by N G Osborne
She breathes easier.
The SUV stops, and she hears an electric window descend.
“Ma’am,” a man says in Pashtu.
She keeps on walking. The gears shift, and the SUV reverses.
“Ma’am, look this way please.”
She quickens her pace. She hears doors open. She looks back and sees two bearded young zealots jumping out.
“It’s her,” one of them shouts.
Noor starts running. She reaches the bus stop and bowls into a woman. The woman screeches at her, and, like a flock of penguins, burqaed heads turn in her direction. One of the men grabs her arm and yanks her backwards. The leather notebook falls to the dirt. She twists around and sinks her teeth into the man’s hand. The man screams.
Noor staggers on. She sees a bus pulling out. She sprints after it, and grabs a hold of the bar in its open doorway. Her feet drag along the road, mud splattering her face. She grits her teeth and pulls herself up.
“You mad?” the conductor says.
She cranes her head out the door. The SUV has stopped to pick up her pursuers. She knows it won’t take long for them to catch up.
“Two rupees,” the conductor says.
You can’t stay on here.
“Two rupees, woman, or I’ll throw you off.”
“Fine,” she says.
He looks at her as though she’s insane.
“Let me off,” she screams.
The conductor shouts at the bus driver to slow down and shoves her out the door. She lands on the side of the road. She cries out and rolls over and over until she comes to a rest by a stack of ghee cans.
Get up.
She clambers to her feet and sees nothing but mud huts. She realizes she’s on the outskirts of Kacha Gari refugee camp.
She hears a vehicle skid to a halt and starts running.
Doors open behind her.
She plunges down a tight alley, turning right into one and left into another. She runs through the rubble of an abandoned hut and out into another alley. She sprints down it, and just before the corner looks over her shoulder. The men are nowhere to be seen.
Don’t stop.
The alley ends, and she emerges onto a wider dirt road. Men with shawls wrapped tight around them are trudging towards evening prayers. She weaves in amongst them only to see shock sweep across their faces.
She looks over her shoulder.
The black SUV is careening down the road. The men dive to the side to avoid it.
She spies an alley and sprints towards it. The SUV skids to a halt beside her. Another door opens, and another man joins the chase. She hurls herself down the alley. The man is gaining on her.
Once more she makes a succession of quick turns.
She looks back. He’s out of sight. She sees six curtained openings, three on either side of the alley.
Now or never.
She throws herself inside the second on the right. Everything is pitch black. Her eyes adjust. Two old women stare up at her, a couple of ancient sewing machines in front of them.
“Please,” she says. “Please help me.”
Outside she hears the man run past and not long after her two other pursuers. She scrambles for the door only to hear a fourth man come up the alley. He sounds slower than the others as if he’s dragging one of his legs behind him. He stops.
“A woman’s hiding around here,” he yells out in Pashtu. “An adulteress. We’re here to return her to her husband.”
Noor shakes her head at the women. Outside she hears the other men return.
“I know your men are at the mosque, and you’re probably afraid. Don’t be, we won’t enter your homes without their permission. All I ask is that if this woman’s seeking shelter that you push her out. She’s a whore and apostate, and Allah won’t look kindly on anyone who harbors her.”
One of the women sets aside her work and stands up.
“No,” Noor pleads.
The woman ignores her and puts on a green burqa. She pulls back the hessian cloth and steps outside. Noor sees a sharp blade on top of an upturned box and grabs it.
“Just who do you think you are?” she hears the woman in the burqa say. “Frightening women like this. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Our apologies, ma’am,” the man says, “but we can’t leave until we’ve searched each of these huts.”
“First you call them homes, now you call them huts, what makes you think our men would agree to such a thing?”
“We have money.”
“It’s always money with you people. How do you know I’m not this woman, eh?”
“Ma’am, it’s clear that—”
Noor hears the woman lift up her burqa.
“Is that better,” she says, “now you’ve seen my face and lost my dignity, does that help in your search? “
“Ma’am when your husband arrives—”
“When my husband arrives? To hell with that, I’ll go get him now. Just let me get my shoes.”
The woman slips back inside.
“There’s no need, we can wait,” the man shouts after her.
“Well I can’t,” the woman shouts back.
The woman takes off her burqa and shoves it into Noor’s hands.
‘Thank you,” Noor mouths.
The woman gestures at Noor to hurry up. Noor throws the burqa over her head.
“You’re bullies,” the woman shouts, “here to liberate us, you say, while you treat us like dogs.
The woman snorts..
“I tell you, my husband will sort this out.”
The woman pulls the burqa’s sleeves over Noor’s hands and pushes her out the door. Through the burqa’s webbed mask Noor makes out the four men. Her legs wobble but she manages to steady herself. She heads down the alley.
“Ma’am,” the older one says to her.
She stops.
“There’s no need for your husband to rush; we have plenty of time.”
Noor snorts with as much contempt as she can muster and continues on. When she comes to the dirt road she finds the black SUV sitting there with its high beams on. She carries on past it to the bus stop.
A solitary bus brakes to let off a passenger, and Noor stumbles aboard. She hands the conductor a bill from her payroll envelope and collapses to the floor. No one comes to her aid. She stares at the mud splattered shalwars of the men around her, and tries to muffle her sobs.
What were you thinking? You talk of signs. Well if this isn’t one from Allah, what is?
The bus arrives at her stop, and she staggers off. She steps into traffic. Horns blare, rickshaw drivers curse, but they all somehow avoid her. Some time later she finds herself outside Elma’s front door. Footsteps approach, and the door flies open.
“Welcome to your new…”
Elma’s voice trails off, her smile replaced with a frown.
“I’m sorry,” Elma says, “can I help you?”
Noor realizes she’s still wearing the burqa. She lifts the sodden cloth up until it rests on her head. Elma gasps. Noor collapses to the ground. This time she knows there’s no way she’ll be able to get up on her own.
THIRTY-NINE
CHARLIE SITS UNDER the front porch staring at the rain cascading down onto the driveway. Puddles have sprung up all the way down it, fallen leaves floating on top of them like the survivors of a defeated armada.
She may have gotten up earlier than me yesterday, but there’s no way she could have done today.
He hears footsteps coming around the balustrade and turns only to see Aamir Khan at the top of the stairs.
“Ah, Charlie, how are you this morning?”
“Haven’t seen rain in so long I almost forgot what it looked like.”
“The best thing to do when it rains is to let it rain, isn’t that what some wise fellow once said?”
Aamir Khan reaches the bottom of the staircase and plays with his sleeves.
“I was hoping to see you,” he says. “It conc
erns Noor.”
Charlie’s throat tightens.
“This scholarship to the University of Amsterdam, it is of extreme importance to her, and this interview, well it seems it carries a lot of weight. She has to do the whole of it in Dutch, were you aware?”
Charlie nods.
“I suppose what I am trying to say is residing here has become a distraction for her. There are too many people, and Miss Kuyt, well she has kindly offered Noor lodging in her house, and from what Noor tells me they will only converse in Dutch. You can imagine how beneficial that is going to be for her.”
Charlie knows that ‘too many people’ means him and that Aamir Khan knows that too.
“She there already?” Charlie says.
“She moved in last night.”
“Just like that. No goodbye, nothing.”
“You must understand this is the best chance she has of getting out of here. I suspect her only chance.”
Charlie swallows.
How can you argue that?
He stands and grabs his satchel from the nearby chair. Aamir Khan holds the door open like a loyal butler.
“You are a good man, Charlie, one of the best I have had the privilege of knowing.”
Charlie has never heard more hollow words. He climbs on his motorcycle and tears off towards Jamrud Road, his mind a whir, the rain lashing his face. A truck exits the driveway of a large mansion, and he swerves to avoid it. The motorcycle skids from under him, and he and the motorcycle careen down the side of the road. He hurtles past the truck, stones and grass ripping up his left side, misses a tree trunk by inches and tumbles into a rhododendron bush. He lies there in a daze.
The bearded face of the truck driver appears in front of him. The driver jabbers away in Pashtu and pulls Charlie from the bush. The pain hits Charlie; the searing scrapes down his leg and arm, the stinging lacerations on his face.
He hobbles towards his motorcycle. It’s never been clearer what he needs to do. He lifts it up and climbs back on. The engine fires first time. He takes off past the astonished truck driver and heads back the way he came. He knows Elma’s cottage is close. He goes up and down the quiet residential streets peering up each driveway for Elma’s white Land Cruiser.
Just as he’s about to give up, he sees it parked in front of a beige cottage nestled amidst a copse of drooping juniper trees. He does a one-eighty and roars up its driveway. He steps off and grimaces.
Jesus, I must be a sight.
The door opens, and Elma strides out wearing an embroidered shalwar kameez. In her haste, she hasn’t even bothered to put a jacket on.
“What are you doing here?” she says.
“I’m here to see Noor.”
“That’s not happening.”
“You can’t stop me.”
He skirts around her and limps towards the cottage.
“Enter my house and I’ll have you deported by the end of the day.”
He turns back.
“You couldn’t,” he says.
“You forget, I have friends in high places.”
He glances at the house. He knows Noor’s in there. Surely she must have heard him.
Why won’t she come out?
He studies the windows hoping to see a curtain pulled back, but none of them are. Elma walks over. Her shalwar kameez has begun to stick to her skin, her full breasts there to admire.
To think that once might’ve turned me on.
“What were you thinking?” she says.
“I love her.”
“You love the idea of being a knight in shining armor. That’s why you helped Kamila.”
“No.”
“Really? If your cook had told you a similar story, would you have done the same for him?”
Charlie doesn’t say anything. Elma holds out an envelope. The rain has smudged the ink, but he can still make out his name written in Noor’s delicate handwriting. He rips it open.
Dear Charlie:
If you’re reading this it means you have come by to see me. I apologize for not greeting you. It’s not that I’m incapable of doing so, but it’s important that I put into practice the decision I’ve made.
We can no longer have a relationship - of any sort. It’s not that I don’t respect you because I do, immensely. And it’s not that I don’t value your friendship. What you have done for me and my family I will never forget. But over the last couple of days, ever since that incident, I’ve had the opportunity to ponder my life and my feelings. I do not love you, Charlie. For a time I thought I did, but now I realize it was no more than an infatuation at best.
I have big dreams, Charlie. Dreams I’m desperate to fulfill. If you truly love me you will provide me the freedom to pursue them.
I wish you the best of luck in Afghanistan. What you are doing for my country is noble. You will be in my prayers. Always.
Noor
By now the words are beginning to run together as seamlessly as the tears and rain on Charlie’s cheeks. He shoves the letter in his pocket.
“You’ll get over this,” Elma says. “In fact, one day you’re going to look back and realize it was just as much of an infatuation on your part as it was on hers.”
“Doubt that,” he says. “I doubt that very much.”
He hobbles to his motorcycle and starts the engine. He looks back at the house and sees a curtain snap shut.
Noor.
He waits, hoping she will run out the door and throw herself into his arms. But she never comes.
“Bye, Charlie,” Elma says.
He wipes his eyes and turns the throttle. The bike lurches down the driveway. He has no clue where to go next.
Thank God, we’re off to Afghanistan tomorrow.
He couldn’t imagine spending another week in this city.
PART III
engage
FORTY
CHARLIE CLIMBS OUT, the biting wind searing his face, and gives the village a once over; no one seems to be there. He assumes the three families have moved on. He looks back. The recruits are clambering out of their motley collection of trucks.
“Gather round,” he says.
They huddle up next to him.
“Good to be back in Afghanistan?” he says.
“Allah akbar,” Yunus shouts, raising his fist in the air.
The others join in the same refrain.
“Allah akbar indeed,” Charlie says with a broad smile.
The Afghans let out a cheer.
“Okay, Mocam’s going to give each of you a map. You see this area in blue, that’s safe for you guys to walk in. Everything in red is live so unless you want to share the same fate as Wali, keep out of it. Now we’re going to split into three groups. Farooq, Zafar Khan, Ahmad Khan, Haamid, Qadir, Ali, Rahmat Saeed, go with Mocam and unload all the equipment. Bakri, Rahmahullah, Mohammad Khan, Abdul Nasser, Abdul Raouf, Habibullah, Yasir, Osman, Tarik, you’re with Najib putting up the tents. Obaidullah, Yunus, Shafiq, Hamid, Omar, Wahed, Mohammad Farooq, Jameel and Qasim you’re with me.”
“And what are we doing, sir?” Obaidullah says.
“We’re digging the shitter.”
“I apologize, I am not familiar—”
“The toilet, Obaidullah.”
Charlie winks at Obaidullah and grabs a shovel. He catches sight of the undergrowth and is drawn to its edge. He scans the area where Wali fell, and sees something white amongst the weeds. It’s one of Wali’s sneakers.
“I’m sorry, Wali,” he says.
He gathers his group and chooses a sheltered spot behind one of the houses. It has a view of the river and the snow capped mountains beyond.
“Great place for it, don’t you think?” he says.
“Pardon me, sir, but good view would not be first for me,” Obaidullah says.
“What would?”
“Shelter.”
“We’re totally protected from the wind here.”
“But not rain.”
“Guess you got a point.”
<
br /> He turns to the rest of the men.
“Okay, let’s dig three holes, four by four feet wide and to a six foot depth. Then we’ll lay our planks down and put three tents over the top of them, that way if it’s raining everyone can stay dry while I still have the option of opening up the front and admiring the view in the morning.”
He picks up his shovel. The Afghans look at him as if there’s a raving madman in their midst.
“Come on,” he says, “no time to waste.”
Two hours later the latrines are dug and their camp’s in place. The sun that’s hung above the mountains all afternoon disappears, and while Obaidullah leads the Afghans in prayer, Charlie lies back against his tent and nurses his now aching shoulder.
He pulls out Noor’s letter and reads it once again, its words stinging as harshly as the first time he read it. Obaidullah finishes the prayer and walks over. Charlie stuffs the letter back in his pocket.
“I feel terribly, Mr. Matthews, I forgot to wish you a most happy Christmas.”
Charlie realizes he forgot himself.
“I trust you are aware we consider Jesus one of our great prophets.”
“I didn’t,” Charlie says, “but that’s good to know.”
“You will be saying many prayers tonight, I am suspecting, in private as Christians do.”
“I will, thanks.”
“Then I hope Allah answers them.”
That’s unlikely, Obaidullah. Very unlikely indeed.
FORTY-ONE
TARIQ HEARS A burst of automatic gunfire and puts his pen down.
Perhaps a couple of mujahideen got into a dispute.
More and more guns start firing.
Oh no, we’re being attacked.
He grabs his Beretta and wriggles out of his tent. Tracer fire lights up the night sky. He sprints past befuddled mujahideen in the direction of the Prince’s tent and cuts down the back of a row of tents until he sees it up ahead. The Prince’s entire Saudi bodyguard rings it, firing their weapons into the sky. Tariq squints into the dark.
Is there a helicopter out there?
He can’t see one and stumbles on. The flap opens, and the Prince strides out. He grabs an AK-47 from a guard and points it in Tariq’s direction. Tariq flings himself to the ground just before the Prince unleashes a volley of rounds. Tariq lies there in disbelief.
