Into the Sun

by Deni Ellis Béchard

  “He didn’t look first?” Paul asked.

  “People get very hungry,” Idris told him.

  After another burst of laughter, the conversation shifted away from Idris, expats talking among themselves. He moved closer to Holly. I heard him ask what she did, and she described her NGO, the street dogs they took in, nurtured, and flew to the United States for adoption.

  “Oh,” he said, the color draining from his cheeks.

  “And what do you do?” she asked, cocking her head, trying to interpret his reaction.

  “I am a …” — he faltered — “a jack-of-all-trades, but I am trying to be a student. Inshallah, I will someday join your dogs in America.”

  She laughed, touching his arm, and his color returned. No longer focusing on Alexandra and Justin, the expats now talked while keeping track of Idris and Holly. Though a number of the men had dipped a toe in her water and found it far too electric, others awaited their chance. They began to encroach on the conversation.

  “Idris,” Justin interrupted, “we need to head out.”

  Everyone shifted their attention to see how he would bid farewell to Alexandra. He lifted his hand in a vague gesture. If there was any emotion on his lips, his beard hid it.

  Paul thanked Idris for his stories, stepped between him and Holly, and escorted him to the door.

  When men presented themselves to a woman as protectors, I wondered, did they know they were simply making her more available to their own advances? It was an old simian ruse, yet I suspected few of them saw into the biology behind it.

  “Thanks for the stories,” Paul told Idris. “Hoda hafez, mate.”

  Holly stood on her toes. She waved, but Idris was gone.

  CLAY

  The jeans Clay had worn on the motorcycle were torn along the thigh. He sat on his bed, holding them, and then went to the closet: his entire wardrobe was threadbare, as if everything had conspired to deteriorate at once.

  He pulled on his least worn-out jeans, buttoned up a flannel shirt, and put his jacket on. He’d come out of an existence of mechanical efficiency into a rage he no longer thought possible. He had a burn on his calf, and bruises all along his leg. The only drama in his life was that which he created.

  The day was brisk. A light predawn snow had melted. He rode to Wazir Akbar Khan and parked. At a checkpoint, the police lifted the gate, and he walked down a dirt road. He knocked at a metal door. The slot opened and then the deadbolt clanked. The guard frisked him and banged on a second door. Just inside, there was an ornately carved Nuristani doorway and, beyond it, a courtyard.

  He sat at a wooden table in an empty room with a domed brick ceiling like a kiln. Low heartless trance throbbed in the speakers. Idris walked through the courtyard, and as he passed the window, Clay called. Idris stopped, backlit by the sun, his gangly silhouette cartoonish.

  The steak kebabs are good, Clay said as Idris joined him.

  The menu was pricey even by American standards, and Idris’s eyebrows shot up as Clay ordered fresh carrot juice, two bowls of potage, and three plates of steak kebabs and fries.

  So have you become best friends with the kid?

  Yes. I have been inviting him to see movies. A guy I know made his house into a cinema.

  Did you get a sense of whether he has information about what his father does?

  He’s a kid. He plays video games and does his homework. He doesn’t think like a man. He doesn’t even talk about girls.

  That’s a shame.

  Idris smiled. He thinks his life is hard because his father won’t let him go to university in America. He tells me how bad living here is, as if I do not know. I was in Kabul during the civil war, but he was in Pakistan. His father thinks he’s too soft and would stay soft in America. He wouldn’t know how life worked in Afghanistan. So Faisal must do his university degree here and then he will be allowed to do the master’s in America.

  Poor kid, Clay said.

  Yes. I do not feel sorry. Every Afghan would want his problems.

  Clay took his time, speaking the way he had with Steve, letting the conversation lull and eddy, creating space for Idris to consider the paths to the success he craved.

  I don’t know what to do, Clay told him. I’ll pay you for your work, but I’m not sure there’s anywhere to go with this case.

  Maybe you can take him for questioning, Idris suggested.

  Quiet. That’s serious.

  I mean —

  I know what you mean. I have to think about that. Maybe if his father talks, if he feels some pressure, we can save Tarzi.

  Yes, Idris said and enunciated carefully: That would be good.

  Clay shook his head. It’s a shame Rashidi has put us in this position.

  I know. Ashraf Tarzi is a good man. He is liked by many people for creating jobs and running his businesses well, and for helping the poor.

  Clay knew this situation was happening all over the earth — the desperation, the sense of going nowhere — and then a glimmer, barely even hope, just a small change, the thought that if you nudged the world, it might, when the dust settled, be a place where you could belong.

  I don’t want to call this off, Clay told him. I know you’ve invested a lot of time and hard work, and I respect that. But what can we do?

  The question had a rhetorical edge that gave it the finality of surrender. He changed the subject and asked what was happening with Justin these days. Is he still banging the girl?

  Idris smiled faintly. Banging? Yes, he is.

  And the scholarship?

  Idris’s smile vanished. He has given it to the girl he is banging.

  That’s rough, man.

  I heard it from a girl at school. Justin will talk to me very seriously about it and tell me lies.

  I’m really sorry, Clay said, grateful for the timing of the betrayal.

  I think you should speak with him.

  Who?

  Faisal. He and I are going to see a movie this evening. Maybe I will get stuck on the road, and you can take him and talk to him.

  Clay let furrows gather in his brow. Idris must know this was theatre, but it was honest theatre that laid bare the mechanisms of deliberation, the peeling away of options.

  It is the only way to save Tarzi, Idris told him. Faisal has enjoyed the money of corruption. He is Rashidi’s son. I will not be sad for him.

  Clay unfolded a hundred-dollar bill. Listen. I really can’t say how much I appreciate your help, but you can’t talk about this because people wouldn’t understand. You get that, right?

  Of course.

  But what you’re doing is good. When all this is finished, a lot of people are going to be thanking you. And I’ll make sure you’re paid very well. Eight hundred dollars if you get Tarzi. Fuck. How about a thousand? You’re doing all the work.

  The food arrived, the carrot juice sweet and clean-tasting, steam rising from the potage and beef. Clay glanced at the waiter and said, Whiskey? He got a nod and ordered a triple.

  He asked Idris where he’d grown up, and when he replied, Kabul, Clay said it must have been rough.

  Idris put a piece of beef in his mouth and shrugged. I saw worse things after the Americans came.

  The waiter brought the whiskey, and its heat eased the tension in Clay’s body.

  Idris paused, his fork daintily held in his thin fingers.

  Once, after the Americans came, my uncle, my cousin, and I were walking in the street, and we passed two men who were sitting on some cement. They were sweating and shaking. My uncle thought they must be on drugs, so we crossed the street. An American convoy came through, and the men ran at it and blew themselves up. I was on my knees. I couldn’t breathe. There was so much smoke and dust everyone’s faces were black. I remember all the white eyes. On the road, there was a jawbone.

  No shit,
Clay said and took a long drink. Idris chewed slowly, taking his time with the meat, sipping his juice. He appeared unaccustomed to food. Clay had to pace himself.

  Idris’s cell rang.

  Yes, Mr. Justin, he said. Yes. I will pick you up. I will be there soon.

  Justin is at a picnic, he told Clay. He needs a ride to the school.

  You’d think he’d call a taxi.

  I suppose so. How do you know Justin?

  We went to high school together and then lost track of each other. Anyway, tonight, we need to be careful. It has to be clear that you have nothing to do with this. It would be smart if you at least got bruised.

  Then bruise me, Idris said.

  It won’t be badly. Just a punch. When we take the boy.

  Idris drew a map, marking a section of road where there were few buildings. He wrote down 8:30 p.m., and they went over the details of the plan.

  They left the restaurant, out past guards in gray fatigues, through the metal detector and past the police with Kalashnikovs at the checkpoint. From the booth, an officer lifted his hand, to wave or to motion them through — the gesture loose, unfamiliar, more like a curse. A helicopter thudded out above the city. All across the mountains, lights were coming on.

  Clay was suddenly breathing hard. The air felt thin, not cold enough to resist the heat of his skin.

  You’re being straight with me, right?

  Of course I am.

  Of course, he repeated. Of course. He’d begun to sweat, angry that this was his life, wondering if he’d end up in an Afghan prison. I can take care of things if they get out of hand, he said. I’ve done it before. I’ve killed boys like you.

  You can trust me, Idris told him. I promise.

  They said goodbye without shaking hands or even looking at each other.

  At home, Clay called Steve. It’s on. Tonight. Have the room ready. Then he lay down.

  In Maine, his father had talked about finding a meaningful moment when he could feel satisfied with life, if only briefly. Clay had come closest to that in the army: the brotherhood venturing into alien landscapes, the bracing of muscle, the raw clamoring of heart and lungs.

  On his last Dubai trip, he’d stopped in a mall bookstore and perused a collection of Persian poetry — Rumi and Hafez — their words giving him a sense of an enduring culture, as if Afghanistan were a restless ocean under which its history lay like Atlantis. It made him wonder what he didn’t know. A poem exhorted him not to believe in his wrath, nor to be satisfied with the veil of this world. Lines like those should be accompanied with an instruction manual.

  His alarm chimed. He sent a confirmation text and rode to Steve’s house.

  A drink? Steve asked.

  Nah. Not now.

  Crossing over to the dark side comes easily for you, I see.

  There aren’t any sides.

  They took a company Corolla. One of the armored SUVs would attract attention, and the Corolla had a space in the trunk for a spare tire that Steve had expanded into a compartment large enough to hold weapons — or a person. He had a map of the most common places for checkpoints, but the police rarely did more than glance through the windows. Steve sipped bourbon as he drove.

  They parked on the roadside and waited, the lights off, hot air in the vents. Clay took his balaclava out of his pocket, draped it on his knee, and prepared the chloroform.

  Another Corolla neared. As planned, Idris had removed the bulb from inside his left headlamp. The car crept past, and they followed.

  You hit the kid, Clay said. But go easy.

  Idris’s car wobbled and slid, the front tire dropping into a rut. The brake lights flared and dimmed. The doors opened, and two figures emerged.

  Steve pulled close and flicked on the high beams. He and Clay put on their balaclavas and got out.

  Faisal squinted as Clay approached at an angle so that his body didn’t shield the boy from the high beams and allow him to see in along the shadow. Steve was coming from the other side, toward Idris, his breath swirling past his shoulder.

  Clay grabbed Faisal and pinned him to his chest, the heat of panic radiating from the boy’s back as Clay held the rag to his nose and mouth.

  Idris stood next to the car, arms slack.

  “Sorry, kid,” Steve told him. He punched him in the face, and Idris spun convincingly to the ground.

  Clay popped the trunk and placed Faisal into the compartment, locked it, and got in the passenger seat. Steve turned the car around. Idris remained on his knees, leaning against the fender, one hand on the metal, the other on his forehead.

  How’s that for a little adventure? Steve asked.

  If you find yourself chloroforming a fifteen-year-old, Clay told him, you know your days of adventure are over.

  JUSTIN

  A Russian sedan idled in the street outside the school. It was small and square, its grill gone and the body patched and hammered into shape. Two men sat in the front, three in the back, all sporting beards. The front passenger was older, grizzled, a scar passing over his cheekbone from his temple to his prominent nose. He stared as Justin closed the gate.

  Justin had been looking for Idris. He hadn’t seen him since he’d told him about the scholarship. Appearing unbothered, Idris had said, I knew that would be the case. He’d even refused Justin’s lunch invitation, saying he had plans. In the day since, he hadn’t answered his phone or come to class. Justin had grown so restless that when he’d heard the car outside, he’d gone down to the street. Sediqa had warned him that her uncles might come by. She’d said one of them had fought in the civil war and had a scarred face.

  Justin walked back to the guard’s quarters.

  Shafiq reclined on toshaks, in a tank top, and squeezed handgrips from which the padding had worn off, the metal squeaking as his forearm flexed, wormlike veins all along it. His hand was as red as a tomato.

  Mahmoud, a boy who sometimes came to class, was sitting with him, watching TV as President Karzai spoke at a podium.

  Shafiq, Justin asked, do you have a gun?

  The boy translated the question and Shafiq’s response: Five months ago, during a farewell party for a visiting teacher, someone stole it from under his bed.

  Why don’t we get a new one?

  Shafiq listened to the boy and shrugged.

  Frank has no money.

  Justin knew that to be true. Frank had asked him to call around to his friends back home to help raise funds. The previous night, Justin had heard him through his door, Skyping to the US, asking for donations — Yes, that’s what I’m explaining to you, Frank had been saying. We can barely keep our lights on here … No, we aren’t a 501c3, but I’m going to register as a nonprofit … Well, even if it’s not much, it will make a difference. Every day, we’re creating a future for Afghanistan. Not a penny gets wasted …

  After the rocket attack, Justin had told Frank about it, pleased to see the old man’s envy. He’d found an article in the local English paper. Four Afghans had been wounded: a businessman, a police officer, and two women. The target was the Serena Hotel or perhaps a police truck outside. Justin cut out the article, still thrilled by the experience — the streaking red light, the open space in front of the car before Idris hit the accelerator.

  In his room, he phoned Clay.

  What are you doing with Idris?

  Hey, Justin. No hello? No how are you?

  I asked you a question.

  And it’s any of your business?

  He’s my student.

  I hired him to run errands. Isn’t that what you use him for? Oh, and hey, Idris told me about the rocket attack. I was in bed with an NGO chick one time, and right when we came, the house shook. Car bomb. In Iraq, every other time I jerked off, a mortar was hitting, but in Kabul every little explosion feels special.

  Anyway, Clay continu
ed, I just want to help Idris too. How about we talk this through in person? The traffic’s awful right now, but one of the guys I work with is having a party tonight. We can find a quiet space to sit down. I’ll text you the address.

  Okay, Justin said and hung up.

  He lay on his bed, suddenly exhausted, the chill penetrating his jacket and fleece as he fell asleep. When someone began knocking on his door, he jerked awake, panting and enraged, his hands in fists. A red glow hung on the wall, melting to brown. The sun had finished setting.

  He opened the door. Idris was there, unshaven, with bruises on his forehead, the purple spots of two knuckles near his hairline, one dark with coagulated blood just beneath the skin.

  What happened?

  I got mugged. And then I got sick. Maybe it was the shock.

  Are you all right?

  Yes. I am better now.

  Good. I need you to drive me. You know Clay, right? It’s to see him.

  Idris blinked, as if trying to decide how to react.

  What kind of work are you doing for Clay? Justin asked and tried to inhale.

  Idris looked off, out the dusty second-storey window and into the street.

  Justin didn’t realize how angry he was until he was already grabbing Idris by the collar, spinning, and slamming him against the wall. The back of Idris’s head struck the concrete. His body had felt airy, like Styrofoam. Idris was wincing, but his hands were slack.

  Just errands, he whispered, his head lowered.

  Did Clay start this?

  I did. I asked if he had work.

  Justin grabbed his jaw and lifted his face.

  Why would you do that?

  I don’t see why I can’t have a job. I am not paid here. And I am not getting a scholarship.

  Justin let go.

  Idris’s shirt had come untucked, stretched around the collar, and he moved his hands to fix it, but they shook and he let them drop. When he raised his eyes again, they were different, distant, vaguely relaxed, maybe even peaceful.

  I will drive you. I am sorry. I did not realize this situation would upset you.