by N G Osborne
“In all honesty I do not detect any difference, but if you’re satisfied I suppose I am too.”
“Well their average age is below ninety-five, that’s got to be a plus.”
“Mr. Matthews I understand that in America youth is prized, but we, Afghans, like to honor our elders.”
“Jesus, what crawled up your butt?”
Wali stares straight ahead.
“It’s because you had to spend the night in the Pajero, isn’t it?” Charlie says.
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“I offered to keep you company.”
“I would not have heard of such a thing.”
“Then get that smile back on your face. I mean you still managed to get three of your relatives on the payroll.”
“Two,” Wali says before catching himself.
Charlie grins and slaps Wali on the back.
“Gotcha. Now come on, let’s do this.”
Charlie pushes open the doors, and they walk outside.
“Oh yeah, one other thing, I’m looking for a motorcycle,” he says.
“The Pajero is fixed.”
“Appreciate that, but it’s just not my style, that’s all. Shit find me a decent one for under a thousand bucks and the Pajero’s yours.”
For the first time that day a smile graces Wali’s face.
“Oh, Mr. Matthews, you need not worry, I will find you the best motorbike in the whole of Peshawar.”
“Counting on it.”
The recruits see them coming and jump to their feet.
“As-salaam Alaykum,” Charlie says.
A chorus of wa-alaykum asalaams come back his way.
“Good to have you all here, my name’s Charlie Matthews and I’m going to be your instructor these next few months. Now what I thought we’d do is just chat a little, you know introduce ourselves, that kind of thing, and then tomorrow at ten we can start on the training; nothing too strenuous, just a basic orientation. What do you say?”
Most of the recruits nod. Charlie turns to Wali.
“They really speak English?”
“I assure you they do.”
Charlie looks at his watch again. Four fifteen.
“By the way, how long does it take to get to the Pearl Continental from here.”
“Forty-five minutes, maybe fifty. Why?”
Shit, I got to get out of here.
Charlie turns back to the recruits.
“Okay, we’ll just do names today, and then we’re done.”
He points at a fat, Chinese-looking recruit on the far left of the first row.
“What’s your name?”
“Shafiq, sir.”
He points at the man beside him, a recruit with an uncanny resemblance to Abraham Lincoln.
“And you?”
“My name is Najib, sir, and I sincerely want to thank you for the opportunity you’ve given us.”
“No problem.”
Charlie points at a teddy bear of a man.
“You?”
“Bakri, sir.”
He nods at a scrawny, young man with round glasses and a desperate wisp of a moustache.
“Obaidullah, sir, and may I, on behalf of all recruits, assure you we will not let you down in this endeavor.”
“Good to hear.”
Obaidullah raises his hand.
“We’re just doing names right now, Obaidullah,” Charlie says.
“I understand, Mr. Matthews, but as our most esteemed instructor and out of my fervent admiration and worry of you I desire that you believe that there is no God but God, and Mohammed, upon him be peace and blessings, is Messenger of God.”
“Again?” Charlie says.
“I wish you become Muslim, sir.”
The other recruits nod.
“You’re kidding, right?” Charlie says.
“Most sincerely no,” Obaidullah says.
“Why would I want to become a Muslim?”
Obaidullah gasps. A number of the recruits shift positions.
“Sorry,” Charlie says, “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“No, no,” Obaidullah says, “I understand, you Christian.”
“Nope.”
“You Jew?”
“No, I just don’t believe in God.”
The whole class gasps. Wali slides up beside Charlie.
“Mr. Matthews, may I have a word?”
“Wali, really not got the time for—”
“I think now would be most appropriate.”
Wali grips Charlie’s arm and leads him into the lobby.
“This is very bad, Mr. Matthews. Very, very bad.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to become a Muslim.”
“I understand, but you should never have told them that you don’t believe in God. To most Afghans, that is crazy talk, and they will not be able to accept you as their instructor.”
“So we’ll find another thirty guys.”
“They won’t accept you either. Word will spread.”
“Amongst three million refugees?”
“Mr. Matthews, believe me, this is not good.”
Charlie looks out the window. The recruits are on their feet, a couple gesticulating towards them as if they want to burn down the building.
“Okay, what do I do?” Charlie says.
“Go back out and say you are Christian.”
“Why’d that be any better?”
“Because the Quran states that the people most affectionate to Muslims are those who say they are Christians.”
“Seriously?”
Wali looks as serious as he’s ever looked. Charlie sighs and heads outside.
“Guys, guys, guys,” he shouts.
The recruits continue to argue amongst themselves. Charlie puts his fingers in his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle. Everyone falls silent and looks in his direction.
“I want to clear something up. I didn’t hear Obaidullah right. Just so you know, I’m a Christian, and a big one at that.”
“But you said you were not,” Obaidullah says.
“No, I thought you asked whether I was Catholic; that I’m definitely not. I’m a…Methodist.”
“It’s like we have Sunni and Shia in Islam,” Wali says.
“Couldn’t have put it better myself.”
Charlie looks at the class. He feels as if the odds of being stoned have lessened.
“So we cool?” he says.
“Why then say that you do not believe in God?” Obaidullah says.
“Because I thought you meant your God, Allah.”
“They are the same; Allah is God.”
“And that’s what Wali just explained to me.”
Tears spring in Obaidullah’s eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Matthews, please forgive me. I have most truly dishonored you.”
Obaidullah begins sobbing.
“Don’t be stupid; now come here.”
Charlie goes over and hugs Obaidullah. Over Obaidullah’s shoulder, he glances at his watch. Four twenty-five.
Shit.
Charlie pats Obaidullah on the back and pries his hands off of him.
“Okay, we’ll finish with names tomorrow.”
Charlie turns tail and heads for the Pajero. Wali shouts out after him but he ignores him. He is soon speeding towards Jamrud Road. The traffic is as insane as the previous night, but tonight he has more of a handle on it. He thinks about the girl and what he’s going to do.
She probably doesn’t drink.
It’s a shame; he’d been told that the Pearl Continental was the only other place in town that served alcohol.
Maybe we could have a meal, chat a while. It’s not like I’m going to put a move on her or anything. Not tonight at least.
Forty minutes later he arrives at the hotel; a white, five storey building with a red neon sign up top and billowing fountains in front. A bell boy runs up, and Charlie throws him the keys. He hurries inside. The lobby’s unlike any other place he’
s been in Peshawar. With its marble floors, vast displays of fresh flowers and smartly dressed managers it’s almost five star.
Charlie scans the guests in the adjacent lounge; there isn’t a woman amongst them. Over by the front desk he sees a couple of ex-pats and by the concierge desk a veiled woman in a red and gold shalwar-kameez.
Oh my God, she’s come.
Charlie edges around the lobby until he is standing right behind her. He breathes in her sweet rose water perfume. His pulse quickens.
“Hi,” he says.
The woman turns. His heart sinks.
“Sorry, thought you were someone else.”
He looks around the lobby. A woman in a green burqa is sitting in the corner. He hadn’t seen her on his first sweep; it’s as if the burqa had acted like camouflage. The empty chair next to her begs for him to sit in it.
Wouldn’t a burqa be the perfect disguise if she wanted to meet me?
The woman looks in his direction. He turns around; there’s nothing but the elevator bank behind him. He turns back. She’s still looking at him.
It’s got to be her.
He walks over and sits down in the empty chair.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m so glad you made it.”
The elevator dings, and a gorilla of an Afghan steps out with four AK-47 toting bodyguards. The Afghan strides towards them like a prizefighter heading towards the ring. Charlie snaps his head back towards the woman. She continues to stare straight ahead.
Oh shit, she set me up.
As the group gets closer, he remembers what Wali told him in the car.
They always start with the small stones so as not to kill you too quickly.
He thinks of fleeing, but by now it’s too late. The group stops in front of them. Charlie attempts a smile and the leader glowers back at him. The woman stands up and for the first time Charlie notices her hands. They’re covered in age spots; she must be at least seventy. With the woman in tow the group head for the door. Charlie sighs with relief.
That’s it. Only Western women from now on.
“I apologize for troubling you?” someone says.
Charlie turns to find a man in a faded blazer and threadbare shalwar kameez sitting in the vacated seat. He has a thin film of sweat on his brow and is tugging on his sleeves.
“Your name would not be Charlie Matthews by any chance?”
“Sorry, do I know you?” Charlie says.
“No, but I believe you are friendly with my daughter.”
Charlie’s slowing heart begins to race once more. He watches a bead of sweat wind its way down the man’s brow and along the ridge of his nose.
“My name is Aamir Khan. It’s my desire to have a conversation with you.”
“Look I’d love to, Aamir, but I’m late for my friend—”
“Perhaps you could call him and say you have been detained.”
Charlie detects a bulge beneath Aamir Khan’s breast pocket. It’s just where a holstered gun would sit.
“Maybe we could have some tea in the lounge,” Aamir Khan says.
Charlie sees no other option.
“Sure. After you.”
“No, after you. I insist.”
Charlie stands up and walks through the lobby.
He wouldn’t shoot me in the back, would he? Not in front of all these people.
They enter the lounge, and Charlie sits down at a free table. Aamir Khan takes the chair opposite him. A waiter approaches, and Aamir Khan orders two cups of tea. He pulls at his sleeves once again.
Is this how they do it? Stare into your eyes before they kill you.
Aamir Khan dabs at his brow with a handkerchief. The waiter comes back with a tray and pours each of them a cup.
“Do you have sugar with your tea, Mr. Matthews?”
“No thanks.”
“I am wicked, when I am afforded the chance I tend to overindulge.”
Aamir Khan plops two sugar cubes into his cup and then goes back for a third. His hand is shaking.
Maybe he won’t be able to shoot straight.
“Have you known my daughter long, Mr. Matthews?”
“No, just stood next to her on the bus.”
Aamir Khan’s cup hangs in the air. Tea splatters over its side and into the saucer.
“That is all?”
“Well I suppose I chased after her last night. She’s so beautiful…”
Charlie clamps his mouth shut.
Shit, why did you say that? To her psychotic father of all people.
Aamir Khan’s cup and saucer slip from his grasp and crash onto the table. Charlie jolts back in his chair.
Run!
Aamir Khan reaches inside his jacket. Charlie flings out a hand.
“Don’t shoot.”
The lounge goes quiet. Heads turn in their direction. Aamir Khan’s hand returns with a handkerchief and he begins mopping up the spill. Charlie flops back into his seat.
“Mr. Matthews, were you under the impression that I came here to kill you?” Aamir Khan says.
“Kind of.”
Aamir Khan laughs.
“Oh, Mr. Matthews, you have already spent far too long in this city.”
“So that’s a no?”
“No.”
“That’s a relief.”
The waiter returns with another cup, and this time when Aamir Khan brings it to his lips, his hands tremble less. Charlie realizes that Aamir Khan was as nervous as he was.
“My daughter, you maybe intrigued to know, considers her beauty a curse,” Aamir Khan says. “She’s remarked more than once that she would exchange looks with the ugliest woman in Peshawar if offered the chance.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Trust me your reaction on seeing her is not uncommon. I have received over thirty proposals of marriage, once I even had two on the same day.”
“Any you liked?”
“I do not know if liked is the word I would use, but there have been a number that would have been advantageous.”
“Well she’s still got plenty of time.”
“Noor’s twenty-one, in Afghanistan that practically makes her an old maid.”
Charlie says Noor’s name over and over in his head.
It’s as beautiful as she is.
“So what’s her deal?” he says.
“She wants to go to university.”
“That’s not possible here?”
“Not for an impoverished female refugee. No, it is perverse, but she has more hope of obtaining a scholarship to an American or European institution than one in this country.”
“And how’s that going?”
“In the last four years we have applied to thirty-one institutions and fourteen so far have sent back rejection letters.”
“So she’s still in the game with the other seventeen.”
“No, they just never bothered to reply. There is an old Afghan proverb, Mr. Matthews, that says a river is not contaminated by having a dog drink from it. No, the river’s greatest danger comes from its source, for if that dries up a river becomes no more than a ditch.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not following you, Aamir.”
“Hope is the source for all human endeavor, Mr. Matthews, for without hope no one would embark on anything. I fear Noor is losing all hope.”
Aamir Khan pulls on his sleeves and forces a smile.
“I have a simple request, Mr. Matthews. Meet with my daughter.”
Charlie is so surprised that he doesn’t answer.
“I have done all I can, taught her everything I know, but I am a relic of the past. I do not know the current trends, the new ways of thinking, I am not aware of the latest technologies or the modern day vernacular. These are things you could imbue her with and in the process help her escape her present situation.”
“Hate to break this to you, Aamir, but I don’t think talking to me is going to get her very far.”
“You would be surprised. If there is one thing I have learnt i
t is that Westerners like to be around Afghans who speak and act just like them. Those are the ones who get ahead and get out. I have accepted my fate, Mr. Matthews. I am going to live out my days in these camps, but I will not accept that fate for my youngest daughter.”
“Where would we do this?”
“Your house if that is not too much trouble. I will bring her by next Friday at noon when your servants are at prayers.”
“How do you know I have servants?”
“Oh come, Mr. Matthews, all aid workers have servants.”
Charlie smiles.
“Okay, noon it is.”
Aamir Khan stands.
“I thank you for you time,” he says.
“Wait, one last thing,” Charlie says. “What’s in your jacket pocket?”
Aamir Khan pulls out a faded paperback.
“Arabian Sands,” Aamir Khan says. “Have you read it?”
Charlie laughs.
“It’s one of my favorite books.”
“Then may I recommend A Short Walk In The Hindu Kush. It is a similar tale but more lighthearted. I will see you next Friday, Mr. Matthews. I am a certain it will be a most delightful occasion.”
EIGHT
NOOR CHEWS ON a stale piece of naan and stares out at the graveyard; the harsh sun is encrusting its soil in what seems like a permanent glaze. Aamir Khan sits next to her reading. She sees the rabbit pop its head out of a hole and clicks her tongue. The rabbit’s ears prick up, and it swivels its head in her direction. She holds out the naan. The rabbit hops over a burial mound and makes its way towards her. Noor holds her breath.
Come on, you’re nearly there.
Her father snaps his book closed, and the rabbit takes off.
Not again.
“Well that was a most wonderful read,” Aamir Khan says. “When Naipaul writes that men who allow themselves to become nothing have no place in this world, I think it’s his way of saying that we must always strive to be something. It is why God put us here. We must never give up hope.”
Noor lets the comment pass. For a month now her father has been doing this, making what he considers to be subtle asides in an attempt to keep her spirits up. If she were crueler she would tell him it isn’t working.
No, better to let his exhortations just evaporate alongside everything else in this intolerable heat.
“Do you want to go to the British Council?” she says.
“I wish we could, but we have another engagement. A certain young man whom you met on the bus has invited us for lunch.”
