by Gwen Florio
When Gul managed to escape his mother’s endless list of chores, he cautiously approached other youngsters living there. Maybe because they weren’t crammed together here the way they had been at Macroyan, they seemed more inclined to friendliness. Each day, Gul and his new companions ran from their homes to inspect the previous night’s damage. Their own streets lay largely unscathed, but the outskirts of the neighborhood crumbled a little more every day. Gul and his friends always waited a few days after a house was hit, until the dead were buried and the crowds of wailing relatives had dispersed, before creeping like cats through the gaping holes in the shattered walls to see what they could find. No matter how thoroughly a family packed before it fled or its home was destroyed, a few things always remained—an unbroken plate, a shoe or, best of all, if the dead were children, an abandoned toy. Sometimes, thrillingly, there were the intangibles that bespoke destruction, dark splashes of dried blood, the long tracks gouged by shrapnel across a mud wall, and once, in an otherwise anonymous heap of rubble, bits of bone and flesh quickly mummifying in Kabul’s dry heat.
“Don’t touch it!” Amer, like Gul, was Pashtun. “It’s unclean.”
Gul jerked back, but the others joined him, crouching low over his find, studying it, agreeing finally that it was part of a heel.
“He shows his foot to the Tajiks,” Amer whispered to Gul in approval, and the two of them yelled with laughter and scrambled back down the heap of sun-baked mud bricks in search of more useful gleanings. Some of those things—a bent spoon, a hair ornament, a discarded shirt—could be sold from the street corners, and Gul savored the feel of creased afghanis growing soft and moist in clenched fingers. Most often, he and Amer spent their earnings on sweets, but sometimes they played at being men like their fathers. They lounged on the pavement and ordered tea from the chai boys, swatting at youngsters barely smaller than themselves if they did not come quickly enough with their tin trays on which balanced tiny steaming glasses in filigreed holders.
They tilted their glasses, the tea made the way they liked it, a sludge of sugar at the bottom, and congratulated themselves on being born into families brave enough to stay in Kabul and take advantage of all this wondrous city had to offer.
* * *
The silence in the street should have alerted him. But after another successful day of scavenging, Gul was so distracted by the folds of cash bumping against his belly in the pouch beneath his kameez that he noticed nothing.
“Tonight,” Amer had whispered to him as they parted, “I will come to your gate and whistle. There is a house in the Ashiqan-o-Arifan District. With women. We will go there.”
His thoughts a disjointed haze of pleasurable images, Gul came to his own street and ambled its deserted length. At the far end, a woman howled. Gul cocked his head and listened a moment, then relaxed as the words became clear.
“Meena. Meena. Meena. Oh, my Meena.”
It was a neighbor, whose simpleminded daughter was always wandering off. Gul guessed the little girl had gone again, and that this time, one of the many awful fates that people were forever predicting for her—crushed by a bus, kidnapped by Kuchis, used by soldiers for their own immoral purposes and then thrown aside—had finally happened.
Only as he approached his own courtyard, and saw the gate swinging open, did it occur to him that more might be amiss than the demise of one unfortunate girl. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he gazed back upon the silent street. He stepped through the gate. The icy press of a bayonet against his throat stopped him in midstride. Gul swallowed convulsively, his Adam’s apple bumping against the triangular blade. He slid his gaze down its length, following the barrel of the Kalashnikov, and met the grinning gaze of a Tajik mujahid.
He said something Gul didn’t understand, then switched to badly accented Pashto. “The man of the house finally arrives to protect his family. But where are his women?” He edged the bayonet upward. He and the others wore pakols instead of turbans, the flat brown woolen caps sitting like pieces of naan atop their heads. Gul stretched his chin high, only his eyes moving, his gaze roaming the courtyard. The little boys sat sniveling before the house. His mother and Bibi were nowhere to be seen. He thought of Meena down the street, younger even than Bibi. What had these men done to her? Gul remembered the cupboard, the cavity behind it. He heard noises within the house and began to tremble. A soldier appeared in the doorway, a rolled carpet over his shoulder. He tossed it into the courtyard, atop a pile of the family’s belongings, then disappeared back into the house.
Gul began to pray, forcing his lips not to move. Khurshid did not know about the cupboard, he remembered. Where had she hidden?
The creak of the gate, the feminine gasp that followed, told him that she had not hidden at all. The bayonet was gone as the fighter who had been holding him flung the gun aside and bolted past, grabbing Khurshid as she dropped her packets from the market and whirled to run. Gul thought to snatch the gun, then stopped as the soldier’s shout brought several men running from the house. The man holding Khurshid stooped to retrieve his gun, then used it to shepherd Gul and Khurshid before him.
Khurshid clutched Gul’s arm for support. He remembered the day when she had done that before, after she had burned her ankle. He thought with shame of his own arousal then. Now he felt only terror. Men surrounded them, all in bits of uniform, a cap here, a camouflage jacket there. Only one had the complete ensemble, a thickset man whose heavy green trousers were tucked into black lace-up boots like those the Russians had worn against the Afghan winters. His legs swung wide in an exaggerated swagger as he approached the center of the circle where Khurshid clung to Gul.
He put his face close to Khurshid’s and jerked his chin toward Gul. “Your brother?”
Khurshid’s “no” was barely audible.
The commander smiled, his tongue protruding between his teeth. “This is not your husband. He is too young. But he is not your son. He is too old. Where is your husband?”
Khurshid did not answer. Her teeth chattered. Her grip on Gul’s arm tightened, her nails digging deep through the rough material of his kameez.
The man’s small eyes were bloodshot, and Gul smelled liquor on his breath. He must have found Nur Muhammed’s vodka, the one Russian import to which Gul’s father had never objected. The man raised his hand, flecked brown with what Gul realized must be dried blood, to Khurshid’s face. She flinched as he ran his fingers across her cheek. The man glanced at Gul and smiled wolfishly.
“Pashtun, no?” he said. “And your women are supposed to be so modest. But not this one. She shows her face for all to see. What am I to think of this?”
Gul found his voice. “She’s Tajik,” he said, and forced himself to add, “like you.”
The man’s hand slammed against Gul’s face, knocking him free of Khurshid’s grip. Khurshid swayed, then righted herself. Gul’s knees buckled. He drew himself upward with difficulty and braced for another blow. But the man had turned his attention back to Khurshid. He reached for the scarf covering her head and pulled it away, laughing as she tried to draw it back. He slapped at her arms until she dropped them by her sides. He held out his hand and barked a command. One of his men extended a Kalashnikov. The commander twisted the bayonet into the folds of cloth at Khurshid’s throat, then with a practiced movement, brought the weapon swiftly downward, torn fabric falling free in its wake. Khurshid squeezed her eyes shut and groaned. Gul heard the collective intake of male breath from the circle around him and looked with the others at Khurshid’s pale breasts, so startling in the sunlight, a thin line of blood trickling between them. The commander shouted to his men. They jumped with alacrity to hold her down as she shrieked to Gul for the help he could not give.
“You will thank me,” Gul told his bride years later, on the day he presented her with a burqa. “This is better. On this point, you must believe me.”
Sixteen
ISLAMABAD, FEBRUARY 2002
Liv had been awake for near
ly thirty hours by the time the plane’s wheels smacked the runway in Islamabad, bounced once, then caught and held. Exhaustion sandpapered her throat. Her joints complained.
The plane slowed. Liv took a ragged breath. Kirstie Davidson’s brisk practicality had banished her initial stereotypes of mobs rampaging through narrow streets, brandishing placards of the crumbling towers, calling down death upon America and its leaders. Now those uneasy images rushed to the forefront.
Liv peered around the turbaned man beside her, trying to see if the streets of Islamabad—actually, she reminded herself, the airport was in the adjoining city of Rawalpindi—were seething at that very moment. The man stood, blocking the window, and motioned for her to leave her seat. The plane still taxied, but people banged at the overhead bins, catching the cascading luggage. Liv found herself in the aisle, clutching her purse to her chest as passengers pushed toward the front of the plane with no regard for order. Her hair, lank after so many hours beneath the flowered silk square she’d purchased at Gatwick when she realized hers was the only uncovered head in the waiting area, escaped its careful twist and hung about her face. She ran her tongue across her teeth, furred with sleep, and inhaled the rank odor of sweat. She couldn’t tell whether it was her own, or the general miasma of the crowd carrying her along toward the jetway.
She forgot her self-consciousness over her appearance in the scramble to claim her luggage from the baggage carousel and the struggle to answer the questions put to her in nearly incomprehensible English from a bored customs official. With a belated show of effort, he stamped her passport so hard that the counter shook, and handed it back.
Outside, warmth and humanity surged toward her. Hands tugged at her sleeves. Faces pushed so close that they blurred.
“Taxi, miss? Taxi?” Someone reached for her luggage cart, and she tried to jerk it away. The man kept his grip on the handle. “You will come with me. Finest taxi in Islamabad.” Dirt mapped his face. His left eye leaked an oily fluid. Liv tried to recall the rudimentary Urdu that Martin had insisted she learn. Surely there were words to make him go away. Another man stepped to her side and in a single swift motion wrenched her tormentor’s wrist so hard he let go of the cart. This man was young and clean and wore a Western-style blazer over a plaid rayon shirt whose tails hung out over his herringbone pants. Liv wondered if Martin had sent him, and decided, as the man took her elbow and began to propel her forward, steering the cart with his other hand, that he had. The man spoke in commanding Urdu and people fell away as they moved toward the far side of the open-air terminal, whose concrete walls framed rectangles of sunlight blazing so brightly that Liv could make out only the vaguest outlines of the cars and buildings beyond. The humidity was ferocious and the noise pressed against her, and Liv feared she would faint. A sound cut through the uproar, over and over, her name, shouted by a tall, sweating white man at the rear of the crowd.
Martin.
* * *
“Where were you going with him?” Her husband’s first words to Liv after such a long time apart were anxious, harsh.
He advanced, speaking Urdu, upon the man pushing her baggage cart, who hesitated only a moment before releasing his grip and melting back into the throng. Martin stopped a few feet away, not touching her.
“He meant to rob you, I’m sure of it. If not here, then in the taxi. Do you have all your bags? What were you thinking?”
“I thought you sent him.” Liv looked at the cart. “He didn’t take anything.”
“Never go alone with anyone here. Especially a man. My God, Liv. If you can’t handle Pakistan, what will we do in Afghanistan?”
She forgot her new self, that woman who could run a generator, nail a bull’s-eye, patch a sucking chest wound with plastic wrap. She’d held herself rigid throughout the hours-long flights, the layovers in run-down sections of terminals where whole families simply curled up on the floor and slept next to possessions that strained rope-bound cardboard boxes rather than smart roller bags, where English was such a rarity that her head snapped sideways when she heard it, so keenly did she crave familiarity.
The brittle self-control she’d imposed upon liftoff from Kennedy shattered. She began to cry. She ducked her head and covered her face, aware that she was attracting stares. She felt Martin’s arms around her.
“Liv, Liv. I didn’t mean to snap. But when I saw you going off with him—I was afraid I wouldn’t get to you in time to save you.”
“Save me?” Liv gulped back another sob. “From what? Surely he wouldn’t rob me in front of all these people.”
“You have no idea.” He rubbed at his face, as though to ease some soreness there, and led her to a waiting car. A Pakistani man, this one also in a suit, but well cut, with a starched and pressed white shirt beneath, sat at the wheel. Martin introduced him as Pervaiz, and put Liv in the back, then walked around and climbed into the front. He reached back across the seat, clasping her hand in both his own. The driver flinched and Martin quickly pulled away.
“I’m sorry.” His face and neck, normally a hearty pink, had gone a dull, patchy red. “I know it’s strange now, but you’ll get used to it. In a few weeks, it will all seem normal.” He spoke to the driver. “We won’t go back to the office now. Tell them I won’t be in for the rest of the day.”
Her first day here and he had planned to work? Liv checked the words before she spoke, unsure of how much English the driver understood. Besides, Martin had already turned his back on her. She studied his profile, looking for signs of change during their time apart. Frosty air blasted from the dashboard vents, and his face gradually resumed its normal high color. His hair, an unruly thatch, flopped across his forehead. He still wore it too long, something she’d found mannered even when they were younger. Now they were both graying, their bodies thickening, the changes coming so gradually that Liv sometimes stopped in surprise before her mirror. She felt herself receding, her disappointments masked by smooth new layers of flesh. It was easier for Martin. He’d always tended toward pudginess, with soft features that hinted, inaccurately, at an eager, puppyish affability. The extra weight suited him somehow, squared his face and gave him a solid heft that at home could seem awkward, but here—or so it had seemed to Liv as he’d led her through the crowd—gave him a sense of authority and certainty that was new to her.
She rested her head against the car window. Office parks populated by stained concrete buildings marked Islamabad’s outskirts. Goats grazed on the lawns. She’d left behind Philadelphia’s leaden skies that met crusts of dirty snow in an unending monotone landscape. Here, soft air heralded spring. Flowers provided dizzying splashes of color across the patchy grass. Cyclists and pedestrians crowded the sides of the highway. Buses sputtered past them, so jammed that people crouched on the roofs and swung from the doors, clinging to invisible handholds within, women’s robes flashing vividly as cars whipped past. A truck labored beside them, painted in complex, swirling hues, clinking chains swinging from its undercarriage. An intricately carved wooden prow heaped with sacks of grain extended over its cab, the entire vehicle so top-heavy that Liv held her breath as the highway took a sharp turn. They came upon a man leading a camel, its knobbed legs swinging wide with each deliberate step. Liv stared as they passed, and the camel, loose lipped and lecherous, blinked its yellow satyr’s eyes at her before another turn hid it from view.
Something reverberated within Liv, the tap of a felt-wrapped hammer on a piano string. She took a deep breath, then another, filling her lungs with the cooling air within the car. Her parents had flown to Philadelphia to see her off. As the airport shuttle waited in the driveway, her mother cupped Liv’s face between her hands softened with decades of faithful application of Jergens. Her faded eyes, once as blue as Liv’s, searched her daughter’s face. “You can always come back. With him, or without him. You don’t need to do this.”
“Yes.” Liv echoed the vow she’d taken so many years earlier. “I do.”
She folded her arms agai
nst the chill of the air-conditioning and thought of the word that had sustained her throughout the trip.
Partners.
* * *
The Marriott, where they’d live while making final preparations to leave for Face the Future’s office in Kabul, was the most secure place in Islamabad after the embassies, Martin told her.
The car halted before soaring wrought-iron gates flanked by a pair of Uzi-toting guards. A third uniformed man circled the car, sweeping beneath it with a mirror at the end of a long pole. “Bomb check,” Martin said. Liv blanched at his matter-of-fact tone.
The guard waved them forward, and the car coasted beneath an arched portico. Men ran to the car, surrounding it. Liv, still shaken from the scene at the airport, slid toward the middle of the seat, but they kept their distance, flinging open the car doors and trunk, whisking her luggage away, beckoning her into a cavernous lobby. The crowd within rivaled that at the airport, but the Marriott’s noisy occupants were Westerners, most of them dressed in wrinkled cargo pants and many-pocketed vests as though preparing for a hike, despite the opulent setting. Liv tilted her head back and squinted into the shimmering lights of starburst chandeliers. Instinctively, she moved out from beneath them. She surveyed the raffish mob and looked a question at Martin.
“The press.” His lip curled. “I hear they arrived about a minute after the towers went down and they’ve been here ever since. It’s sort of a staging area here for the ones going in and out of Afghanistan. They’ve taken all the rooms and driven the prices through the roof.”
“If they took all the rooms, how is it that we’re staying here?”
Martin permitted himself a smile. “We outbid them.”
At her elbow, Pervaiz coughed. Liv had forgotten he was there.
