by Vicki Delany
“Yes, I do. You might want to tell yourself you’re not having blackouts, but I don’t think you can call it anything else, Hannah. We called the police for heaven’s sake.” She laughed without mirth. “It wasn’t as if they had far to come. Jake got home from market as the search was beginning so he took Charlie away. He didn’t get unpacked until it was late, and that made him angry. The cops were tramping all over the lettuce beds. They said they’d be careful, but they weren’t. The new plants are tender, you know, and we lost quite a bit. Some of the peas too.”
“I’m sorry, “I said. I glanced out the window. It was early still, and traces of mist were curling around the trees and drifting across the fields. A hummingbird hovered in the air beside its feeder, wings moving so fast they were invisible. Jake and Lily came out of the barn. They walked close together and he put his hand on his daughter’s thin shoulder.
“I’m going to the Harrisons,” I said. “To pay my respects, I guess. I think it would be good if Lily came with me.”
“Why?”
“She knew Hila better than I did. She can’t hide from her feelings, and it would be a mistake to make her.” I lifted the tea cup to my lips and felt warm, fragrant air on my face. I took a sip. It was very sweet. I never used to take sugar in my tea. Joanne always added a hefty spoonful, thinking I needed the energy. “I might as well go over now. I’m sure they’ll be up.”
“You should phone ahead.”
“That’ll give them the chance to say no. I need the walk anyway. About Lily?”
“I guess that’ll be okay. If you’re having trouble, Hannah, don’t keep it from me, eh?”
I pushed my chair back. “I won’t.”
“Don’t,” she shouted.
I hung halfway between seating and standing. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t you leave this table without finishing your tea and eating that toast. Every last bite.” She glared at me with an expression that was so like our mother I dropped back down.
***
There were no cars in the driveway at the Harrisons’ but the door was opened almost immediately I rang the bell. Maude’s face was red and blotchy and her nose and eyes swollen. She had no makeup on, and her hair was lank and unwashed. A fresh coffee stain marked the front of her pink T-shirt. She looked a good twenty years older than when we’d first met. She lifted a torn tissue to her nose. “Hannah. Lily,” she said in a thick voice. “How nice to see you. Please come in.”
Buddy ran to greet us, tail wagging. I thought of where he’d been and what he’d probably seen and my throat closed and my stomach lurched. Lily dropped to her knees and gave him a hug. He licked her face. I grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly away. Maude Harrison was leading the way to the sun room. I kept hold of Lily’s arm and we followed. Buddy trailed happily along behind.
“Company, dear,” Maude announced. Grant Harrison was sitting in the wing-back chair, a large book open on his lap. I glanced at it and could see pictures of golden statues and gem-encrusted jewelry. He gave the book a last, longing glance, politely closed it, placed it on the table beside him, and got to his feet. “I believe you’re in time for tea,” he said to me. “Lily, would you like tea or juice?”
“Juice,” she said in a small voice.
“Juice it shall be.”
It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, so I doubted it was tea time for the Harrisons, but I said I’d enjoy a cup. “Why don’t you give me a hand, Lily,” Maude said. “I made a cake yesterday. Not too early for cake, is it?”
Lily agreed that it was not, and she, followed closely by Buddy, left the sun room. Birdsong and a warm, gentle breeze drifted in through the open doors.
After I was seated, Grant sat back down and folded his hands into his lap.
“They found Hila in the woods.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
He let out a long breath. “They’re telling us nothing. Except that they suspect foul play.”
“Oh, dear.”
We were silent for a long time. Grant couldn’t help his eyes drifting back toward his book. I took a peek. Afghanistan: Hidden Treasures from the National Museum, Kabul.
“You’re interested in antiquities?” I asked, although I need not have. The house, this room, full of art and artifacts from the couple’s travels, was evidence enough.
“Maude and I collect what little pieces we can. This morning I’ve found that thoughts of Hila brought me to reminisce of her homeland.”
I knew the story of the lost treasures of Afghanistan. At the beginning of the civil war, when the Soviets invaded, workers at the national museum scrambled to move and hide their artifacts, many of them dating all the way back to the first centuries B.C. They stored the precious, priceless things in the vaults of the national bank, and there they remained hidden for more than twenty years, until 2001 when it was considered safe to bring them out of hiding. Every seal was still in place. Every single one of the artifacts untouched.
One bit of good news from that tragic country.
Sadly, a great many of the other treasures could not be saved: stolen, vandalized, deliberately smashed by the Taliban or simply discarded.
“Why’s CSIS interested?” I asked. In the kitchen, Lily and Maude chatted. Outside, birds darted amongst the almost-empty feeders. A huge crow, sleek black feathers glowing in the light of the sun, chased a chickadee off.
Grant pulled his eyes away from the book. “They told you they were from CSIS?”
“No. But I recognize the type. The O.P.P. doesn’t seem too pleased at having them poking their nose into everything, criticizing, but I guess they don’t have much say about it.”
“I forgot for a moment that you aren’t just a farm girl.”
“These days, that’s more than I amount to.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Hila’s father Waheed was a good friend of mine. We met back in 1965, when we were at university in England. I was lucky enough to do a year at Oxford. He was studying archeology. It was his ambition to unearth the treasures of his homeland. Afghanistan has always been an important cross-road. It was part of the Silk Route, upon which traders from Europe, the Middle East, China travelled for hundreds of years. Traders don’t just pass through; they leave objects behind. The Soviets invaded in 1979, and Waheed and I lost touch for a number of years. A great many Western-educated intellectuals fled the country, but he remained. When we’d been at school he was like all the other men of our circle. Interested in having a good time as much as political debate or his studies. He hadn’t been religious or even particularly nationalist when we were young, but there’s something about having your country invaded, your religion and culture mocked and derided that gets a man’s backbone up. We began to correspond again, albeit infrequently, and I knew he’d achieved an important position in the national museum. When the Taliban came to power, I heard nothing more for a long time. I hoped he’d been able to get out of the country, for although he’d become more religious over the years he was by no means a fanatic. I knew he’d married late in life. He had one wife and three children.
“In the meantime, I’d joined the foreign service. I had a particular interest in Africa, and we were posted to South Africa, Kenya, Malawi. It was a good life.
“In March of 2002, I got a letter from my old friend. He and his family were living in Pakistan and very happy to see the back of the Taliban. His letter was full of optimism. He’d accepted a position with the new government, in the ministry of culture, and they were moving to Kabul. He was so excited about the future. For himself, his family, his country.”
Grant shook his head. It was taking Maude and Lily a long time to make tea. No doubt Maude was keeping the child occupied while Grant told his tale.
“Anyway, to make a long, sad story short, it didn’
t turn out that way. I applied for a position at our embassy in Kabul. I knew that meant Maude wouldn’t be able to come with me, but I hoped to get a chance to help Waheed. Help him and his country. I was there for two years and spent a good bit of time with my old friend. I never met his wife or his family. A Pashtun man doesn’t introduce his wife or daughters to even his best of friends. I could see the despair settling in first hand. He’d come back to Afghanistan with such hope, such optimism. And he was seeing all his dreams fading in a nightmare of government corruption and incompetence. Not to mention the realization that of the millions upon millions of dollars being poured into the country by the West, more of it was going to make Western contractors rich than helping the people of Afghanistan. He was Pashtun, from Kandahar, but he had settled his family in Kabul. He was no supporter of the president, yet not on the side of the insurgents either. He said the only side he was on was the side of the people of Afghanistan. He always was pretty outspoken.” Grant chuckled softly. “I remember in particular a bar brawl in Oxford. Some English toff made a racist crack and Waheed commented on the ancient history of Afghanistan versus the upstart British. He might have reminded the English guy about the retreat from Kabul in 1842. Someone took a swing and Waheed, as well as me and a number of our friends and erstwhile enemies, spent the night in jail. Ah, to be young again.”
Maude and Lily crossed the emerald green lawn behind the house. Buddy was not with them. Maude carried a green plastic bucket, and Lily ran on ahead to take down the bird feeders. Sunlight sparkled off the clips in the girl’s hair making it look as though sparks were shooting out of her head.
“He was angry and unhappy and one night, shortly before my posting was up, I suggested it was time to give up on Afghanistan and move to Canada. To my surprise, he agreed almost immediately. I set things in motion for him and his family to immigrate and then I left. After about a year, he sent word that his immigration status was approved and details of their pending arrival in Canada. I found them an apartment in Ottawa and a job at the Museum of Civilization for Waheed.
“The family were on their way to the airport. Waheed and his wife, their two sons, and the daughter. Hila. A suicide bomber drove a truck into their car.”
I felt flames on my face, heard the cries of the dying and the screams of the wounded. I heard sirens and shouting and lamentation.
“I am telling you this,” Grant said, “because you understand.”
“I do.”
“The authorities believe it was a targeted attack. Not random, not a case of the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Why would insurgents target an archeologist, do you suppose?”
“You know these people, Hannah. Why would they smash their country’s heritage, destroy its culture; why would they blow up ancient statues?”
Why indeed?
“Waheed, his wife, the sons were killed instantly. Hila was injured, badly burned. Fortunately her immigration had been approved, so I was able to bring her to Canada when she got out of hospital.” He spread his hands. “To Canada. Where everyone and everything was strange to her yet she felt she was safe, but some bastard attacked her and killed her. What a world we live in.”
Outside, Maude and Lily had finished filling the bird feeders. They were crouched in the grass peering at something under a lush, full maple tree. A fat blue jay settled onto the feeder behind them.
“Which is a long answer to your question. Why would CSIS be interested in the death of Hila? I cannot begin to imagine. If she’d been a government official, maybe. But she was just a schoolteacher, like her mother. They ran a girl’s school. They’d had threats, against the school, against the girls who went there. That was part of the reason Waheed wanted to get out of Afghanistan. If he was on his own, he probably wouldn’t have tried to leave. But he was worried about the future and safety of his family, particularly his daughter. Better he should have stayed, I guess.
“I’d say CSIS is trying to make themselves seem important. They have to do something to justify their budget. They’ll hang about for a few days, issue orders, shove the local police around, and then be gone. Back to their conspiracies and their paranoia. ”
Just because you’re paranoid, I remembered the old saying, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. When was the last time someone had been killed in the county other than by a relative or acquaintance?
Ever?
We jumped as tea cups clattered and Maude and Lily came into the sun room.
“We found a bird’s nest,” Lily said. “It was on the ground and empty. I hope the baby birds grew up and flew away.”
“I’m sure they did,” Maude said. “They would have had no more use for the nest.”
“We put it back anyway,” Lily said, “in case some other bird family wants to use it. Mrs. Harrison said we can come to Hila’s funeral. I’d like that.”
“So would I, dear.”
“We don’t know when the body will be released, but we’ll let you know when we hear,” Maude said.
She poured tea into beautiful china cups and apple juice for Lily into a glass of lead crystal. Maude noticed Lily eyeing Grant’s book, and she said, “If you’d like to have a look at the book, dear, go ahead. It’s about Afghanistan. Where Hila lived.”
Lily needed no further invitation and she curled up in a corner of a big leather chair to look at the beautiful pictures. We chatted about inconsequentials, and before long Maude was the only one talking. Grant glanced longingly at his shelves of books, and Lily flipped pages. I drank tea. Maude told me about plans for a water garden and her work on the hospital’s volunteer committee.
“Play with us, Hannah?”
I snapped to attention. I’d been thinking about Hila and had completely lost the thread of Maude’s conversation. My tea cup was empty. I hadn’t touched the lemon pound cake beside it, and Maude was looking at me with a question on her face.
“Play?” I said, sounding stupid to my own ears.
“Bridge. My Monday ladies’ group often needs to complete a table. “
“Sorry. I don’t play bridge.” I put the cup down. “We’ve taken up enough of your morning. Lily, time to go.”
“Look at this, Aunt Hannah.” She uncurled herself from the chair and brought the book over. It was open to a full-page plate displaying a three-pointed crown of gold. The headgear was made of gold and covered in gold leaf with gold coins hanging from it. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It certainly is.” It was nothing short of stunning.
“If you’d like to borrow the book, Lily, you may,” Maude said.
Grant looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, but he did not object.
“Thank you,” Lily said, “I promise I’ll take care of it.”
“We have a couple of others you might like,” Maude said. She went over to the bookshelves, studied the volumes, and selected two.
“Do you think Hila had beautiful things like this?” Lily said, flipping through the book as we walked home down the cool, shaded road, dust rising at our feet.
I laughed and touched the top of her head with my free hand. I carried the two other books. “Somewhat impractical, wouldn’t you say, out working in the fields balancing that on your head.”
“Hila and her family weren’t farmers. They were city people, she told me. They lived in the capital, Kabul. Hila helped her mother teach, and her father was an important man in the government. I’ll ask her…” Lily’s voice trailed off. “I guess I won’t be asking her anything, will I, Aunt Hannah?”
“No, dear. I’m very much afraid that you won’t.”
The sun was still bright and the birds were still singing, but it felt as if a storm cloud had settled over us. Lily’s shoulders slumped and the bounce went out of her step. She lowered her head and the tears began to flow. We kept walking.
“It says in the book,” she said, as we turned into our driveway, “that some of these things were funeral goods. What people wore to be buried in or to have with them after death. Do you think Hila needs to have fine things for her funeral, Aunt Hannah?”
“I suspect the objects shown in that book are very old, Lily. From long before Afghanistan was a Muslim country. The people who live there today don’t take precious things to their grave, just the way that your great-grandma wasn’t buried with her collection of cookbooks even though she cherished them so much.”
Lily ran her fingers across the cover of the book, deep in thought. “Yeah. Great-grandma left her ruby ring for me to have when I grow up. She wasn’t buried with it. Mom keeps it in her room and will let me have it when my finger’s big enough. Why do you suppose in the olden days people didn’t leave their things to their kids?”
“Perhaps it will tell you more about that in those books.”
Lily took her treasure upstairs to her room and didn’t come down for hours. The house was quiet; even on Sunday a farm family doesn’t rest in planting season. I was tired from the walk, and emotionally drained from hearing Hila’s story. It was no sadder than so many others I’d heard in the war-cursed countries I’d visited over the years. But this time it was personal. I’d gotten to know the woman. I’d liked her a great deal.
The doorbell rang, and I dragged myself out of my chair to answer it. A woman stood there, a tense smile plastered onto her face. She was dressed in designer jeans tucked into high-heeled leather ankle boots and a red leather jacket over a shirt so white it almost glowed. You didn’t see clothes that clean in farm country much. Over her shoulder, I could see a man standing beside their car. He had a big camera in his hand and a black bag tossed over his shoulder.
Oh, oh.
The woman stuck out her hand. The nails were long and sharp and painted with deep red polish. You didn’t see that in farm country either. “Hannah Manning. It’s such an honor to be meeting you at last. I’ve followed your career with great interest. I was sorry to hear about your injury, but it’s great to see you looking well. I guess you’ll be back at work soon, eh?”
