One thing was for sure—Mrs Kumar wasn’t about to let us out. She kept going on about how unseemly it was for us to be outside the walls. I was sure she’d been given instructions to keep us in and there was a hawk-like chowkidar or watchman at the gate to make sure we were. There was also Sohail.
Once I crossed through the courtyard in the late afternoon to find he had pulled their old TV set out of the sitting room. It wasn’t so long ago TVs were banned in Afghanistan; maybe people like Mr Kumar kept them hidden until times changed. Men weren’t usually in the house during the day, and I would have walked straight past, except I heard the words ‘Steve Smith’ and I stood still; not because I liked cricket but because I knew it was possibly in Australia.
Australia seemed so far away, but standing there like that, watching the green of the oval, I couldn’t stop the tears rising up, blurring the screen and when I brushed them away, the camera gave a different view and I recognised it: the oval, the parklands, St Peter’s Cathedral. ‘It’s Adelaide!’ I didn’t mean to move closer, but I did, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of someone I knew.
Sohail glanced at me. ‘Ji. You know Adelaide?’
‘It is my home town.’ I hoped my voice was steady. Maybe I wasn’t successful for Sohail’s answer didn’t come straight away; he looked up from the screen and my words hung in the air. Then he talked as if he were distracting an upset child.
‘It is the fourth match. You like cricket?’
I was so surprised he spoke to me that I simply shrugged. Dad loved cricket. I grew up with it, but it didn’t affect me. Yet, there I was, with my eyes glued to the screen. Australia was batting and the commentator was saying how Raza Hasan was pitching the ball too full on the leg side and how unhelpful that was because Steve Smith whipped it off his legs to the boundary.
‘The Australians are strong on their leg side.’ Sohail again. ‘The bowler should have bowled a good length.’
I didn’t care who was strong on their legs; I waited for the camera to scan the crowd again.
‘Your country is very good,’ Sohail conceded in the surprised respect a master uses to an apprentice.
‘Do you think we’ll win?’
He smiled, in sympathy. The respect didn’t stretch that far.
There was another roar; Steve Smith was out. Smith was heading for a century too. ‘This is a great series for Raza Hasan’, and the Pakistani voice launched into a discussion with the Australian commentator of his past performance.
Maybe after that it was tea break, for Sohail gave me his full attention. It was the deepest conversation I ever had with him, even if the first part was about cricket. I lingered, wondering if more would be forthcoming, and amazingly it did. He told me about the night he abducted me, what they were saying in the van. He didn’t actually apologise but I felt that’s what he was trying to do. He told me how difficult it had been in their country, and still was. He had been conscripted by the Taliban—even kids as young as twelve were taken from their families to fight. He was glad to be back in the village now, living with his family in the way he should be. So many never returned.
I found myself wishing I could stay longer; there was so much I didn’t understand. I wanted to ask why Sonya had to be abducted and when we’d be let go, but I could hear his mother calling me. Social customs there are so strict, and even though I thought it was ridiculous that you couldn’t have a decent conversation with a guy without everyone thinking some chemistry was going to force you to rip your clothes off, the rules had to be obeyed. So I hurried off to see what she wanted.
We girls helped with all the jobs around the house. Mrs Kumar was always calling for us if we weren’t within view. It was expected; the women worked so hard, and everyone did their share. That was how we found the solar oven. Liana and I were stacking boxes in a storeroom when she noticed the glazed glass top.
‘Hey, Jaime!’ I was right behind her. ‘Isn’t this one of those ovens made by the relief agency your uncle works for?’
It was. Apparently it’d been put away because no one had come to teach Mrs Kumar how to use it. Sonya was the biggest surprise of all. She even helped us pull it out into the sun. ‘This is good,’ she kept saying. ‘With this style of oven the trees will not need to be cut for fuel, and kerosene is so costly.’
When we realised what she was talking about, Liana and I stared at her in surprise. It sounded like details Uncle Jon would say, not a girl that couldn’t care less about Afghans. And when I suggested we show Mrs Kumar how to bake a cake in it, Sonya ran off to make arrangements.
‘That’s the first time I’ve seen her excited about anything,’ Liana commented. Nazira kept her usual sullen distance throughout the project.
‘We must not trust Nazira,’ Sonya said later, wiping flour off her nose. ‘She acts strangely. She has never helped us in any of the ways Sohail said she would, nor does she like us. My Pakhtu is enough to speak with Mrs Kumar, so we do not need her help as a translator. Be careful of her.’
But even Nazira couldn’t keep my spirits down. Apart from the worry about getting away and if Mum and Dad knew what happened to us, my immediate concern was Jasper.
Liana and I were sitting out in the courtyard waiting for the cake to cook. I don’t know why we bothered; it took hours and hours in the winter sun. ‘Li, Jasper bothers me.’
‘Why?’
‘I get the impression he thinks I’m naïve for trying to enjoy it here, but what can we do, after all? We’re here so we have to make the best of it. I wish he’d relax. He’s like a wolf, always on the prowl, shying away one minute, ready to fight the next. I wish I could hold him to let all his tension slip away.’
‘He’s a bit old for that,’ Liana observed. ‘In his present mood he’d take it the wrong way.’
I shrugged. ‘Do you miss your family?’
‘Sure, being here makes me want to see them.’
‘Me too. Dad tried to warn me.’ I sighed. ‘I wonder what will happen.’
She seemed to follow my thoughts, knew I wasn’t talking about Jasper or my family any more. ‘I expect they’ll let us go sooner or later.’ I wondered if she believed it.
After lunch, when the household activities wound down for a time of rest and Liana and I were in our room, I could hear ‘Für Elise’ again.
Whenever I heard it now, I could feel my head hurt. Soon the bell at the gate was ringing and servants rushed outside. I stayed at the window to see what the commotion was about. The children, who crowded around us that first day, appeared and were watching with awe on their dirty faces as a huge man unfolded himself out of a Suzuki van. I knew who it was. He was the sort of person you’d recognise from the next ridge on a mountain range.
I turned quickly at a sound behind me and Nazira sidled in with a satisfied smirk on her face. ‘Mr Kumar has arrived.’ Her whole demeanour spoke louder than her words: Now we shall see what happens to you.
Liana shivered after she’d gone. ‘Is she ever a nasty piece of work. Wonder why she looked so smug.’
I was shaken too, and wondered what it was Nazira could know that we didn’t. In Peshawar, Mr Kumar had been decent. Whether it was stupid or not, I still believed he wouldn’t hurt us.
We didn’t find out that day what would happen as we weren’t sent for. It was Jasper who wasted no time in requesting an audience with the man. I personally thought he was rather heroic for braving the lion’s den, but he told us he’d stewed long enough over whatever connection the Pakhtun had had with his father.
14
Jasper
When Jasper was let into the commander’s den later that afternoon, he found it empty. He had an impression of a room that was surprisingly furnished in a mixture of West and East: a desk with the usual carpet cushions lining the walls. He moved over to look at the rugs scattered on the floor. There seemed too many, some piled on top of others. I
t was like a carpet shop. He dragged one back to see another underneath. He didn’t like it very much—it had a modern design, stingers and Kalashnikovs with numbers pictured haphazardly. So garish. Who would buy such a thing?
He examined one designed like a map, yet it looked as though a bomb had blown the pattern to the four corners of the rug like fragments in a kaleidoscope. He frowned. It seemed to be telling some gruesome secret.
The commander surprised him as he entered. ‘Admiring the rugs?’ he said in Pakhtu
Jasper jumped. ‘Not these,’ he admitted truthfully.
The commander regarded him with something akin to respect in his eyes. ‘They serve their purpose.’ He sat on a cushion and leaned against another.
To Jasper’s satisfaction Sohail walked in. Now he could kill two birds with one stone; he wished it wasn’t just metaphorically.
‘Assalamu Alaikum,’ Sohail greeted him formally,
‘Wa Alaikum Assalam,’ Jasper answered through gritted teeth.
The commander motioned them to sit with him and, as Jasper perched on the edge of a cushion, he felt he was in a jirga, a formal tribal meeting.
‘I hope you are having a pleasant stay in my home.’
Jasper caught the man eyeing him keenly, but he ignored his words. When he had something on his mind, Jasper didn’t like to be deflected. He pulled out the orange-checked handkerchief from his pocket and held it so Sohail could easily see it.
‘Where did you get this?’ Jasper asked, hoping he was sounding mature with the right touch of authority in his tone.
Sohail moved closer to see. His mouth almost twitched into a grin as he recognised it, but sobered when he glanced at Jasper’s face. He lifted his shoulders in an Afghan so-be-it shrug. ‘A friend of my father’s left it here. I have used it ever since. I did not think he would have minded.’
Jasper turned to Mr Kumar. ‘This belonged to my father.’
The commander leaned forward. ‘Your father?’ He scrutinised Jasper’s features. ‘Ji,’ he murmured finally. ‘That is it. There has been something about you from the beginning. So, Pembley Sahib.’ He nodded as if he understood some puzzle at last.
Jasper stood, his body taut and shaking. ‘I want to know what happened to my father. What relationship did you have with him? You must tell me.’ Jasper knew he’d spoken impolitely to one in a position of authority and he understood the swift anger that flashed across the older man’s features. Anger he understood but not the pity and sadness that he thought he saw next. He let his gaze drop as the man let out a huge sigh.
‘This has been a great source of sorrow for me also.’
Jasper’s head jerked back to watch the commander.
‘I know what happened to your father. Come, I will tell you.’ He took Jasper to the window that looked out onto the stark mountains he’d travelled through to reach the village.
‘See the road on the mountain up there? It is the road you came on a few weeks ago. Your father was coming here as he usually did—Ah, yes,’ he answered Jasper’s quick questioning look, ‘he used to come. It was dangerous for him because he was American, but he came regardless. Your father was my good friend—he was the type of man one doesn’t meet often in one lifetime. He told me many important things and I trusted his judgement. He taught our village the way of health. The bathroom you see in this house, the latrine outside, and the pump with which we draw our water from the well—all this is due to him. He saw to our sick and wounded also.’ He sighed softly as Jasper shifted impatiently on his feet.
‘Almost a year ago now, your father was on his way over those mountains … there was bombing, you understand—’ Here the Pakhtun put an arm around Jasper’s shoulders. Jasper wanted to shake it off but steeled himself to stand still. ‘The van he was travelling in veered from the road and hit a mine.’
Jasper flinched. He’d thought it would be something like that, so why did he feel as though he was being told of his death for the first time?
‘I am sorry, beta, my son. That is why there was no trace. His body was never found.’
Jasper clenched his teeth and stood away from him. ‘Do you know what it’s like never knowing what happened to someone you love?’ He spoke in a low voice that threatened to crack. ‘Why couldn’t you have notified the authorities?’
‘Your father and I spoke of this—what to do if anything should happen. You must understand—I was a mujahid when I was young, fighting a jihad to keep our country and religion safe. And now I command this area. Our country is still run by what the West calls a feudal system—the men under my jurisdiction will fight for me without argument. It would not have looked good on two counts if it were known your father was helping our village. People would say the relief agency he worked for had taken sides—they would have been in danger from other militant groups if it were made public. As would this village—we could have been a target also. The Taliban’s influence has not vanished and there’s a bigger threat arising—’ He stopped, then murmured, ‘So much hate.’
He glanced at Jasper. ‘He talked about you, but I thought you were in America.’
‘I was. I came back.’ Jasper found he was breathing quickly, trying to stop the wave that was threatening to well up and destroy his credibility in front of these freedom fighters. He glanced up but couldn’t handle the concern he saw on the older man’s face. It made him feel vulnerable; at least when people looked at you with anger they didn’t care what you were feeling. The man put a hand on Jasper’s shoulder.
‘Beta, you have to let this go now. This sorrow will weaken you.’
Jasper was tempted to shake off the man’s touch and scream out that he wasn’t his son. The only man who could lay claim to that title was dead. Dead. He shook his head in an effort to clear his thoughts and shut out the image he was seeing: the van and his father’s body in little pieces. Instead he thought of Liana and Jaime. The girls. With embarrassment he realised he’d spoken aloud.
‘Ah, those girls,’ Mr Kumar mused. To Jasper he looked like a mountain lion watching deer at a waterhole.
‘My wife has been telling me about them. And you are devoted to them, I hear. That is very commendable. You need not worry, appearances can be deceiving.’ He leaned back against his table, arms folded. ‘One of them is young to be sure, and maybe they know little of this world of war and its dangers, but within them is a strength that you know nothing of.’
Jasper stared at him, confused.
‘Strength does not always show itself in brave words and deeds, beta. True strength comes from within, from faith—in God, in oneself, in others. It gives one the ability to come through turbulent waters and yet, remain calm.’
Calm was the last thing Jasper felt right then. Why was the commander talking about stuff like strength when he must know the girls needed protecting? Why had everyone, except him, forgotten about the abduction? At that moment, Jasper needed to be out of there and he stumbled as he turned. At least he was thankful to know what had happened, even glad his father didn’t die in vain, but there was none of the peace of mind that he thought would come with the knowledge.
He stood still at the door a moment; then faced the Pakhtuns again. ‘Will you tell me when we can leave this place?’
Mr Kumar smoothed his moustache with his middle finger. ‘I am sorry, as yet, I cannot say. I must ask you to continue to trust my judgement.’
If Jasper hadn’t already been reeling with the shock of finding out about his father, he might have laughed in the commander’s face. Trust! What a joke, but he was too tired and left without another word.
n
That night, since Jasper couldn’t sleep, he strolled outside. He’d stopped marvelling at the freedom he was given; he had realised that they knew he wouldn’t leave without the girls. If it were different circumstances, he would have enjoyed the clear star studded sky and cold mountain air
. A lone sheep bleated concern for a lamb; muffled sounds came from the bazaar as steel shutters were pulled down over shop stalls. Another day was over, but it was all lost on Jasper.
Inside him there was only room for a van careering down the mountain road. He saw the blast as it made impact, felt the heat of the fire and wondered how much you’d actually know or feel when you hit a mine. Would it hurt? Or would there be nothing? That he hadn’t been there with his dad was more than just a regret; it was a feeling of disappointment so intense that it gnawed at his insides. What could he have done? At least now he knew how he died, but the healing didn’t come.
God! he cried inside. Why did you let it happen? He kicked a stone viciously and the sound of it hitting the wall startled him out of his reverie.
Just then he heard another sound: that of someone pushing through the bushes on the other side of the wall. Lithe as a leopard, he jumped up and crouched on the wall. In front was a tree shading him from the moonlight but he could see a figure in a burqa hurrying down the narrow path through the field beyond. It had to be a woman and he gasped as she put up her hand to adjust her veil. The hand was white in the moonlight. Only three girls had skin as fair as that in the whole household—which one was it? He strained his eyes but it was no use, then decided that Liana was too sensible to do such a thing and although he thought Jaime might, there’d be no way she could have got out without knowing Pakhtu; the chowkidar looked too conscientious. It had to be Sonya.
She stopped to turn as if looking behind her; he shrank and stretched out in the shadows, imagining himself a stone. He held his breath as he gave her enough time to move forward. When he looked again, she was sitting, waiting. Shortly, a man, equally stealthy, approached her from the shadows beyond, and she stood, pulling up her burqa, her whole body poised for a joyful greeting. From his hiding spot, Jasper couldn’t see the man’s face, only that his hair looked pale in the moonlight. He watched them engaged in some urgent conversation, Sonya gesticulating towards the house, the man seeming to soothe her.
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