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Into the Sun

Page 29

by Deni Ellis Béchard

Blood pulsed at the junctures of his limbs and behind his solar plexus, his abdomen as tight as a drum.

  Even as a boy, aiming a weapon had been automatic, as if every act of violence were inherited — a gesture repeated across centuries.

  Destroying his own life had felt like the only way out of it.

  ALEXANDRA

  Alexandra’s house was crowded, the impromptu gathering point for survivors and friends and journalists who’d followed the attack on Twitter. People were crying, holding each other, stroking each other’s backs and hair. Holly had suddenly begun bawling, going such long stretches that she ran out of breath and began gasping and choking.

  Justin lingered, his back to the wall, Idris shivering next to him, his jacket pulled close. The guard was stoking the bukhari, and people sat on the floor around it, talking and holding hands.

  The room had quieted, only Holly still crying. Idris watched her from his corner, likely the only person in the house who actually wanted to comfort her. Alexandra had tried and lost patience.

  Can I talk to you? Justin asked when she broke from a cluster of people.

  She motioned him into the empty dining room. During the attack, he hadn’t touched or reassured her, just leveled his fanatic stare at the screen, so certain of his survival.

  What’s going on with you and Clay?

  Nothing. He came to the school. I met him there.

  I saw how you looked at him.

  Does it matter?

  Just be careful. Nothing Clay does is innocent.

  You don’t need to save me, she said, but she wondered why Clay hadn’t warned her that Justin would be at the party. Maybe he didn’t think she would care.

  She was about to turn away, but there was something broken and familiar in Justin’s face that she might have recognized in the mirror years ago. A sudden tenderness like nostalgia overcame her, and she kissed his cheekbone.

  Justin called to Idris, and the two of them left.

  Alexandra went into her room, changed, and requested a taxi. She rubbed a body wipe along her arms and legs. She took a second, then third, scouring away the smell of sweat and fear. She dressed and wrapped her head and shoulders in a scarf.

  She walked down the hall, past the conversations and chiming cells in the living room, to the taxi already waiting outside. She texted, On my way.

  In the safe room, Clay had seemed at ease. She had no illusions about what she was about to do. She wanted what hadn’t happened the night of the rocket attack. She knew the pop-psychology diagnoses, the way people acted on wounds, believing — deluded — that the past could be healed. She didn’t particularly care. Clay was an experience she wanted. The violence in him lay just beneath the surface, not cocooned as it was in Justin.

  When the taxi dropped her off, the driver didn’t leave until Clay opened the gate. He led her up two flights of external concrete stairs to a top landing heaped with firewood. Inside, windows lined the small apartment. Maybe the view made up for the lack of furnishing, she thought. There was a lamp on a stool near the bed and some books on the floor.

  Clay turned to her, flushed, his chest lifting. His neck was hot beneath her palm, his hands on her waist, the skin of his lips cold and then suddenly hot. They undressed and fucked against the wall, but in the moment before he came, when he looked at her, she realized she’d been wrong. Everyone in that room had been afraid.

  She took his hand and led him to the bed. She lay next to him and moved her fingertips over his skin. The room was hot, both of them sweating. She explored the lines of his muscles, pausing at small scars not unlike those on Sam’s body. She’d have spent a hundred years with him, exploring the coast — two hunter-gatherers discovering their place in the world. As a child, she wanted to kill the squirrel, to see it thrashing underwater like a fish. In dreams, she stood in the crescent of shadow beneath the hull as he climbed the rusted edge against the sky.

  Clay jerked and opened his eyes, and when he saw her, he flinched.

  What is it between you and Justin? she asked.

  That’s not easy to explain.

  Tell me.

  He described his family and fleeing his father. In Lake Charles, he wanted to make space for himself. His first year there he’d been in control and entered the community with dignity, not fully on his terms — no one did anything fully on his own terms — but close enough. When he returned, he was raging, unable to restrain himself, seeing in those around him the negation of all that had created him.

  She hadn’t expected his rush of words. She kept moving her fingers over his muscles as he told her about the game with the air rifles and Christmas ornaments. He’d intended to humiliate Justin, but once they were in the forest, he realized how petty that would look. He was trapped in his own game. The ending had to be dramatic and final, and now, years later, he hated Justin no less.

  And why Idris? Why me? she asked.

  Idris deserves more. He’s a smart kid, and there’s nothing for him in that school. Why does he need to be a servant because he’s poor?

  And me?

  Isn’t that fucking obvious?

  He switched off the lamp and set his arm at his side with a deliberate movement, like a man putting down a weapon, and his breathing was instantly deep. She’d thought she’d be satisfied and would be able to sleep, but the tension from the safe room hadn’t left her body.

  The sky began to lighten. The room was cooling, and she got up and fed the bukhari. When she lay back down, his eyes were open, his face gentle with fatigue, its angles softened.

  IDRIS

  Idris lay in Faisal’s bed, facing the electric heater. He didn’t want to fall asleep, to lose consciousness of its warmth on his skin, but he couldn’t resist his fatigue. It seemed only seconds later that someone was tapping at the door. He dressed and went out to the Land Cruiser and sat next to Rashidi. The driver and a guard in front had Kalashnikovs.

  They sped through empty roundabouts and intersections, and soon were on the Kabul–Jalalabad road. The highway descended along the canyon above the river, passing through small Soviet tunnels.

  By the time the landscape opened and the road straightened and leveled, the sun was up. A line of Pakistani jingle trucks painted in green, blue, and red passed in the opposite direction. The driver circumvented the outskirts of Jalalabad, and continued into the arid mountains before veering onto a dirt road. An hour later, they stopped in a village, near the mosque.

  Bearded men came to the doorways of houses. They showed no guns, but their postures suggested readiness. A compound gate opened, and a tall guard motioned for them to leave their vehicle and come inside.

  Let’s get out, Rashidi told Idris — just the two of us.

  They pushed their doors open. The air was warm, and a generator thrummed somewhere inside the compound.

  The guard led them through the gate, past a Toyota pickup and a Corolla, to a doorway where two men sat cross-legged on cushions near a tarnished samovar. They were dressed similarly, in white shalwar kameez, brown vests, and black turbans. One was squat, with jowls that made his beard seem unusually wide, though his hands were small and pale. He introduced himself as Mullah Akhund. The other, Noorudin, an envoy from Peshawar, was tall and elegant, prayer beads in his fingers, his skin gleaming, as if rubbed with oil, and his mustache neatly trimmed above his full lips. Idris understood immediately that he was the Taliban representative.

  They sat around the samovar. It rested on a square of rubber neatly cut from an inner tube, and an electric cord ran into its top to boil the water. The guard carefully removed the cord, its two strands bent apart at the end to keep their exposed copper from touching. He unplugged it from a power strip loaded up with cell chargers, put it aside, and poured them tea. He went out, and a moment later the generator sputtered and was silent.

  The mullah said that he hoped their journ
ey had been good. Then he spoke about life in the village, the challenges of winter, the lack of jobs, and the government benefits that were promised but never arrived. He talked about the young men, and Idris realized he meant the kidnappers who had taken Tarzi.

  These young men, he said, they got permission from me to do this work. We needed to repair the mosque, after it was damaged by fighting. Tarzi is comfortable among us. He can’t be here today because we have to trust you first.

  Idris sensed that Mullah Akhund was coming to the point of contention and tried to anticipate how the demands would be justified.

  The mullah turned to the Talib. Our friend here lost one of his brothers in a drone strike. When one of the believers dies in the war, we must ask what those of you who benefit from America can do for us. Do you understand?

  How much do you want? Rashidi asked.

  Noorudin remained silent, his expression reposed and dignified.

  It’s for the jihad, Mullah Akhund said. For you, half a million dollars is nothing.

  That’s not true. It’s more than I have.

  Idris sensed Rashidi looking over and felt strange to have a powerful man needing him.

  May I ask a question? Idris said.

  Of course. The mullah nodded, and Noorudin’s gaze shifted now, quizzical, curious to see what a beardless youth had to say.

  If the purpose of this money, Idris told him, is to continue the fight against the infidels, then it would be simpler to strike the heart of the foreign occupation.

  Rashidi gestured to Idris. This is a very resourceful young man, very intelligent. He’s an orphan and from a poor family, but he has studied the foreigners for years.

  Idris had never received such attention from elders before. Fortunately, the mullah and Noorudin’s shared ideology would force them to accept his plan. The code of honor — of blood for blood — would compel them, and if foreigners died, the mullah and Noorudin would get cash rewards from the Taliban leadership.

  What if I can get revenge? Foreigners in exchange for Tarzi’s release?

  The mullah glanced at Noorudin, who took a moment to consider Idris.

  Why should we believe you? Noorudin asked.

  We’re all Afghan. We’re tired of the occupiers. They come. They sleep with our girls. They drink alcohol. They consume drugs. And they become rich from our suffering. So I will give you a group of barely defended foreigners.

  How many?

  It will depend on the occasion. How many do you want?

  At least three. We have lost so many to their drones while they live in wealth.

  Three is easy. I’ll try to get more.

  I have men in Kabul who are ready to give their lives, Noorudin told him. They can detonate doors, but too many armed guards would be a problem.

  This is the secret about foreigners, Idris said. Many of them have no protection. There’s often just a gate and one man with a gun.

  Noorudin stroked his beard. Can we trust these men? he asked the mullah.

  Rashidi cleared his throat. Of course you can. I will lose my son if we fail.

  This is true, the mullah admitted. And if anything goes wrong or the NDS comes for us, I’ll tell them you hired our young men to do the kidnapping and we have been protecting Tarzi. They’ll see that we’ve treated him with respect and didn’t kill him as you asked. And we didn’t send him back because we feared for the safety of such a devout man.

  In the Land Cruiser, after bidding farewell, Rashidi and Idris didn’t speak until they reached the asphalt of the Kabul–Jalalabad road.

  Their lies are distasteful, Rashidi said. Who believes they fight for more than money?

  Idris agreed but felt there was no sense in voicing obvious hypocrisies. Idris had no love for the Taliban, but everyone knew the Americans had empowered certain tribes who abused others and made the poor so desperate they had no choice but to side with the extremists.

  Idris was aware that he needed to find foreigners fast enough to make Clay believe Tarzi was being released in exchange for money and not lives. He had to stay focused. He had to anticipate every plan Rashidi, Noorudin, and Clay could fabricate.

  After leaving Rashidi, Idris returned to the empty lot near the school and changed his SIM card. He called Clay.

  They won’t let Tarzi go for less than seven hundred thousand, he said. Rashidi does not have as much as I thought. He has only two hundred thousand now and is trying to get more.

  Seven hundred, huh? Clay said. The mullah’s a greenhorn. We can get more than that from Tarzi’s family. Rich Afghans are loaded.

  Idris hadn’t foreseen this. He should have named a higher amount. Clay would ask Tarzi’s family for more and keep the difference. The profitability of his business was suddenly clear. Greenhorn — Idris didn’t know the word but sensed its meaning. Regardless, he would make half a million, if his plan succeeded. Not all that bad for a greenhorn.

  Meet me tonight, Clay said. I’ll get the money and give it to you, but we have to trust you. This is a lot of cash. You could run.

  I won’t.

  You say that, but Faisal is nothing to you, and we can’t turn you in because we’re all guilty. So I need to tell you that the person I work for is dangerous. If you run, he will make sure you are killed.

  I believe you.

  We will pay you better than promised. Twenty-five thousand. You’ll walk away able to start your own business or get an education or whatever you want.

  Thank you, Mr. Clay.

  Clay.

  Thank you, Clay.

  Clay gave him the instructions for meeting and said goodbye.

  Idris had to get the timing right and decide whose lives he would choose. He couldn’t be sentimental. Foreigners were his capital. Reaching the world he desired would require sacrificing those who inhabited it. Frank often brought expats to fawn over the girls, but though Idris would rather the victims be people he didn’t know, he had to act quickly.

  Idris took a battered taxi to Afghan Fried Chicken, went inside, texted Clay, and ate while he waited. When he received a reply, he walked around the block and, a few minutes later, a car stopped. Clay told him to get in the back. They drove a bit and pulled over far from any doorways or gates where security cameras would likely be installed.

  There’s a backpack on the floor. Take a taxi straight to Rashidi, give the backpack to him, and tell him his son will be released as soon as Tarzi is home.

  The bag holding the bundled cash was lighter than Idris had expected.

  And listen, Clay added, Justin called me. He saw my number in your phone and knows you’re working for me. So be careful from now on. Once you’ve dropped off the money, go to the school and act normal. I got Frank’s permission to hire you, and Justin doesn’t have much say. I’ll be seeing him tonight at a party a friend is having. You can drive him in two hours. As far as he’s concerned, you’re running errands for me, translating, doing odd jobs. Got it?

  Yes, Idris told him, barely hearing the words. This would be easy, but he wanted to target a party where Clay and Justin wouldn’t be. He just had to wait. In Kabul, there was a party of foreigners somewhere almost every evening. Frank talked daily about this or that gathering.

  Idris got out and went to the cross street. Clay had circled the block and watched Idris on the main road as he hailed a taxi with tassels along the top of the split windshield.

  Idris asked to be let out near Rashidi’s house. He knocked and went inside. Surely, Clay and whoever he worked with had the house under surveillance and Idris would need to be seen paying a visit. But Rashidi wasn’t home. Had he been, Idris would have simply told him that the plan was ready. He left and caught another taxi to the school.

  Though Idris wanted to lock the backpack in the pantry, Justin heard him come in and called down. Idris took off his stocking cap and went upst
airs. He explained to Justin that he’d been mugged and had gotten sick.

  Justin’s hands were in his kameez pockets, his shoulders back with authority.

  There’s a party tonight, he said. I need you to take me. I’m going to see Clay.

  Idris tried to focus, but the weight of his decision made it difficult.

  What kind of work are you doing for Clay? Justin asked. He was suddenly breathing hard, opening and closing his hands. One of his eyes focused in, glaring, the other abstracted, a prisoner in the contracting muscles.

  As Idris began to speak, Justin grabbed his collar and swung him against the wall. The strength, the intensity of the torque seemed impossible coming from another person. The backpack slid across the floor, and Idris’s teeth clacked together. Green circles flashed before him. The back of his head stung. He doubled over, trying to get air into his lungs, but his arms hung loose as if broken. He couldn’t feel his hands. He didn’t let himself check on the backpack. He didn’t want to betray that he cared about it more than his pain.

  Just errands. He could barely speak.

  Did Clay start this?

  I did. I asked if he had work.

  Justin’s fingers dug into the muscles of his jaw, pinching the insides of his cheeks against his teeth. Idris tasted warm, metallic blood. Justin’s glass eye seemed empty, refusing to witness this humiliation.

  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. He was panting. He drew his hand soothingly over his own face.

  Idris tried to straighten his jacket and tuck his shirt in. Sensation was coming back to his hands, but his fingers would not obey him.

  I will drive you to the party, he said. I am sorry. I did not realize this situation would bother you.

  The back of his skull hurt, and a headache was beginning. He was suddenly sure of himself, like the first time he really gave himself to prayer, before his doubt that the divine could create a world of such violence had stripped him of that comfort. Maybe some things were truly God’s will and he shouldn’t question his own victory.

 

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