by N G Osborne
“You didn’t get anything?” Charlie says.
“He charges too much.”
“What for?”
“It is of no importance.”
“No, tell me.”
“Morphine. My mother has cancer, she needs it otherwise the pain is too much.”
For the first time Wali seems worn down and vulnerable. Charlie looks down and notices how tattered Wali’s shoes are.
If he’s into all these side businesses he’s sure not spending the money on himself.
“Is she getting treatment?” Charlie says.
“There are no cancer hospitals for refugees.”
“I’ll get her into one.”
“That’s most kind but I’m afraid she is beyond help.”
“Then let me pay for the morphine.”
“I could not ask you to do that.”
“Why not? I’m your friend.”
“You are?”
“Course I am.”
Wali’s smile returns. Charlie heads into the store, and triples Wali’s orders. He comes out with the pills and hands them to Wali.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Wali says.
“I’ve been there. It’s the least I can do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My mom, she died of cancer when I was fourteen.”
“Oh, I am so sorry.”
“I wouldn’t wish cancer on my worst enemy.”
“On that I am in utmost agreement with you.”
Charlie smiles.
“Now come on, jump on.”
Charlie revs the bike, and they take off on a twisting journey through the darkened alleys of Old City Peshawar. At each intersection Wali taps on either Charlie’s right or left shoulder to tell him which way he should turn, and ten minutes later they find themselves back in front of the cinema. The boy is there standing guard over the Pajero. Charlie throws Wali the keys.
“It’s yours.”
Charlie winks at Wali and takes off. He threads his way through the late night traffic until he’s on an open stretch of road. He opens the throttle, and when he looks down at his speedometer he sees he’s going eighty-five miles an hour. He whoops with delight.
ELEVEN
NOOR HEARS A knock and turns to find Elma standing in her classroom doorway.
Oh Lord, is she here to deliver more bad news?
“I’m sorry, I can come back later,” Elma says.
“No,” Noor says, “we’re almost finished.”
Elma comes in, and the girls’ eyes follow her as though she’s some sort of exotic animal. She leans up against the wall in an attempt to make herself inconspicuous, but, in so doing, her pert breasts push up against the fabric of her starch white shirt. Both Noor and the class look at them goggled eyed.
“Miss Noor, don’t mind me,” Elma says.
Noor jerks out of her trance and blushes.
“Girls,” Noor says, “this is Elma Kuyt. She’s in charge of the aid agency that funds this school.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Kuyt,” the girls says.
“It is Miss,” Elma says, “but thank you for your welcome.”
Kamila makes a face at Noor as if to wonder what woman would still be unmarried at Elma’s age. Noor ignores her and finishes writing the quote from Anne of Green Gables on the chalkboard. Noor turns back to the class. She does everything she can to avoid Elma’s gaze.
“So tell me, like Anne, what are each of you interested in finding out about the world?”
She turns to a plump girl at the end of the front row.
“Hila?”
“I don’t know,” Hila says.
“Oh come on, there must be something that you wish you knew more about?”
Hila’s face lights up.
“Watermelons,” Hila says. “Why do they grow so big?”
The class cracks up. Noor shushes them and writes watermelons on the chalkboard.
“I’m curious about that too,” Noor says. “I mean why aren’t they just the size of mangos, for instance? Let me do some research and we can it discuss it more on Sunday.”
Noor turns to a sparrow-like girl next to Hila.
“Rashida?”
Rashida blushes.
“I do not know if this is rightful,” Rashida says.
“Rashida, how many times have I told you there’s no such thing as a wrong question.”
“I do wonder who my husband is going to be.”
“That’s a totally legitimate query. How many of you also think about that?”
Every hand in the room goes up.
“Well here’s the good news, whoever he is, it will never change what you know up here,” Noor says. “No one can take that away from you.”
A girl near the back raises her hand.
“Yes, Gulpira.”
“Miss Noor, do you think about who your husband’s going to be?”
No, because I never intend on having one.
Noor glances at Elma. Elma is staring at her intently.
“In such matters, I trust in Allah’s providence.”
The girls nod as if that makes total sense. Noor turns next to Kamila.
“How about you, Kamila? What are you interested in finding out?”
“I want to know why Miss Kuyt cut your wage so much.”
Noor stands there with her mouth agape.
“I am so sorry, Miss Kuyt,” she says, recovering. “I don’t know why Kamila would ask such a question.”
“You just said there’s no such thing as a wrong question?” Kamila says.
“That’s true but—”
“How can there be a ‘but’. Either there is no such thing as a wrong question or there isn’t.”
“Kamila, enough,” Noor hisses.
Elma wanders into the center of the room.
“No, it’s alright, Miss Noor, I’m not offended by Kamila’s question. Actually I’m proud we’re teaching the girls to not be afraid of authority figures.
“So why did you do it?” Kamila says.
Noor stares at Kamila in an attempt to quiet her, but Kamila has all her attention focused on Elma.
“Because if we hadn’t cut costs across the board,” Elma says, “we’d have had to close the school entirely.”
“Did you cut your own wage?” Kamila says.
“I cut mine first, and I cut it the most.”
Kamila sits there, her righteous fury doused.
“Now does anyone else have any questions?” Elma says.
Elma glances around the room; the girls shake their heads. Kamila raises her hand.
Oh Lord, what now?
“Yes, Kamila,” Elma says.
“You should know that Miss Noor is the best teacher we’ve ever had. Before I go to sleep at night I thank Allah that she is my teacher.”
Elma smiles.
“Trust me, we feel very blessed to have her.”
Out in the courtyard Miss Suha rings the bell for recess. Noor sighs with relief and excuses the class. The girls grab their books and rush out the door.
“She’s feisty that Kamila,” Elma says.
“She’s the brightest student I’ve ever taught.”
“Maybe she’ll be a teacher like you one day.”
“That’ll depend on her husband.”
“Well let’s pray he’s as educated and enlightened as she is.”
“I fear that won’t be the case. She tells me her father’s adamant she marry when she’s fourteen.”
“That isn’t legal.”
“No, but you know how it is, the authorities don’t care. There are some days when I think about going on the run with her.”
Elma doesn’t saying anything.
Oh my Lord, what have I said?
“I would never do that of course, it’s just a silly fantasy, I mean where would we go?”
“I know that, Noor,” Elma smiles. “Though I have to say you and Kamila would make a unique Thelma and Louise.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the reference.”
“It’s a movie about two American women who go on the run.”
“Why do they do that?”
“One of them killed a man who was raping her friend.”
“And they didn’t go to the police?”
“They should have, but they panicked.”
Neither needs to tell the other that in Pakistan a woman never would. Without four male witnesses to a rape the authorities would charge her with adultery, and once convicted, hang her for her trouble. The thought darkens Noor’s mood, and she starts gathering her books.
“I want to apologize for the other day,” Elma says. “I can’t believe I was so insensitive, I mean to be talking to you about Salman in that way, I’m still mortified.”
“I overreacted.”
“No, you stood your ground, just like Kamila did, and I appreciate that. What do you say, can we start afresh?”
“Of course,” Noor says.
Elma sticks out her hand, and Noor shakes it.
“So tell me, how good are you at learning languages?”
“I speak English, Pashtu, Arabic and a little Farsi.”
“What do you say to learning a fifth?”
Elma opens her leather folder and hands some fax pages to Noor. At the top in large letters are the words Universiteit von Amsterdam.
“My friend works in the admissions office; she suggested a scholarship that might be right for you.”
The pages tremble in Noor’s hands.
“The only catch is you have to be proficient in Dutch. I can translate your application and essay, but if you get to the second round there’s a telephone interview in late January.”
“That’s only four months away,” Noor says.
“That’s why I asked you how good you were.”
Noor looks up at Elma with tears in her eyes.
“I can do it.”
Elma smiles.
“Then I have but one request in return. This Friday I’d love you to take me and Rod on a tour of Kacha Gari.”
“It’d be my honor.”
“Perfect, we’ll meet you here at ten.”
Elma heads for the door.
“Miss Kuyt,” Noor says. “Can you play tennis at this university?”
Elma smiles.
“If you’re successful I’ll introduce you to Betty Stove when you get there.”
Elma leaves. Noor sits down at her desk. She tries to read the application but the text is obscured by her tears.
TWELVE
TARIQ STARES ACROSS the rug at his father-in-law.
“He wants what?”
“A new fourth wife,” his father-in-law says. “He feels he’s mourned enough.”
“Does he have anyone in mind?”
“No, but the Prince wants her to be Afghan, he thinks it would be a way to honor the jihad.”
Why haven’t I heard of this? No one mentioned it in the office.
Tariq’s father-in-law tears a wing off the chicken and proceeds to gnaw it until it’s mere bones.
“I suggested Badia to him,” his father-in-law says, using his sleeve to wipe the grease off his hands.
Of course you did. You were clever to hold Badia back all this time.
“It would be a great honor for our family,” his father-in-law says.
For you, you mean. It gets me nothing but having to listen to you wax lyrical every night about your royal son-in-law.
“How did he respond?” Tariq says.
“He said he’d heard how beautiful she was and asked to see her.”
“That’s good.”
“I said ‘no’. It’s not Pashtun custom, he should take my word.”
You idiot. The Prince surely knows there’s a vast disparity in this world between the number of women who’re beautiful and the number whose fathers think they are.
“You made the right decision,” Tariq says, “nothing’s more important than your honor.”
“He’s still interested—”
Maybe the Prince is a bigger fool than I imagined.
“—but it would help matters if someone else spoke favorably about her.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“You. He’ll consider you more impartial than her brothers.”
“But I’ve never met her.”
His father-in-law shouts out Badia’s name, and a teenage girl enters. Her eyes remain fixed on the floor.
“Look at your brother-in-law,” Salim Afridi commands.
Badia does as she’s told. She’s as beautiful as any virgin a martyr might meet in paradise.
If only I had this delight to come home to rather than that swine of a wife.
There’s only one woman Tariq knows who surpasses her beauty.
Noor.
An idea forms in his mind.
“You can go,” his father-in-law says.
Badia scurries away.
“I’ve arranged for you to sit down with the Prince tomorrow,” his father-in-law says. “I told him you had some excellent thoughts regarding the coming offensive.”
Tariq tries his best to contain his growing excitement. He looks over the empty dishes; there’s nothing left for his father-in-law to devour. Hopefully he’ll dismiss him soon.
“Your wife has mentioned some things to her mother,” his father-in-law says.
What’s the bitch been saying?
“She says when you fuck you don’t finish inside of her.”
“She’s mistaken,” Tariq says.
“It’s been almost two years.”
“I’m more aware of that than anyone.”
“Maybe stay in there a little longer at the end, eh.”
Maybe if you’d married me to your other daughter I would.
“Of course,” Tariq says
“You’re a good man, Tariq. Things will only grow more concrete between us once you have a child.”
“That’s all I desire,” Tariq says.
His father-in-law grunts. It’s his way of telling Tariq he’s dismissed. Tariq walks away, his mind working overtime.
THIRTEEN
CHARLIE STUDIES THE pen gun. It looks just like a black, metal, fountain pen. He twists the cap off. It seems simple enough; just place a bullet in the barrel, screw the cap back on, pull back the pen clip, and press.
He hears someone coming down the verandah and turns to find Mukhtar with a dish in his hands.
“Narenj Palau,” Mukhtar grins.
“Thanks, but no one’s coming to lunch this week.”
“My pleasure, sir,” Mukhtar says, placing it on the table.
Charlie pulls out his wallet and hands Mukhtar two fifty rupee notes.
“For you and Rasul. Go buy something for yourselves after mosque, okay?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Charlie watches Mukhtar head towards his hut. Halfway there he does a little jig. Charlie laughs.
Now what the hell am I going to do?
He’s already been for a run, sketched a grinning Mukhtar’s portrait and finished A Short Walk In The Hindu Kush. One thing’s for sure, he isn’t going to stay locked up here all day. He sees the Naranj Palau sitting on the table and can’t help but think of Aamir Khan, and how he’d devoured his two portions the previous week.
He could use this a hell of a lot more than me.
Charlie grabs the dish and a ball of twine, and goes out front to his motorcycle. With the dish tied down, he speeds towards Jamrud Road. For once it’s empty; the whole city seems to be at Friday prayers. At Noor’s bus stop, he begins retracing the path he chased her down. A throng of boys trail after him.
“Hello, mister, how are you?” a kid in a Soviet army beret says.
“Good thanks.”
“You have dollars?” another in a skull cap asks.
“If you can help me.”
The kid in the beret pushes the one in the skull cap to the ground and jumps on the back of the bike.
“Where you go?” the kid says.
“You know a man called Aamir Khan?”
The boy points down the alley.
“This a way,” he says.
“You sure?”
“Go.”
They hurtle down one mud-walled alley after another, the kid hooting and hollering, until they come to a halt beside a hut the size of a garden shed. A toddler in a grubby pink dress sits out front dipping a bowl into a puddle of green, stagnant water. The kid shouts out a stream of Pashtu and grins at Charlie.
“Aamir Khan,” he says.
A hacking cough emanates from within, and a gnarled old man pulls back some sewn-together cloths.
“This isn’t Aamir Khan,” Charlie says.
“No. Aamir Khan,” the kid says pointing at the man.
“Not mine, mine different. This man too old.”
The kid’s smile disappears. The group of boys come running around the corner, and the boy in the skull cap sucker punches his rival. Before long the two boys are on the ground exchanging blows. The others form a circle around them.
Charlie apologizes to the man and pushes the bike back the way he thinks they came. The kid in the beret comes running up to him, his nose bleeding.
“Please, sir, please, sir, no go,” the kid says.
“Sorry buddy, just not my day.”
The kid rushes over to a group of young, bearded men exiting a mud walled mosque. He jabbers away while pointing at Charlie.
Shit, where’s this going?
A man, who seems to be wearing mascara, walks over.
“As-salaam Alaykum,” the man says.
“Wa-alaykum asalaam,” Charlie says.
“I hear you’re looking for someone.”
“Yeah, a friend—Aamir Khan.”
“There are many Aamir Khan’s in this camp, you’ll need to be more specific.”
“In his fifties, grey hair, no mustache—was an English professor back in Kabul.”
The man turns to his friends and speaks to them in Pashtu.
“My friend knows where this Aamir Khan, you talk about, lives,” the man says. “Come I take you.”
Charlie goes over to the boys. He pulls out a five dollar bill and holds it up.
“For all of you,” he says making a circular gesture.
“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” the kid in the beret says. “Understand. Hundred percent.”
