by N G Osborne
“As-salaam Alaykum, Salim Afridi.”
“Let’s go,” his father-in-law says.
They head across a courtyard cluttered with bales of straw, ducks, chickens, and a couple of donkeys. In one corner, his father-in-law’s third wife is milking a cow.
It’s like we live in a village.
“How’s the arm?” his father-in-law says.
“Painful,” Tariq says.
“Come, it’s nothing but a contact wound.”
If Tariq had two hands he’d throttle the man.
“And my daughter?” his father-in-law continues.
Ugly, fat and an imbecile, .
“She’s good,” Tariq says.
His father-in-law lets fly with another globule of phlegm.
Tariq remembers his wedding day, and the excitement of it all. Not only had he managed to marry into the family of one of the mujahideen’s finest guerilla warfare tacticians, but Badia, Salim Afridi’s sixteen-year-old daughter, had a reputation for being as beautiful as any princess. Yet when the veil was pulled back, Tariq found himself staring at a pig of a woman in her mid-twenties. This daughter’s name was Badria, and to this day Tariq is convinced his father-in-law tricked him.
It’s gotten you closer to the Prince, but still not close enough, and now the war’s nearly over.
Once the Communists in Kabul are defeated, the Prince will return to Saudi Arabia with only a trusted few, and Tariq’s father-in-law won’t be one of them. ‘Who’d want to live in an oven like Saudi Arabia,’ the fool had said to him, not having a clue that even the cattle there bask in air conditioning.
“Now you remember how to act around the Prince?” his father-in-law says.
“Don’t stare, don’t interrupt, and don’t touch him unless he touches you,” Tariq says by rote.
“I’m serious, he’s in a foul mood.”
Who wouldn’t be if your favorite wife preferred eternal hell to living one more day with you?
They come upon the floodlit main building. A hundred years ago the British had built it to house a boarding school for the sons of the Indian elite, and it wouldn’t look out of place if it were set down in the English countryside. A line of dignitaries stand at the bottom of its sweeping steps and submit themselves to a weapons search. The mujahideen guard see Salim Afridi and Tariq, and gesture them through. They make their way down a long set of corridors until they arrive at the door to the Prince’s quarters. A couple of the Prince’s elite Arab guard stand in front of it, and here even Salim Afridi must submit to a pat down.
Once through, they enter a luxurious reception room. On either side of the room are two elongated couches on which forty Pakistani and Afghan dignitaries sit. Tariq and Salim Afridi find a space. The Prince sits at the far end in traditional Saudi robes. A man is standing in front of him, and every time the Prince speaks the man has to lean down to catch whatever the Prince is saying. The man retreats, and everyone but Salim Afridi sits up hoping it’s their turn. The Prince speaks to the retainer beside him. The retainer comes over and informs them that the Prince will receive them. They walk over and the Prince takes Salim Afridi’s hand. Salim Afridi leans in and the Prince kisses him on both cheeks.
“As-salaam Alaykum,” his father-in-law says. “My condolences. May Allah have mercy upon us all. From Him we come, and to Him we all return.”
“Ameen,” the Prince says.
Tariq waits for the Prince to acknowledge him. He doesn’t even look his way.
“I want to start planning the next offensive” the Prince says.
“We have plenty of time till spring, your Highness,” his father-in-law says.
“But I don’t want to wait until spring.”
“Your Highness, no one fights in Afghanistan in the winter.”
“I’m not just anyone—”
“Of course, your Highness—”
“I hear Massoud is making moves from the North.”
“My sources aren’t telling me that.”
“Well mine are,” the Prince shouts. “The CIA not least.”
His father-in-law takes a step backwards. Tariq wonders how he could be so foolish as not to take his own advice. The Prince’s hands shake, and he has to grip the arms of his chair in order to control them. The Prince raises a hand and his retainer hands him a handkerchief. He wipes his brow.
“I apologize. I will start putting plans together straight away,” his father-in-law says.
The Prince waves his hand to dismiss them. Tariq’s heart sinks. They turn and head for the door.
“What happened to you?” the Prince says.
Tariq keeps walking.
“You, the son-in-law.”
Tariq stops dead. He looks back to see the Prince staring right at him.
“It’s nothing but a contact wound, your Highness,” Tariq says.
The Prince frowns, and Tariq senses his father-in-law bristle beside him.
Dear God, what have I just said?
The Prince starts laughing so hard that he doubles over in his chair.
“You hear that?” the Prince says. “Just a contact wound.”
He laughs once again, and this time the room joins in with him.
“Come—what’s your name?”
“Tariq, your Highness.”
“Yes of course, now tell me how it really happened.”
“Salim Afridi sent a small group of us into Afghanistan a couple of months ago, and we set up on a hill above the Jalalabad highway. Three days and nights we waited, and then on the fourth we saw an Afghan Army convoy coming down the road. We fired on them with everything we had, but to our amazement our shots flew wide, and it looked as if they were going to get away. I decided to give it one last go, so I scrambled down the hillside onto the road just as the last personnel carrier was about to pass. The machine gunner was so surprised his first shots spat wide. I got on one knee and fired my RPG. It went straight through the driver’s window, and the carrier blew up.”
“All praise is due to Allah,” the Prince says.
Everyone in the room repeats the phrase. Tariq waits. The Prince nods for him to continue.
“When I woke, I found myself on a stretcher and my arm…truly, it is nothing but a contact wound when you think of the greater jihad.”
The Prince ponders Tariq’s words. He stands and opens his arms.
“Come here,” he says.
He kisses Tariq on both cheeks.
“This here is a pious young man, the kind of man who represents the future of an Islamic Afghanistan.”
Tariq does his damnedest not to break into a grin.
“You should be very proud to have such a son-in-law,” the Prince says.
“I am,” Salim Afridi says.
“I hope to see you again soon, Tariq.”
“Thank you, your Highness.”
The Prince sits, and Tariq and his father-in-law head for the door. Tariq knows he’s the envy of every man in the room.
FIVE
“I’M SORRY, SIR,” the manager says, “but this club is only for members and their guests.”
“That’s cool. How much to join?” Charlie says.
“You need to be proposed by a member, and then your application goes before the committee.”
Charlie winces.
“You see that’s a problem, I really could do with a drink tonight.”
A patron comes through a set of double doors, and Charlie catches a glimpse of a smoky, raucous bar.
“Night, Nawaz,” the man says as he stumbles down the foyer’s stairs.
“A wonderful evening to you too, Mr. Wigram.”
The manager looks back at Charlie as though surprised he’s still there.
“There’s no such thing as a temporary membership?” Charlie says.
“No.”
“Please I’m begging you.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I must ask you to leave.”
Charlie sighs.
“Fin
e. You mind getting me a membership form before I go?”
The manager trudges back to his office. His phone rings, and he picks it up. Charlie waits. From the animated nature of the conversation, it doesn’t seem like it’s going to end anytime soon.
Screw it.
Charlie heads for the double doors and pushes them open. To call the place a club is a stretch—it’s not much better than a dive bar with its mismatched chairs and scuffed wooden floor. He approaches some well-built men sitting around a table littered with empty glasses.
“Hey, one of you guys mind making me your guest for the night?” he says.
“Oh, piss off,” a bald-headed brute in a Manchester United t-shirt says.
“Easy buddy.”
“Sorry, how about fuck off. That better?”
The other guys laugh like it’s the best joke they’ve heard all night. A hand tugs on Charlie’s sleeve. It’s the manager.
“Sir, I must ask you to come with me.”
Charlie turns back to the table.
“Come on guys, it’s no skin off your backs.”
“Tourists aren’t allowed in here,” the Brit says.
“I’m not a tourist.”
“Or assholes.”
The Brits burst out laughing, and the manager pulls Charlie back into the foyer.
“Okay, okay, I’m going,” Charlie says.
Charlie heads for the front door.
“It’s okay, Nawaz,” someone says, “he’s with me.”
Charlie turns to see a greasy-haired American standing at the top of the stairs. His collared shirt is tucked into a pair of creased khakis that are so short you can see his white socks.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gardener, but you are familiar with this man?” the manager says.
“We met a couple of days back.”
Charlie grins.
“Come on,” the man says. “I’m three drinks ahead of you.”
They enter the bar. The table of Brits shoot Charlie a collection of foul looks.
“Don’t let em bother you,” the man says, “they’re just drowning their sorrows.”
“Why’s that?”
“War’s nearly over, least the good part.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“It is when there’s no other conflict to move on to.”
They reach the bar.
“What you drinking?” the man says.
“Bud would be awesome.”
The man orders one and a Coke for himself. He sticks out his hand.
“Ivor Gardener.”
“Charlie Matthews.”
“So what you doing out here, Charlie? You’re kind of young for this scene.”
“Got a job working for Mine Aware.
“Ah, Skeppar’s outfit.”
Ivor spies the red “1” tattoo on Charlie’s forearm.
“You in the First Infantry Division?”
“Three years. Got out right after Desert Storm.”
“That where you get your scar?”
Charlie traces the three inch blemish that curves down his left cheek.
“Yeah, totally heroic. Tripped coming down the back of the transport plane. Was the war’s first confirmed casualty.”
Ivor laughs. Their drinks arrive and Charlie takes a swig.
Shit, that tastes good.
“Please tell me you’re not another of those do-gooder types who think they can save the world?” Ivor says.
“Once upon a time I might’ve been, but not after what I saw in Kuwait.”
“Yeah, war has a way of making you realize all that good intention stuff is utter bullshit.”
Ivor surveys the inhabitants of the bar.
“Take this crowd. Nothing they like more than going back home and waxing lyrical about all the lives they’ve saved. But if it weren’t for their tax free salaries and endless servants, ninety percent of em would be lawyers or bankers.”
“I just want to open up a dive shop in Belize.”
“Well then Pakistan makes total sense.”
“It’s not going to be cheap and demining’s one of my few marketable skills. Figured I could bank my salary and be there in a year, diving the Blue Hole in the morning and sketching in the afternoon.”
“Fuck me, an artist and a vet. Could you be any more pathetic?”
Charlie laughs.
“Hey, Gauguin was in the navy, and he seemed to have a pretty good time afterwards in Polynesia.”
Ivor raises his Coke.
“Well here’s to Charlie Matthew’s Dive Shop.”
“Free lessons on me.”
“Watch out, just might take you up on that.”
Charlie downs his beer and orders another.
“So how about you?” Charlie says.
“With the Consulate,” Ivor says. “Been here three years.”
“Like it?”
“This is what they call a hardship posting.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“When they dump you in a city where the ninety percent of the locals hate America despite the billions we’ve spent, and none of the Afghans credit us with winning the war despite the fact they’d still be fighting the Russians with swords if it wasn’t for us, where every man feels like it’s his divine right to kill anyone he thinks has offended him, where there are only two places to get a drink, and there’s almost zero chance of getting laid, be it paid or free, that my friend is considered a hardship posting.”
“Not exactly Paris.”
“Fuck, most of us would take Luanda over this shithole.”
Charlie’s second beer arrives. He takes a swig and notices a long haired blonde in tight pants and a slim white shirt enter the bar. His eyes aren’t the only ones to track her curvaceous figure as she slips through the throng.
“Well the place doesn’t seem totally devoid of prospects.”
“Forget it. Elma Kuyt’s vagina is reserved solely for those who can advance her career.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“Only if you think it normal to be screwing the Interior Minister within a week of getting here.”
“What could he do for her?”
“Let’s just say permits that take other agencies months to get approved, Dutch Aid gets in days. From there she moved onto the French Ambassador. He used to come up almost every weekend, tell his wife how important it was to see the jihad close at hand. Might have continued like that forever, but someone gave his wife the location of their little love nest, and four months ago, he and Elma woke to find her standing over them with a pen gun.”
“Where she get one of those?”
“It’s the souvenir of choice out here. I have a bowl of them in my office for visiting Congressmen. I’ll messenger one over if you promise never to use it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Thing’s as likely to blow off your hand as it is the person in front of you, and that’s what France’s petrified ambassador managed to explain to his wife of thirty years. Needless to say that was the end of the affair. Now every idiot in town thinks he has a shot.”
“Any have a chance?”
“Just the one she’s talking to. He’s writing a big article on the refugee situation out here, and Elma’s wormed her way into being its focus. Nothing like a puff piece in the New Yorker to get that UN job you’ve always dreamed of.”
Over by the booth, Elma leans back and laughs at something the reporter’s just said. The reporter looks smitten. She glances in their direction and catches Charlie’s gaze. She turns back to the conversation.
Maybe she’s not as in to the reporter as Ivor thinks.
Charlie orders a Heineken and jumps off his stool.
“Might as well throw my hat in the ring,” he grins.
“This should be fun.”
“Fortune favors the brave, that’s what my mother always used to say.”
“So did Saddam Hussein and look where that got him.”
“Come on, be m
y wingman.”
“I prefer to watch explosions from afar.”
“That’s why I’m a deminer, I don’t.”
The Heineken arrives. Charlie winks at Ivor and winds his way over to Elma’s table.
“You guys mind if I join you?”
“I don’t,” the reporter says. “Jurgen, Elma?”
It’s clear neither of them are thrilled, but they don’t object. Charlie squeezes in next to the reporter, and places the Heineken in front of Elma.
“Thought I’d bring something over to remind you of home.”
“I don’t drink beer,” Elma says.
“Then maybe one of you guys would like it.”
The reporter swipes it.
“One lesson I’ve learned in life—never turn down a free beer.”
Charlie sticks out his hand.
“Charlie Matthews.”
“Rod Baylor.”
“You were embedded with the Fifth Cav, right?”
“A New Yorker reader,” Rod grins. “I’m impressed.”
“My mom was an addict.”
“Were you out there?”
“Was with the First Infantry Division.”
“The Fighting First. What you doing here?”
“Heading up a demining outfit called Mine Aware. Least temporarily.”
Jurgen laughs.
“What are you eighteen?” he says in a German accent.
“Twenty-four.”
Jurgen turns to Elma.
“This is a joke, no?”
“I have no reason to disbelieve him,” Elma says.
“Going to meet my first group of recruits tomorrow,” Charlie says. “Should have them up and ready in a couple of months.”
Jurgen laughs.
“Oh, dear boy, if you’d said six months I’d have thought you impossibly naïve. I was just telling Rod here that the thing about Afghans is they have absolutely no ability to stick to a plan. It makes them a devil to fight, especially when you combine it with that idiotic bravery of theirs. But these qualities, well let’s just say they make for pitiful deminers.”
“And what makes you such an expert?” Charlie says.
An awkward silence hangs over the table.
“Jurgen heads up UNMAPA,” Elma says.
“So?”
“The United Nations Mine Action Program for Afghanistan.”
“Without my permission, dear boy,” Jurgen smiles, “you’ll never get into Afghanistan let alone demine a field out there.”
