The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  WHEN HE WOKE up three hours later, the afternoon sun had begun to recede. He looked at the dun-coloured woollen shawl overhead and savoured the relaxed state of his rested body. Then he glanced beside him; she was not there. He sat up and immediately reached for the pistol that lay undisturbed by his side. Crouching low, he crawled out of the makeshift tent.

  She was in the same spot she’d been in before he fell asleep, though she was now sitting cross-legged on the ground. He wondered why she had left the enclosure. For some reason, her independence irked him. As he walked toward her, his footsteps made a sound. She turned around and gave him a nervous smile. Adeel looked past her and saw what she had done. The mound of earth covering the statue had been removed, and a border of leaves now circled the hole. She had used her bare hands. He sank on the ground beside her and together they looked at the sculpture. The feeling that he’d had in the cave in Bamiyan resurfaced. Somehow, the ancient marble transformed itself into a living entity, one that pulled him into a new consciousness. For Adeel, the face of the statue represented a perfect universe.

  Norbu cast him sideways glances as he continued to stare.

  “I am resting with him,” he explained, pointing to the face. “I could do this all day long. It is the only thing that makes me feel normal.”

  “My grandmother told me stories of a different life,” Norbu replied. “Perhaps you are looking for that life as well.” She opened her palm and let a few wildflowers drop onto the sculpture.

  Adeel watched the little pink flowers settle on the forehead of the Buddha. A caterpillar poked his head up from the petals and crawled to the head. Adeel moved to swat it away, but Norbu was faster than him. She cupped her palm protectively around the insect.

  “You must not kill it,” she said solemnly.

  “I was just going to flick it away,” Adeel protested.

  She did not move her hand, and he knew that she did not trust him. He was overwhelmed by her gesture and desperately wanted to change her impression of him. This slight, resolute woman had somehow entered places in his heart that he did not even know existed. He thought of his mother and what her response would be to a woman whose name was Tibetan and not Muslim. When he rolled her name over in his mind, he envisioned caves and cascading mountain waterfalls.

  Adeel told her then that he would have to remain in this area for a few days, but that he would put her on a bus bound for Skardu so she could go home to her father. He spoke in clipped sentences, stifling all that he felt.

  “I do not wish to return to him.” She released the caterpillar onto the grass beside him.

  “I cannot take care of a woman. I have to take you down to the place where the bus stops. I will give you money for food,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

  “I do not know your name,” was all she said.

  ELEVEN

  KHALID STUDIED THE PIECE of paper Faisal had extended to him. The instructions were precise. His attendance was not requested but demanded, and couched in a very clear threat. Faisal had tried calling Reza in his Tehran office as well as at the country villa in Shiraz, but had been unable to make contact. The rendezvous had been organized not by Reza himself but by a diplomat from the Iranian Embassy in Islamabad. It appeared that the partial payment had not satisfied Reza; in his greed and impatience, he had pointed a gun at Khalid’s head all the way from Tehran.

  Khalid headed to the large pavilion that housed his Kashmir collection. Although he generally preferred not to mix his antiquities, he had made a notable exception years ago. Two enamel brooches from the early sixteenth-century Safavid period sat on a piece of black velvet flanked by two silver-embossed Kashmiri waterglasses. The brooches represented the earliest display of enamel craftsmanship in Iran and were fashioned as large, shimmering, turquoise and indigo butterflies. Khalid carefully lifted the brooches, placed them in a black velvet box, and handed it to Faisal to wrap in a square of silk organza. An hour later, after changing into a formal suit, he walked outside to the car with the box tucked under his arm, remembering his father’s advice: never get attached to a work of art.

  The rendezvous destination was the playground of the Rawal Lake park. The lake, situated a few miles from town, offered boating and picnic spots for families. Faisal took the Murree Road exit and stopped the car near a fleet of taxis waiting on one side of the road. Visiting diplomats were constantly under observation, and Khalid did not want his licence plate number in anyone’s file. He grabbed a cab and gave the driver the directions, barking out rapid instructions to the park. Khalid’s supressed fury at Reza’s muscle-flexing was heightened by the odour of the unwashed body of the driver. He attempted to ignore it, and focused instead of the task at hand. The rendezvous had to be as covert as possible. When the taxi reached the park, Khalid got out and immediately bought two balloons mounted on sticks and a paper cone of fried chickpeas. He could have passed for a father indulging his children. The cloth-wrapped package tucked under one arm might have been a box of sweets.

  Khalid handed the balloons to the first child he saw, then skirted the children’s recreation area and headed to the edge of the water. He stood on the concrete embankment staring at the lake, which had been created by a nearby dam. A few hardy souls had ventured out onto the water, rowing little boats that were not equipped with life jackets. He glanced at his wristwatch and, suddenly, a hand brushed his shoulder.

  “You are Reza’s wizard?” said the small, impeccably dressed man who stepped in front of him.

  “Is that what he calls me?” Khalid raised his eyebrows.

  “We shall go for a boat ride, Mr. Khalid. I hope you are not afraid of the water?”

  Khalid studied the ambassador for a moment before turning his attention to the man who had accompanied him — obviously part of the ambassador’s security detail. He wore well-pressed trousers with a light windbreaker; there was a slight bulge in one pocket.

  “Hameed will be our oarsman,” the ambassador said before heading down toward the water.

  Khalid followed, amused by his host’s playfulness. The security man walked down the line of boats, chose one, and handed a generous sum of money to the owner. He helped the ambassador in first and then assisted Khalid’s rather precarious entry. Once the two men were settled on the plank seat, the bodyguard sat himself in the middle and began expertly rowing away from the shore.

  The ambassador drew a cigar from his suit pocket and fussed for a few minutes before clipping and lighting it.

  “El Presidente! Mr. Castro’s cigars are wonderful, don’t you think?” The man’s eyes glinted behind his spectacles.

  “I’ve never been to Cuba,” Khalid replied.

  “So, Khalid, can you tell me why my good friend Reza Mohsinzadegh is disturbing my peace?” he finally asked.

  “All agreements with him have been honoured by me. He is an impatient man,” replied Khalid.

  “What business are you in, Mr. Khalid?”

  “A little bit of import and export,” he replied.

  “Yes, but it appears in this case that you have imported and not exported,” the ambassador said pointedly.

  “Come now, Ambassador. You know how government presents obstacles one does not expect.”

  “Yes, yes. But this artifact is worth a lot of money. Reza is most upset. How can we change his mood?”

  Khalid knew the joust was about to begin. Many foreign diplomats did not shy away from privileges; they considered them to be the perks of their “hardship postings.” If this tidy man enjoyed the delights of a Cuban cigar, then his response to the contents of Khalid’s black box was assured.

  “Ambassador, you are the expert at changing moods. It is what you are trained to do. Let me change your mood first, sir, then perhaps you will convince Reza to change his.”

  Khalid held out the box. The ambassador shifted his cigar to his left hand and reached forward with his rig
ht.

  “Let me hold your cigar for you, Your Excellency. I think you will need both hands.” Khalid reached forward and plucked the cigar from his fingers.

  The ambassador offered an approving smile as he peeled off the organza covering the box, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth in anticipation. When he lifted the lid he drew in his breath sharply. He lifted one brooch, then replaced it immediately. He pulled off his glasses, rubbed them with a handkerchief, put them back on, and lifted the brooch again.

  “Qajar dynasty.” He hunched over the brooch. “Magnificent! Beauty of the sort numbs the brain. Two! My God, you have two of them!”

  “They are from Safavid dynasty,” corrected Khalid.

  “Safavid!” the ambassador repeated.

  “Yes, they have been authenticated,” Khalid said, smiling at him.

  There was silence. The only sound was of the oars dipping in and out of the water. The boat glided across the lake’s surface in a lazy arc. Khalid waited, observing the excitement of the ambassador, who turned the brooches over one at a time, examining them up close as well as at a distance. Khalid hoped his costly gamble, and the ambassador’s greed, would halt Reza’s assault.

  “Khalid, you did not present me with a gift, you’ve given me a fragment of Persian history. These brooches belong in a museum, but my wife will show them off to better advantage.” He grinned.

  “But, of course, Ambassador. Our women should always be adorned in the finest jewellery.”

  “I must return. I have a reception to attend. Our dear friend Reza will not be difficult. I give you my word,” he said as he patted Khalid’s shoulder.

  “There is an election coming up. I know the entire cabinet will change. Perhaps there will be a new admiral,” Khalid said, hoping the ambassador would pick on his meaning.

  “I see.”

  “The outgoing government will not leave a scandal behind.” Khalid drove the point home.

  “We are private citizens at this moment, Khalid. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “You know better than that, Ambassador. Your vehicle will have been followed.”

  “What about yours?”

  “I travel by taxi,” Khalid replied.

  Upon returning to shore, Khalid waited a few minutes for the ambassador and his security man to leave the park before he headed for the taxi stand. Walking slowly, he purchased tea from an outdoor stall. He took his time drinking it before finally hailing a taxi to take him back to his own car. He was certain that he would be invited to some gratuitous function at the Iranian Embassy in the days to come. Personal telephone numbers had been exchanged. Khalid reassured himself that the loss of the brooches would be made up for at some later date.

  Faisal was waiting in the car.

  “There is some bad news,” Faisal announced as Khalid slid into the passenger seat.

  “Then don’t give it to me,” Khalid said, looking straight ahead.

  Faisal remained silent.

  “I want to do some shopping. Drive to United Bakery. I want to buy some lemon tarts for my grandchildren and the almond cake that Safia loves,” said Khalid.

  The bakery was an airy emporium of glass display cases. Well-heeled Pakistanis shopped there because the baked goods resembled the kind they’d eaten on their trips abroad. Khalid pictured the faces of his grandchildren as he examined the cream-filled concoctions and made his selections. He bought almond cake for Safia and blocks of imported cheese for Hassan. He collected all the items and reflected on the simple pleasure this small exercise provided.

  “We will go home and have a wonderful tea with Safia. You may as well give me the bad news now, Faisal. I don’t want to carry it home.”

  “There was a call from Sher Khan. The brown truck exploded at the side of the road,” Faisal blurted.

  Khalid plucked his phone from Faisal’s breast pocket and dialed Sher Khan’s number three times in rapid succession, hanging up after only a few rings. It took Sher Khan five minutes to return the call.

  “Khalid! My people have reported that the truck exploded,” said Sher Khan.

  “Was a body found?”

  “I cannot tell you that. The area has been sealed off by the army.”

  “I told you I wanted him alive. You were asked just to find him,” Khalid said furiously.

  “My people fight many battles, Khalid. Your agent Adeel offered to help them.”

  “I want details. I want you to find out what happened to the sculpture,” he shouted before hanging up.

  “What is the isi man’s number?” he asked Faisal.

  “It is under B,” Faisal replied.

  Khalid scrolled down the phone list and punched the number he wished to call.

  “Khalid, we have a problem,” said the brigadier. “Did you get my message?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask anyone in Peshawar to help you?”

  “No,” Khalid lied.

  “This is a classic Taliban strike. Fortunately, no one was killed. The truck was far away from the army checkpoint, which was the target.”

  “How do you know it was my truck?”

  “We already knew that it had been painted over in Peshawar. There were no body parts or any trace of a human being in the truck. No sculpture either. I can assure you.”

  “I will lose a great deal of money on this, Brigadier. Adeel must be found. “

  “Please don’t use names on the phone, Khalid,” the brigadier said sharply. “I have army connections in the region. When I have news I will call you.”

  As the car approached the house, Khalid jumped out and banged on the gate in anger. He stumbled through the opening, ignoring the startled expression on the guard’s face, and walked rapidly along the path that led to his outdoor sculpture gallery. There, he paced up and down, trying to analyze the situation. Adeel had betrayed him. Sher Khan had sent his Taliban squad to look for him and they had blown up the truck. The brigadier was conducting his own private search. And although he had managed to stall Reza’s payment, having a greedy ambassador on board might be a problem for him down the road. And of course there was Hassan to deal with. Khalid headed to the sanctuary of his Allah museum.

  Khalid sat on the prayer rug in front of his miniature Ka’ba. This time, he came as a penitent and not a hope-filled supplicant. Day by day the country was savaged by lawlessness. Foreign investors and tourists gave Pakistan a wide berth. In the pristine white buildings of the nation’s capital, the government was desensitized to the prevailing chaos, so much so that it had become totally disconnected from the 197 million people it ruled. Khalid realized that he was guilty of an error in judgement. Sher Khan was no longer only a carpet dealer and restaurant owner; he was a Taliban operative. He commanded men and loyalties and was singularly aware that Khalid was an extremely wealthy man. Khalid should not have trusted him. He should have gone to Bamiyan himself to retrieve the sculpture. Five years ago he would have considered such a trip an adventure, but he had grown soft with age. Now Khalid feared that his dream of creating the world’s finest collection of Islamic art — right at his estate — would never materialize.

  Khalid sensed a shadow behind him. He cupped his hands and uttered a simple prayer for strength.

  “Father,” came the tentative whisper.

  Khalid turned around and saw Hassan, standing barefoot.

  “What is it now?”

  “Faisal says you are having some trouble. I want to help,” Hassan replied.

  Khalid rose, cupped his palms again, and murmured a prayer for clarity. For the briefest moment imaginable, he felt as though he had detected something different in his son. Although his experiences with Hassan were laced with heartache, he never stopped longing to repair their relationship.

  “How brave are you, Hassan?” Khalid asked.

 
“As brave as you want me to be.”

  “There is a man hiding somewhere in Gilgit who has to be found.”

  “Let me help you, Father.”

  They walked from the museum in silence. Their destination was not to the elaborate tea Safia had prepared but to the room that Khalid used as an office. He sat behind a large antique table flanked by filing cabinets and narrated the entire situation to Hassan, whose face remained still. Khalid watched his son absorb the information without flinching or asking questions.

  “Why is it, Father, that with all your wealth you cannot trust anyone?” Hassan finally said.

  “When one decides to break rules, Hassan, one has to walk alone. This is a dream that will support another six generations of this family.”

  “I am going to help you. I don’t want you to suffer,” said Hassan.

  “And are you going to get kidnapped along the way?” Khalid muttered.

  “I want to restore your trust in me,” Hassan said.

  “Where is the expensive camera I brought you last year?”

  “Somewhere in my room,” Hassan replied.

  “This is what I want you to do. Go to Gilgit. If anyone asks, you are a college student interested in photographing the region for a project.”

  “All right,” agreed Hassan.

  “That way, you can go anywhere and talk to anyone. Travel until you find the person I am looking for,” said Khalid. “I am going to give you a new phone and you will call me on it daily.”

  As he spoke, Khalid noticed that Hassan’s habitual indifference to his business had suddenly disappeared. He sat on the edge of his chair, alert and focused. His eyes glowed with excitement.

  “What happened to all the gym equipment I imported for you from Dubai?” asked Khalid.