by Gwen Florio
He and Martin exchanged glances. “Because it’s an American chain, they gave us quite a discount when they heard about our humanitarian mission,” Martin added. He steered Liv toward the elevator, comically small given the outsize proportions of the lobby. There was a complicated dispersal of tips outside a half-open door, and finally he closed the door behind them on a room whose improbable dimensions were softened by overstuffed furniture piled high with embroidered cushions. “You’ll want a bath.” He led her to a room that reminded her of a smaller version of the lobby, all gleaming marble and bright lights. A screen shielded one corner, and Liv peeped around it to see a tub with its commodious ledge holding a store display’s worth of posh scented soaps and lotions and shampoos, and stacked high with plush towels.
“Oh, Martin.” The weariness of the trip caught up with her. She sat down, harder than she had intended, on the edge, sending a couple of the little bottles rattling into the tub’s depths.
Martin leaned past her and picked them up, then twisted the taps. He took her wrist and held it beneath the stream. Steam billowed into the room that, like everything else in the hotel, was air-conditioned to the point of discomfort.
“Too hot?”
“Perfect.” She shrugged out of her wrinkled blazer and unbuttoned her blouse.
Martin’s voice came from a distance. “I’ll leave you alone now.” The door closed behind him. She lowered herself into near-scalding water to her chin, then held her breath and sank deeper. Her hair, finally free, rose and floated about her face. At home it was her nightly ritual to linger in a bath, soaking away the day’s frustrations. She thought of Martin waiting for her on the sprawling bed, and hastily scrubbed at herself, vowing a longer sojourn later. She wrapped herself twice in one of the huge towels and tiptoed, her skin still rosy and damp, into the other room, heart knocking hard in anticipation. But Martin slept, snoring lightly, and when Liv let the towel fall and slipped into bed, he only rolled away from her into a deeper slumber as his wife lay beside him, wondering what other changes were in store.
* * *
An hour later, Liv found herself still jittery and awake, with the keen alertness of resentment combined with overexhaustion.
A computer printout sat atop the nightstand. She reached for it, careful not to rustle the paper and disturb Martin. It detailed a summary of Martin’s charges so far. The room cost nearly three hundred dollars a night. The bill, according to the receipt in her hand, was paid weekly, with no mention of a discount.
She calculated the total cost, an exercise that finally nudged her toward sleep, even as she puzzled over how a small, fledgling organization like Face the Future could afford to throw around that kind of money.
Seventeen
JALALABAD, FEBRUARY 2002
Only one thing distracted Gul from his beguiling evenings with his new wife: the gatherings organized by Nur Muhammed, trying to knit together old cohorts with new as he shored up his smuggling operations in Jalalabad and prepared to expand his reach into Kabul.
The men met in a small building at the far end of the compound, their conversations as hushed and terse as the landscape beyond the compound’s high mud walls. Warmth nudged the days, but winter returned at night, the cold pouncing. A few flakes of snow swept past the window, borne by a moaning wind that forced its way around the window frame and beneath the door, searching out the room’s inhabitants with icy fingers. Two oil lanterns provided wavering light. A servant prepared the sandali, stoking a pit with coal, setting a frame atop it, and covering it with thick blankets. The men sat around the pit, their feet beneath the blankets. The scent of charred wool permeated the room. Gul hugged his knees to his chest and wrapped his striped woolen shawl more tightly around himself as the servant returned with the meal.
The men spoke little while they ate. Nur Muhammed tore chunks of naan and dipped them into the pilaf, shoveling bits of lamb and rice into his mouth so quickly that his hand blurred between bowl and mouth. Later, though, over tea and sweet firni, he leaned forward and the other men angled in close, talking in hoarse whispers even though the women were far from earshot. Gul leaned against his father, barely daring to breathe.
“This is worse than when the Russians left,” Nur Muhammed said. “Not so much fighting now, but when it comes—just wait. The Taliban are regrouping.”
“The factions will fight among themselves. They always do,” another man said.
“Eventually, yes. But together, they can cause a lot of trouble in the meantime. The routes could close.”
There was a collective intake of breath. Opium supported them all, but if they could not get their harvest through the mountainous territory to markets as far away as Uzbekistan, there was nothing to fall back on.
“I have been thinking,” his father said. “We continue to grow opium. We sell it, we don’t sell it, no matter.”
Gul narrowed his eyes, taking in the incomprehension on the faces of the other men, relatives all and close ones at that, uncles and a few cousins, older ones. This was the part he loved, the part where his father confused everyone, then brought them inexorably to understanding.
“We will take the money we still have,” his father continued. “We will invest in another crop.”
“There is no other crop,” one of Gul’s uncles spat. “Pakistan has them all, the maize, the oranges. They take our water”—the others glowered at this reference to Pakistan’s dams that captured precious water from the Kabul River—“and they sell their produce back to us for cheaper than we could grow it here.”
Nur Muhammed ignored him. “For this crop, the routes will stay open, no matter who has the upper hand.”
“What is this magical product?” said the uncle, not bothering to conceal his skepticism.
Nur Muhammed took another spoonful of firni, and Gul licked his lips, imagining the velvety coolness of the rice custard sliding down his throat. His mother made it the way Nur Muhammed liked, topped with crushed pistachios and his precious raisins. Nur Muhammed reached behind him. Something metal and cold slid past him. Nur Muhammed held his Kalashnikov briefly aloft, then placed it reverently in the center of the oilcloth that protected the carpet from the various dinner dishes.
“This.” He laid his hand on the gun’s curved steel stock, shiny from frequent contact with his shoulder. “Everyone will need more soon. And not just these, but RPGs, Oerlikons, Stingers. Especially Stingers.” The men nodded at strange names long ago grown familiar. “I have already made arrangements to collect as many as we can from any source that has them. The Amriki want them back and will pay dearly. And our own people want them even more. We will supply.”
He stared each man in the eye to make sure everyone understood.
“From now on, we will grow guns.”
* * *
Gul lingered with his father in the outbuilding as the others left and the servant cleared the dishes and banked the sandali. Gul lifted the lanterns and started to follow the servant from the room, but Nur Muhammed called him back. The lanterns swung in his hand as he turned. Shadows leapt and shuddered.
“There is another thing. Your wife.”
Pride warred with apprehension. Gul had noted his father’s approving expression on the rare occasions Nur Muhammed encountered Farida at work with the other women in the household. It was as his father had said. He himself had been a cooperative husband. And Farida had rewarded his patience by becoming a most pleasing wife.
“We leave soon for Kabul. You know that a position for her has been secured there. She will begin as soon as we arrive.”
“But—” Farida had forbidden him to mention her pregnancy, and Gul didn’t know if Maryam had said anything. Still, Gul was sure that when it became apparent, Nur Muhammed would release her from her responsibility.
His father waited.
“It is nothing.” Gul set the lanterns on the floor and wrapped his shawl around his head. With the sandali extinguished, the cold reestablished dominance.
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“She must bring us information. I have a list of questions. You will put these to her. She will take them to the Amriki and bring the answers to you. And you will bring them to me.” He rattled off a list, his breath puffing visibly in the lanterns’ unsteady light.
Gul’s chest seized as though he’d gulped a lungful of the frigid air. “These questions—they will know why she’s asking. This could cause trouble for us.”
Nur Muhammed threw his head back and laughed and laughed.
“That is not the remotest possibility. No one remembers anything a woman says or does.”
Still laughing, he took the lanterns and strode into the night, leaving his son to find his way back to the main house by the indifferent light of the stars.
Eighteen
ISLAMABAD, FEBRUARY 2002
Her first night in Pakistan found Liv at a party. Martin told her their hosts worked at the Dutch embassy, although Liv, still jet-lagged despite her nap, never did figure out exactly what they did there.
The man was dark-suited and charming in a professional sort of way, all hand kisses and “my dears.” His wife glittered in a bright off-the-shoulder frock that made Liv, who’d packed a black dress with long sleeves and a full, calf-length skirt for just such occasions, feel dowdy, at least until she met Mrs. Khan, a lumpy woman who worked with Martin at Face the Future. As far as Liv could tell, Mrs. Khan was the only Pakistani guest in a room full of junior staffers from the various embassies and NGOs and corporations, and even a few journalists. Mrs. Khan seemed to know everyone in the room, pulling people aside at times for intimate and, from their expressions, serious conversations. As people began drinking with more purpose, though, Mrs. Khan withdrew to a corner of the room, watching with dark, calculating eyes.
These private parties, Martin told Liv, were the only places they could drink in Islamabad outside the few “foreigners’ clubs” in the larger hotels such as the Marriott. The foodstuffs passing on trays borne by white-coated men were of the same sort that Liv had eaten at innumerable wedding receptions and college functions back home, generic hors d’oeuvres and bland entrées in pale, viscous sauces.
“You did not enjoy the food.”
It was not a question. Mrs. Khan approached Liv after the dessert, another anemic and inoffensive concoction, was cleared away. Martin was in one corner by the sideboard that held the liquor, methodically getting smashed with a banker and a couple of young women who worked for the United Nations. This, too, was new to Liv. At the college, ever conscious of the presence of someone he wanted to impress, Martin tended to sip wine or the occasional beer. Now he upended a bottle over his glass so carelessly that the liquor splashed onto his hand.
“Excuse me,” Liv said to Mrs. Khan. She made her way to her husband. “This isn’t exactly what I expected.”
“You wanted camels and a tent?” Martin took her hand and Liv curled her fingers around his. After only a few hours in this new place, she was already beginning to crave the casual public affection she’d taken for granted at home. “You should enjoy this while you can. None of this, just having a glass of wine with dinner, women and men socializing together, this”—he raised their clasped hands—“will be possible once we go to Kabul. Eat, drink, and all that, for soon—”
“Martin, komm bitte her,” a woman commanded him. She cradled an armful of sweating brown bottles. Apparently, German beer had been procured. Martin shrugged, laughing. He dropped Liv’s hand and backed away.
Liv found Mrs. Khan at her elbow. She tried to remember their conversation. “The food,” Mrs. Khan prompted.
“I thought it would be different.”
“Different in what way, please?” Mrs. Khan spoke precise, British-accented English.
“Oh, I don’t know.” A single glass of wine had made her feel fuzzy and uncertain. “We’re here, after all. Not in New York or London or Amsterdam. Shouldn’t we be eating something else?”
“Something local, maybe?”
“Yes. I’m in another country, but it doesn’t feel that way.” It had struck her, midway through the evening, that despite the variety of accents swirling around her—the partygoers comprised a dozen different nationalities, yet they conversed mostly in English, with varying degrees of competence—she’d attended far too many tedious faculty parties that were not really so different from this one. She looked around at the other women in the room. Like their hostess, they wore dresses that would have seemed abbreviated at home. In Islamabad, Liv worried that their clothing was downright indecent. “I was told I shouldn’t dress like that here.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Khan asked. “All the women here except you are dressed like that. And me, of course.” Her laugh, a surprise after her severe expression, was enchanting.
“Everything I read, everyone I talked to, said this was such a conservative place.”
Mrs. Khan laughed again, not so prettily this time. “It is very conservative. But the people at this party aren’t really in this country. They stay in their own little compounds. They socialize only with one another. To whom would they give offense?”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t even been here a full day. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Your dress is much more appropriate,” Mrs. Khan reassured her. “People here will appreciate that more than you know.”
Liv ducked her head to hide her inordinate gratitude for the compliment. She studied Mrs. Khan’s attire, a richly embroidered silk version of the tunic outfit that most of the locals seemed to wear. “What you’re wearing—what is it called?”
“This is our shalwar kameez.” She bent her knee in a curtsey so the voluminous drape of the pants billowed. “Shalwar.” She lifted her arms, displaying the graceful lines of the tunic, which easily disguised her plumpness. “Kameez, like the French chemise.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s also very comfortable. Much more so, I think, than that.” She cut her eyes toward their hostess, whose dress featured a bodice that dipped dangerously south.
“Do foreign women ever wear the shalwar kameez?” Liv pronounced the words carefully, mentally adding them to her small vocabulary list. Mrs. Khan was probably the plainest woman in the room, but Liv thought she was by far the most attractively dressed. Before she could enlighten Liv further, Martin came up behind them. He wrapped an arm around Liv and reached with his other for Mrs. Khan. She sidestepped him.
“My favorite employee.” His voice was loud in Liv’s ear.
“We’ve been colleagues for so little time, and already I’m your favorite?” Liv noticed the way the woman emphasized words. Colleagues.
“Employee,” Martin had said. Liv blushed at her husband’s slight, but Mrs. Khan continued speaking as Martin hugged Liv closer.
“I’ve been getting acquainted with your wife. I hope you’ll let me begin her orientation tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Khan will be a good teacher for you,” he told Liv. “She knows everything about Afghanistan. She takes a personal interest in the place. Her sister is there.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a sore subject,” Martin said. “It has to do with an unfortunate marriage.” He laughed again. His hair flopped over his eyes. Liv eased away from his grip. She was tired again, as drained as she’d been earlier in the day.
“I think maybe we’d better go home.” She smiled an apology at Mrs. Khan. “Jet lag.”
Mrs. Khan looked pointedly at Martin, who, freed from his anchor, listed. “I think that’s best.” She put a hand on Liv’s arm. Her nails, filed to perfect ovals, were a deep shade of coral. “Tomorrow we’ll get started, inshallah.”
In the taxi, Martin slumped against her, eyes shut, mouth open. Liv caught their driver’s gaze in the rearview mirror and recoiled from the fury she saw there.
“The Marriott,” she said.
“Of course, the Marriott.” He made a spitting noise and started the car.
* * *
The bedside
phone buzzed far too early the next morning. Martin snored through a likely hangover. Liv held the receiver to her ear.
“I am in the lobby. The driver is outside. I could of course drive us myself, but for what we are doing today, it is better to preserve appearances. You have a covering for your hair?”
Liv remembered Mrs. Khan, the orientation they’d scheduled. “Yes,” she said, thinking of the scarf she’d bought at Gatwick.
“Fetch it and come along. Quickly, now. It’s going to be a long day.”
Mrs. Khan looked none too pleased when Liv emerged in the lobby fifteen minutes later, the flowered scarf barely covering her damp hair. A headache that Liv recognized as lack of coffee—the cart in the lobby featured only tea—creased her forehead.
“This will never do. We will stop at a tailor’s on the way.”
“A tailor?” Liv looked down at her clothes, a beige linen blazer over a blouse buttoned to the neck, and a calf-length skirt, opaque hose, and low-heeled pumps. Mrs. Khan wore another shalwar kameez, a comfortable cotton one in dark tones.
“Where we’re going, those shoes will be destroyed in five minutes. Haven’t you got something sturdier? And maybe some slacks, to hide your ankles? Please, go and change. I’ll tell the driver to wait.” By the time they left the hotel, it was nearly ten. Martin was just beginning to wake when Liv finally left the room, this time in slim dark pants whose fresh creases, hastily pressed by the ever-hovering Marriott staff, looked incongruous over sneakers.
Mrs. Khan pursed her lips when she saw the new getup but said nothing. Not far from the Marriott, she directed the driver to pull over in front of one of the hulking concrete towers with the cavelike openings on their lower floors. Liv followed her up pitted cement steps into a dark hallway and turned into a small room so stacked with bolts of cloth that there was barely space for Liv and Mrs. Khan, along with the proprietor, a tape measure hanging over his shoulders. He waved his hand, and moments later, tea appeared, two cups on a pressed tin tray borne by a boy of no more than eight. Liv sipped the tepid liquid, wondering if the water had been boiled. She tried to ignore thoughts of the microbes swimming in it, and tried even harder to ignore her longing for coffee.
