THE SUN WAS UP when he next opened his eyes, a dusty orange ball that had roused everyone but him. He still felt fine, even better than last night, and he immediately reached for more water. There was only bread to eat, but for now that seemed like enough.
Najeeb smiled when he saw Skelly up and about. Skelly smiled back, finding it interesting that Najeeb wasn’t shy about showing emotion now, even in front of his gruff uncle. Good for him.
Najeeb walked over and placed a hand on Skelly’s forehead. He was obviously pleased with the result.
“Thanks,” Skelly said. “Thanks for getting us out. For not leaving me.”
Najeeb nodded solemnly, perhaps even a little embarrassed, so Skelly said nothing more.
“It was my duty,” he said.
Skelly noticed now that Aziz was watching. Karim, too.
“Where to today?” Skelly asked brightly, trying to lighten the atmosphere, which suddenly seemed strained. Not that he needed to lighten his own mood. In the freshness of morning he was as excited as he had been as a boy before setting out on an epic car journey across America, knowing his father would be stopping only for gasoline and historical markers until they reached their destination.
“Aziz has a truck waiting a few hours from here. We’ll take that the rest of the way.”
“Won’t we be crossing the border first?”
“We did that last night. We’re camped a mile or so inside Pakistan.”
Skelly was mildly disappointed to have missed the moment. Or maybe he figured he should have known the difference.
“All looks the same, I guess.”
“Up here the border does not matter,” Najeeb said. “Tribes matter. Tribes and clans, and whoever is in charge.”
At that moment the idea of borders struck Skelly in the way it must have always been clear to the locals: a construct of foreigners, some marking made long ago by a British geographer in a drawing room, or out on a verandah, gin and tonic at the ready and a mosquito net overhead, wiping his brow as he traced the contour lines. Then, later, some lord or earl presenting the handiwork to the chieftains and maliks, who nodded, then went about their business exactly as before.
“What time will we reach Peshawar?”
Skelly relished the idea of a hot shower. But even more, he craved having someplace to get down to work. His laptop was gone, but he could borrow one. Or he would write in longhand if he had to, then fax it from the hotel. Once he nailed down the details, he’d have a story that would be quoted on the BBC, CNN and every major newspaper— the sensation of the month, perhaps of the year—and he would have an adventure for the ages in his memory banks. He was now glad they were across the border, out of danger and heading for the home stretch.
“We are not going to Peshawar,” Najeeb said. “Not today, anyway.”
Najeeb’s somber tone worried Skelly as much as the message.
“What’s going on?” He eyed Aziz, hoping the man didn’t speak English.
“I am not sure myself.”
“But it’s Aziz’s idea? Or Karim’s?”
“Not Karim’s.” Najeeb seemed amused by the idea of Karim calling the shots. “Aziz insists we have to see my father. Partly because we would not be welcome on any other passage. Bandits and rivals. We would be at their mercy. You especially. We would need an armed escort like Bashir’s to make it across.”
“I thought you weren’t exactly welcome at your father’s anymore.”
“It is true, what you say.”
“But they’ll let us pass?”
“They will receive us, for certain. Your presence ensures that.”
“Mine?”
“As a Westerner, an American. In my company you will be viewed as a guest, subject to malmastiya. And because you are on the run from Kudrat and his Arabs there will also be nanawatay to consider.”
“Nanawhat? And what was the first one?”
“Malmastiya. And nanawatay. They are part of pashtunwali, the closest thing we have to law, or a constitution. It is our code of behavior. Malmastiya obligates us to provide hospitality. Even to our enemies, as long as they come in peace.”
“And nanawatay?”
“Refuge. Asylum. You will have an honored lodging in the hujera for as long as you care to stay.”
“But I don’t want a lodging. I want passage. This story won’t hold forever.”
“Tell that to my father. He will be your host. But do not push him. And do not refuse his hospitality, unless you want to stay even longer. If he offers too much food, eat it anyway. If the bed is too soft, sleep there anyway.”
“Sounds more like hostage-taking than hospitality.”
“You think there is a difference?”
“In most places.”
“Not here. The more generous the hospitality, the more controlling the host. If you go for any walks, you will be sure to have an escort.”
“What about you? Will you have a problem?”
“Not as long as I remain in your company. I am afraid that now it may be your turn to protect me.”
He owed Najeeb at least that much, story or no story. Perhaps he could even pay for Najeeb’s freedom. But now didn’t seem like the proper time to bring that up. Not with Aziz and Karim around.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”
Najeeb nodded grimly. “There is one other thing I should explain. Aziz has been my father’s rival for years, while pretending to be his ally. It may work to our advantage, or it may work against us. But keep it in mind, whatever happens.”
Skelly wondered what must have been discussed around the campfire in the hours before he awakened, or yesterday during their long journey on horseback, when he was barely cognizant of what was going on. Already he could sense that Najeeb was withdrawing, marshaling his thoughts and energies for whatever lay ahead, retreating behind his Pashtun mask of blankness.
THE TRUCK WAS WAITING, as advertised, and it felt good to dismount. Skelly’s rump was bruised, and his thighs ached. The fever, however, showed no sign of returning, and the simple but filling breakfast had boosted his strength.
Less than an hour of driving brought them to the crest of a ridge, where a narrow road twisted below in a series of unpaved switchbacks. Beyond was a village by a sparse grove of green trees. A stream ran through it, glinting in the sunlight.
“Bagwali,” Najeeb said. “My village.”
Halfway down the slope they passed a pair of barefoot boys wearing slingshots around their necks. A mottled dog, rib cage outlined on its fur, sauntered past with a hungry look, its tongue dangling close to the ground. The boys stared openmouthed at the truck, oblivious to the rolling cloud of dust and exhaust. Najeeb’s expression seemed almost mournful.
In the village below, Skelly now saw two red mini-trucks streaming toward them on a dirt track, leaving a long brown contrail. Two men sat in the open bed of each, guns at their sides. The trucks could only have been responding to their arrival. They must have easily stood out on the side of the mountain.
“Here they come,” Najeeb said in a flat voice. “Our welcoming committee, preparing to say hello.”
“Let’s just hope they also know how to say good-bye,” Skelly said, watching the trucks with growing apprehension.
Najeeb had no answer for that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AT A CRUMBLING aid agency outpost atop a crumbling hill, Karen Wilkins sat at a borrowed desk shaking her head, certain now that she really had seen everything. Seated before her was a new twist on an old ruse—a woman disguised as a man—and if Wilkins hadn’t seen it with her own eyes she wouldn’t have believed it possible, not here, not in this wild countryside where no stranger went unchallenged and no woman on her own went unmolested.
Yet there was a certain logic to it, she supposed, especially if you were as bold and desperate as the young woman who now sat before her, clearly exhausted but just as clearly relieved to be on safe ground. And clearly, as well, the woma
n had done a convincing job of making herself resemble a callow young man. Wilkins’s first reaction had been to order her from the building, because a male face within these walls always set her wards aflutter, tossing their chadors and burqas back into place like schoolgirls who’d been caught skinny-dipping.
“I’m sorry,” Wilkins had announced sternly in a burst of Pashto, “but this area is for women only, and you should know that.”
She’d wondered if this one would even understand her, because he’d looked Punjabi. No beard and no turban. Just a white pillbox skullcap, plus those luminous brown eyes that she envied among all these people, men and women alike—placid pools that invited empathy even when concealing treachery. Quite an asset, such eyes, not least when your own were as blue and easy to read as the skies, betraying every shift in mood and emotion.
Yet, when the face finally spoke, the voice emerged softly, wearily, even timidly, halting Wilkins in her tracks.
“Please, I need your help. And I am a woman, not a man.”
And so she was—an attractive young woman at that, once you got past the severe haircut and the clothes, hanging upon her frame like dirty sails. Wilkins had heard outlandish tales that this sometimes happened in the slums of Peshawar—young women frustrated with their lack of opportunity dressed for a while as boys, taking odd jobs that they would never have a shot at as females. But never out here. Not in the Tribals.
“So tell me . . . Daliya, was it?”
“Yes. Daliya Qadeer.”
“You’ve been on the run for how long now?”
It was the very question Daliya had just been asking herself, because it seemed like weeks. Yet she had set out from Islamabad only that morning, trying to reach the village where she was hoping Najeeb would end up.
She had considered contacting the place first by telephone, just as Najeeb had advised on a night that now seemed ages ago. He had given her the number for a PTT office in his home village of Bagwali, and told her to ask for his mother, Shereen. But even if the message got through, Daliya told herself, how would a mother react to the idea of some strange woman pursuing her son? Especially in that culture. Not well, she decided. So instead she formed a plan of independent action, knowing only that she must somehow reach the village of Bagwali and hope for the best.
It was a long shot, she knew. But far preferable to the alternative of returning home. At worst, she would have an adventure before heading back to her parents in defeat. And when she’d heard the news on the radio that afternoon at Professor Bhatti’s, plus later updates stating that the captured Mahmood Razaq had been hanged—or so the Taliban was claiming—she was sure she was on the right track, even though none of the reports said anything about an American journalist or his young Pashtun translator.
So on she traveled, intent on reaching this very woman, Karen Wilkins, at this office, within a mile of the famous Jamrud fort at the eastern entrance of the Khyber Pass, just off the Grand Trunk Road. The destination had been the idea of Professor Bhatti, who’d pegged Wilkins as a likely and able confederate, having met her at a conference a few months earlier.
“She’s got contacts out there,” the professor had said, speaking of the tribal frontier as if it were Siberia. “And she’s an Englishwoman, with access to her own trucks and bodyguards, so she can actually move around a little. Mention my name.”
Daliya did just that, and the response was impressive. Wilkins smiled, eyes twinkling, and seemed to lower her guard just a bit. Then she frowned, the eyes crinkling with a hint of disapproval.
“Did Professor Bhatti advise you to dress up like this?”
“Well, no . . .”
The professor, in fact, had found the whole idea outrageous, even dangerous, although in the end she offered her grudging assistance as Daliya clipped her hair in great clumps upon the floor. Daliya had then bound her breasts with an Ace bandage and donned a baggy new kameez, feeling she was stepping into a realm of freedom she had always yearned for on the streets. Now she would be able to board any bus she pleased, speak her mind to strangers, stroll any avenue at any time of day, and demand her money’s worth from every merchant.
But the moment she walked into the streets in her new getup she tensed, certain that she would be unmasked within seconds or that her voice would betray her even as she cast it an octave lower, straining like a singer for the proper projection while awkwardly adopting the rough vernacular of men. She had hoped that a few hours of practice would make it second nature, but it never happened, if only because every few minutes seemed to bring a fresh threat of exposure.
The worst such moments still loomed vividly. There was the man on the bus from Islamabad to Peshawar who’d eyed her intently the whole way, a smile playing about his eyes as if he were reading her thoughts and could see through her garments. Or the fat, hairy one, all sweat and stomach, who’d pressed against her when boarding the microvan to Jamrud, pushing just hard enough to feel the yielding softness beneath the wrapping around her chest. He’d shot her a look of surprise, as if she might be some sort of freak, then the look had turned to a knowing leer, but he’d mercifully disembarked at Hayatabad without a word to anyone.
There had been at least a dozen close calls, and during each of them she had been fearfully certain she was about to be revealed or, worse, denounced and attacked, stripped of her kameez and exposed as the freak she was. The anxiety had destroyed her appetite, and she had foresworn food and spoken only when necessary, her voice sounding contrived and falsely throaty.
Yet she had survived, and now here she was, seated at the very refuge her professor had recommended. And as she told her story to Wilkins she realized that she could finally relax. The revelation came upon her so suddenly that she felt light-headed, and began to slide from the chair, unfolding like a creased sheet of cardboard returning to its original shape. Tears of relief brimmed but did not spill—one last reserve of discipline hanging tough—but her descent to the floor continued inexorably until she reached her knees.
Wilkins came quickly round the desk to catch Daliya beneath the armpits, rough, strong hands and a milk-white brow furrowed with concern.
“Jamila, bring a glass of water! Quickly!”
The sound of scurrying in the corridor, then a hand appearing to Daliya’s left with a sweating glass. She sat up, sipped, then gulped, feeling better already. She’d reached bottom and was now swimming for the surface, racing past the bubbles.
“There now,” Wilkins cooed, squatting on the floor next to her. “Are you all right?”
Daliya eased from her knees onto her rump. Wilkins stayed within reach, as if Daliya might yet shatter.
“Why don’t you lie down for a while? I’ll get you a cushion.”
“No, thank you. I really am okay. But tea would be nice. And maybe some biscuits.”
Wilkins nodded to her assistant, who hurried off to comply. To make the rally complete Daliya stood, if a bit unsteadily, then sat back down in the chair. Yes, much better now. She picked up the glass from the floor and drained it. A few moments later the tea arrived, steaming and sweet. There was bread on a plate, and she tore off a piece.
Wilkins waited a few minutes, not returning to her desk until she was sure Daliya wouldn’t slide right back to the floor. Brow still furrowed, she began tapping a pencil on her chin, seeming to realize for the first time exactly what sort of responsibility she was about to accept.
“So Professor Bhatti sent you here, then.”
“Yes.”
Wilkins thought that over some more, the pencil still tapping.
“How old are you, Daliya?”
“Twenty.”
The pencil froze in midbeat.
“And your parents, do they know you’re here?”
Daliya shook her head.
“They live in Islamabad?”
Daliya nodded.
“My father works for the government.”
Wilkins set down the pencil with the greatest of care, as if it had su
ddenly turned into a stick of dynamite.
“Doing what, if I might ask?”
“He’s an assistant to the deputy minister for commerce.”
Wilkins paused, perhaps calculating just how much she might stand to lose either by helping Daliya or by sending her away. In either course of action there was no telling where the young woman might go next. The only safe solution was a phone call straight to the parents. She supposed she could ferret out the number easily enough.
But what was her mission here, if not to help women, even if this one happened to have lived a life of privilege and wealth? You could tell that from her skin, and from the way she’d nearly dissolved after a mere day of traveling. Yet why be so quick to return her to the crutch of patriarchy when she was just beginning to steady her legs?
Wilkins had been in Pakistan ten months now, and she hadn’t yet tired of writing her friends back home about how backward the place was in its attitudes toward females. But she also wrote them about how rewarding the work could be, assisting these tribal women who were stretched to the limit by the strict codes of purdah. And if Daliya wasn’t as needy as they were, well, she was at least willing to make leaps that Wilkins’s other wards would never dare. So why not help her, too? Risk be damned.
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