by N G Osborne
“Oh heavens,” his father says, “what happened?”
“Nothing but a contact wound, Baba.”
“You’ve lost an arm.”
Tariq shrugs as if these kinds of things are to be expected. He looks at his sister; to his dismay her level of concern doesn’t seem to have risen. They return to the hut and sit down. Tariq makes sure that the pearl-handled Colt pistol in his holster is on full display.
“When did this happen?” Aamir Khan says.
“A couple of months ago. Four of us slipped into Afghanistan and set up high on a slope overlooking the Jalalabad highway. On the sixth day an army convoy finally appeared. We waited until they were along side us and unleashed everything we had at them. To our amazement nothing hit, it was as if there was a force field surrounding them, so I scrambled down the slope with my—”
“Weren’t you high up on the slope?” Noor says.
Tariq looks over at his sister, and she holds his gaze. Bile rises up in his throat. He feels as if she’s penetrated his brain and sifted through the reality of what happened that day; how in fact he’d lost his footing and gone tumbling head over heels down the hillside only to find himself sprawled by the side of the road.
He turns back to his father.
“When I arrived at the road, there was only one vehicle left, an armored personnel carrier. The machine gunner was so surprised to see me his shots spat wide. I got down on one knee and fired an RPG through the driver’s window—”
“I thought you said you’d already unleashed everything you had at them?” Noor says.
“What’s with her?” Tariq says to Aamir Khan.
Tariq points at his missing arm.
“Isn’t this enough that she need not challenge the truth of my story.”
“Noor,” Aamir Khan says.
“I apologize,” Noor says, “I took my dear brother’s words too literally.”
Tariq glances at her and thinks he detects the slightest of smirks. The events of that day replay in his mind; scrambling to his feet to find the personnel carrier bearing down on him, seeing his RPG launcher a couple of feet away only to realize that it was empty, the machine gunner lining him up in his sights, and then a blessed miracle, a massive explosion as the personnel carrier rolled over an anti-tank mine.
Damn her. Nobody else has doubted my story.
“So what happened then?” Aamir Khan says.
“The story’s not worth telling,” Tariq says.
“No please, for my sake if nothing else.”
Tariq sighs.
“I fired my RPG, the carrier blew up and a piece of shrapnel severed my left arm. There you have it. Satisfied.”
“Oh my poor, poor boy.”
Tariq cringes at his father’s words.
“How are you feeling?” Aamir Khan says. “I have read that many amputees feel phantom pain.”
“Any pain is but a paltry sacrifice on behalf of the jihad. In fact I’m now in the Prince’s office helping prepare our next offensive.”
“That is impressive,” Aamir Khan says.
And in this case true. Tariq’s heroic tale had not only won him a transfer from Yousef’s stifling armory but also a gift from the Prince of ten thousand rupees and the Colt. An uncomfortable silence pervades the hut. Tariq notices two books sitting next to his father—I Claudius and Fahrenheit 451.
“Are these for your consumption or Noor’s?” Tariq says.
“That should be no concern of yours,” Noor says.
Tariq takes a sip of tea. He won’t give her the satisfaction of letting her get to him.
“It’s a deep disgrace for any man for his sister to be reading such salacious material.”
“These books are hardly salacious,” Aamir Khan says.
“Do the characters involve themselves in sexual activity?”
“I dare say somewhere—”
“Then you should be ashamed of yourself for allowing Noor to read them.”
“What books would you have me read?” Noor says.
“The Quran is more than sufficient.”
“I read it every day.”
“Clearly you haven’t understood it.”
“I understand it more than you ever will.”
Tariq pulls on his beard until he feels it might rip from his chin. His eyes are drawn to the scarf resting petulantly on Noor’s hair; her come-hither eyes and pouting lips are further advertisement that she’s a wanton slut.
If you were my wife, I’d spank your buttocks until I’d beaten the very last bit of disobedience out of you.
He drags his eyes away and focuses on his father.
“I see they still don’t wear the burqa.”
“You know where I stand on that,” Aamir Khan says.
“This only brings further disgrace on our family.”
“Our family lives in a mud hut,” Noor says. “I doubt we can sink any lower.”
“I also see you continue to shave.”
“It is my preference,” Aamir Khan says.
“We are duty bound to follow the example of the Prophet, peace be upon him.”
“Is that a fact?” Noor says.
Tariq rounds on his sister.
“An indisputable one.”
“Did the Prophet, peace be upon him, wear a pearl-handled pistol and drive a Japanese four-by-four?” Noor says.
Tariq’s eyes twitch.
“These matters have been decided upon by the ulema. You have neither the wisdom nor education to understand such things.”
“I thought you just said we’re duty bound to follow the Prophet’s example. Sounds to me like you should be riding a camel, and fighting the Communists with a sword.”
Tariq leaps across the rug and grabs Noor around the neck. He lifts her up and pins her against the wall. Noor kicks back, but Tariq is too close for them to have any effect.
“I can strangle you as surely with one hand, sister, as I could with two.”
Tariq stares into her eyes. All he detects is mocking derision staring back.
“Tariq,” Aamir Khan says.
Tariq squeezes harder.
“As your father, I beg you, put her down.”
Tariq releases her. Noor collapses onto her knees, her lungs clamoring for air.
Tariq stands there a moment, catching his breath. He looks down at the three of them.
“To think I had two thousand rupees to give to you. But I forgot you’re not worth it; none of you are.”
Tariq spits on the floor and strides outside. He promises himself that this will be the last time he’ll ever visit them.
TEN
CHARLIE SITS IN the shade sketching the recruits in their long protection aprons and visored helmets. They are waddling around the yard swinging their metal detectors back and forth. Wali comes up behind him and scrutinizes his drawing.
“A most accurate representation, I must say.”
Shafiq trips and falls to the ground.
“Can’t say they’re not protected,” Charlie says.
Wali laughs, and Charlie puts his sketch pad to the side.
“I trust you had a productive day,” Wali says.
“Wouldn’t categorize it that way. None of these guys seem to listen.”
“I hate to say this but if you’d only kept the first men—”
“Yeah then I wouldn’t have to worry because they’d all be deaf.”
Charlie sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles. Half the recruits stop and look his way. The other half keep walking around like drones.
“Hey guys,” he shouts. “Guys.”
Everyone stops.
“We’re done for the day. Give your equipment back to Mocam and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Everyone makes for the storeroom except for one recruit who shuffles their way. He doesn’t need to pull off his helmet for Charlie to know who it is.
“Yes, Obaidullah,” Charlie says.
“Sir, I was wondering if you have given mo
re thought to become Muslim, sir, it would most warm our hearts.”
“Actually Obaidullah, now you mention it, I have. I’ve prayed for many hours and asked God for guidance.”
“And what was His answer, sir?”
“For now I’m going to stick with Jesus.”
Obaidullah deflates.
“I ask that you continue to pray most hard, sir.”
“Will do.”
Obaidullah trudges off.
“I almost feel sorry for him,” Charlie says.
“Mark my word,” Wali says, “he won’t give up until you are a full fledged Muslim.”
“Then I guess he’ll make a great deminer.”
Wali gives Charlie a confused look.
“You need a lot of patience in this job,” Charlie says.
“Yes, of course.”
They head towards the main gate.
“I need a favor,” Charlie says.
“Please name it.”
“I want to go into Afghanistan.”
“So soon?”
“Yeah why not?”
Wali shrugs.
“Whatever floats your ship,” he says.
“Your boat, Wali, not ship.”
Wali gets out his notepad and writes down the correction.
“I will ask my friend at the UN. They have survey expeditions that go all the time.”
“Yeah that may not work. Kind of rubbed that Jurgen fella up the wrong way.”
“Jurgen Kaymer. Oh, he’s not important.”
“He runs the organization.”
“Yes, but he’s not responsible for the list.”
“What list?”
“The list of who goes on the expedition and who doesn’t. My friend is.”
“And Jurgen can’t put someone on it?”
“Of course, but it’s up to my friend to actually do it—if he doesn’t, you won’t have the appropriate permits.”
Charlie reaches the Pajero. He puts his hand on the hood and yanks it away. He can’t decide if it’s scorching hot due to the sun or because Wali’s been driving it all day.
“Anything else?” Wali says.
“Yeah, be around a little more when I’m teaching. I’m stretched man, it’s tough keeping my eye on thirty guys.”
“Mr. Matthews, I most sincerely wish I could, but as your deputy, the number of tasks I have to undertake are so numerous that your request is impossible I’m afraid.”
“Like what?”
“Like finding you a super hot, sexy motorbike.”
“You found one?”
Wali gives Charlie a gargantuan smile.
“Oh, Mr. Matthews, I am telling you it is a beauty.”
Charlie opens his door.
“Well what are we waiting for?”
“The seller is all the way in the Old City.”
“I don’t care.”
Wali jumps in and they speed off.
“Okay, out with it,” Charlie says as they pass by the stone walls of the old British cemetery. “What demining experience do you really have?”
“You have asked me this before.”
“And you never told me.”
“I most assuredly did. My sister was killed by a mine. I think of her every day.”
“But what other experience?”
“You don’t think that is sufficient?”
“No.”
“Mr. Skeppar was most moved when I told him my sister’s harrowing tale. You should turn right here.”
Charlie makes the turn and swerves to avoid a goat.
“Okay humor me,” Charlie says, “what’s a Claymore?”
Wali stares out the window.
“Wali?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Shouldn’t need to.”
“You see that Naz cinema? You can park right there.”
Charlie pulls up in front of a movie theater with a giant billboard of Rambo above its doors.
“Are you acquainted with the Rambo movies, Mr. Matthews?”
“Course.”
“Rambo Three is by far the best, don’t you agree?”
“Pretty certain that isn’t a commonly held view.”
“For the Afghan people it is the greatest movie ever made. He kills many, many Russians. He even plays buzkashi.”
Charlie cuts the ignition.
“A Claymore is a directional anti-personnel mine. It fires steel balls out a hundred yards within a circular radius and is used primarily in ambushes and as an anti-infiltration device.”
“I could not have put it better myself.”
“You don’t get it, Wali, I don’t give a shit what experience you have. I’m not going to fire you, I just want to know that’s all.”
“I assure you, you won’t find a better deputy in the whole of Peshawar.”
“Never in doubt, just admit—”
“In the whole of Pakistan, I would suggest.”
“Goddamn it, Wali, admit it, just admit it.”
Charlie looks past Wali. A group of grubby street boys are pressing their noses up against the glass.
“I admit it,” Wali says.
“There that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Do you think less of me now, Mr. Matthews?”
“Hell no.”
“Really?”
“You got a lot of other talents, finding mines just isn’t one of them.”
“You won’t tell Mr. Skeppar.”
“Who do you think I am? Now come on, let’s go.”
They get out and the boys crowd around them jabbering away at Wali. Wali picks the wiriest of the bunch and hands him a five-rupee note.
“What did you say to him?” Charlie says.
“If the car is in the same condition when we return he gets another ten rupees. Trust me, he will fight with his life to protect it.”
They turn off the main street and enter the tight alleys of the Old City. They’re heaving with men and a mixture of shawled and burqaed women. It’s a frenetic, upbeat maze with smoke from open fronted restaurants wafting down the alleys like evil spirits searching for victims. A schizophrenic fusion of smells assaults Charlie’s nose. One moment it’s sweet cinnamon and nutmeg from the spice stores, the next it’s the putrid stench of chicken entrails from the butchers’. Wali barrels forward ignoring the sales pitches of the storeowners and the pleas of the deformed beggars, and by necessity Charlie has to as well. They plunge into the shimmering jewelry bazaar, its stores heaving with bronze ornaments and gaudy jewelry, and burst out into a large square, teeming with hundreds of turbaned men sitting on their haunches.
“This is Sarafa, the moneychangers’ bazaar,” Wali says.
Charlie looks in one of the stores. A money-counting machine whirs its way through a large stack of bills. They leave the square and head down an alley filled with stationers and booksellers, the books piled high like they’re part of some ancient library. Wali leads Charlie down a couple of passageways so dark and narrow Charlie half-expects to be knifed. They emerge into an area that is split between pharmacies and motorcycle garages. Above each of the pharmacies a neon half crescent shines, and combined they bathe the area in a pale green light. They enter an open garage that seems to be more a repository of spare parts than actual motorcycles.
“You sure this is the right place?”
Wali calls out, and a grease-stained mechanic emerges from the back with a gleaming black and chrome motorcycle.
“Honda Rebel,” the man grins at Charlie.
Charlie inspects it. It’s in good shape.
“You won’t believe this but this was my first bike. Bought it with my army signing bonus.”
“Ah, there’s nothing like a man’s first love,” Wali says.
The mechanic comes over and points at the chain.
“He says he changed the rear sprocket from thirty-three tooth to thirty. Says it can go at least eighty miles an hour.”
“What’s he want?”
Wali
asks the mechanic.
“He says one thousand five hundred dollars.”
“Forget it, I could buy a new one for that price back home.”
Wali translates and the man replies.
“He asks what’s your price?”
“I don’t know. Seven. It’s in good condition but it’s been driven a lot.”
Wali gives the mechanic Charlie’s offer, and the man cries out.
“He says why do you want his children to starve?” Wali says.
“Tell me you’re kidding?”
“Oh no, he’s very upset.”
“So what’s his price?”
Wali turns to the mechanic who goes into a sales pitch full of gesticulations and hair pulling.
“He says one thousand three hundred dollars but only because you are friend.”
“I just met him.”
“Still he considers you a friend.”
“Seven hundred.”
Wali goes back again. The man raises his fist.
“He says you are cruel, cruel man, why do you torment him so?”
“Screw this,” Charlie says, “He can keep it.”
Charlie turns. The mechanic runs over and tugs him on his arm. He launches into another impassioned diatribe.
“He says the price is one thousand one hundred,” Wali says, “but he will make no money from the sale.”
“One thousand and we’re done.”
Wali tells the mechanic, and the mechanic, wiping tears from his eyes, nods.
“He says okay for you he’ll do it.”
Charlie counts out ten one hundred dollar bills.
“Please tell me he’s making money on this deal?” Charlie says.
“Oh, I suspect at least three hundred dollars,” Wali says.
Charlie stares at Wali.
“You tell me that now?”
“If you had wanted me to bargain for you, you should have said.”
Charlie sighs. He hands the bills to the mechanic whose mood has transformed markedly. Charlie suspects Wali’s getting a hefty commission.
Charlie wheels the bike outside.
“Want to give it a spin?” he says to Wali.
“Would you mind if I visited one of these chemists first.”
“Go for it.”
Wali enters the nearest pharmacy. Charlie turns the ignition and the engine purrs.
A thirty tooth rear-sprocket. Who’d have thought?
He looks through the pharmacy window. Wali is haggling with the storeowner. Wali throws up his hands and storms out of the shop.