Refugees

by Catherine Stine

  “Some. Not most.” Johar paused. “We try just to live, to get food. Many run from their homes. My cousin Bija and I left from Baghlan when brother taken by Taliban army and aunt taken by their spies. We escape over mountains. Run to this camp. Most do not wish death on any soul. We under war for many years. Afghans are weak, so others grab country for self. American bombs hit Kabul. I afraid my friend Aman killed. Bombs kill invaders, but kill innocents also. All misery.” Johar continued in a whisper. “You hurt? Many people hurt?”

  “I'm fine. But many people were killed, Johar, thousands of people.”

  “Sorry,” Johar whispered. “Very sorry.”

  “I'm sorry too. It's all so sad.” She wished she could just get the feeling out with words, with crying or even a scream. It's sad sounded woefully inadequate. She gathered her courage. “Johar, do you believe in ghosts, spirits?” There, she'd said it. It sounded nuts.

  “Spirits, yes.”

  “You do? You don't think it's all nonsense?”

  “Not nonsense. I speak to my father. He spirit, and mother too. Songs of my mother come to me in dreams. Many, many dead here. Afghanistan full of spirits.”

  “That's so awful.”

  “Yes, but part of life, this death.”

  “So I'm not just losing it.” Dawn sighed. Confessing her feelings was frightening, but also a relief, like a plunge into a cool spring, and surprisingly easy with no edgy face-toface.

  “Losing it? What mean?” asked Johar.

  “Crazy. Because… this is going to sound crazy.”

  “Not crazy.”

  “OK, not crazy. Well, I went down to the site where the towers fell.”

  “Yes?”

  “And the place… It's full of some weird energy.”

  “Confused spirits, they.”

  “But how do you know? It's hard to believe. Kind of scary.”

  “People here. We believe in this. People in your country, not believe in spirits?”

  “No. Most people in the U.S., they think ghosts are a silly superstition.”

  “Ah, superstition of white things dressed in sheets. Like Casper the Friendly Ghost? I see this guy in American film.” They both laughed, then Johar went on. “Superstition, or belief, whatever you feel is true for you, no? I believe these spirits, they find a way out.”

  “Really?” That was way far-fetched, but the terror that had Dawn's neck stiff as a plank fizzled away. “Thanks.” She felt light. “Tell Louise I called again. Tell her I'm thinking of her.”

  “OK.”

  “And Johar?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you mind if I call or e-mail you?” Jude was gone. She was alone. Johar was a way to Louise.

  “That would be nice, Miss Dawn. Internet less money, no? ICRC e-mail address, you have?”

  “I do,” Dawn said, and gave him hers. Now she had reason to venture into one of those trendy cybercaf's in the East Village. “And just call me Dawn.” She exhaled, sending sparky things through her limbs.

  “OK, Dawn. Salaam.”

  “Salaam, Johar.” She didn't know what salaam meant, but it was the nicest word she had heard in weeks.

  play

  New York,

  early October 2001

  Dawn flipped through her Songs of the World book past “Danube Waltz,” “Erie Canal,” and “Salsa Picante.” Here was something that spoke to the gravity of the site—the Irish ballad “Danny Boy.” Using her flute case, she propped the opened pages against the insurance company stairs and launched into the first measure. Over by the wooden fence, the National Guard soldier tipped his head her way, the hint of a smile showing. Good, Dawn thought, he's gotten used to me. Shadows of buses and people walking seemed, in the autumn sunlight, to sway in a ballad too.

  Dawn tapped her foot to regulate the tempo. Some notes were high as a pennywhistle, and heads turned as passersby searched for the music's source. One tourist snapped a photo of her. Another man stopped to gesticulate at the smoking steel beyond the walls, his wife nodding in solemn understanding. Dawn imagined herself in a ragtag military band playing a flute reveille on a bloody battlefield. The song took her to her feet. Was it the energy of performing that had Dawn feeling that peculiar tug again? It was so odd how she belonged here.

  “Pretty music.” Dawn turned, startled. An old Chinese woman had climbed the stairs. Next to the old woman stood a young man—the old woman's son? He was trying to scrunch a dollar into Dawn's hand.

  “Oh, no, no money. Music is free here.” Dawn smiled and raised her palm to make her point. It was inappropriate to charge money down here, where the wretched fumes still invaded her lungs. No, she'd save panhandling for a different neighborhood.

  “Please.” The young man offered the dollar again, imploring. “My mother asks, can you play a Chinese song?” Dawn turned to the old woman. Her eyes held tears.

  Dawn felt a flurry of panic. “What's wrong?” she asked.

  The man answered. “Her son—my older brother, Lin Wong—was killed here. He worked in an accounting firm.” The guy whispered something to his mother in Chinese. Dawn stared at the old woman's tears as they spilled down over her wide cheekbones and onto her plain cotton jacket. The old woman whispered something back to her son, and he continued. “Our family comes from China,” he explained. “My brother's body has not yet been recovered.”

  The old woman held up two photos. “Lin Wong,” she said. In the first, her son wore a black suit and modern glasses. In the second, a more youthful Lin Wong sat on a country porch. He beamed proudly, his wide cheekbones echoing those of his mother beside him.

  “That one was taken in our village,” explained Lin's brother. “My mother thinks if you play for Lin, it might help bring his spirit back to China.”

  “Me? Play for him?” A pang in Dawn's chest made it hard to speak. Were there actually spirits, as Johar said? It seemed irrational, but Dawn could almost feel them waiting for her music. Maybe it was all in her head, but if she played, it could mean something to this family.

  “Can you play something for my brother?” the young man repeated.

  “Yes.” Dawn's hands trembled as she flipped through her songbook. “I'll try.” Again the young man spoke Chinese, and the old woman nodded emphatically. Were there any Chinese songs in here? What would she play if there weren't? Johar had been brave to climb over icy mountains to reach the refugee camp. She imagined herself being brave too. Dawn kept flipping through the book and finally saw a possibility. “Ah, ‘Bamboo Pond.' ” She propped the book back on the stairs, downturned her lips across the mouthpiece, and attempted a measure.

  The melody implored as the old woman's eyes had. The woman leaned toward Dawn, swaying and nodding with eyes closed. Dawn pictured herons on a pond. They ducked into the water, then unfurled their necks in the wind to shake off droplets. She pictured a bamboo forest, like she'd seen in a TV show about China, its tender leaves offering shade. Dawn entwined the notes—sheltering leaves on branches of sound—around the woman and her young son, over to the soldier, and into the air above ground zero. A crowd formed, but Dawn was far, far away now, honoring Lin Wong, whose body had been caught in a crush of metal.

  She imagined his soul pictures, like ones from a travel show: China, a village, a house with a friendly porch, and green and blue bicycles resting on its railing. Radio music might be tinkling from the kitchen window. Dawn pictured fields tilled by a wooden plow. She thought of Johar. Their talks had made her feel safer. Warmth flowed into Dawn as the notes of Johar's voice played in her mind: I see my father in the clouds; I hear my mother's music in dreams. She finished the last measure and laid the flute down. The old woman took her hand.

  “So beautiful,” exclaimed the younger son, his eyes moist. “Thank you.”

  His mother whispered something to her son and he spoke again. “My mother says she feels Lin in your music!”

  The old woman pressed Dawn's hand tightly for a moment before letting go.

>   “I'm so glad to help.” Dawn felt herself blush and smiled. She watched the woman and her son walk down Barclay Street. When they disappeared into the throngs near City Hall, Dawn put her flute away and set out for the East Village. It occurred to her that she had some unfinished business.

  Her step was purposeful. What would Louise have thought of Dawn's concert today? It was a strange concert— directed outward, for someone else's benefit, not just for Dawn. Louise had always attended school concerts, but Dawn had never acknowledged her presence. Louise had no feel for music, so what could she get out of it? But if her real mother had been there, Dawn had always assumed, she would understand the music. Would Louise have been proud of her today?

  Dawn recalled the day the summer before when she'd stepped on a rusty nail at the beach. Louise's movements had been swift. She'd driven Dawn to the local doctor fast, but not above the speed limit, then sat awkwardly by Dawn's side as the doctor administered a tetanus shot. In the following days Louise had changed Dawn's bandage, her gray hair curtaining forward, eyes keen beneath the owlish glasses. Dawn had let Louise touch her for that. That had been one of the only times. She remembered Louise's cool fingers on her skin as she'd skillfully applied the medicine and pressed firmly on the bandage to make sure it stuck. Louise might be awkward and formal, but Dawn sensed she was a damn good doctor. Had her own mother cared for her as well?

  Dawn turned up Third Avenue from Houston and marveled at the chrysanthemums and holly bushes in the Liz Christy garden. Even in these dark days flowers still bloomed. Even in these dark days it was mercifully warm. She opened the gate, wandered in, and picked a few— orange and golden petals past their prime, but still vital. Then she veered up Avenue A, bouncing past Korean greenmarkets, past soap and clothing boutiques, and up to Tenth. She rang the doorbell, her overworked heart pounding hard for the fourth time that day. Buzzer's still broken, she thought when she heard feet pounding hard down the stairs.

  Sander opened the door. He looked hot in a Weezer T-shirt and ripped jeans. But it wasn't Sander whom Dawn had come to see. She looked at him shyly. “Hi. Is Jude here?”

  “You came just in time. He's leaving for the airport in a few minutes.” Sander examined her grubby face and clothes. “Where are you staying, anyway?” he asked.

  “C Squat.” Dawn tried not to stare at him on the way upstairs.

  Sander turned, catching her looking. She detected a sly grin, but he covered it. “I've heard bad things about that place,” he said, and turned to face her. “You know, you could have just stayed here.”

  Dawn was still fumbling for a reply when Jude swung open the door and stared at her with a frown. “Hi,” she muttered.

  “Hello,” Jude answered sourly, standing in the doorway to prevent her entrance. Sander nabbed a cold soda from the fridge, padded diplomatically into his room, and closed the door. “What's up?” Jude demanded.

  “Um, uh…” This wasn't going to be easy. “I'm really sorry, Jude,” she began. “I was upset the other day, so I wasn't very nice. Forgive me?” Dawn extracted the mums gingerly from her pack and offered them to him.

  Jude hesitated, hands stuffed in his pants pocket.

  “Oh, come on. I was a beast, OK?” Dawn admitted.

  His face melted into a smile. “Sorry, too. I said some shitty things.” He took the bouquet. “Ah, my favorite colors.” Jude leaned over and hugged Dawn.

  “It's not your fault. I'm just not good with people leaving.” Her eyes felt prickly, and she rubbed them, then looked up to meet his gaze. “Your parents need you,” she said.

  “Yours too,” he replied.

  “I'm going to call her, Jude, I am.” Dawn pictured Louise waiting by the phone. She pictured herself talking to her—connecting.

  Just then Pax ran into the apartment. “Get a move on, Jude, the cab's waiting.” He noticed Dawn and snickered. “If it's not Miss Snow Queen with her icicle wand.”

  Dawn hated to think of the crappy things Jude probably had told Pax about her when he was mad.

  “Hey.” Jude held up his hand. “Spare her the humor.”

  Pax shrugged, then lifted one of Jude's bags over his gaunt shoulder. “Dude, so fast we change our tune.”

  Sander's door opened. He emerged with a business card and pushed it into Dawn's hand. “Call my friend Susie. She'd be happy to have you crash with her. She's always looking for folks to feed her cats. She's a reporter and travels for her job.”

  Was Susie another one of Sander's girlfriends? wondered Dawn. How many girls did he have? She shot a look at Jude, and he winked. Sander's hand cupped Dawn's chin and raised it to meet his catlike eyes. “Hey, you'll like her,” Sander said. Dawn's skin tingled where his fingers touched it. “Don't spend another second in that awful squat,” he added, “you're too good for that.”

  Too good! No one had ever told her that before.

  “I agree,” said Jude.

  “And Dawn?” Sander took his hand away to help Jude with yet another bag. He needed an army of doormen, he'd bought so many clothes.

  “Yeah?” Dawn twisted her birthstone ring around and around.

  “Don't be a stranger.”

  “I won't,” she replied. Sander's voice was kind, like Johar's, but different. Sander's was firm and expert, while Johar's was questioning, exploring. Johar was drawing closer inside her head in some puzzling way.

  They all clomped downstairs in a big lump. Jude hugged her again, and she and Sander stood on the corner waving like nerdy kids as Jude was driven off. But without Jude there, Dawn suddenly felt exposed. “Bye, Sander,” she said, and jogged down Avenue A as fast as her legs would carry her.

  Dawn paid for her coffee and settled into an overstuffed chair at the cybercaf'. She logged in and started to type.

  Louise—

  How are you? I am fine. I have been busy with practice and that is why I am never home. Is it safe over there? Did you get the message I left with your assistant, Johar? Do you ever talk to him about his situation? Dawn

  Dawn felt jumbled up but good. E-mail would keep it slow and prevent them from yelling. She downed her caffeine and set out just as the streetlights came to life.

  doubt

  Suryast, Pakistan,

  mid-October 2001

  Johar's fingers brushed the gun where it rested inside his pack. He took his hand out and nervously brushed it on his vest, then clambered into the tent to confront Romel. “Give me my hats and socks, thief!” he shouted.

  “I told you, I know nothing about your stupid hats.” A shock of coarse hair fell over Romel's sneer as he leaned forward to break apart the coals with a stick.

  Johar suppressed an urge to push him into the fire—that would spark a memory! “I'll kill you,” he muttered.

  Romel rose to his feet and inched toward the tent door. The old man was out. Bija was sleeping at Anqa's. “You're a pathetic coward,” Romel shouted, his nostrils flaring. “You wouldn't have the nerve.”

  Johar grabbed one of Romel's arms and was shocked at its solidity. He forced himself to close his fingers around the handle of the gun inside his pack. Its cold metal was as repellent as the scales of a poisonous lizard. From inside the pack, Johar jabbed the gun into Romel's stomach. Its sharp outline stretched the fabric taut.

  Romel's eyes darted between fear and mirth. “Shoot me and you'll regret it.”

  Johar's fingers slid from the gun and it dropped inside his pack. He released Romel's arm with his other hand. “Go,” he muttered, “You're not worth the bullets.”

  Romel leaped through the tent flaps, then jogged to a safe distance. Only then did he look back. “Can't even squeeze the trigger. Tell your American doctor what a baby you are.” He strode cockily into the warren of tents and disappeared.

  Fear, newly freed, swept down Johar's spine. His legs teetered on the path to the clinic, tripping over rough pits he'd avoided before. Why couldn't he finish the matter? Johar tried to shake off the horror of the gun's metallic touch. How
could a sane man blast a hole through a belly? The flimsy wooden door clattered on its frame as he entered. He was relieved that Dr. Garland wasn't there yet. She couldn't see him this way—sick with disgrace and seething with rage. If only he could talk to Maryam. She'd always been the person Johar showed his heart to, much more so than to his brother. Then Johar thought of Dawn. She was alone too, and had pleaded to talk with him more. Today he would try.

  He hurried to Nils's office, pushed the door shut, and pressed the power button on the laptop. So far Johar had convinced himself there wasn't time to send e-mail; he'd been too busy with patients or on the phone. The data he needed to send had grown into a massive pile. In truth, he couldn't remember all of Nils's coaching for logging on. Instructions in hand, Johar watched anxiously as bright designs popped on-screen and the laptop went through a series of dings and beeps. He clicked into Write Mail, and in the Send To line he typed dawnmusic@usa.com.

  Before he had a chance to calm down, Johar was struck with a new anxiety. It was one thing to have Dawn phone him under the pretext of asking for Dr. Garland. It was another thing to begin a correspondence. The sharia laws that the Taliban had brought back, and which most had followed in the small villages, forbade Johar to associate with a strange woman. According to the sharia, women were to be strictly protected by the men in their family from outside advances. But Aunt Maryam had said it restricted people unduly, keeping women from accomplishing much. Johar tended to agree. It's not as if I'm talking to a woman on the street, he reasoned. She's just a voice, just—dawn music.