Refuge

by N G Osborne

  Charlie knows without a doubt that the Mine Aware job pays way more. Jawad and Mansoor share a look.

  “Now can anyone tell me what my main mission is?”

  Obaidullah sticks up his hand.

  “To teach us to get mines out of the ground, sir.”

  “Good try but no. Anyone else? No one? Okay, it’s simple, to keep you guys safe. Got that; S‌—‌A—F‌—‌E. Now how many of you know someone who stepped on a mine?”

  This time every single hand goes up.

  “So I guess you all know what bastards they are.”

  “Bastards, sir?” Shafiq says.

  “Tough, not easy to find, hell most are overgrown with weeds or hidden in scrub.”

  Yunus raises his hand.

  “In Baghran, Russians laid the mines all around the walls of our villages and in fields.”

  Charlie picks up a circular mine off the table beside him.

  “And did they look like this?”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “What’s wrong with Yunus’s answer?”

  Najib sticks his hand up.

  “Go for it, Najib.”

  “That mine is too clean, sir.”

  “Right‌—‌most look like this bastard.”

  Charlie picks a rusted mine.

  “Sir, I beg your pardon, but why do you insist on calling the mines bastards?” Najib says.

  “Because one of them took both of Wali’s legs.”

  “I understand, but still why?”

  “Where I’m from a bastard’s someone who’s got no morals, who doesn’t fight fair and this here is the very definition. Corroded, waterlogged and entangled in roots which means?”

  “It could explode most easily, sir,” Bakri says.

  “Got it and to make matters worse, the person who laid it’s also a bastard and a crafty bastard at that. For as much as he’d like it to take off some kid’s leg or blow off your mother’s face, what really gives him a hard on is the idea of blasting your balls to smithereens.”

  “Sir,” Shafiq says, “I am afraid to tell you, I do not understand what you are saying.”

  The class murmurs their agreement.

  “Let me put it another way. There’s no one a minelayer would like to kill more than a deminer. You’re his greatest enemy, and he’ll go to incredible lengths to kill you.”

  The recruits stare back at Charlie as though he were telling a ghost story around a campfire.

  Finally, I’ve made a connection.

  “So what does he do? He attaches the mine to a trip wire hoping you’ll snag it. But you’re cleverer than that, you’ve been taught well.”

  “Not so far,” Yunus says.

  The recruits laugh. Charlie chuckles.

  “Well you’re going to be, so you’ll find his wire and trace both its ends. Only problem is boom.”

  The class jerks back as Charlie shouts out the word.

  “He’s laid anti-personnel mines around it. And boom‌—‌they jump in the air and send pieces of metal in all directions. Boom‌—‌a metal fragment slices your belly open like a can opener. Boom‌—‌another lodges in your brain and makes you a drooling idiot.. And boom‌—‌the rest cut your legs into shreds and you get to spend the rest of your life rolling around on those pathetic wooden sleds hoping someone’ll take pity on you. Now who wants to be one of those guys?”

  “Not me,” Najib says.

  “Everyone.”

  A chorus of ‘not me’ rises up from the group.

  “So I’m going to let you in on a secret, tell you how you’re going to stop this from happening. First, from now on you do everything I say, even when it sounds dumb. Second, never cut corners. Never. You do these two things and a mine goes off, you’ll not only survive but ninety-nine percent of the time you’ll suffer only superficial injuries.”

  “That is it?” Obaidullah says.

  “Yes, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. You see, demining is one of the most boring jobs known to man. For every mine you find you’ll get four-hundred-and-fifty false hits. So guess what? Instead of lying flat on the ground with your balls in a knot, you start squatting. I mean why not, there’s only a slim chance the piece of metal in front of you’s a mine, and even if it is the odds are it’s stable. But if it’s not then you’re fried.”

  “Fried, sir?” Yunus says.

  “Decapitated.”

  “I do not understand this word either.”

  “The blast will pierce the gap between your visor and apron and your head will fall off as surely as if an executioner had sliced it with a sword.”

  The recruits sit there in silence. Charlie lets them‌—‌he wants the message to sink in. He sees Qasim exit the main building and hurry in their direction.

  Great, probably Skeppar on the line, wanting to berate me again.

  “Mr. Matthews,” Najib says.

  Charlie looks over at him.

  “I know what a brave thing you did for Wali. We all do.”

  “Thanks, but anyone would have done what I did?”

  “No, most people would not, especially for an Afghan.”

  “In Quran,” Obaidullah says, “it says if anyone saves a life, it is as if he saved the lives of all mankind.”

  Charlie can’t help but smile. It’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to him since the accident.

  “Well I appreciate that Obaidullah. Truly, I do.”

  He points to a neat line of thirty miniature flags.

  “Okay, today we’re going to do some probing drills.”

  “We have already done these,” Mansoor says.

  “Yeah but this time we’re going to do them properly. So go get your gear from Mocam and come back here and lie down in front of a flag.”

  The recruits rise to their feet and head for the storeroom. Qasim reaches him.

  “Mr. Matthews, sir, I received call from hospital. Wali has woken up.”

  Charlie’s pulse quickens. He sprints for his bike and makes it to the hospital in record time. Doctor Halim meets him outside Wali’s room.

  “How’s he doing?” Charlie says.

  “Remarkably lucid and in good spirits.”

  “Despite, you know…”

  “He’s not aware of his misfortune yet.”

  “Maybe he’s not as lucid as you think.”

  “The lower half of his body is covered, and so, in all frankness, he doesn’t realize his legs are gone.”

  “Apart from the fact he can’t feel them anymore.”

  “On the contrary his nervous system’s telling him that they’re still attached to his body. In fact he complained just now that his right leg was itchy.”

  “So why haven’t you told him?”

  “We find the shock is lessened when the news comes from a friend or a family member. You did say he had no family to speak of, didn’t you?”

  Charlie nods.

  “There is some good news,” Doctor Halim says. “The ophthalmologist thinks he’ll be able to save his right eye.”

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  Charlie glances at the door. All he wants to do is run.

  This is not about you.

  He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. A broad grin breaks across Wali’s face.

  “Mr. Matthews, what a wonderful surprise.”

  “Good to see you too, buddy. How you feeling?”

  “A little woozy but don’t worry I’ll be up on my feet before you know it.”

  Charlie does his best not to grimace. He grabs a chair and sits down beside him.

  “Wali, do you remember how you got injured?”

  “In all honesty, Mr. Matthews, I do not.”

  “You remember going to Afghanistan?”

  “Of course.”

  “And how about the two boys who ran after the football?”

  “Is that something I should remember?”

  “Kind of, because you did a very heroic thing. You ran into a minefield to save them
.”

  Wali’s smile wavers.

  “Was the minefield where I had my accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were the two boys also hurt?”

  “Because of you they weren’t.”

  “That is a blessing.”

  They hold each other’s gaze.

  “Mines do nasty things, don’t they?” Wali says.

  Charlie nods.

  “You’re aware a mine killed my younger sister?”

  “It was one of the first things you told me.”

  Wali laughs.

  “So I did. If I’m not mistaken I was trying to impress on you my experience with mines, and now I have even more experience, don’t I? More experience than I probably would wish for.”

  “You sustained some injuries,” Charlie says.

  “My eye is gone, I suspected that was the case.”

  “Your eye’s going to be fine. It’s your legs‌—‌I’m sorry, but you’ve lost your right leg and your left foot.”

  Wali’s smile falters, and then he begins laughing.

  “Mr. Matthews, I have to tell you that you had me there for a second.”

  “It’s the truth, Wali.”

  “And what a magnificent job you did at keeping a straight face. But you see all this time I’ve been wiggling my toes, even now as we speak.”

  “Your body still thinks they’re there but they aren’t.”

  “Then be so kind as to show me.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I must insist. Please, show me.”

  Charlie goes in search of another pillow. He finds one in a metal cabinet and uses it to prop Wali up. Charlie lifts away the blanket and stares at the floor. Anything not to witness Wali’s moment of truth.

  “Thank you for doing that, Mr. Matthews.”

  Charlie pulls the blanket back up. He looks over at Wali. Wali is still smiling.

  “Well I don’t want to be keeping you. Will you give my kind regards to everyone back at Mine Aware?”

  “I can stay, I’ve nowhere to be.”

  “No, please, it’s best if you get back to the office. You’re a good friend, Mr. Matthews.”

  Charlie takes Wali’s hand in his and squeezes it. He walks out and looks up and down the corridor. Doctor Halim’s nowhere to be seen.

  When he returns to Mine Aware he finds the recruits lounging around the yard chatting. He decides to leave them be. In the sanctuary of his office, he calls the hospital and asks for Doctor Halim. A few minutes later he comes on the line.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Matthews?” Doctor Halim says.

  “Just checking in. See how’s he doing?”

  “We just gave him a sedative. He’s been sobbing ever since you left.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “HOE GAAT HET met jou,” the woman on the tape says. She is fast becoming a familiar acquaintance.

  “Goed, en met jou?” Noor replies.

  At least I won’t make a fool of myself during the first ten seconds of the interview. That is if I get that far.

  “Ah, there you are,” she hears her father say.

  Noor looks up. The last time she’d spied him he’d been reading in the garden.

  “Goed, dankjewel,” she says.

  Aamir Khan smiles.

  “You should take a break,” he says. “Your brain can only retain so much in one day.”

  “So what would you have me do?”

  “How about relax?”

  “I’ve no interest in becoming a woman of leisure.”

  “And God forbid you ever become one. But a couple of hours—”

  The woman on the tape utters a new phrase.

  “What was that she said?” Aamir Khan says.

  Noor rewinds the tape and waits for the woman to repeat the phrase.

  “Ik ben hier op vakantie,” the woman says.

  “I am here on holiday,” Noor translates.

  “Now if that’s not a sign from Allah, I don’t know what is.”

  Aamir Khan saunters back in the direction of the garden. Noor sighs and turns off the tape machine. She wanders through the house and into the kitchen. Mukhtar is at the sink cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

  “Ah, Miss Noor, would you like me to make you some lunch?”

  “It’s fine, I can make myself something.”

  Noor opens the fridge. Its shelves are laden with enough food to feed thirty refugees for a week. She takes out a bottle of milk.

  “Mr. Matthews likes my breakfast very much,” Mukhtar says. “Every morning he puts his thumb up and smacks my hand. He calls it a ‘hifithe’. It is most sad about his friend, is it not?”

  “You mean his colleague?”

  “Yes, but he and Wali are more like friends. That is most unusual, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Noor pours herself a glass and lets the milk slip down her throat.

  Oh Lord, that’s good.

  Noor can’t resist pouring herself a second glass.

  “What would you like me to cook for this evening?” Mukhtar says.

  “If it’s alright I’d like to make tonight’s meal,” she says, “but maybe you could help me obtain the ingredients. Just give me ten minutes and I’ll tell you what I need.”

  Mukhtar leaves, and Noor contemplates what she’s going to cook. She draws a blank.

  What were you thinking? You haven’t cooked in years.

  Noor thinks about rushing after Mukhtar and withdrawing her offer.

  But wouldn’t it be a nice gesture? A way of showing your appreciation to Charlie, a voice says.

  She opens the nearest cupboard and scans the first shelf of spice bottles‌—‌mango powder, carom seed, green cardamom, cinnamon, kala namak, coriander powder, tamarind, garam masala, tamarind, and nutmeg.

  The last thing you want to show any Western man is appreciation, she thinks. Look how he misinterpreted my smile on the bus.

  She scans the second shelf‌—‌shopa aniseed, holy basil, flax seeds, sonth dried ginger powder, mustard seed, methi leaves and zaafraan saffron. She doesn’t have a clue what to do with any of them.

  And if he hadn’t, the voice says, maybe Tariq would have found you by now.

  Noor shivers at the thought and feels ever more resolved to make the meal. She heads to the library and scans the bookshelves. Afghan Cooking, a book published in 1967, is the best she can find. She flips through it and fixes on a recipe for Afghan Kofta. Noor has fond memories of standing on a short stool in their Kabul kitchen and helping her mother knead the mixture of ground beef, onions, pepper and garlic into balls.

  I can make this. Better yet I can make it well.

  Six hours later she hears the front door slam shut.

  Oh no, he’s back.

  By now she’s a frazzled wreck. Mukhtar had returned from the market with sides of beef not ground beef, and by the time she’d realized his mistake he’d already left to go visit a relative. She’d looked in vain for a meat grinder, and in the end had had to settle for cutting up the beef with a knife. However hard she’d tried she couldn’t get the meatballs to stick together well. Her mothers’ kofta had always had this wonderful symmetrical shape; hers looked like misshapen mud pies and crumbled at the slightest touch. Though she was loathe to waste a single shred of meat, she’d tried a second batch but they’d come out no better. At that point she’d begun cursing the very notion of cooking a meal for Charlie.

  It’s as if I’m some clichéd housewife trying to impress her husband.

  Any hope of returning to her Dutch studies has long been extinguished, and now she’s faced with either canceling dinner or going with what she has. She can’t countenance the former so with utmost delicacy she places her skewered meatballs in the oven and turns the heat up on the rice. She hears Charlie talking with her father on the verandah and prays he comes no further. The kitchen looks like a battle zone, and she a civilian who’s gotten caught in the cro
ssfire. The conversation ends. She waits. Nothing.

  Thank God, he’s gone upstairs.

  “So I hear you’re cooking tonight.”

  Noor whips around to find Charlie standing in the doorway. She attempts to push her disheveled hair off her face.

  “Mind if I grab a beer?” he says.

  “You don’t need my permission.”

  “Just trying to be sensitive.”

  Charlie opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of Murree Beer. Noor glances at the oven and wonders if she should be turning the meatballs by now.

  “So how was your day?” she says, catching herself too late.

  The clichés only multiply.

  “Wali woke up,” he says. “I was the one to tell him he’d lost his legs. He’s devastated.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I have both of mine.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I still have a job.”

  Noor stops stirring.

  “Jurgen called this afternoon. Said he told the folks at Mine Aware it was him who’d ordered me to go on the expedition, and if they fired me they’d never get any cooperation from the UN again. Hate to say it but you’re stuck with my sorry ass.”

  Noor can’t explain it but she’s relieved. She does her best not to show it.

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to do a lot of good,” she says.

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  Noor glances at the oven again; she needs to turn over the meatballs.

  “I’m sorry, do you mind…”

  “It’s okay,” he says, “I was off for a shower anyway.”

  Charlie grabs another bottle and leaves. Noor opens the oven door and winces. The meatballs are burned on top. There’s nothing she can do. She twists them around and clumps of meat fall away.

  Maybe this is how the Soviets came to think of Afghanistan. A failed venture that could only get worse the longer it went on.

  She waits for the other side to cook and tries to dissect her emotions.

  Everything I said was true. He can do some good out here, and perhaps in the process he can better himself.

  But why are you so happy personally? the voice inside her asks.

  I’m not. Next week we’ll return to the camp and as far as I’m concerned we’ll never see him again.

  She bends down and takes the meatballs out of the oven. She strains the rice and goes out onto the verandah. Bushra is reading a 1950s French travel guide while her father is bent over the table carving something into a strip of wood. Aamir Khan covers what he’s working on.