Refuge

by N G Osborne

  “I’d love to.”

  “Well don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Charlie starts to sing, his voice tentative and strained at first. However the more he loses himself in the song, the more melodic his voice becomes. Noor watches him entranced until eventually he trails off and stares out through the branches as if searching for his mother. Noor fights the urge to reach out and take a hold of his hand. She stands.

  “Good night, Charlie.”

  He looks up.

  “Oh, you out of here?” he says.

  “It’s late.”

  Charlie nods.

  “Well thanks for listening.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Noor walks back down the bough. When she reaches the trunk she looks back. Charlie is still staring off into the distance mumbling the words to the song. What she sees is a fourteen year old boy holding his dying mother’s hand, bringing her untold comfort as she slips into the next life, and it breaks her heart.

  ***

  UP ON THE bough, Charlie watches Noor walk along the verandah, her posture straight, her gait graceful.

  I love her. I love her like no other woman I’ve ever met.

  It scares him to death. He remembers what Noor had said the first time she came to the house. “I assume you weren’t going to ask my father for my hand in marriage?’ and when he’d asked her if she was kidding how she’d remarked that the only thing he could thus be hoping for was ‘an erotic fling with an exotic woman’. Charlie can’t help but smile; only Noor could come up with such a phrase. At the time he thought she was being ridiculous, but the more he thinks about it the more he realizes she has a point. For a self-respecting Muslim woman the only romantic relationship she can have is a married one.

  Could I marry her?

  Maybe. No, not maybe. Yes. Absolutely.

  So you’re certain you love her?

  Yes.

  Just like Dad was certain he loved Mom?

  Charlie would like nothing more than to argue that his father’s feelings had been fraudulent, but whenever his mother spoke about their whirlwind love affair, it was always with a sparkle in her eye. It was magical, she’d tell him; the two of them had felt like no one else existed in the world.

  So what happened?

  They weren’t compatible. They had different outlooks on life.

  And how can you be so sure you and Noor don’t too?

  Questions begin to pepper his brain. Will he really be alright with a Muslim wife? What if she wants to raise their children Muslim? Would he be okay walking in the door at night to see them prostrating themselves towards Mecca?

  You’d be an alien in your own home.

  Unless of course he became a Muslim too. The concept seems absurd, but perhaps Noor would pressure him into becoming one, just as his father had pressured his mother into going to church and joining the Junior League. Noor might deny it now, be as fine with him drinking as his father once was with his mother smoking joints. But it hadn’t been long until his father had disapproved. Hell he’d objected right up until the end, even when his mother’s doctor said it could help with her nausea.

  Will I be sneaking beers on the porch? Chewing gum on the way home after going to a bar with a buddy?

  He knows he’d start to resent Noor, just like his mother had come to resent his father.

  And then what? Live a sham of a marriage like my parents did? Never. I’d never do that to myself, more importantly I’d never do that to Noor. No one deserves that.

  The breeze picks up, and the decaying leaves rustle all around him. He sits rock still and listens for his mother, hoping for some words of wisdom. He hears nothing but the wind.

  It must be nice to think like Noor does. To believe your mother’s out there looking down on you.

  But he knows different. Once you’re gone, you’re gone, dust at best, lost for eternity. And he knows any hope of him and Noor being together has crumbled as surely as any dead body will.

  It will never work, and if I respect her I won’t try to make it.

  Charlie stands up and makes his way back inside, turning off the lights as he goes. He walks down the upstairs corridor and stops next to the switch outside Noor’s and Bushra’s room. He stares at their door. To know she’s so close is almost unbearable. With a heavy sigh he flicks the light off and continues on.

  THIRTY

  TARIQ STANDS OUTSIDE the Prince’s tent, two Saudi bodyguards cradling high-end assault rifles on either side of him. To call it a tent is a gross mischaracterization; it has nothing in common with the miserable canvas dwellings that are spread out in front of them. The Prince’s tent could hold a wedding for two hundred, has warm air pumped into it, and its floor is lined with the most sumptuous of rugs.

  Now that is living.

  A lumbering Ford Bronco appears at the far end of the camp, and he watches it bounce its way towards them. The Saudi bodyguards tense.

  “It’s fine,” Tariq says.

  The Prince had told him to expect an American guest, and ever since he’s been intrigued to meet him. The Bronco rolls to a stop, and two well built Americans climb out. The passenger door opens, and a weasel of a man steps out. He sniffs the air and takes in the dispirited mujahideen trudging about in the snow.

  How he must deride us.

  The American catches Tariq staring at him and approaches.

  “Ivor Gardener, he’s expecting me,” he says in Arabic.

  “Your men have to stay outside,” Tariq says in English.

  The man’s eyes flicker.

  “No problem,” he says.

  The American spreads his arms and legs wide. One of the Saudi guards comes over and pats him down for weapons. Tariq tells the other to go and inform the Prince that the American has arrived.

  “I haven’t met you before,” the American says.

  “My name’s Tariq Khan.”

  “Ah, so you’re the one. Congratulations.”

  Tariq can’t help but feel a visceral thrill that the American knows who he is. The guard nods at Tariq. Moments later the other returns and relays that the Prince will see the American immediately. Tariq wishes he could keep the conversation going but knows it’d be unthinkable to keep the Prince waiting. He pulls back the flap.

  “Have a good meeting, Mr. Gardener,” Tariq says.

  “See you around,” the American says.

  Snow starts to fall, and Tariq stomps his feet to keep them warm. The stump on his right arm throbs as if someone’s hitting it with a hammer. One more hour of this guard duty, and they’ll rotate, and he’ll be inside and beside the Prince once more.

  Tariq sees three men walk up the track and recognizes them as Salim Afridi, and his two brutish, oldest sons, Iqbal and Nasir. The three of them stare at Tariq with undisguised malevolence. Iqbal, his nose running, snorts like a farmyard animal and hawks a hefty glob of mucus at Tariq’s feet.

  “The Prince is expecting us,” Salim Afridi says.

  “One moment,” Tariq says.

  He turns for the entrance, and Salim Afridi grabs a hold of his arm.

  “Did you hear what I said, boy?”

  “I did, but the Prince put this protocol in place, not me.”

  Tariq stares down his father-in-law. Salim Afridi lets go of his sleeve, and Tariq pulls back the flap. He steps into the interior’s warm embrace. Two bodyguards, on the other side, give him the go ahead, and he walks to the far end of the tent where the Prince is conferring with the American. The Prince knows he’s there but doesn’t acknowledge his presence. Tariq hopes the Prince makes him wait forever just so his father-in-law and his two idiot sons freeze their balls off. Tariq projects an air of studied indifference while listening intently to what the two men are saying.

  “So you haven’t spoken to bin Laden recently?” the American says.

  “You make it seem like we’re the best of friends,” the Prince laughs.

  “You guys hung out all the time.”

&n
bsp; “We were two Saudis in a foreign land, our paths were bound to cross.”

  “I went by a couple of his training camps in Nangrahar. They’re totally deserted. The Stingers we gave him too.”

  “I believe he distributed them equally amongst the factions..”

  “So he has left?”

  “If he gave away his Stingers then one would presume so.”

  “But you don’t know where?”

  The Prince stares back at the American.

  “No. If I did I would have told you. Now enough about bin Laden, I want to hear more about what your sources in Kabul are telling you? Do you think it is a propitious time to attack”

  Please say no, Tariq prays.

  The Prince glances up at Tariq.

  “Where’s Salim Afridi?” he says.

  “He’s waiting outside.” Tariq says.

  “Then what are you doing standing there. Show him in.”

  Damn.

  Tariq hurries back outside.

  “You’re good,” he says.

  His in-laws barge past him. Tariq zips the entrance shut and pulls out the letter he received from Yousef that morning. He reads it one last time.

  Tariq, As-salaam Alaykum. No success yet in finding your package. Are you sure it is still in Peshawar? Yousef.

  Tariq pulls a lighter from his pocket and lights the letter. Before the flames can lick his fingers he lets it go, its ashes intermingling with the snow flakes..

  He walks over to a nearby tent. Sarosh, one of the Prince’s clerks, looks up.

  “When’s the mail going to Peshawar?” he says.

  “End of the day,” Sarosh says.

  Tariq pulls out an envelope addressed to Yousef and hands it to the clerk. Inside is a simple two word reply.

  Keep looking.

  THIRTY-ONE

  NOOR SITS MEMORIZING a list of Dutch nouns. She glances at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It’s close to midnight. She wonders if Charlie is ever coming home.

  Maybe he’s sleeping somewhere else.

  It’d certainly solve the mystery of why they hadn’t seen him all week. She wonders whether he has a lover, another aid worker perhaps.

  Why do you care?

  I don’t.

  She tries concentrating on the words in front of her but instead reminisces about her visit to Elma’s earlier that week. Elma’s cottage had only been a ten minute walk, so close to Charlie’s house it was perturbing. Elma had opened the door with an infectious smile, and swept Noor into the house, and for the next two hours had insisted on only speaking Dutch as she plied Noor with food.

  She still thinks I live in the camps, that’s why she fed me so much.

  As the evening had progressed Noor had become increasingly paralyzed. Elma was speaking so fast that Noor could barely pick out one in twenty words.

  There is no way I’ll be able to learn this language in time, she’d thought.

  Elma had noticed the terror on her face and asked her in English what was troubling her. From then on Elma had spoken at a more deliberate pace, repeating sentences over until Noor understood them, and by the end of the night while Noor was hardly confident in her meager grasp of Dutch, she could at least see a path forward. Elma had insisted on increasing the number of lessons from one night a week to three, and in turn Noor had set herself the goal of studying every night until eleven o’clock.

  If he is sleeping with a woman he has to be leaving her bed well before dawn.

  When she’d spoken with Mukhtar that morning he’d insisted he’d made Charlie breakfast every day that week.

  Noor throws her book down.

  This is ridiculous, I’m beginning to act like the wife of a philandering husband.

  She walks out onto the verandah and stares up at the tree.

  “I’m not scared of you, Tariq,” she says. “I never have been and never will be.”

  Then why are you hiding from me? she hears him reply.

  She shivers. Strange as it may sound, she misses the camp, especially the graveyard and her nightly runs. They always allowed her to clear her head.

  Then do something about it.

  She tucks her kameez inside her shalwar pants and walks onto the lawn. She slips off her sandals and starts doing jumping jacks until she feels her heart beating fast. She gets down onto the grass and does fifteen push ups followed by thirty sit ups. She does this three times until she can no longer push her body up. She sits there gulping for air.

  Keep going.

  She stands and does squats and after that a set of lunges around the lawn. By now her face is bathed in sweat. In the graveyard there was an abandoned swing set from which she could do pull-ups. She looks up at the great oak.

  Surely there must be a branch up there that can carry my weight.

  She clambers up the trunk and hops onto the lowest bough. Above her, she sees an L shaped branch so sturdy that a gale couldn’t break it loose. Noor grabs a hold of it and starts on her pull-ups. Golden leaves fall all around her as the branch shakes. By her ninth pull up, her legs are jerking like those of a convict at the end of a noose. She forces herself up one last time. Her chin touches the branch, and she drops back down onto the bough, her head light, her muscles aching in the most wondrous way.

  Finally, you’re relaxed.

  She hears the growl of an approaching motorcycle.

  Charlie.

  She wonders whether she should go down and greet him.

  No it’s late. And besides, what is there to talk about?

  She hears the front door slam shut and can’t help but feel a visceral thrill.

  Maybe he’ll come out onto the verandah and I can spy on him.

  She peers down at the darkened porch and waits. Across the way the lights of his room burst on, and through the fragmented canopy she sees Charlie throw his satchel on his bed. He heads over to his desk and selects a CD. Moments later the melodic strumming of a guitar drifts in her direction. Charlie throws open the doors to his balcony and disappears out of view. Noor strains to hear the words of the song. It seems to be about a stranger, battling through a storm, who is given shelter by a woman. Noor can’t help but think that shelter is what Charlie has given them.

  He’s not only given us shelter. He’s the only person to have ever given us shelter.

  The thought startles her. The song continues. The singer sings about a place where it’s always safe and warm. Noor imagines what that place would be for her.

  Holland. Only there will I truly be safe.

  Noor wonders what her lodgings would look like, what it’d feel like to be sitting surrounded by fellow students in a lecture hall, what friends she’d make.

  The song ends and Charlie passes by the open balcony doors. It takes Noor a moment to register he’s naked. She gasps, and claps her hands over her eyes. After what seems like an eternity, she decides she can pull them away.

  Surely it is safe now.

  She has to fling one out so as not to fall off the bough. Charlie is standing on the balcony, a cigarette between his lips. Noor wants to turn away but finds it impossible to. She’s never seen a naked man before.

  She stares at him; at his toweled, disheveled hair, the scar on his cheek, his robust chest, his slender waist, his vigorous thighs, his circumcised penis topped by a thatch of curly hair. Her face burns. Yet the longer she stares the more entranced she becomes. Charlie’s brow furrows, and he looks up into the night sky as if pondering the immensity, or perhaps even the insignificance, of the human condition.

  He is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  It’s as if God is proclaiming the nobility of man in his purest form.

  Charlie heads back inside and pulls the drapes shut.

  Noor takes a moment to collect herself and then begins edging down the trunk. Near the bottom she loses her grip and falls to the ground. She winces, not daring to cry out. She struggles to her feet and limps inside. In her bedroom, she lays down her prayer r
ug and begs Allah’s forgiveness for not turning her face away. And yet, despite this, when she lies in bed, she continues to see him naked. She feels something stirring deep within.

  THIRTY-TWO

  CHARLIE AND AAMIR Khan enter Wali’s hospital room to find Wali writing in his notepad. Wali flashes them a broad smile.

  “Ah, so this is the famous Aamir Khan,” he says.

  “And you must be the legendary Wali,” Aamir Khan says.

  “How about that, Mr. Matthews, a more intelligent and handsome man than I imagined.”

  Charlie looks over at Aamir Khan.

  “Get used to this, it never stops.”

  “And I hope it never does, pronouncements like that only brighten my day.”

  Wali grins. Aamir Khan drags a chair over to Wali’s bedside and opens the binder he’s carrying.

  “I had the good fortune of meeting with your doctor earlier,” Aamir Khan says, “and he is confident that you will be in a position to leave the hospital in a couple of weeks. Now I have taken the liberty of developing a rehabilitation program—”

  “You know what,” Charlie says, “I’m out of here. Aamir, you okay getting a rickshaw back to the house?”

  “Why, most certainly.”

  Charlie makes for the door.

  “Oh, Charlie, a word if I may?” Aamir Khan says.

  “What’s up?”

  Aamir Khan comes over and lowers his voice.

  “I am not sure if I mentioned this, but my son, Tariq, is a member of a mujahideen group, Hezb-e-Inqilab-Islami. Well, as you might imagine I am worried for his safety, and I was wondering if you could ascertain whether his group is still in Peshawar, or whether it has already headed to the front lines?”

  “You mind writing that down for me, I’m not good with names, especially Arabic ones.”

  “I took the liberty of doing so already.”

  Aamir Khan hands Charlie a piece of paper.

  “Let me see what I can do,” Charlie says.

  Charlie drives over to Mine Aware and finds the recruits checking their equipment. He’s elated to see that not one has absconded with theirs. He walks over and the men form into two straight lines.