by N G Osborne
Noor sits there speechless. She jumps up and starts towards the hut.
“Noor,” her father says.
Noor twists around.
“When did you start rummaging through my things?” she says.
“When did you start lying to me?”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“You withheld the truth.”
“It was an unpleasant incident, no more than that. Do you inform me every time you stub your toe?”
“I would suggest, my dear, that this incident was a little more exceptional than stubbing one’s toe.”
Noor stares off into the distance as if that might put an end to the discussion.
“I met this Charlie Matthews in your stead and made a proposal; that henceforth you and I will go over to his house every Friday at noon.”
“No.”
“He is expecting us.”
“He’s an odious, obnoxious fool.”
“And how have you ascertained that? From what he relayed to me the two of you hardly spoke.”
“I refuse to go.”
“And as your father I request you do.”
“So what, you’re procuring me out now?”
Aamir Khan’s face reddens.
“Stop this petulant indignation right now,” he says. “Are you really accusing me of losing all moral fiber?”
Noor shakes her head and sits back down.
“Forgive me,” she says.
Aamir Khan looks out over the graveyard. Noor inspects her father’s worn, wrinkled face. He’s forty-eight, but he looks closer to sixty; his eyes glassy, his cheeks hollow, his thin hair gone grey years ago.
“Tell me, how many Westerners do we have the opportunity of interacting with?” he says.
“Baba, these aid workers, they all say they want to help but none of them ever do.”
“How would we know? We are not friends with any.”
“So that’s the plan? We become his friends?”
“You know better than I how many scholarship committees have rejected you, even though there isn’t a soul on this planet who is more deserving.”
“You think they care about people like Charlie Matthews?”
“If he recommends you, they will at least give you serious consideration.”
Aamir Khan grabs a hold of Noor’s hands.
“I have a feeling about him. He’s not a bad man.”
“Forgive me for not sharing your confidence.”
“Please, my love.”
Noor bites her lip.
To think I’d forgotten all about him.
“Alright,” she says, “just for you.”
They walk through the camp, and Noor can’t help but feel a new spring in her father’s step. They take a bus to University Town, and head on foot into a part of the city Noor’s had no reason to visit before. Ancient Sheesham trees provide shade from the scorching sun, and on both sides of the street grand colonial mansions loom, their ground floors hidden by walls covered in all shades of bougainvillea.
Everything’s so different here. Kacha Gari might as well be on another planet.
Aamir Khan reads off the numbers of the houses and stops in front of a large, ornate gate.
“Ah, here we are,” he says.
He pushes the gate open, and they walk up the gravel driveway. In front of them stands what Noor considers a palace.
“This can’t be right,” she says.
“This is the address he gave me.”
They climb the steps, and Aamir Khan rings the doorbell. Noor prays her father has made a mistake. Moments later Charlie opens the door, his hair still damp from showering.
Oh no.
“Great to see you guys,” he grins.
“And it is a delight to see you,” Aamir Khan says.
“Come in, come in.”
Noor follows her father into a vast vaulted hall. She stares up at the skylight fifty feet above her.
“Can I take your jacket, Aamir?” Charlie says.
“That would be most kind.”
Aamir Khan hands Charlie his blazer. Charlie opens a closet door and hangs it up.
“And you, Noor?”
Charlie gives her an eager smile.
Is he really attempting to undress me this early into our visit?
“How about your headscarf, my dear,” Aamir Khan says. “I have always believed the veil or worse the burqa, Charlie, to be affectations of the ignorant, and if there is ever an opportunity where Noor is free not to wear one she should seize it with gusto.”
“Won’t get any argument from me,” Charlie says.
Noor decides that now Charlie’s in league with her father she despises him all the more. She unties her headscarf, and her long, black hair unfurls. Charlie steps forward to take the scarf, and she recoils at the strong odor of aftershave and cigarettes.
“So I hope you guys are hungry?” Charlie says.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have troubled yourself, we had more than a sufficient breakfast,” Aamir Khan says.
Half a piece of naan split between the two of us.
“Hate for it go to waste,” Charlie says.
“Well if you insist,” Aamir Khan says.
“I insist.”
Charlie leads them through the hall and down a corridor into a gargantuan room whose four sides are lined with overladen bookshelves. In the center of the room is a neat arrangement of faded sofas, worn leather chairs and lamps. For all intents and purposes it could be a college library.
“I believe I have just died and gone to paradise,” Aamir Khan says.
“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Charlie says.
Aamir Khan scans one of the shelves.
“Walter Scott, William Thackeray, ah even some Joyce.”
Aamir Khan moves on to the next shelf. Noor feels an uncomfortable sensation and turns to discover Charlie gaping at her. She twists her head away.
“Well take as many as you want,” Charlie says.
“Oh, I could not,” Aamir Khan says.
“I insist.”
“You are an insistent man today, Mr. Matthews.”
“Please you’ve got to call me Charlie.”
“Then Charlie it is.”
Noor makes a promise to never call him by that name.
Charlie leads them outside and down a white railed verandah. At the far end is a wrought-iron table. Table settings have been laid out and in the center sit three covered bowls and a dish of homemade yogurt. Noor’s nostrils twitch at the panoply of smells. The covers don’t need to be removed for her to know that there’s orange chicken, rice, beef and something fried in ghee awaiting them. She feels faint with anticipation.
“So I have Coke, Sprite, and Fanta,” Charlie says.
“A Sprite would be most lovely thank you,” Aamir Khan says.
“And you, Noor?”
Again that smile.
“A Sprite, please.”
Charlie snaps the tops off a couple of bottles. He scampers around the table and pulls Noor’s chair out. Knowing there’s nothing she can do, Noor sits down and lets him push her in. Noor pours her Sprite into a glass and takes a sip. It’s ice cold and exquisite.
“So don’t kill me if this sucks,” Charlie says. “I told Mukhtar I had some guests, well gestured might be a better way of putting it, and this is what he rustled up.”
Charlie lifts the covers off the dishes. Noor glances at her father; his eyes have watered over.
“Oh, Charlie, this is some honor. Not just Narenj Palao but Mantu and Bulanni too. In Afghanistan these are served at only the most auspicious of occasions.”
“Well let’s hope this is one of them. Please, dig in.”
Noor watches her father place a modest portion on his plate.
“You too, Noor” Charlie says.
She takes a smaller sized portion. Charlie has no such qualms and piles food on his plate until it’s almost falling off the edge. He raises his Coke bottle.
&nb
sp; “How about a toast?”
“I think that is an excellent idea,” Aamir Khan says.
“To a long and happy friendship.”
“Hear, hear.”
Noor scoops some Narenj Palao onto her fork and puts it in her mouth. The combined tastes—the saffron, orange peel, pistachios, almonds and chicken—are almost too overwhelming for her simple palate. A moan escapes her lips. She looks up and sees Charlie smiling at her. She can’t help but blush.
“So, Noor, how did your English get so good?” he says.
“My father used to teach it at Kabul University.”
Noor takes a bite of her Mantu beef dumpling and chews it over allowing the fat to linger on her tongue. She glances over at her father; he’s almost finished what’s on his plate.
“So you must be looking forward to going back there?” Charlie says.
“I doubt we will be traveling to Kabul anytime soon,” Aamir Khan says.
“I thought the government’s about to fall?”
“Despite the mujahideen’s exquisite ability at grabbing defeat from the jaws of victory I fear you are correct.”
“You not happy to see the Communists go?”
“Once I would have been, but now I would prefer even them over what is to come.”
“And what’s that?”
“The depths of hell, I am afraid. Our mujahideen has many noble men but I am sorry to say they are overwhelmed by illiterates and radicals who will throttle each other the moment they’ve taken Kabul. They will fight until not a brick remains.”
Charlie holds out the dish of Naranj Palao.
“Please have some more, Aamir.”
This time Aamir Khan shows less restraint. Charlie offers Noor more too, but her pride won’t allow her to accept.
“So your dad told me you’d applied for a bunch of scholarships in the States.”
“I haven’t received an offer yet.”
“Well you’re better than me. I never even went to college.”
“Was it too expensive?” Aamir Khan says.
“Oh no, my father would’ve paid for the whole thing, especially if I’d gone to Duke, his alma mater.”
“My word, what a coincidence, that is my alma mater too?”
Charlie looks at Aamir Khan as if he’s trying to pull a fast one.
“Duke, as in Blue Devils Duke?”
“I know, it must come as quite a surprise given my present situation, but when I was a little older than you, I spent eight delightful months there completing my post graduate thesis.”
“What on?”
“Edith Wharton.”
“No way, I read The Age of Innocence last summer. Enjoyed it way more than I thought I would.”
Noor’s convinced Charlie is lying. She doubts he’s picked up anything more serious than a comic book since high school. She watches Charlie bite into another dumpling.
“So why didn’t you go to university?” she says.
“I joined the army instead.”
“From what I have read West Point is as academically rigorous as any university,” Aamir Khan says.
“No, I wasn’t an officer, just a plain old enlistee. Made a lot of friends, got to see the world. Korea, Germany, Saudi Arabia.”
“And now here you are in Pakistan?”
“I know, crazy right?”
“Have you always wanted to be an aid worker?”
“Not really. What I really want to do is open a dive shop—in Belize.”
“A dive shop?” Noor says.
“Yeah, you know, go out in the morning with the tourists, show them the best reefs, then in the afternoon—”
Noor pushes her chair back.
“Excuse me,” she says.
She hurries down the verandah and sees a set of open doors. She plunges through them into an unused bedroom and slumps onto the bed.
The man’s an imbecile, and a frivolous, self-centered imbecile at that. Only an idiot abandons a university education, at Duke of all places, to be a private in the army. And a dive shop!
She feels an overwhelming desire to scream and digs her nails into her thigh in order to suppress it.
One thing’s for certain, there’s no way he can be of any use to us.
Noor stands up and approximates the direction of Mecca.
“O Lord,” she says, “you are my guardian. Forgive me, have mercy on me and pour out on me patience.”
She begins her rakahs, and as always the practice calms her. Afterwards she kneels there and reminds herself that nothing has been wasted other than an hour of their lives.
Just get out as quickly as you can.
She takes a deep breath and heads out onto the verandah. with renewed purpose. She finds Charlie smoking at the table.
“Your dad’s gone to fetch some books,” he says.
Noor heads for her chair; there’s nothing else to do. Charlie jumps up to help her.
“Please, I am more than capable,” she says.
Charlie retreats and returns to his chair. Noor stares out at the garden.
“I’ve got ice cream in the cooler.”
“Do you think I’m a child, Mr. Matthews?”
“Wish you’d call me Charlie.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Well I’m going to have some,” he says.
She is soon overcome by the scent of mango and pistachios. She can’t help but glance in his direction. He has a quart of Kulfi ice cream in front of him and is scooping it into a bowl.
“Mukhtar turned me on to this stuff,” he says. “It’s amazing, tasted nothing like it.”
Noor remembers the ice cream shop on Chicken Street that they’d walk to every Friday in the summer. She’d always have mango and pistachio flavor, and while Bushra and Tariq would bolt theirs down, she’d take small bites and let the ice cream melt on her tongue. To her mother’s chagrin she’d still be eating ten minutes after everyone else had finished.
“Sure you don’t want some?” Charlie says.
“I am sure.”
She feels him staring at her and focuses on a humming bird zipping in and out of some nearby roses.
“You didn’t always live like this, did you?” he says.
“I don’t dwell on the past, Mr. Matthews.”
“I know, but it must have been difficult, coming here when you were so young, living in that camp. I’ve never been to a place where women are treated so badly.”
She looks back down the verandah.
Where in God’s name are you, Baba?
“Look, when it comes to this scholarship thing, if there’s anything I can do to help—”
“Thank you but we won’t be requiring such assistance.”
“Your father said—”
“My father doesn’t speak for me, Mr. Matthews.”
“It was just a friendly offer.”
Noor swivels in her chair and glares at Charlie.
“Oh really, and you won’t require anything in return?”
“Course not.”
Noor can’t help but laugh.
“Forgive me, Mr. Matthews, if I find that answer absurd. I assume you chasing me down a darkened alley wasn’t a figment of my imagination?”
“I just I wanted to get to know you.”
“‘Get to know you’, what’s that an idiom for?”
“Idiom?”
“If you’d gone to university you might know what that meant. I assume you weren’t going to ask my father for my hand in marriage?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“So the only other possible explanation is that you were hoping for an erotic fling with an exotic woman?”
Charlie flushes.
“I thought as much,” she says.
Noor stands.
“Mr. Matthews in situations like these I think it important to be clear. I have no interest in getting to know you, not now nor at any time in the future. I may have been stripped of most things in this
life, but I still have my honor, and the idea of spending another minute with some warmonger who put killing ahead of learning, a hypocrite who’s here to help people but lives like a prince, well to be quite frank, it’s utterly noxious to me.”
Charlie tries to say something, but Noor cuts him off.
“Thank you for lunch, Mr. Matthews, we will see ourselves out.”
And with that Noor turns on her heel and heads down the verandah in search of her father.
NINE
TARIQ SITS ON the floor of the hut and drinks a weak cup of tea. Bushra hovers over him like a bothersome fly.
“Does it hurt?” she says.
“The stump not so much but the arm, there are nights when I think a hundred pound weight is lying on top of it.”
“But your arm’s gone.”
“Yes, but it still feels as if it’s there.”
Bushra screws up her forehead and tries to comprehend the phenomenon Tariq’s just described. Tariq doesn’t wait for her thought process to conclude.
“When did they say they’d be back?” he says.
“They didn’t.”
“And you’re sure they were going to the British Council library?”
“That’s what they always do on Fridays.”
Books, books, books, Tariq thinks, how I detest books.
His father had wasted half his life with his nose in them, time which could’ve been better spent getting them out of this hellhole.
He looks at the earthen walls, the thin bedspreads, their blackened cooking pots. It’s an embarrassment that his family lives this way. He’s not sure why he even came. Some misplaced sense of familial obligation, he supposes.
Oh well, I guess they lost out on five hundred rupees.
Bushra goes to fill his cup and manages to pour scalding tea down the front of his kameez. Tariq cries out in pain.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
Bushra returns with a rag and dabs at his chest.
“Get away.”
He pushes her so hard she falls on her ass.
“You really are good for nothing, aren’t you?”
Tariq heads outside. He blinks in the bright light and walks towards the pick-up that Yousef had let him borrow from the fleet.
Shame, I’d loved them to have seen it.
“Tariq.”
Tariq turns. His father and sister are walking his direction. His father’s face is etched with concern.
