by N G Osborne
Ah come on, not now.
Charlie bites into his hotdog. Ivor idles up next to him.
“How you doing kid?
“This is fricking amazing,” Charlie says.
“All courtesy of the US government.”
“I’ll never complain about paying taxes ever again.”
“You’re an ex-pat, you don’t.”
“Oh yeah, forgot.”
Ivor glances in Jurgen’s direction.
“What that fag want?”
“You really know how to insult someone, don’t you?”
Ivor shrugs.
“We’re going into Afghanistan next week,” Charlie says. “We just got our credentials.”
“Well do me a favor, you see anything weird while you’re out there, get word to me.”
“I thought you said you weren’t CIA.”
“Just do it, okay.”
“Chill, Ivor, just pulling your leg.”
Ivor looks for someone better to talk to. Charlie couldn’t care less. He finishes off his first hot dog.
“So did your guy make it?” Ivor says.
“Yeah, he’s doing great, already out of hospital, actually I got him living with me.”
Ivor nods at a couple of passing Pakistani officers.
“Tell me you’re kidding,” Ivor says.
“Don’t see what’s so funny.”
Ivor drags his attention away from the party.
“Look, it’s admirable you feel sorry for him, but there’s three and a half million sad-as-shit refugees round here. You should stick to those who’ve got a future.”
“Wali has a future.”
“His legs were blown off, it’s not like he can drive a cab.”
“So I should just throw him to the curb?”
“No, but you could politely place him there.”
“Sorry, just not that kind of guy.”
Charlie starts away. Ivor grabs his arm.
“Hey, I’m just trying to impart some wisdom here. You forget, I’ve been around this shit longer than you. Life’s a zero sum game, kid. You helping this guy, means you can’t help someone else.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Okay, you see an eighty year old man and a five year old kid drowning. You only have time to save one. Who do you haul out of the water?”
Charlie doesn’t answer. It’s the exact kind of scenario his father would throw at him. Ivor lets go of Charlie’s arm.
“Don’t get caught up in lost causes, Charlie. Too many people do—in dead-end marriages, boring jobs, shitty friendships, stupid-ass wars—fuck, ask the Soviets about Afghanistan, ask them how that went. Key in life is learning when to cut loose.”
“Sure love to be in a foxhole with you, Ivor.”
“That’s the thing, I’d never get myself in one in the first place.”
Ivor slaps Charlie on the back and wanders into the fray. Charlie looks around. He sees Jurgen and his friends sitting on some wicker chairs laughing with other members of the UN aristocracy; Elma Kuyt by the fish pond chatting with an American diplomat; Mike and Dave propping up the bar. All he wants is to be with Noor. He starts for the door, the cheeseburger forgotten.
***
ELMA ONLY HEARS the odd word the consul is saying. He is none the wiser. Over the years she’s perfected the nodding head and furrowed brow that makes anyone you’re talking to believe you’re listening intently.
Where is he?
She’s certain Rod said he was flying back today. She feels a tingle in her stomach as if she were a teenager waiting for her crush to appear. These last two weeks without him have been excruciating. She’s immersed herself in paperwork, visited as many projects as possible, taught Noor numerous Dutch lessons, yet everything has felt hollow. Just today she received both good and bad news in regard to the UNDP post, and yet neither seemed to affect her. The good news was that she was on the shortlist with two other candidates. The bad news was that one of those candidates was Andrea Engelson. She’d had no idea Engelson was interested in the position, and her inclusion has only lowered Elma’s chance of being selected.
At any other time in her life, Elma would be crawling up the walls with anxiety. After all Engelson is in New York, no doubt schmoozing with UN decision makers while she couldn’t be further away doing work that actually affects people’s lives, yet work that she knows counts for nothing when it comes to scaling the developmental aid ladder. Yet all of a sudden the job doesn’t seem that important. In fact Andrea Engelson can have it for all she cares.
I need to tell Rod. Everything.
If her relationship with Raymond taught her anything it’s that relationships built on deceit inevitably founder. By now she knows Rod’s character.
He’ll understand. He’ll probably love me even more for it.
In recent days she’s even considered telling Isaac the truth.
My God, if anyone deserves to know it’s him.
The next time she’s in Holland they’ll all sit down. Who knows perhaps Rod will be there too. She knows it’ll be painful, but it is the right thing to do. In the long run they’ll all be better off.
She looks once again towards the atrium doors and sees Rod at the top of the steps, his receding curly hair, his wide forehead, his heavy spectacles resting on the bridge of his stubby nose. In the past she’d never have given him a second glance, but this afternoon he might as well be the best looking man at the party. She excuses herself and works her way through the guests towards him. She wants to throw her arms around his neck but she doesn’t. Not in this company, not with Ivor prowling in the vicinity.
“You made it,” she says.
“Close run thing. The customs guys in Islamabad practically performed a strip search on me.”
“Now that would’ve been something to witness.”
Rod can’t help but redden. She’s glad her comment had an affect on him. She takes him by the arm.
“Come on, let’s get you a drink.”
They make their way over to the bar. He orders a whisky, and she joins him. Usually she never drinks spirits but today feels different.
Why the hell not?
“How was New York?” she says.
“Eventful.”
He takes a hefty slug of his whisky.
“Well don’t hold me in suspense.”
“They offered me London.”
Elma is dumbstruck. She takes a swig, and the whisky scalds her throat.
“You’re kidding?” she says.
“Trust me, was the last thing I expected. Every old fart in that building has been lobbying for the gig.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“I took it. I’ve been traveling from one hot spot to another for so long now, the idea of strawberries and cream at Wimbledon, the Queen, hell just somewhere normal to rest my head for a couple of years, how could I turn it down?”
“You couldn’t, you’d have been mad to.”
Rod smiles.
“I thought you might accuse me of selling out.”
“You’re a great reporter, Rod. Even the best need a break.”
He reddens again and looks at his feet. She loves him all the more for his modesty. He brings his gaze back up.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “In so many ways.”
It’s now Elma’s turn to blush. She can’t remember the last time a compliment had such an effect on her.
“There’s something else,” he says.
Elma holds her breath.
He’s going to ask me to come with him, she thinks.
They’ll rent a cute apartment in Kensington, and she’ll get a post with the European Community or a British NGO. They’ll buy a dog, a small one they can travel with, have weekend trips to the Continent. And the sex, oh my God, plenty of amazing sex, in a grand antique bed with that constant British rain pattering outside.
Someone catches Rod’s attention, and he stiffens. Elma sees Ivor
winding his way towards them. She feels her stomach turn.
“Come on,” she says, “let’s get out of here. There’s something I want to tell you too.”
She grips Rod’s arm and leads him out front where her SUV is parked. They drive away just as Ivor comes out its main doors. She decides that they’ll fuck first. She knows there’s no way she can wait, not anymore.
Then we can talk.
She feels her pulse quicken, closes her eyes a moment as she imagines him entering her. She hears a horn and sees a rickshaw cross in front of her. She swerves and misses the vehicle by an inch.
“Sorry,” she says with a jittery laugh.
“Where are we going?” Rod says.
“My house, of course.”
She places her hand on his thigh and runs her hand up his leg. She feels him harden.
“Elma—”
“Shhh, we’re almost there.”
By the side of the road a couple of men are pushing a cart stacked high with watermelons. She can’t help but smile as she remembers the question that girl in Noor’s class asked.
How long ago that seems.
She pulls into her driveway and comes to a halt outside the front door. She turns off the ignition, Rod’s heavy breathing magnified by the silence. She glances at him. He’s staring straight ahead.
“I need to tell you something,” he says.
“Me too.”
Elma places her hand on Rod’s cheek and turns his face towards her.
“I love you,” she says.
She closes her eyes and moves her lips towards his.
“I’m engaged,” he says.
Elma pulls back and grips the wheel. She tries to take a breath but fails.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t have let it get this far.”
“Who?”
“Amanda, she works at the Times, we’ve been off again on again for years, but on this last visit something clicked, it just felt right.”
“And you’re sure?”
“As sure as I think I’ll ever be.”
Her whole body starts to tremble. He places his hand on her arm, and she drops it away.
Just get out, get out, get out.
“I had no idea you felt this way,” he says, “if I had—”
“No, it’s my fault. It was a fantasy that’s all, stupid really.”
“This won’t effect the piece, I promise.”
Elma begins to sob. She tries to stop herself but finds it impossible not to do so.
“Is there anything I can do?” he says.
She covers her face with her hands and starts rocking back and forth in her seat.
“I meant what I said, Elma. You really are a beautiful woman. You’ll find someone way better than me, I promise.”
She hears the passenger door open and close. His footsteps fade away, and now free of his presence, Elma collapses against the steering wheel and begins to bawl.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“DOES ANYONE KNOW what they’ll be celebrating in America in two weeks?”
Noor looks out at her class. Half the girls have their hands raised. She nods at Yasmeen, a girl with wide brown eyes.
“Their new year, Miss.”
“Well done. Now who knows what year it will be in their calendar?”
Eight hands go up this time. She’s heartened to see one of them belongs to Hila. She nods at her.
“Nineteen ninety-two, Miss,” Hila says.
“And why will it be nineteen ninety-two?”
“Because that’s how long since the Jesus was born.”
“Excellent. And what year is it in our calendar?”
Every hand goes up.
“Rashida?”
“Fourteen-twelve, Miss.”
“And how many years is that since?”
Noor points at Zilla, a prim, studious type near the back.
“The hijra. The year the Prophet, peace be upon him, journeyed to Medina from Mecca.”
Noor looks out at her students.
“I hope you know you’re the smartest class in school.”
The girls start clapping. Noor puts a finger to her lips.
“Shhh, that’s our secret, we don’t want the other girls to get jealous.”
The girls giggle. Noor glances at Kamila’s empty chair and feels a pang of sorrow. She wonders where Kamila is now; her husband’s hut most likely, being harangued by his first wife while she waits in terror for him to return. She forces a smile.
“Now can anyone tell me what’s the difference between the Islamic and Christian calendars?”
A host of hands go up.
“Mariam?”
“Ours is better, Miss.”
“I was hoping for a more scientific answer. Hila?”
“They are not good Muslims, Miss.”
“Hila, they aren’t Muslims so they cannot be good or bad Muslims only good or bad Christians. Amina?”
“They celebrate their new year, Miss, and we don’t.”
“True but—”
“In New York City they set off fireworks and drop a glass ball and drink alcohol in the streets.”
“I told you, Miss, they are not good Muslims,” Hila says.
“I’m still looking for a scientific explanation. Anyone?”
“Our calendar is lunar and theirs is solar,” a voice says.
Noor turns and sees Kamila standing in the doorway. The girls scream in delight and rush over to her. Noor takes a moment to compose herself. She tells the girls to sit down, and slowly they drift back to their desks. Noor walks over and touches Kamila’s cheek.
You really are here.
Noor opens up her arms and hugs Kamila. She never wants to let her go. She does, however. She stares into Kamila’s sparkling eyes.
“How?”
“I was saved by a knight in shining armor,” Kamila says.
Noor dismisses the comment. Kamila’s always had an overactive imagination.
“Well that’s what knights are there for, aren’t they?”
“I’m sorry for what my mother did to you. I tried to stop them, but they held me back.”
“I survived.”
“And so did I.”
“Yes you did. Come, sit, we can talk more after class.”
Noor leads Kamila to her desk. Kamila leans back in her chair with the confidence of a Captain who’s returned to the bridge of his ship. Noor picks up her book and tries to remember where they were in the lesson.
“Do you think Allah sent my knight, Miss Noor?” Kamila says.
“I’m sure he did.”
“Even if he’s not a Muslim?”
Noor looks up, and the class leans forward as if they’re about to hear the most fantastical of tales.
“The man who played tag with us in the courtyard came the day of the wedding with a man in a wheelchair. He told my father if I stayed unmarried he’d pay him money for every year I attended school. Right after, the wedding was called off.”
Noor stands there, stunned.
Oh my Lord, he did this for me.
“Miss Noor, do you know this man?” Kamila says.
“No,” she says, recovering, “but I’ve heard of men like him. They travel the country doing this sort of thing.”
“Like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza?” Amina says.
“No, silly,” Kamila says, “they were idiots. He’s more like Saladin.”
“Or maybe Salman Khan,” Yasmeen says.
Noor allows the girls to squabble amongst themselves. She knows Charlie resembles none of these men, yet at this moment he’s not only Kamila’s hero, he’s hers too.
That afternoon he never leaves her thoughts. He stands at the back of the class, sits beside her on the bus making fun of her burqa, walks her home, and opens the front door for her. He lifts the burqa over her head, his face inches from hers—
Noor hears a crash come from the kitchen. She shoves the burqa into the bottom of her bag and heads to the kitchen.
Mukhtar is on his knees picking up the remnants of a shattered dish.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Noor.”
“Don’t worry, I did the exact same thing not so long ago.”
Noor gets down and helps him.
“Where is everyone?” she says.
“Your father and Wali are at the hospital, and I believe your sister is washing some clothes.”
“And Mr. Matthews?”
“Mr. Matthews?”
Noor feels her face burn up and turns away.
“It’s of no concern,” she says. “I was just curious if you expected him home anytime soon.”
“I’m sorry, I have no idea.”
Noor walks over to the sink and pours herself a glass of water. Through the window she sees Rasul hobble towards the hut. She lets the water slip down her throat, and feels her complexion return to normal.
“I prepared mourgh for dinner,” Mukhtar says. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, you can go,” Noor says.
“Have a good night, Miss Noor.”
“You too, Mukhtar.”
Noor stands there a moment marveling at the absurdity of their final exchange.
When did I become a woman who dismisses servants.
She glances at the clock. It’s quarter to six. It’s time she went to Elma’s. She retrieves her study books from the sitting room, and walks towards the hall. Outside she hears the roar of Charlie’s motorcycle. She stands there unsure what to do. She hears the front door open, and Charlie fling his satchel down on the hall chair. He starts walking in her direction. Her breathing quickens. She looks around the room.
You can’t just be standing here.
She spies the leather reading chair and hurries to it. His footsteps get closer. She drops the books on the floor and then retrieves the one on top. She opens it to a chapter on the passive voice. She might as well be reading a book in Sanskrit. The door opens.
“You’re home,” Charlie says.
Noor looks up. His shirt is wrinkled, his leather boots caked with dust.
“I’m studying before I go over to Elma’s,” she says.
“I just saw her at the consulate barbecue.”
He spies the book in her hand. She has to remind herself to breathe.
“How’s that going?” he says.
“One day at a time.”
“Don’t get all humble on me, I bet you’re fluent by now.”
