At one point he turned off the kitchen light and took his third, or maybe his fourth, drink out onto the small porch at the front of the house, intending to sit on the step. A chill rain had set in and occasional gusts licked around the house and buffeted him. But he refused to retreat. I deserve this, he told himself, and then wondered what ‘this’ was.
Fossey realised he was drunk and maudlin but also that he didn’t particularly care. Maybe ‘this’ was Layla’s voice, cold as mist, telling him that these were her people. All the poor drowned refugees, swirled by the water, rags of clothes trailing as they lay face down, finally free not just of oppression but of everything.
Fossey stepped out into the rain and stared up at the night. But it was just more blackness. It sank … He heard her voice again and wished for a wave to take him. I have become one of them, she had said. Had she? A refugee from what? From him? Then another voice: You’ve become one of them. Ray Gilbert’s accusation.
The rain was heavier now. Though he was shivering and could feel the water trickling down from his hair and across his face, he remained on the path.
‘I deserve this,’ he whispered. He drained his glass, set it down on the path by his feet and cautiously straightened up. Stop punishing yourself, a voice murmured from deep inside. For a second he was back at school listening to the sermon in chapel. Redemption is the path of the brave. Had he ever really believed that? A wave of nausea ran through him. Self-disgust, but at what? I don’t know how you can live with yourself. Ray Gilbert again.
Fossey rubbed at his face in order to rid his head of the voice. It’s just the booze, he told himself. I need a shave. The stubble on his chin felt comfortably familiar to his fingers. He considered going inside and shaving, but instead reached down for the glass and headed to the kitchen to replenish it.
He was underwater, drifting amidst the sodden corpses, when the phone had pulled him free. He picked it up warily, knowing it was not the lifeline he needed.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Angela.’
Had she only just heard the news? ‘Angela. I know all about the Sura Star —’
‘Fossey, forget the boat. Switch on your TV.’
‘Why?’ he asked, but pushed himself up from the table and headed for the lounge room. ‘Sorry, I had a bit to drink …’
‘I can tell.’ Angela sounded wide awake. ‘Now turn the bloody TV on.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Angela. I told you, I know about …’ He leaned forward and ran his hand over the couch, searching for the remote. ‘Can’t find the frigging remote … Can’t you just tell me?’
‘Turn it on!’ she snapped angrily. ‘You wouldn’t bloody believe me.’
‘Okay! Okay … Hang on.’ Fossey put the phone down on the coffee table and, as he did so, saw the remote on top of a pile of magazines. ‘Right, got it.’
He slumped back onto the couch and turned on the TV. For a moment he wondered why he was watching a movie. He changed channels. It was the same movie.
The phone was in his hand again. ‘Angela … is that …?’
‘Is it happening? Yes. Now I want you in the shower and outside in ten minutes. I’m sending a taxi.’
‘Sure,’ he said, but she was gone. He sat there trying to comprehend what he was watching. But it didn’t make sense, even when he turned the sound up and heard the shocked reports and the footage being replayed, over and over, of passenger aircraft slamming into the World Trade Centre and the Pentagon.
For Karim Mazari, the waiting had not been the relaxed time he had expected. He spent the first two weeks stripping down and rebuilding the engine in Taher’s truck, a very happy Hassan working alongside him. The boy had adapted to his surroundings with an ease that only children have. He was thriving in Peshawar and though his father was unhappy about some of the street kids he was mixing with, he now approved of his son’s friendship with Karim. After another week spent on the hydraulics, brakes and electrical system, his truck was running better than Taher could remember. He was extremely pleased to be able to earn a living hauling freight and happy to go on the road once he knew Hassan would be kept out of mischief — learning the carpet trade, going to school and assisting Karim.
For his part, Karim was on edge. The news that his father was still alive had been such a shock that now he felt he couldn’t rest until he was reunited with him — even if that did mean going to the other side of the earth.
Several times he suggested that they visit Zulfi to see if there was any progress, but each time Javed Hussain counselled against it.
‘The worst thing you can do with Zulfi is push.’
Karim pursed his lips doubtfully. ‘But, Uncle, maybe he is waiting to hear from us.’
Javed tugged at his beard and stared at Karim. ‘You are so like your father. He was the same. God rewards the patient. Listen, there are a lot of people who would like to stop Zulfi doing what he does. You lead someone to him; you compromise his security and…’ He drew his finger across his throat in a gesture that left Karim with a clear idea of how impatience would be rewarded.
Javed lowered his voice. ‘We shouldn’t even mention his name here.’
Karim wasn’t certain if Javed was being serious. ‘Here? In your own shop?’
‘Mice,’ Javed whispered.
‘Mice?’ What the hell was his uncle on about?
Javed stood, brought a finger to his lips and then pointed around the storeroom. ‘Walls have mice and mice have ears.’ But Javed sensed that Karim was not to be placated. ‘My pickup is running like an aged ass.’ He tossed the keys to him. ‘See what you can do.’
Three weeks later, about seven in the evening, Karim was walking home from the fruit market when he had the strangest feeling that something was terribly wrong. For a couple of minutes he couldn’t understand his feeling; could find no reason for it. Then he realised that all around him the streets had gone very quiet. There was still the buzz of traffic, but the call of the vendors were muted and fading. Someone had turned the volume down. The thought occurred to him that he was losing his hearing, until a scooter went past as noisy as ever. Others were noticing it and faces were peering around looking for the source of the problem, if indeed that was what it was.
Karim cut through a small lane and, to his surprise, found it almost completely deserted of its normal bustle of people. In an open-fronted stall a large group of people were standing in silence, but as he approached there was a sudden cry of disbelief. He touched the arm of a tall Pashtun at the back of the crowd.
‘What is it, brother?’
The man didn’t take his gaze from the small TV set on a shelf at the back of the stall.
‘It is the will of Allah. America has finally been punished.’
It was almost five minutes before Karim realised what he was watching. Somewhere — on another continent, where it was morning and not evening — two buildings were crumbling, and though it was far away and no concern of Pakistan or Afghanistan, he had a premonition that the shock waves were going to reach far and wide.
Over the next few days the mood in the city changed. The people of Peshawar, though having no great affection for America, were shocked as the enormity of the actions in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania sunk in.
Javed eventually pulled himself away from the television and went up to his balcony and his hookah. For a long time he sat watching the sunset. He grunted a welcome as Karim joined him and they sat in silence, watching the sky cycle from pink through angry apricot to purple.
‘Such madmen,’ Javed said quietly. ‘We know such madmen.’
‘Uncle?’
‘Those Saudis that attacked America … Jihadis. These are the same people who set up the madrasas here.’
‘The Saudis set up religious schools in Pakistan?’ Karim couldn’t see the point in that. But then he was quick to acknowledge there was an awful lot about Pakistan that he didn’t understand. Every time he thought he was fitting in he would find himself d
oing something that attracted the attention of the locals, who were quick to spit and label him a dirty Afghan.
‘The Saudis set up the madrasas and the Americans recruited the Taliban from them to fight the Russians. When the Russians went, so did the Americans …’
‘Leaving us with the Taliban.’ Karim took a long draw on the pipe and placed the mouthpiece back on the bench. ‘What I don’t understand is this thing on the news about the Americans blaming Al-Qaqa.’
‘Osama bin Laden …’ Javed leaned down and picked up a newspaper. ‘Have you seen this? The Americans say that the man responsible is living in a cave near Kandahar.’
‘I have heard his name before … what? Once, maybe twice. He is another rich Saudi supporting the Taliban. Why pick on someone like him?’
Javed laughed. ‘You must read the comments in the press. Let me…’ He squinted at the paper and started to read. ‘Osama bin Laden, also known as The Prince, The Emir, Usamah Bin-Muhammad Bin-Laden, Shaykh Usamah Bin-Laden, Abu-Abdullah, Mujahid Shaykh, Hajj, Al-Qaqa and lastly, in rather James-Bondish fashion, The Director … is unwell, suffering from a kidney disease, and walks with the aid of a cane. From deep inside his bat-cave, he has, according to the CIA, masterminded the attacks on America. This is the same CIA that created the Taliban. Somehow the Americans, unwilling to confront their Saudi friends, have, in an amazing denial of logic, leapfrogged straight to Afghanistan — on a body of circumstantial evidence that would fail to convince even a drinking judge of a county court. Hence it becomes valid to question America’s strident, and increasingly tiresome, rhetoric and the half-truths it is expecting the rest of the world to swallow.’
Karim roared with laughter. It was good to see that at least the local papers hadn’t lost their sense of irony. ‘So will they go after him?’
‘Will the Americans go after bin Laden?’ Javed took up the pipe and drew in the smoke. ‘Karim, the Americans will go after anyone rather than look at themselves.’
‘You mean they will attack Afghanistan? No, they can’t be that stupid.’
Javed blew the smoke slowly out into the night. ‘Karim, I am afraid that when you are as strong as America, it doesn’t matter if you are also stupid.’
‘We live in strange times,’ Karim said quietly and they lapsed into silence again. The idea of America going into Afghanistan in search of a dying man in a cave was beyond comprehension. The country was racked by war, poverty and three years of drought, and the last thing it needed was America added into the mix.
Yet three weeks later, when the Americans attacked Afghanistan and rioting broke out on the streets, Karim found his feelings far more complex. He watched in awe at the fury unleashed, but kept his mouth shut in public. As far as he was concerned, anyone who attacked the Taliban could not be all bad.
On the following Friday, Karim returned from midday prayers to find his uncle in a foul mood. His guard, Mohammed, had returned from his mosque to announce that he was joining up with an 8000-strong group following Maulana Sufi Muhammad into Afghanistan.
‘Into Afghanistan? Why?’ Karim asked.
‘Oh, they are going to fight the jihad against the United States,’ Javed said airily, as though describing a picnic excursion. ‘Took his rifle to attack and his Quran for protection.’
It didn’t make sense. The newspapers and television gave ample proof that this was no ordinary land battle. This war was being prosecuted from miles up in the air. The carnage on the ground, the pictures of the dead and dying civilians, should have been proof enough that even twice the number of men armed with rifles were only going to end up being killed.
‘He is mad to go.’
‘And now I have no guard. I thought I could trust him …’
‘He can be replaced, surely?’
But Javed was in no mood to be placated. ‘I hire someone with a gun and the next thing you know, we end up dead and someone else has a good carpet business? No. I will have to be very careful. Let me tell you about —’
‘Javed!’
The two men turned to find Zulfi beaming at them from the door of the shop.
‘Salaam.’ Javed’s scowl transformed into an instant smile. ‘You will have tea?’
‘Of course.’
Javed called to Hassan and sent him scurrying out to buy some tea. While they waited the three men talked through the latest news of the American bombings and what appeared to be the beginning of the end for the Taliban. Then Javed complained about the loss of his guard.
‘You need someone you can trust.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then leave it to me. I may have just the person. He owes me a debt and I will happily let him discharge it to you.’
‘Ah, but then I will be in your debt!’ Javed exclaimed, bringing his palms together in prayer.
‘You will find a way of repaying me.’ Zulfi shrugged and gestured to the piles of carpets. ‘And how is business?’
‘Not good. In troubled times people don’t seem to have the same hunger for my merchandise,’ Javed replied smoothly. In truth, business was unchanged or even improved. His prices had increased due to the probability of there being no new stock from within Afghanistan in the foreseeable future, and he had made several very lucrative sales to foreign reporters who seemed to have large amounts of money in inverse proportion to their taste.
‘That’s a pity. I was hoping I could interest you in a rug I have.’
‘These are uncertain times …’
‘Then maybe your nephew will be interested.’ He raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘I may have found the rug you have been looking for.’
Karim felt his heart lurch. He knew immediately what was being said. He tried not to sound excited or anxious. ‘I could be interested.’
‘Unfortunately the prices are out of my control.’ Zulfi placed his tea on the ground. ‘Five thousand Australian dollars.’ He stressed the word Australian ever so slightly.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know the exchange rate.’
‘I checked before I came.’ Zulfi produced a small calculator and quickly tapped it. He handed it to Karim. The screen read: $2590 USD. He took the calculator back and tapped into it again. ‘157,213 Pakistan rupees. Of course I would prefer American dollars.’
‘This is the total cost?’ Karim had imagined it would be much more. The stories circulating about people smugglers had prepared him for two to three times that amount.
‘I take ten per cent on top.’
‘Of course.’
‘And I will require six passport photographs. But I will take them after you have had a western-style haircut.’ He smiled almost sadly. ‘I’m afraid the beard will have to go, but a moustache will be in order.’
It was going to happen. Karim could hardly believe it. That night, for a long time after his uncle had gone to bed, he sat up on the roof balcony and stared out into space. What stars would he look at in Australia? Way above him he saw something move in the heavens — moving towards his homeland. An American plane. It was followed by another and another. It seemed the right time to leave.
As American as.
‘Smells great.’
Fossey’s voice jolted her.
‘Apple pie,’ she said and started to roll out the top. At the age of eleven her cooking skills had been confined to following her father’s instructions and producing the food he liked: Kabuli rice, braised lamb. Not American food. But making apple pie was an act of belonging. Like her father and the American flag. They had been the first people in their street to put up a flagstaff and fly the Stars’n’Stripes. They had been trying too hard. Now she certainly wouldn’t have raised the Australian flag over their house. But apple pie transcended simple patriotism. The peeling and coring of the Granny Smiths, the brown sugar, the hard little nails of cloves, the anorexic vanilla bean, the freshly grated nutmeg and curled cinnamon stick were sensual delights. The aroma in the kitchen was the smell of childhood. A next-door neighbour in Fort Collins had shown her th
e trick of pre-cooking half the apples and spices before baking the pie. It was a cheat, of course, but one that gave the final product a more complex taste.
‘You’ve never made one before.’ Fossey took a teaspoon and moved towards the gently stewing apples on the stove.
Layla slapped his hand away. ‘You never deserved it.’
‘So what did I do?’
‘Nothing yet. But I have great faith that one day you will.’
She watched as he poured himself a glass of scotch then, knowing he would, held her flour-covered hands out of the way as he kissed her on the cheek.
‘You’re eating alone again.’
Fossey groaned. ‘Third time this week. I’m beginning to think you have a secret lover.’
‘Sure. His name’s Fossey.’
He was a good man, she thought as she watched him leave the kitchen. Good, but blind in so many areas. The nature of his work with the immigration minister had deeply troubled her, but since he’d quit the job and they’d returned to Brisbane, she had sensed that he was changing. Twice in the last few days he had mentioned his unease with the hardline government stance. True, he had raised it in response to criticism from the European Union and the United Nations, but it was the first time she had heard him express any doubt. It still struck her as strange that he seemed not to take her feelings into account, even though she had expressed them time and again. Yet since she had decided to make her own moves in that direction, she contented herself with the thought that it was not him but the government that she was working against. For a moment she wondered if she was doing the right thing. There was still the incomplete work on her translation of Faiz. She hadn’t touched it in weeks and, with the amount of time this new crusade was taking up, it might be months before she returned to it. But somehow, in the larger scheme of things, a poem seemed of little importance.
Crusade? Was that it? No, it was an entirely inappropriate word given the circumstances …
Layla glanced at her watch and realised she was going to have to concentrate. She placed a pie-bird gently in the middle of the pie dish and ladled the cooked apples around it. Then she layered the rest of the sliced apples on top, squeezed a little lemon juice over them and finally dusted them with a mixture of sugar and nutmeg. Now to the part she enjoyed most.
The Haha Man Page 13
