by Eric Meyer
* * *
Ahmed’s father worked underneath the engine for several minutes more, and then emerged to sit in the driver’s seat. He pressed the starter, and Ahmed jerked in astonishment as the engine roared into life. Clouds of smoke engulfed them, and soot from the exhaust blackened their faces. After a few minutes, the engine warmed and began to run evenly. They whooped and danced for joy, doing a jig arm in arm around the machine.
"Calm down, my son, we must take it for a test drive to make sure," his father said at last. His voice rang filled with happiness, and tears of relief rolled down his face. The ancient Fordson was running at last. The new engine had the potential to transform their lives. Ahmed climbed aboard and positioned himself next to his father, wedged into the space between the seat and the huge fender. He clung on as the ancient vehicle bumped and lurched across the frozen fields.
While his father drove, he looked around and studied their land. It was a good farm, with the potential to feed them. With luck, it may even provide a surplus to sell at the local market. One day it would all be his, if he lived long enough. Life in Afghanistan often hung on a tiny thread. The random decision of an Imam or Mullah, or the accuracy of a Talib shooter, and a life ended. A strong possibility was that a perceived insult could cause a man to take revenge, or hire someone else to do it for him. Even the reliability of the ancient Fordson was a factor in whether they survived or otherwise.
Their speed increased, and Ahmed clung on as they drove over the rutted track. The creaking, rumbling machine swayed like a fairground ride.
"Look! Ten miles an hour," his father shouted happily. Ahmed glanced at the cracked speedometer, ripped from a Russian aircraft destroyed by a Mujahedeen rocket. They'd removed the Cyrillic disk on the dial and made one out from an old cardboard box they'd cut into shape. They'd written the numbers in felt tip pen. It was true; the needle was almost touching ten miles an hour, an unheard-of speed.
"This will make all the difference," his father chuckled, "We can pay off our debts, and perhaps even save some money in the bank." He sounded more joyful than Ahmed had heard him for many years. The long years of backbreaking toil just to maintain their miserable existence could be about to end.
"It's wonderful," he replied, "Father, might I drive the tractor?"
He smiled. "You are thirteen years old, Ahmed. On your fourteenth birthday, perhaps I will show you how it works."
"That's in ten months! Besides, I know how it works. I have read the manual many times."
"Ten months is a short time. Patience, my son, it will come soon enough."
Ahmed nodded. But inside, he had a different thought. I don't want patience. I want it now.
The tractor swerved to avoid the markers where the Taliban had sown antipersonnel mines to destroy the NATO patrols that used to use this route. It was too dangerous to remove them, so they were marked with cairns of rocks, and everyone knew to steer clear. Almost everyone. His father had once employed a laborer who boasted that he wasn’t afraid. No Taliban landmine would stop him from doing his day’s work. Sometimes, they unearthed fragments of bone when they plowed the soil.
“Tomorrow I will travel to Jalalabad to see Mr. Stoner, the machinery dealer. I must pay him what we owe him for the carburetor. Our fortunes are changing, my son.”
Ahmed had met Rafe Stoner once before and knew he'd been in the military during the NATO Alliance war against the Taliban. Someone said he was U.S. Navy, but Ahmed didn't understand how that could be, for they were so far inland.
What was the need for ships and sailors inside Afghanistan?
He'd left the military as the war wound down, and for some reason decided to stay in the ramshackle, violent country. Stoner had built up a small business, selling surplus and used machinery. If you needed a new pump for a well, an axle for an old motorcar, or even a carburetor for an obsolete tractor, people would go to him. They knew he dealt fairly with them, and he had a reputation as an honest man. He never seemed very busy, and potential customers often found his yard closed. However, the way he dressed in fine clothes, and drove a new Jeep Wrangler SUV, suggested he was doing well.
He claimed he was often away purchasing lots of machinery at auctions around the country, although no one had seen him at any of these sales. Then again, Afghanistan was a big country, so perhaps the sales were in the north. A wild, lawless region, in a country where lawlessness was the norm, it never troubled him.
The American carried two huge pistols under his coat, strapped either side of his wide leather belt. Yet despite his flamboyance, the black clothes, the Wrangler, the pistols, the apartment reputed to be luxurious, he never smiled. Stoner's fiancée, a beautiful French UNHCR worker, died when a Taliban IED exploded under the truck she was driving to bring food to hungry kids in a rural area hard hit by drought. Afterward, he descended into a miasma of serious drinking.
Ahmed visited Jalalabad with his father to discuss the purchase of the carburetor. Stoner had a tiny office next to a dilapidated junkyard filled with heaps of rusting machinery. Ahmed's eyes had almost popped out of his head when he noticed the huge pistols, and he asked to look at them. The American pulled out the guns and showed them to him. They looked like small cannons to the boy.
“They’re called Desert Eagles, son, made in Israel,” he'd explained, pleased that Ahmed spoke the fluent English he’d learned from his books, “Fifty caliber handguns.”
“Are they powerful, Sir?”
Stoner's face twitched a fraction of an inch. “I could punch a hole through the door of the Presidential limousine with these babies.”
Ahmed nodded wisely. Everyone knew about the Presidential limousine, always sagging on the springs with its burden of heavy armor plating. “It would be better not to tell the President.”
The American nodded. “No, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
That conversation took place several weeks ago, and he wished he could visit the colorful American again. Although he knew he'd have to stay at the farm and look after his younger sisters. He smiled at his father.
"Things will change now the tractor is running. We all know how difficult it has been for you since Mother died."
Durani nodded.
Since she was murdered. I’ll never forget, never. One day I may even be able to take time out from feeding my family to take revenge. Not yet, the children must come first.
“Everything will improve, you can believe me. Look at this fine tractor, is that not evidence of change?”
Before he could reply, his father went on, “I will leave in the morning for Jalalabad.” He saw the longing in his son’s eyes, “No, you must stay here to look after your sisters. Kaawa is still only eleven years old, and Rahima is nine. They are too young to be left alone.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Ahmed, do we have enough money to pay Mr. Stoner? I need seventy-eight dollars.”
The currency of Afghanistan was Afghanis. However, due to its market fluctuations, and the widespread distrust of government, cautious people still insisted on U.S. dollars for their transactions. Ghulam Durani was one such cautious person. He waited while his son worked out the calculations. After he'd learned to read and write, Ahmed put his skills to work, dealing with the endless corrupt officials who visited the farm almost on a weekly basis to try to extort money. He and his father had endless arguments and even stand-up rows. One of the worst was with the local Imam, Sheikh Habib Daud.
Daud had a cousin, Sardar Khan, who wanted to marry Kaawa. The Sheikh had offered Durani a substantial sum to buy her for his cousin, but he'd refused, saying she was too young. Besides, although he accepted Sheikh Daud was an honorable man, he found Sardar Khan to be anything but. The last time they’d discussed it, Ghulam Durani sent Khan packing from the farm, firing a warning shot from his ancient AK-47 to underline the point. Khan waved his fist and shouted threats, and they all knew it wasn’t over.
So far, Ahmed had managed to ward off the other problems. M
oneylenders, thieves, conmen, and worse, the government tax collectors. With Ahmed's literary and numeracy skills, and his father's assault rifle, they’d so far proved too much for the avarice and dishonesty of these greedy men. The boy also looked after the family money. He stored the cash in a battered aluminum box, which had once held 9mm pistol ammunition. It still had the logo ‘U.S. Army’ emblazoned on the side. He thought about the loss of seventy-eight dollars, the last of their money, and intended to help them through the winter. Durani saw his son’s hesitation.
“My son, the increased productivity from the new tractor engine will enable us to double our usual crop. We'll be fine."
Ahmed grimaced. If there were any more breakdowns, there'd be fewer crops, not more. Yet he was fond of the ancient Fordson. It had been in the family for three generations. It was his ambition to drive it, a coming of age rite for his entry into manhood. Every male Durani had driven that tractor for almost a hundred years. Perhaps it would not break down. The new engine and carburetor would surely keep it running for a long time to come.
“Yes, of course. We have enough money to pay Mr. Stoner. I will give you the cash before you leave.”
Ghulam nodded. “If we do well and earn enough money, we could perhaps buy a newer model.”
“I want to keep this tractor.”
His father's eyebrows rose, and he glanced at him. “Very well. One day it shall be yours. First, Jalalabad, and when I return, we shall go to work. Everything will be different, you’ll see.”
“Yes, Father.”
"When we get home, I will call Stoner and tell him I am on the way to pay him the money I owe."