same crinkly silver blanket covered her. It kept her warm, but it was not comfortable. When they stopped she was lifted off the cart and slid into a tent that Nicolette called a pop-up. “See how it pops?” she laughed. True to her word, out of a disk tossed on the ground appeared a shiny blue tent.
Everyone, even the Afghan guides, rode horses, although along the mountain paths they all walked. Land mines were a worry. Sometimes guides walked ahead, their eyes glued to the ground.
“There are roads nearby, but we work in the hills,” said Nicolette. “To reach the people in small villages, horses, pack donkeys, and carts are of more use than trucks. We have a half dozen horses, thirty donkeys, fifteen escorts with guns, three nurses, and one doctor.”
The trip through the mountains took longer than it needed to because of the fear of land mines, but they also stopped often, treating sick children and men who wanted attention. Women seldom stood in line, and if they did it was to get help for a child. All patients—farmers, children, tribesmen—were treated equally, even Taliban. Within minutes of stopping, small crowds would gather. Infected sores, dog bites, tooth abscesses, boils, burns—there was no end to the complaints. Yasmine pointed to a woman in a burka who was big with child.
“That woman, there,” she whispered to Nicolette. She could see just a little through the opening in the tent.
“Who?”
“Over there. She is holding the hand of the little girl. I think something is wrong with her baby . . . inside.”
Nicolette gazed over and nodded. The woman was wavering as if pushed and pulled by a wind. Even from a distance they could hear her sobbing under her veil. “The husband will not allow us to examine her. I fear she will lose the infant, if not her own life. Many women here die in childbirth. The doctor is talking to her husband again.”
Nicolette spoke while taking Yasmine’s temperature. The number on the white stick seemed to satisfy Nicolette because she smiled as she unscrewed a jar and smeared a cream on Yasmine’s burned face and hands, legs, and feet. It was cooling. Soon it was time to pack up and move on.
“You need a name. If you cannot remember your given name we must think up a new one,” said Nicolette as they stopped for the third and final time that day. They were alone in the shiny tent. Instead of wearing a hijab, Nicolette wore her hair tucked up into a flat hat. She yanked it off and threw it in a corner. Dark curls bobbed around her face; her lips were red and full and her cheekbones were high. Her clothes were baggy and drab, but still she was beautiful.
Nicolette bent down over her work, gently pulling away the bandages that covered Yasmine’s sores. The pain was sharp, instant. Tears circled her eyes as she clenched her teeth.
“Does this hurt?” Nicolette looked at her intently as she peeled back the bandages.
She shook her head. To admit pain would be to compound her embarrassment.
“You are very brave, ma chérie. Bon, what name do you like?” Nicolette applied a new bandage to her left leg, then moved over to her right.
What name did she like? Who was she? Where did she come from? Was she loved? “I do not know.”
“I shall tell you what my papa used to say, ‘It does not matter what name you are called, what matters is the name that you answer to.’” Nicolette laughed. “I have a cousin named Famia in Kabul. You remind me of her. She is small and lovely like you, and you both have wise, old eyes. Shall we call you Famia?”
Famia. Famia. She tested the name out in her mouth. It felt like blowing a kiss. She nodded. From now on her name would be Famia.
“What does it mean that I have wise, old eyes?” she asked.
“It means that you have seen too much for someone your age,” Nicolette answered. “And do you remember my name?”
“Nicolette,” said Famia.
“Good. And do you remember the doctor’s name?” Nicolette looked up from her work and stared at her intently.
Famia remembered that he was French, that he was beardless, that he had blue eyes, a big stomach, and a gentle manner. “No,” she said.
“His name is André Latouche. What else can you remember?” asked Nicolette.
“I remember nothing.” The past was a wall, the future was a blank, and the present was empty.
“No matter. It will come slowly.” Nicolette pulled off a long bandage. Famia winced. “I shall tell you about myself, yes? My mother was born in Kabul but emigrated to France when she was very young. My mama loves France. She loves clothes, you see. In her heart she is French. French women dress beautifully. Look at my poor clothes. Maybe I am more Afghan than French!” Nicolette’s words were punctuated with laughter, and her whole face smiled. “What is wrong? Are you all right, ma chérie?”
“French women dress beautifully?” she whispered.
“Bien sûr, but what is it? Why are you so pale?”
“I do not know. I . . .” Those words, they felt familiar. How was that possible?
“Take deep breaths. Bon, lie back.” Famia did as she was told and Nicolette continued telling her story. The more Nicolette talked, the less pain Famia felt.
“I was raised in Paris, but a small part of me is drawn to this—how do you say?—arid, parched land. Arid—it means scorched, barren, n’est-ce pas?” At the end of her English sentences Nicolette almost always said, “n’est-ce pas?”
The job was soon finished. The tent flap went up and a small tray of food was passed inside. Nicolette lifted a metal spoon to Famia’s mouth and tipped in a spoonful of foreign mush. “It’s porridge,” said Nicolette. The metal spoon clinked against her teeth. “Sip,” said Nicolette as she slipped a plastic straw between Famia’s lips.
Dinner done, Nicolette flipped back the wings of the tent so that Famia had a view of her surroundings. All she could really see was Paul McCartney’s big backside and long tail. “Your horse has a funny name,” said Famia.
Nicolette came around the horse and laughed her wonderful, deep laugh. “Paul McCartney is my favourite Beatle.” Nicolette took a big sponge from a bucket and sprinkled the horse with enough water to make his skin gleam.
“A beetle is a bug?” Famia said quietly.
“Excusez-moi, a Beatle is a British group, and Paul McCartney was one of the singers. And now also a horse!” Nicolette was laughing as she threw an old blanket over the horse.
