Refuge

by N G Osborne

  “I’ll call you back when I have something,” his father says.

  “Thanks Dad, I really appreciate it.”

  There’s silence. Charlie wonders if his father has hung up.

  “I know you were angry, Charlie, I know I did many things to push you away, but I want you to know there’s not been a day I haven’t thought of you‌—‌I love you, Charlie.”

  Charlie swallows.

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  Charlie replaces the receiver. He shakes his head.

  Shit, maybe miracles can happen after all.

  FIFTY-TWO

  ELMA LIES ON her sitting room couch and nurses her third whisky of the night. The house is so quiet she can hear own breathing. She now regrets sending Nadeem away. At least with him here she had some form of company.

  How pathetic. All alone. No career, no man, no friends.

  She senses a fresh set of tears coming on, and downs the rest of her glass to quell them.

  She heads down the corridor towards her bathroom. On the way she passes Noor’s old bedroom. She looks at the bed that Noor made so neatly every morning, at the desk where she studied, at the prayer rug on the floor. She hates to admit it but she misses her.

  What have I done? Who have I become?

  In her bathroom, she squats over the toilet and pees. On the opposite wall is a print of an upset toddler being comforted by her elder sister. She always wished she’d had an older sibling, but she hadn’t, and over the years she’d comforted herself with the knowledge that it had made her all the more self-sufficient. When she’d got knocked down it had been up to her to pick herself up.

  And now’s no different.

  She flushes the toilet. She knows what she needs to do, or at least where to start. She grabs her car keys off the top of her bedroom dresser.

  Thank God I never called Gerben.

  She imagines Noor opening the door at Charlie’s house. Elma will launch into her apology, and when she tells Noor that the scholarship is still hers, Noor will break out into a glorious smile, perhaps even scream with delight and throw her arms around her.

  All will be forgiven.

  Elma hears the doorbell ring. She smiles.

  Well that saves me a trip.

  She hurries down the corridor and flings the front door open to find Ivor standing there in a suit and a Houston Oilers baseball cap. Her heart sinks.

  “Got a minute,” he says.

  “I’m sorry but—”

  “Have news regarding that UNDP post. Good news.”

  Elma wavers.

  Don’t let him do this to you.

  “Come in,” she says.

  She leads him into the sitting room.

  “Want a drink?”

  “Not much of a drinker.”

  “Right, I forgot.”

  Ivor settles himself on the arm of the couch. He smiles at her in that insincere way she’s so come to despise.

  “You don’t look so good,” he says.

  “Let’s cut the crap, Ivor, what do you want?”

  “I want to tell you a story, two stories actually.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Please, indulge me, you’ll find it worth your while.”

  Elma goes over to the drinks cabinet. She pours herself a couple more fingers of Glenfiddich.

  “The first’s about a group called Al Qaeda. You heard of em?”

  Elma shakes her head.

  “It’s made up mainly of Arab mujahideen; men who came out here to fight the jihad and now find themselves at a loose end.”

  “Fine they can all go home. Afghanistan will be better off without them.”

  “And if only they could. Problem is their governments have no desire to see them return. You see these men are filled with a homicidal hatred of anyone they believe to be insufficiently Islamic, and if you’re the King Fahd or President Mubarak, do you really want these battle hardened zealots training their sights on your philandering ass? No, you’re much better off if they train them on someone else, the United States for instance.”

  “I don’t see how any of this concerns me.”

  “I apologize, the second story. It concerns a woman named Andrea Engelson, I assume you’ve heard of her.”

  Elma nods.

  “Great, then I can skip over her Peace Corps work in Peru and that celebrated memoir of hers, and get to the juicy part. You see while it’s expected that most memoirs contain embellishments, even downright lies, it’s what Andrea leaves out of hers that’s most startling. Her relationship, a torrid one it’d appear from the photos, with a doctor called Rafael Ramirez, or as his compatriots in Shining Path like to call him, Comrade Vladimir.”

  Elma feels her pulse quicken.

  “Now whether Andrea knew of Ramirez’s association with Shining Path is open to question. Odds are she didn’t, if anything he was most likely using her. However the fact that she went on a trip with him to Ayacucho, a rebel stronghold, and the day after they returned there was a deadly bombing in a Lima shopping mall, does raise suspicions, suspicions I’d suggest that need an immediate airing in the American media.”

  Elma finishes what’s left in her glass and pours herself another.

  “How are these two stories connected?” she says.

  “It’s simple really. I need an asset inside Al Qaeda, or at least close to it. You want that position at UNDP.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “The potential asset I’ve lined up is a young man named Tariq Khan, but to reel him in I’m going to have to deliver him something, and what he wants is his sister, Noor.”

  The full effect of the whisky finally hits Elma.

  “No, never,” she says.

  “Why? What is she to you, Elma?”

  “She’s a friend.”

  “A friend it seems who’s no longer living here.”

  Elma’s face betrays her.

  “Look,” Ivor says, “you and me, we don’t have a spouse or lifelong friends we hang out with every weekend. What we have is our careers, and the reason we give a shit about them is because, unlike most people, the work we do matters. Every day we make choices about whose life is worth bettering and whose isn’t. What’s your criteria, Elma? I sure as hell know what mine is. Whichever action saves the most lives that’s the one I plump for every time, otherwise all I’m doing is playing favorites.”

  “If she marries this Prince her life will be miserable.”

  “What because no Afghan refugee would want to live in the lap of luxury?”

  “She doesn’t‌—‌she’s in love.”

  It’s clear this is a piece of information Ivor wasn’t aware of. Elma’s feels her hand shake. She puts her glass down and grabs a hold of the bookcase.

  “So for this love of hers, you’re prepared to allow thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of people to be condemned to a life of misery?”

  “I don’t understand”

  “You’re good at what you do, Elma. Hell, I’ve not run across someone who does your job better. But if Engelson gets that post, you know as well as I do she’ll use it purely as a vehicle for her next gig, and like I said, thousands will suffer because of that.”

  “You could give the media this information without asking me to do this.”

  “I could, but then I’d be responsible for anyone who dies in an attack I could’ve averted. No, the only way this works is if you tell me where this Noor Khan is. It’s the right thing to do, Elma. Hell, I’d go so far as to suggest it’s the courageous thing to do.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  IT IS THE greatest feast any of them can remember; to call it grand would be to do it a disservice. Mukhtar serves up shorwa soup, crispy samosas and buttery pakoorha before piling onto the table koubedah kebabs, qorma, lamb shanks and qabili pilau with copious bowls of yogurt and chutney to dip everything in. For dessert there are milky ferree puddings, coils of bright orange jalebi, stacks of laddous candy balls, and row upon row of bar
fi fudge in a panoply of garish colors. Speeches are made and dreams are discussed. It is a celebration filled with laughter and tears.

  Afterwards as they drink endless rounds of tea a plan is formulated. Charlie will rent a house for Aamir Khan, Bushra and Wali close to the hospital, and then he and Noor will fly to the States as soon as her visa comes through.

  “We’ll go look at houses tomorrow,” Charlie says to Wali. “I think it should just be one floor so you can get around, with three bedrooms obviously—”

  “No, no,” Wali grins, “two will be sufficient.”

  “What you talking about, you’ll—”

  Wali leans over and takes Bushra’s hand in his. Noor shrieks in delight.

  “When?” she says.

  “Wali asked my permission this morning,” Aamir Khan says.

  From there chaos ensues. Hugs are given, more speeches are made, and even more tears are shed.

  The phone rings, and Charlie excuses himself. It’s his father.

  “There’s a man at the embassy in Islamabad,” his father says. “Steve Farrell, he’s in consular affairs, if you can get down there tomorrow he said he’d sort you out.”

  “Does Noor need to go too?”

  “No. He said just to bring her passport and a photo, and he should be able to do a temporary visa on the spot.”

  Charlie stands there speechless.

  “Look, I’m due in a meeting,” his father says

  “Dad, wait‌…‌thank you.”

  “My pleasure. I can’t wait to meet Noor.”

  Charlie runs to his room and grabs his camera. When he returns to the dining room everyone looks in his direction.

  “We’re going to have to postpone the house hunt.”

  “Why?” Noor says.

  “My father’s contact can get you a visa tomorrow.”

  “Come on, this is a joke.”

  Charlie shakes his head. Wali lets out a cheer.

  “Now stand against that wall,” Charlie says to Noor, “the lighting’s good there.”

  Noor does as she’s told. Charlie adjusts the zoom until Noor’s head fills the frame.

  “You’re not meant to smile in passport photos,” he says.

  Noor tries to put on a serious expression only to crack up laughing.

  “Noor,” he says.

  “I’m trying,” she giggles.

  Charlie clicks away.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  TARIQ SITS AT his father-in-law’s desk eating a breakfast of eggs and naan. It’s still dark outside, the Khyber mountains a ghostly black. He goes over the conversation he knows he must have with the Prince today. He’s decided to stick with the story that Noor has hepatitis. It’s simple, and something he can’t be blamed for.

  The Prince won’t be happy, but, unlike before, I’ll survive this.

  He thinks about his father and sister with poisonous hatred. His father, especially; a weak, insidious man who’s given him nothing in this life; a man who pretends to have the righteousness of a Sufi saint but who has the morals of a brothel owner; a spineless fraud who preferred to let his wife die surrounded by infidels rather than risk his own life trying to save her. His only comfort is his father’s assured eternal damnation.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Tariq says.

  Badia steps into the room. She is wearing a black shalwar kameez. Tariq’s mood brightens; he was hoping it was her. He gestures Badia over, and she comes and stands in front of the desk. Tariq’s eyes travel up her teenage body, drinking in the curve of her hips, the thinness of her waist, the swell of her breasts, her full lips and lustrous hair.

  “You can look at me,” he says. “It’s allowed.”

  She raises her chin, and looks him in the eye. He detects a spirit he hadn’t sensed before.

  What is it? Do you hate me?

  “I’m sure you’re aware that I’m head of this family now, at least until one of your other brothers comes of age, and so it’s up to me to decide whom you should marry.”

  “I trust you will make the correct choice.”

  “I have. It’s going to be me.”

  Badia’s eyes flicker.

  You weren’t expecting that, now were you?

  “It’s forbidden for a man to be married to two sisters,” Badia says.

  “True, but since I divorced your sister last night it’s no longer an issue.”

  Badia holds his gaze.

  Were you holding out hope for the Prince? Not if you know his reputation. Are you sorry for your sister? Unlikely, you have different mothers. What is it?

  “You’re going to be a good wife, Badia, and I promise to be a good husband. This won’t be your home for long, we’ll be moving to Saudi Arabia soon. You’ll dress in the finest clothes, shop in the best stores, have servants waiting on you.”

  “I will serve you faithfully,” she says.

  He detects a glint in Badia’s eye.

  No, you’re happy, he rejoices. Relieved to be marrying a man your age, a man of increasing stature and power.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “What?” he shouts.

  Sarosh, the young clerk from the Prince’s office, sticks his head in. Badia turns away so Sarosh won’t see her face.

  “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something,” Tariq says.

  “I apologize, but you insisted I find you if the American called.”

  Sarosh holds out a piece of paper.

  “He said you should meet him at this address.”

  Tariq walks over and snatches it from him.

  “That’s it?” Tariq says.

  “Nothing more.”

  Tariq nods, and Sarosh retreats from the room. Tariq turns towards Badia, his interest in her over for now.

  “Go and take off those dreadful clothes. No amount of mourning is going to bring back your father and brothers.”

  Badia hastens away.

  Could Gardener really have found Noor? Why else would he call?

  Tariq hurries out of the room and shouts for Yousef to join him. By the time he arrives at the front of the house his SUV is waiting for him. He surveys the courtyard with satisfaction; it’s now devoid of its barnyard animals and rusting farm equipment. Yousef, his hair still wet from showering, hobbles out the front door.

  “What’s all the bother?” he says.

  “He’s found her.”

  Yousef grins. Tariq hands him the piece of paper.

  “You know where this is?” Tariq says.

  Yousef reads the address.

  “Sure.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  NOOR LIES WIDE awake in bed.

  Mrs. Matthews, Mrs. Noor Matthews.

  It sounds so ridiculous yet so right at the same time that she can’t help but laugh.

  Down the corridor Noor hears Charlie’s alarm go off. She slips out of bed and changes. When she reaches the kitchen she finds Mukhtar making an omelet.

  “It’s alright, Mukhtar. I can finish this. Why don’t you take the day off.”

  “Are you sure?” he says.

  “Absolutely.”

  Mukhtar smiles and leaves. Noor looks at the omelet bubbling away and realizes she’s never made one before.

  It can’t be that hard.

  She tries her best to flip it, and it breaks apart.

  Unbelievable, I can’t even do this.

  “I didn’t expect to see you up.”

  Noor turns to find Charlie standing in the doorway.

  “Are you disappointed to see me?” she says.

  “Are you crazy? You’re the greatest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on this early in the morning.”

  Noor can’t help but smile.

  “Sit and eat,” she says, “you’ve a long journey ahead of you.”

  “A hundred miles is hardly a long journey.”

  “Alright, you’ve an important journey ahead of you.”

  Charlie si
ts down at the kitchen table, and Noor places the broken omelet in front of him.

  “So you always going to cook me breakfast?” he says.

  “If you’re fine with me being a stereotypical Afghan wife.”

  Charlie takes a bite.

  “If you cook me an omelet this good maybe that won’t be such a bad thing.”

  “So you want a fat, ignorant nag, is that it?”

  Charlie takes another bite.

  “It’s a really good omelet,” he grins.

  “And you don’t deserve it.”

  Noor goes to swipe the plate away. Charlie sweeps his arm around her waist and pulls her down onto his lap.

  “Charlie,” Noor shrieks.

  “I’m not going to do anything, I promise.”

  “You already are.”

  “Fine, anything more.”

  Noor gives Charlie a searching look before allowing her body to relax into his. She gazes into his eyes and traces the scar on his cheek with her finger.

  “You’ll be safe, won’t you?” she says.

  “It’s not like I’m going into Afghanistan.”

  “I know, but everyone says how dangerous that road is.”

  “I promise to be extra safe.”

  “I wish you’d drive Wali’s car.”

  “The bike’s quicker.”

  “That bike will make a widow of me before I’m married.”

  “Okay, I’ll go by Mine Aware and pick it up.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Charlie leans in and kisses her gently.

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to do anything?” she says.

  “You bewitched me, what can I say?”

  “So it’s my fault is it?” she says kissing him back.

  “Totally and utterly.”

  If only this could go on forever.

  Noor hears someone in the hall and pulls away.

  “Baba found a suitcase in the attic last night,” she says. “I don’t know what he was thinking, it’s got far more space than I need.”

  “Then we’ll have to get you some Western clothes at Heathrow. It’s high time we got you in a pair of figure-hugging jeans.”

  Noor blushes and extricates herself from his arms.

  “Go, before I report you to the local imam for indecency.”