by N G Osborne
“Me? No.”
“Not even for a moment?”
“Not really.”
“Not really’s not ever.”
“Back in Kabul when I was nine there was a boy, Omar, the son of our cook. I suppose I pined over him for a week.”
“Why just a week?”
Noor blushes at the memory.
“Oh come on,” Elma says, “you’ve got to tell me now.”
“I caught him defecating into a flower pot.”
Elma giggles.
“No way, what was he thinking?”
“It was early, Bjorn, my rabbit had escaped, and I was looking for him. I went into the vegetable garden at the back of the house, and there was Omar with his trousers around his ankles squatting over a flower pot. I don’t think he even knew I saw him.”
Elma collapses into a laughing fit. The men at the table next to them look in their direction. One of them flashes a lecherous smile at Elma.
“Shit, I woke up the creeps,” Elma says. “Come on let’s get out of here.”
Elma drops some rupees on the table and takes a hold of Noor’s hand. She leads her out of the teashop and into the cramped tailor’s next door.
“Rod?” Elma says.
“Almost there,” Rod shouts out from behind a partition at the back.
Elma and Noor sit down on a big roll of fabric lying on the floor.
“So this Omar,” Elma says, “did he put you off boys for life?”
“No, this war did, this situation we find ourselves in.”
“As a woman I have no man. As a woman I want no man. As a woman my man is the whole world.”
“Is it so bad to think that?”
Elma ponders the question.
“For a long time I thought the same way as you. I enjoyed men, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t want to be tied to one, worse yet rely on one. My career is my first love, I suspect it always will be.”
“That’s why I so admire you.”
“But there comes a point that the idea of sharing your life with someone becomes incredibly appealing. ‘No man is an island,’ who said that?”
“John Donne.”
“Right. Well the longer I live, the more I think it’s true, not just in the work we do but in our personal lives. I think you’re going to be surprised, one day you’re going to meet a man and fall in love with him without even realizing it.”
Rod jumps out from behind the partition in a lime green shalwar kameez and grey waistcoat. The proud tailor stands behind him beaming.
“What do you think?” Rod says, twirling around and around.
Elma jumps up clapping.
“Oh my God, you look so dashing.”
“How about you, Noor? You think I look sufficiently Pakistani.”
“You could run for the National Assembly.”
“And I just might. From what I hear it’s a license to print money.”
Rod sits down on one of the fabric rolls, and Elma snuggles up next to him.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Rod says, “I had a couple more things I wanted to ask you.”
“Of course,” Noor says, “what do you want to know?”
Rod looks over at the tailor.
“You mind if we hang out here a while?”
The tailor beams at them as if Rod has bestowed on his humble establishment the greatest of honors. He claps his hands, and a young boy comes racing out from the back. The tailor barks at him, and the boy soon returns with cups of steaming kahwah from the shop next door. For the next two hours the three of them talk, not just about life in the camps but the future for Afghans in general and Afghan women in particular. They touch on questions of identity, both cultural and gender, the role of Islam, and the neocolonialism of both the West and Saudi Arabia. Noor feels a visceral thrill.
This is what it will be like in Holland.
She imagines herself in some smoky Amsterdam coffee shop, squeezed in tight with her fellow students, arguing the great topics of the day while outside it snows and boats bob on the icy canals.
At some point Elma insists on buying Noor a couple of new shalwar kameez. They are her first in four years. Finally the tailor mentions that he must close his shop. Noor feels like a child who’s been told by her parents that it’s time for bed. Rod and Elma offer to drive her back to the camps, but she tells them she is fine taking the bus. For some reason, she thinks it’d only diminish the evening if she were to explain why she and her family are living at Charlie’s.
The bus ride is uneventful, and she returns to the house still buzzing. She walks through the sitting room and out onto the verandah. In the fading light, her father and Mukhtar are working on a ramp to place over the steps. Her father sees her and waves. She smiles, relieved. He has no idea she was even gone. She goes back inside, and begins preparing her apology to Charlie.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“YOU SEE THAT man over there with no arms?” Wali says.
Charlie looks over at a scrubby lawn where an impromptu cricket match is underway. It’s safe to say there isn’t a more bizarre cricket match going on anywhere else in the world. A one armed man bowls the ball to a no legged man. The no-legged man hits it right at the man with no arms, who with no way to catch it, lets the ball smack him in the chest before he kicks it towards a one-legged man, who hops on over and throws it back to the one armed wicketkeeper.
“Most wonderful bowler,” Wali says.
“You shitting me?”
“He puts the ball under his neck and bowls it with a little twist of the neck. It gives the ball a most wicked spin.”
This time the one armed bowler bowls one with pace. The legless man swings too late, and the balls hits him square on the forehead. The legless man crumples to the ground.
“Jesus, a mine couldn’t kill him but a cricket ball just did,” Charlie says.
Those that can run over to the man and drag him to his wheelchair. A one legged, one armed man takes his place at the wicket.
“So how you doing?” Charlie says.
“I told you, I’m most well.”
“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Wali.”
“Oh, I like that expression.”
Wali grabs his pad and pen from a pouch in his wheelchair and writes it down.
“Well?”
“My life is over, Mr. Matthews, is it not?”
“It’s going to be tough, no doubt, but over? Far from it.”
“I will never have sex now.”
Charlie looks at Wali.
“Shit, did something—”
“No, no, it was unharmed by the accident, in fact I’ve been waking up with the most glorious erections. Doctor Halim’s most impressed. But I know of no woman who would want to have sexual intercourse with a man who looks like me.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Mr. Matthews.”
“I’m not. There was this movie recently, Tom Cruise was in it, where he played this real guy, Ron Kovic. He was shot in Vietnam, paralyzed from the waist down, shit, his dick didn’t even work, and women were all over him.”
“Maybe he is the exception.”
“Look at me, Wali.”
Wali turns his way and pouts.
“One of the things I learned long ago is that women don’t care what you look like, they care how you treat them. It’s all attitude. You come with me to New York, and the girls are going to be all over you.”
Wali smiles. Charlie is unsure if he is doing so just to placate him.
“Ah, now take a look,” he says.
He gestures towards the field. The man with no arms runs up with the ball under his chin and releases it down the wicket. It bounces in front of the one armed batsman, takes a bamboozling turn and knocks over the stumps. His teammates run, hobble and drag themselves over to him.
“I’ll be damned,” Charlie says.
Charlie pulls out his cigarettes and lights one for each of them. The smoke drifts away in the evening breeze.<
br />
“So how is everything at Mine Aware?” Wali says.
“I’m trying, but nothing seems to work. They just don’t listen. No, that’s not right, they listen fine, but the moment you turn your back they totally slack off.”
“Slack off?”
Wali sticks the cigarette between his lips and grabs his pad.
“You know, don’t try?”
“And how do you know this?’
“I gave them this exercise yesterday. All they had to do was lie on their stomachs and sort through a bag of rice. It’s a way to build patience, get in their heads what the prone position is like. So I go around the back of the compound and climb on to the roof of the storeroom to watch. You know how many were still in that position five minutes later?”
“Not many I assume.”
“Two.”
“Please tell me you didn’t say anything.”
“Course I did. I mean, why wouldn’t I?”
Wali takes a deep drag.
“Mr. Matthews, all aid workers are the same. They come out here and tell us how they want to make a difference. My word if we Afghans were paid one dollar for every time we heard those words we would be a rich nation. But soon they get frustrated, things don’t go as expected, and, of course, they cannot blame themselves, as we all know they are perfect, so they blame the Afghans, treat us like we cannot be trusted.”
“But most of my guys can’t.”
“That’s not true, it just takes time to build trust, on both sides. Until then they will only do what is necessary to keep their jobs.”
“So you’re saying they don’t trust me?”
Wali laughs.
“For nine years the West tells the Afghans, ‘we stand beside you, we are your friends forever’, but look what happens, as soon as we defeat the Soviets, your aid agencies start pulling out, and your governments lose interest. Trust me, all these men know someone who lost a job with an agency this year, and they have no reason to think this one will be any different?”
“I just hired them.”
“Yes but for how long? Don’t think they don’t know about the recruits who lost their jobs when you arrived. They say to themselves, ‘When the next boss comes in December why will that not happen to us too?’ Can you promise it won’t?”
Charlie knows he can’t.
“So what do I do?” he says.
“Someone very wise once said an Afghan is like a lamb, ‘if you pull him by power towards heaven he will resist but if taken with love he will happily go with you even to the depths of hell.’ Trust them, Mr. Matthews, in all things, and I promise you, you will see big changes.”
Charlie tosses his cigarette away.
“You know something, you lose your legs and you get ten times smarter.”
Wali laughs.
“Come on,” Charlie says, “I told Doctor Halim we’d only be gone five minutes.”
Charlie gets behind Wali’s chair and pushes him towards his wing.
“Just so you know, I’ve hired someone to look after you. He and his two daughters will be staying in the house.”
“How old are these daughters?”
“Early twenties.”
“And this man has no concerns about you being around them?”
“He’s not like your average Afghan.”
“You can say that again. Are his daughters attractive?”
“One is, I suppose.”
“Yet she’s not married?”
“She’s impossible. She’s turned down over thirty proposals.”
“Then she must be much better looking than you’re letting on.”
And even more impossible.
After Noor’s latest outburst Charlie’s come to the conclusion that there’s nothing he can to do to make her like him.
They reach the door to Wali’s wing. Wali sucks on his cigarette like a condemned man, and flicks it away. Charlie pulls him through the door, and a nurse takes command of the chair.
“Ghazal will vouch for my erections, won’t you Ghazal?” Wali says.
The nurse rolls his eyes and pushes Wali down the corridor to his room.
“I promise you, Mr. Matthews,” Wali shouts, “when I get to New York I will not disappoint your beautiful American women.”
“You better not!”
Charlie heads outside into the parking lot. He shivers; the nights are getting colder. He gets on his bike and starts back to the office. Better that than risking another verbal assault from Noor.
***
THE RECRUITS SIT cross-legged on the ground. In front of each of them is a mine detector, a blast helmet, a pair of protective gloves, and a demining vest. Charlie faces them with a sheaf of paper in his hand.
“I want to start by being totally honest with you.”
A few of the recruits lean forward intrigued.
“I’m going to be abandoning you in a few months, but before that happens, we’re all going to get a new boss, a guy called Stephen Adams. From what everyone tells me he’s a good guy, but that’s beside the point because, you know what, there’ll come a time when he abandons you too, and so will every other Westerner you’ll ever meet in your life. It’s your history to be abandoned, and I hate to say it’s ours to abandon people like you
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t care whether you learn to be deminers or not. I mean on some ego driven level I do, everyone likes to feel they’ve accomplished something in this life, but at the end of the day, five, ten, twenty years from now I’m not going to be living in Afghanistan, scared shitless every time my child goes out to play that they might step on a mine. So the real question is whether you want to have the capacity to demine your country or not? To learn a skill that when we abandon you, you can still use to better the lives of your family and friends? If you don’t, I’ll make it easy. Just stand up, right now, and head to Qasim’s office. I told him to give you six months wages no questions asked.”
The recruits glance at each other.
“Right now?” Jawad says.
“That’s right?” Charlie says.
Jawad looks over at Mansoor. Mansoor giggles, and the two young men jump to their feet. Charlie goes over and hugs them.
“Ma’salaam,” he says.
They smile back as if they’ve won the lottery.
“Ma’salaam, Mr. Matthews.”
Jawad and Mansoor saunter towards the main building.
“Anyone else?” Charlie says.
It’s obvious a few are tempted, but no one else gets up.
“Okay I’m sure you’re wondering why all your equipment’s in front of you. It’s very simple, it’s yours now, and I have a letter here for each of you that confirms that. If you want you can store it all here, but if you prefer you can take it home. Hell, if you don’t believe in what we’re doing you can go to the bazaar and sell it. I bet you could get one, maybe two thousand dollars for it all. It’s up to you, it’s yours now.”
The recruits sit in stunned silence.
“Najib?” Charlie says.
“Yes, Mr. Matthews.”
“You mind handing these letters out.”
“Of course not.”
Najib jumps up, and Charlie hands them over.
“Good night guys.”
Charlie walks towards the main gate. He makes certain that he doesn’t look back.
TWENTY-NINE
NOOR HEARS THE front door open and feels her heart skip a beat. She knows it’s him. She focuses on her Scrabble tiles. The door creaks open.
“As-Salaam Alaykum,” she hears him say.
“Wa’alaykum asalaam,” Aamir Khan says, “it is most wonderful to see you.”
Aamir Khan glares at Noor. Noor turns towards Charlie. He looks warily at her.
“Did you have a good day?” she says.
“Yeah, turned out better than I could’ve imagined.”
“I’m delighted to hear that.”
Charlie frowns. Noor attempts a smile t
o put him at ease but ends up with something that resembles a grimace. From Charlie’s expression, it’s clear he’s now utterly discombobulated.
“I want to apologize for the other night,” she says. “I was unnecessarily confrontational.”
“Totally cool,” he says, “it was childish of me to storm off.”
It was.
The two of them stare at each other neither sure what to say next. Noor decides to cut her losses and returns once more to her tiles. Charlie wanders away and starts chatting with Bushra at the other end of the room.
What on earth could they be talking about?
Charlie gets down on his knees and helps Bushra with her puzzle. To Noor’s astonishment, Bushra giggles. Noor bristles; if she didn’t know better she’d think she was jealous. Charlie looks over and catches her staring. She snaps her head away and stares at her tiles. She hears him approach.
“So everything good with you guys?” Charlie says.
“Apart from my daughter showing me scant mercy everything is most delightful, thank you,” Aamir Khan says.
Noor sees a word—vow. She puts her tiles down.
“I’m out,” she says.
“You see,” Aamir Khan says shaking his head. “Have you played much?”
“My mom and I used to play from time to time,” Charlie says.
“Then you must take my place.”
“I don’t know—”
“Please, you would be doing me a solid favor by allowing me to return to my book.”
“Well I guess…”
Aamir Khan escapes to the leather reading chair. Charlie looks at Noor.
“You cool?” he says.
“Of course,” she says.
I might have to be polite, but there’s nothing stopping me from eviscerating him.
Charlie sits on the ottoman across from her. Noor scoops the tiles back into the bag and holds them out. Charlie retrieves seven tiles. She takes seven of her own. B—I—I—I—O—O—X. There are way too many vowels, but the X could earn her a decent score. She rearranges her letters. ‘Box’ seems the best option.
“You go first,” Charlie says.
“Any reason?” she says.
“I don’t know, ladies first, that kind of thing.”
How patronizing.