Refuge

by N G Osborne

  THE PRINCE SPEAKS to his six hundred men in the early morning gloom, green flags, with quotes from the Quran on them, flapping behind him. Every one of them is looking forward to the day ahead. Everyone of them that is but Tariq.

  Tariq is well aware of what’s promised him if he dies a martyr. Jeweled couches to recline on, youths waiting on him with bowls of fruit, seventy-two dark eyed virgins to whom he can make love for the rest of eternity. Yet he has no desire for it, not even with that pig of a wife he has now.

  I don’t want to leave this life, not yet at least.

  He glances at Salim Afridi, standing beside the Prince with his chest puffed out.

  Do you blame yourself? Do you blame Allah? Or have you rationalized your sons’ deaths already? They can, after all, only add to your legend.

  A final roar of ‘Allah akbar’ explodes from the men, and the mujahideen race to their assigned vehicles. Tariq watches the Prince and his bodyguards march to his Hummer. The rumor is that it’s armored to the same specifications as the American president’s limo.

  You don’t seem so keen on leaving this world either.

  Tariq walks over to his pick-up and opens the passenger door. Three mujahideen are crammed up front. He suspects his father-in-law made certain of that. The only place left is the truck bed. He clambers into it and finds Ashfaq there.

  “This is going to be a magnificent day,” Ashfaq grins.

  Tariq realizes the fool volunteered for this assignment. He looks behind him and is surprised to see his father-in-law standing in the bed of the next pick-up, his arms draped over a machine gun welded to its roof. Tariq shivers. Salim Afridi is in the perfect position to shoot him when the firing starts. Salim Afridi shouts an order, and Tariq’s pick-up takes off. Tariq throws his hand out to steady himself, the icy wind blasting his face.

  “O Allah,” he mumbles, “forgive my sins of which You are aware, forgive the sins done by the action of my eyes, the negligence of my heart and the movement of my tongue. I beg you to keep me safe this day, spare me Salim Afridi’s wrath and bring me back into the good graces of His Highness the Prince. Ameen.”

  Four hours later, Tariq is beginning to believe that Allah has answered his prayers. They have reached the outskirts of Kabul without a shot being fired. There seems to be no city to speak of, just hillocks of rubble from the pounding Hekmatyar’s troops gave the area in the fall. The occasional building still stands, but none of them has a roof, and gaping holes dot their walls. They pass a burqaed woman wailing at the side of the road, her two small children lying beside her. There’s no way to tell if they’re alive or dead. Past her, sits the turret of a Soviet tank. Where the rest of it is, Tariq has no clue.

  Is this what we’ve been fighting for all these years?

  A young boy, no older than ten, runs into the road, and the driver is forced to slam on the brakes. The boy holds out his hands and starts babbling away.

  “Get him off the road,” Salim Afridi shouts.

  Tariq looks warily at his father-in-law.

  “Now,” his father-in-law barks.

  Tariq jumps down onto the asphalt.

  Is this it?

  Tariq braces for the barrage of bullets. They don’t come. Not yet at least.

  The convoy begins to bunch up behind them.

  “Please, sir, please,” the boy cries, “my mother is dying. Please, come help.”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Tariq says.

  The boy grabs a hold of Tariq’s sleeve.

  “Please, she’s over there, she needs medicine, please.”

  “What’s the hold-up?” Salim Afridi shouts.

  Tariq ignores him. He hands the boy a twenty dollar bill.

  “Here take this,” he says.

  The young boy cries harder. Tariq takes the boy’s frozen hand in his, and walks him to the side of the road.

  “She’ll be fine,” Tariq says. “I promise.”

  The boy uses his sleeve to wipe the tears from his eyes. Tariq hears a low rumble and looks up into the grey sky. A dot is making its way towards them.

  A MIG.

  He grabs the boy’s hand.

  “Run,” he shouts.

  The roar builds. The boy trips, and Tariq yanks him up. They stagger on another ten yards when an explosion lifts them off their feet. Tariq tumbles to the ground. His ears ring, and his mouth fills with dirt. He looks back and sees his pick-up is nothing but a burning shell while Salim Afridi’s lies on its side. Tariq crawls around looking for the boy and finds him lying on his back. The boy’s eyes stare blankly up at Tariq, his hand still gripping the twenty dollar bill.

  There’s another roar overhead followed by a second set of explosions further down the convoy. Tariq realizes there have to be two jets.

  So much for the Communists not having fuel.

  Tariq stumbles back to the road. Mujahideen are falling out of their vehicles and scrambling to safety. Further up, two tanks are billowing pitch black smoke while the remaining two turn their guns up to the sky in a futile gesture.

  Tariq reaches the road. Nearby Ashfaq’s head and torso are splayed on the road, his legs nowhere to be seen.

  Tariq searches the sky. The jets’ fiery engines are arcing around; they’re making another run.

  The Prince.

  He hears groans coming from the overturned pick-up and sees his father-in-law lying there, his right foot trapped under the back end of his pick-up.

  “Tariq, help me,” he says.

  There’s an almighty roar, and the ground shakes as two more explosions rock the convoy. The other two tanks have sustained direct hits.

  “Tariq,” his father-in-law shouts.

  Tariq ignores him and sprints down the road. He looks over his shoulder. The dots are coming closer once again.

  Run.

  He dives behind one of the burning tanks just before the first jet lets rip with its cannon. Chunks of road fly into the air, mujahideen are obliterated in a blink of an eye, vehicles are flipped on their side. The jet passes and the screams of the wounded and dying fill the air. Tariq waits. He feels the ground tremble, and the second jet unleashes a similar wave of destruction. He gets up and runs on. The road is a vision of hell, vehicles everywhere burning hot and bright.

  Please Allah, don’t let the Prince’s Hummer be one of them.

  A mujahid comes towards him, his eyes wild.

  “Have you seen the Prince?” Tariq shouts.

  The mujahid staggers on, and as he passes, Tariq sees blood streaming from the man’s ears. Up ahead he spies the Hummer ablaze next to an overturned supply truck. Boxes of ammunition and weaponry are scattered all over the road.

  He scans the side of the road and spots the Prince crouching next to it, the bodies of his guard scattered around him.

  Thank God.

  The sole surviving guard tries to pull the Prince away, but the Prince resists, too frightened to move.

  Tariq looks towards the horizon and sees the jets coming around again.

  No.

  He spots a metal box whose top has burst open. Inside it is a Stinger missile launcher. How many times had he and Yousef played with them back in the storeroom?

  Tariq pulls the launcher out. He flicks on the switch. It beeps, and he realizes there’s no way for him to hold the launcher and pull the trigger at the same time.

  “Help me,” he screams at the guard.

  With his one arm he lifts the Stinger onto his shoulder and searches for the jets through the scope.

  There. Just above the road.

  “Help me, I said.”

  The Stinger beeps, its seeker now locked in on one. He feels a presence beside him. It’s the guard.

  “Pull the trigger,” he shouts.

  The guard leans in and yanks it. In a plume of white smoke the missile blasts out of the tube and winds its way above the road. A massive fireball bursts in front of them, and the jet tumbles into a nearby field. Moments later the second plane screeches o
ver their heads, its guns silent. Tariq watches the plane’s exhaust arc north towards Bagram airbase.

  It’s over.

  He sees the Prince still cowering by the side of the road and scrambles over to him. He grabs him by the arm. The Prince resists.

  “It’s okay, I promise.”

  He leads him onto the road and places the launcher in his hand. The surviving mujahideen begin to stumble back onto the road. Tariq lifts the Prince’s free hand.

  “Allah Akbar,” Tariq screams.

  The mujahideen look his way.

  “Allah Akbar,” he screams over and over.

  The survivors crowd around the Prince and hoist him up onto their shoulders. Color returns to the Prince’s cheeks, and he punches the launcher into the air.

  “Allah has brought us a great victory,” the Prince says. “We return to Peshawar and regroup.”

  Tariq wanders back down the road past the burning vehicles and sprawled bodies. To his disappointment, he finds his father-in-law alive.

  “Where the hell did you go?” Salim Afridi says.

  “I shot the plane down.”

  Salim Afridi winces.

  “Well come on, lift up the back so I can pull my foot out.”

  Tariq gets behind Salim Afridi and puts his arms around him.

  “Not me, you fool, the truck.”

  Tariq slips his hand into Salim Afridi’s shoulder holster and pulls out his pistol. Salim Afridi turns to grab it, but by then Tariq is out of harm’s reach.

  “I’ve always wanted to ask you a question,” Tariq says. “When you killed your uncle was he surprised to see you there? Or was there a part of him that had always feared that day would come?”

  Salim Afridi looks around for help only to see nothing but dead around him. He swallows.

  “Those were different times, Tariq. All is forgiven, any bad blood between you and I is in the past.”

  “That’s what your uncle thought, and while times may change, human nature doesn’t. A son can never forgive the killer of his father, and likewise I see no way a father can ever forgive the killer of his sons.”

  Salim Afridi yanks on his foot.

  “You bastard,” he screams.

  “May Allah have mercy on you.”

  Tariq fires, and Salim Afridi slumps back onto the road. Tariq checks his father-in-laws’ pulse before putting the gun back in his holster.

  He heads over to the body of the young boy and shifts it until it’s lying on its right side and facing Mecca. He closes the boy’s eyes with his fingertips and lifts his hands and face up to the sky.

  “O Allah, raise this boy’s soul towards You and direct Your guidance to him. O Allah, pardon us, pardon us.”

  He stands and takes one last look at Kabul.

  Fuck this country.

  He goes looking for a ride back to Peshawar.

  FORTY-SIX

  NOOR LIES ON her bed and reads Bougainville, a novel Elma’s lent her. It’s slow going but she’d read the Amsterdam phone book if she thought it’d make her Dutch better. She hears a knock and slides off the bed to find Nadeem, Elma’s houseboy, at her door. Down the corridor, she can hear the hustle and bustle of the party being prepared. Nadeem thrusts a plain manila envelope into her hands.

  “A cripple in a wheelchair approached me on the street,” he says. “Offered me a hundred rupees if I’d give it to you.”

  Noor’s pulse quickens. She glances at Elma’s bedroom door.

  “Please don’t tell Miss Elma about this.”

  “Not likely. He said if I kept my mouth shut he’d give me another hundred next week.”

  Noor shuts her door and sits down at her vanity desk. She stares at the envelope.

  Don’t open it. This is the Devil tempting you.

  She takes a box of matches out of the desk drawer and lights one. She puts it up against a corner of the envelope, and it bursts into flames.

  No, I can’t do this.

  She waves the envelope in the air, but the flames only get brighter. She drops the envelope and stomps on it until the flames die out. A third of the envelope is gone.

  She picks it up and extracts the letter. To her relief the letter was small enough to have escaped unscathed. She unfolds it and begins reading.

  Dear Noor:

  I thought I was over you, but I’m not.

  The day after we arrived, a snowstorm hit us, and the temperature plummeted. The ground became so hard you’d think it was made of concrete - not something you want when you’re trying to probe for mines. I threw it out there that we could wait out the bad weather, but no one was up for that. The guys were right, we hadn’t come all this way to sit on our butts. So we set up a system where each team had a pot of boiling water near them at all times. Whenever a mine detector went off, we’d pour water on the ground to soften it up, and then one of the guys would get down and probe the soil. Our progress was slow, especially in the high frag areas, but we just kept going.

  During those days if I thought about you it was only for the barest of moments. When it’s that cold and wet, all your mind is concerned about is somehow getting through those frigid days.

  Ten days in, it finally warmed up. It was so unexpected it felt like a miracle. By nine I was looking to take clothes off not put more on. And as the ground thawed so did my mind. That morning I saw brief flashes of you – sitting across from me at breakfast, near the back of the group as I was giving out the orders for the day. At one point I thought I saw you walking towards me across an uncleared field, and I shouted out your name. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone thought I was going crazy – I sure as hell did.

  At lunch, Osman approached me – he’d unearthed a mine he didn’t like the look of. Thank God he did. The guy who’d laid it had placed a couple of anti-tank mines underneath and linked them all together.

  I ordered everyone back. The job wasn’t that complicated (I’d worked on far harder set-ups in the army), but as I lay there on my stomach, I began shaking. I tried to work out why, and the only reason that made any sense was because now my life meant something – and it meant something because you’re in it.

  I should have pulled back, but my pride wouldn’t let me - every man on the team had taken a break to watch me. And then something happened. I felt your touch on my arm, and my hands became steady. I felt your cheek next to mine, and my body relaxed. ‘You can do this,’ you whispered in my ear, and thirty minutes later I had. From then on, I have felt your presence everywhere – it’s like you’re my guardian angel.

  At the top of the village, I created an office for myself in an abandoned hut. One of its walls has a massive hole in it and through it I can make out not only the guys at work but also the river below and the mountains in the distance. It has this rough, old table on which I’ve pinned a map of the surrounding area, and every night I color in blue the areas we demined that day. Slowly but surely the blue areas have kept extending – we’re now down to the river to the west and across a field and irrigation channel to the north. Redrawing that map has been the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done in my life.

  Last night I looked out the hole at the stars. I wanted to rename every one of them after you, and then I remembered how you’d prefer to have a shrub named after you than a galaxy. So the first shrub I saw today I named ‘Noor’. I hate to say it’s not much to look at, but come spring its flowers will bloom and it’ll be worthy of your name.

  I’ve thought a lot about whether I should send this letter or not. Please don’t think I didn’t take seriously your request to leave you alone. But I believe two things made it necessary.

  First, I believe, despite everything you wrote, that you love me. I have gone over and over the moments we spent together, and I’m convinced that something incredible emerged from that initial antagonism. A true love. Something real and timeless.

  Secondly, I believe, that our love won’t hurt your dreams, if anything it will aid them. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to he
lp you achieve yours, and if you love me as much as I love you, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to help me achieve mine.

  I’m not a fool, I know there will be complications, things to work through, but after you’ve read this, all I want you to ask yourself is whether you love me too. If you do we will work it out. I promise. If you don’t then I will respect your decision and never contact you again.

  I thought I was over you, Noor, but now I realize I’ll never be.

  I’ll love you forever.

  Charlie.

  Noor sits there, the letter shaking in her hands. She rereads it once, then a second time, and then a third, and with each read, every word and phrase begins to take on greater resonance as if the letter were some holy text. There is a knock on the door. Noor slips the letter into her desk drawer. The door opens. Elma stands there in a tartan cocktail dress and a sleeveless black top.

  “Everything okay?” she says, sniffing the air.

  “I was playing with matches.”

  Elma smiles.

  “You of all people. Come on, our guests will be here any moment, and I thought‌…‌well let me show you.”

  Elma leads Noor to her bedroom. Laid out on the bed is a long grey skirt and a simple white shirt.

  “I thought you could wear something other than a shalwar kameez for once.”

  Noor stares at the clothes.

  “Think of it as a practice run for Holland,” Elma says.

  Noor realizes that Elma wants her to put them on right there and then. She pulls her kameez up and over her head.

  “My God,” Elma says, “what a tatty old bra. We’re about the same size, wouldn’t you say?”

  Noor blushes. Elma disappears into her closet and comes up behind Noor and unclasps her bra. Noor closes her eyes and imagines Charlie standing there. Her bra falls forward and she feels his hands on her breasts, the tips of his fingers encircling her nipples.

  “Noor,” Elma says.