Refuge

by N G Osborne

  Charlie glances at Ivor. Ivor raises his Coke in mock salute. Charlie turns back.

  “Hey, Jurgen,” he says.

  Jurgen looks at Charlie like he’s a child he’s tired of humoring.

  “I know you have your fancy job and all, but have you ever actually taken a mine out of the ground? You know picked one up, knowing that despite having done everything right, that bastard could blow your dick off and lodge it in the back of your throat.”

  Jurgen goes beet red. Elma and Rod stare at Charlie in disbelief.

  “Thought not.”

  Charlie stalks away only to discover Ivor’s gone. His business card sits on the bar. Charlie turns it over; on the back Ivor has scrawled his home phone number and a short note:

  Warned you it’d blow up in your face!!! Stay safe sapper.

  Charlie climbs up onto the stool and orders a Jack Daniels from the bartender. He cranes his neck back and looks around the bar for a set of friendly faces. He sees none.

  Strange. I’ve never had a problem making friends in the past.

  His drink comes and he downs it. He slaps a twenty dollar on the bar and orders another.

  Screw it. I’ll drink by myself.

  SIX

  “MR. MATTHEWS, MR. Matthews, it is I, Wali, I am here to take you to the office.”

  Charlie forces his eyes open. Wali comes into focus. He’s standing over the bed beaming.

  “What time is it?” Charlie says.

  “Ten o’clock,” Wali says.

  Charlie groans.

  “I think you had a late night, Mr. Matthews”

  “No, no, it’s just jet lag. Just give me five will you.”

  “Five what?”

  “Minutes.”

  “Oh, most certainly.”

  Charlie stumbles to the bathroom. In the shower he tries to recollect the night before. He remembers meeting a couple of Canadian aid workers, and doing a round of shots with them, but after that nothing. How he got to his bed, he has no clue.

  He comes down to the kitchen to find Wali chattering away to Mukhtar and a breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice and scrambled eggs awaiting him. He sits down at the table and begins scarfing down the eggs.

  “Now that’s a good breakfast, no?” Wali says.

  “Great.”

  Wali translates for Mukhtar, and Mukhtar grins.

  “Thank you, sir, thank you,” Mukhtar says.

  Wali slaps Charlie on the back, and Charlie feels his brain shatter into a million pieces.

  “Did I not tell you it was a good thing to have a cook?”

  “You sure this can’t wait until tomorrow?” Charlie says.

  “I wish it could, Mr. Matthews, but everyone is waiting for you.”

  “I know but—”

  “I mean literally waiting for you; in a line since eight o’clock this morning.”

  Charlie stands and has to put a hand on the table to steady himself. Wali continues talking to Mukhtar jabbing him in the shoulder to make his point. Finally he engulfs Mukhtar in a warm embrace and turns towards Charlie.

  “Mukhtar says he is going to make you the finest dinner you can imagine. Sheep’s eyeballs; it’s a local delicacy.”

  Charlie feels the urge to vomit. Wali giggles hysterically.

  “I’m joking. Now come, we must go.”

  Wali leads Charlie out to the driveway where his Pajero is parked. The broiling heat hits Charlie, and he sways. Wali opens the passenger door for him and runs around the car to get in his side. He turns the ignition and the chorus of Material Girl erupts from the speakers. Cold air blasts from the AC. Charlie thinks his head is going to explode. He lunges for the cassette player and turns it off.

  “Would I be right in thinking that you’re not a fan of Miss Madonna?”

  “It’s just Madonna, Wali.”

  “You positive?”

  “Positive.”

  Wali gets out his pad and records this new piece of information. He takes off down the driveway and accelerates down a tree-lined street. Up ahead Charlie can see a main road; blue exhaust fumes hang over it like mist over a lake.

  “Jamrud Road,” Wali says.

  Wali slips into a gap in the traffic. A barrage of horns blast away at them. Charlie’s never seen such chaos. Rickshaws, mini-vans, cheap Japanese cars, Mercedes buses, motorcycles, bicycles, horse-drawn carts, even man-drawn carts are all fighting for their piece of the road.

  Charlie looks out his window at the open-fronted stores. There’s one with blocks of candy in every shape, size and color; a tea shop with a vast cauldron of boiling tea up front; shop after shop selling swirls of bright fabric; open air restaurants with what look like hamburgers frying in cylindrical pans the size of paddling pools. After that come the butchers, first the chicken sellers; their live merchandise cooped up front in rope cages while their unlucky brethren are behind having their necks chopped off on benches awash with blood; then the sheep shops, with whole carcasses hanging on hooks in the morning heat while young boys with swatters fight a losing battle against the endless swarms of flies; and then the beef sellers, their upfront displays dominated by cow hooves and calves’ heads, the calves’ eyes glazed over, their tongues hanging out as though they’ve had one drink too many.

  I know how you feel.

  Eventually the shops peter out and are soon replaced with mud huts stretching as far as the eye can see.

  “Kacha Gari refugee camp,” Wali says.

  To Charlie, the huts look like something a child might conjure up in a sandbox; single storey, misshapen, no windows, some with crooked doors, others with just cloth hanging in their entrances. On the side of the road, refugees in turbans and rolled up caps swarm around wooden stalls. Some are missing an arm, some a leg, and an unfortunate few have lost both legs and are getting around on what look like skateboards. Bony dogs wander amongst them, trash swirls in the dirt and streams of putrid green water meander from the camp’s alleys and down the side of the road. Boys are everywhere, shirtless ones pushing tires, others shoving long sticks of sugarcane into juicers, while others wait by the edge of the road holding cigarettes, candy, bottles of soda, nuts and fruit. The traffic snarls up, and they dive into it, a swarm surrounding the car, begging Charlie to buy their wares.

  “Do not say a word,” Wali says, “it only encourages them.”

  He edges forward seemingly oblivious to whether he might run over their feet.

  “This where Mine Aware is?” Charlie says.

  “Oh no, Mr. Matthews, our office is in Hayatabad.”

  The traffic picks up. Charlie looks back at the camp.

  “Jesus, what a shithole.”

  Wali’s pen and notepad come out.

  “Shithole?”

  “You know awful place to live”

  “It is where I live.”

  Charlie looks at Wali. For once Wali has a straight face.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Trust me, it’s quite alright, Mr. Matthews, you are most correct, it truly is a shithole.”

  Charlie notices a woman wearing a billowing, green burqa. He finds it the strangest thing; it’s impossible not to miss these women yet they might as well not exist at all.

  “Most women round here wear burqas?” he says.

  “In the camps and villages, yes. Amongst wealthier families not so much unless the husband is a very religious man.”

  Wali turns left and drives down a wide, four-lane avenue. Half-a-mile down they come upon a grid of recently laid streets, dotted with two-storey houses sitting behind high outer walls. They drive up to a small compound of red brick buildings that remind Charlie of his old barracks. Out front, three men are waiting for them in the late morning sun.

  Jesus, Wali wasn’t joking.

  “Come, come,” Wali says, “let me introduce you.”

  They get out, and Wali takes Charlie down the line as though he were a visiting head of state. First up is a man with a trim beard and movie star
looks.

  “This is Mocam,” Wali says. “He is in charge of all equipment.”

  “As-salaam Alaykum,” Mocam says.

  “That means ‘peace be upon you’,” Wali says.

  “How’d you say it again?” Charlie says.

  “As-salaam Alaykum.”

  “Well as-salaam Alaykum to you, Mocam.”

  Mocam grins. Wali moves onto a man with a skull cap on his head and a beard so long that it looks like a child’s bib.

  “This is Qasim, our accountant and office manager.”

  Charlie exchanges greetings with Qasim, and they move on to a bearded man who’s curiously shaved his mustache.

  “And this is Fahran, our esteemed cook and driver.”

  They exchange greetings. Charlie breathes a sigh of relief.

  That wasn’t too hard.

  He spies a building with AC units and starts towards it.

  “Mr. Matthews, wait,” Wali says.

  Charlie turns back to see Mocam holding a piece of paper.

  “Mocam has a speech.”

  Mocam steps forward.

  “It is utter pleasure to meet you, Mr. Matthews, and may I take liberty of saying we thank Allah for your presence here to help us, and our glorious nation, Afghanistan, and inshallah we do most wonderful things together and take out many mines from ground.”

  Mocam folds the paper and steps back.

  “Thanks,” Charlie says, “good to be here too.”

  The men all stare at Charlie. Charlie looks over at Wali.

  “We done?” Charlie says.

  “Where is your speech?” Wali says.

  “I’m meant to have one?”

  “It is customary on such occasions.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought you knew such things.”

  “Why would I? I’m new here.”

  “Well you should make one anyway.”

  The front of Charlie’s head begins to pound. He closes his eyes. It doesn’t help.

  “Mocam, Qasim, Farhad,” he says. “I’m excited to be here‌…‌to help Afghanistan‌…‌and together we’re going to do great‌…‌that’s it.”

  The men applaud.

  “Oh, a most wonderful speech, Mr. Matthews,” Wali says. “Now let me show you your office.”

  Wali guides Charlie through a glass set of doors and a lobby with black-and-white posters of limbless refugees to an office in the back. The furniture is rudimentary, but all Charlie cares about is that it has a couch. On top of a filing cabinet a photo frame is propped up for all to see. It’s of a stout, bearded man and Wali; Wali’s smile is as wide as the Suez Canal; the man’s is forced to say the least.

  “Skeppar?” Charlie says.

  “The one and only,” Wali says. “Now come sit, sit.”

  Wali shepherds Charlie around the desk and into his office chair. He picks up a sheet of paper.

  “This is the letter I was telling you about?”

  Charlie spies a phone on his desk.

  “Hey, could you do me a favor?” he says.

  “Most certainly,” Wali says.

  “You mind finding me up the number for Dutch Aid.”

  “Of course. Qasim should have it.”

  Wali heads out of the room. Charlie picks up the letter.

  Dear Charlie:

  I apologize for the circumstances of your arrival, but unfortunately my condition’s become chronic and I’m flying home for further treatment.

  All is not lost. We’ve found a replacement for me in Stephen Adams, an Australian who heads up a demining project in Mozambique. The only downside is that he’s unable to arrive until December.

  This means that, for now, you are nominally in charge. I am confident you’ll do fine if you follow one simple rule – “first, do no harm.’ In the months I’ve been here I’ve built up a solid Afghan staff. All you need do is keep an eye on them and make sure they are faxing their cost reports and approvals to Stockholm.

  You, of course, were part of the second phase; the training of our demining teams. Wali, who you’ll find is most eager, has assured me that he’s identified thirty capable recruits and for the next three months it will be your job to bring them along as much as you can.

  Remember my admonition – “first, do no harm”. You may conduct practical exercises, but under no circumstances should anything more than inactive mines be used. I also ask that you keep all training within the confines of our compound. Coming from the US Army, I suspect you’ll have a certain confidence as to how quickly you can train these men. Let me assure you nothing comes easy around here. If they know how to identify basic mines and operate a metal detector by the time Stephen arrives you’ll be ahead of the game.

  So good luck, be sensible and stay well.

  Yours truly,

  Johan Skeppar

  Charlie puts the letter down.

  Doesn’t sound too hard. Not too hard at all.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “I apologize for the delay,” Wali says, “I had trouble finding Qasim. He was taking crap.”

  “A crap.”

  “Good to know.”

  He hands Charlie a scrap of paper with the number on it. Charlie picks up the receiver. He’s about to dial when he sees Wali still standing there.

  “Do you mind? It’s a private call.”

  “Oh, I see. Just so you know I have told the recruits to be here at four o’clock.”

  “Great.”

  “A most wonderful and dedicated group of men.”

  “I believe you.”

  Wali backs away and closes the door behind him. Charlie dials the number.

  “Dutch Aid,” a voice on the other end of the line says.

  “Yeah, I was looking for Elma Kuyt,” he says.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but she is out in the field right now.”

  “Any idea when she’s going to be back.”

  “Two, three hours, I believe. May I take a message?”

  “Sure. Tell her Charlie Matthews from Mine Aware called.”

  “Certainly.”

  Charlie replaces the receiver.

  Three hours. Perfect.

  He draws the blinds and lies down on the couch.

  ***

  “MR. MATTHEWS, MR. Matthews.”

  Charlie struggles to open his eyes. Wali is standing over him beaming.

  “The recruits are here,” Wali says.

  “I thought you said they were coming at four.”

  “It is four-thirty now.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Why would I shit you about such a thing?”

  Charlie struggles to sit up. His mouth is dry and his head woozy. Wali holds out a glass of water.

  “Here, this will help,” he says.

  Charlie drains the glass.

  “Thanks, you’re a life saver,” Charlie says. “By the way did anyone from Dutch Aid call back?”

  “I do not believe so. Why? Was it important?”

  “Not really. Come on, let’s go meet the guys.”

  Wali leads Charlie outside where a group of men are standing in two ragged lines. Charlie takes them in; half of them look like the residents of an old folks home, the other half like the inhabitants of an insane asylum.

  “How you pick these guys?” Charlie says.

  “By an utmost rigorous selection process.”

  “Right, well I might as well introduce myself.”

  Charlie walks up to the first man in line. The man’s face is bathed in sweat. Charlie decides not to shake his hand.

  “As-salaam Alaykum,” Charlie says.

  “Wa-alaykum asalaam,” the man says.

  “I’m Charlie. What’s your name?”

  “Please meet a you.”

  “No your name?”

  “It is Zulfikar Mohammad,” Wali says.

  “Yes, yes, Zulfikar Mohammad,” the man says. “Please meet a you.”

  Charlie turns to
Wali.

  “He okay?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “His eyes are kind of yellow, don’t you think?”

  Wali peers at the man.

  “He’s Hazara, they all have yellow eyes.”

  Charlie shakes his head and moves on to the next man. There’s no mistaking the defects in his eyes. The pupil in his right is milky white while the one in his left zigzags like an out of control cue ball. Charlie exchanges salaams with the man and does the same with the next, an old man leaning on a cane. He comes to the fourth in line, and his hopes rise. Here, at last, is someone young and fit.

  “As-salaam Alaykum,” he says.

  “Wa-alaykum asalaam,” the man says.

  “My name’s Charlie, what’s yours?”

  The man smiles at him.

  “I said my name’s Charlie, what’s yours?”

  The man continues to smile. Charlie turns to Wali.

  “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “Oh, he’s just a little deaf. He can read lips most excellently however.”

  “In English?”

  “No, that he cannot accomplish.”

  Charlie looks down the line and sees no better prospects.

  “Mind coming with me?” he says to Wali.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Just need to chat, that’s all.”

  Wali shrugs. They walk back to Charlie’s office. Charlie closes the door.

  “Okay, cards on the table time. How many of these guys are your relatives?”

  “I do not understand, Mr. Matthews, not one of these men is my brother.”

  “I didn’t ask if they were your brother, I asked if you were related to any of them.”

  “I do not understand the difference.”

  “Okay, how many of them are cousins?”

  “Mother or father’s side?”

  “Both.”

  Wali counts them out on his right hand.

  “No more than four and may I tell you I personally vouch for them; if they fail you I will undoubtedly resign.”

  “You related to any of the four I met?”

  Wali doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s not a hard question, Wali.”