by Gwen Florio
He looked past the Frisbee-tossing dullards and thought of young men wielding weapons instead of plastic discs, fighting for their freedom instead of scheming new ways to avoid class. Of female students whose very presence on campus marked an unimaginable courage. Of scorching winds that blew change. And he would be part of that change. Finally, a reward for all those years persisting when others retrained their focus to China, the Middle East, areas more reliably in the news and thus apparently deemed worthier of research grants. He’d continued to publish papers in increasingly obscure journals, had polished his rusting Urdu in the privacy of his office, seeking out bewildered exchange students for practice.
Now his deep knowledge, so rare among Westerners, would pay off, allowing him to slide into the roiling ferment of Afghan society with nary a splash, winning him the sort of respect that would demand at least a hearing, if not immediate acquiescence for Face the Future’s mission. He’d balked at first—the plight of women had been nearly hopeless before the Taliban and would likely improve only incrementally after they were routed. Then Clayton Williams had explained there was more.
He closed the window and turned off the computer.
It was time to tell Liv.
* * *
The doorbell summoned Liv from the kitchen.
Not again. Apparently her chilly reception a few months earlier had done nothing to discourage Mandy. Although it might be another one. The students had just taken their midterms. The nervous ones would get progressively twitchier as the semester unspooled. Inappropriate behavior abounded.
“Wait.” Martin brushed past her. “I’ll get it.”
He returned with neither gossiping neighbor nor importuning student. Liv remembered him, a little, from the dinner. His name, Clayton Williams, entered her brain and left again. The Gray Man, that’s what stuck. She didn’t remember Martin speaking with him that night. But Clayton Williams seemed to know her husband entirely too well. Within a few minutes Liv understood why.
She sat, staring. Martin pushed a scotch into her hand. She didn’t like scotch. “You’re going where? For how long?”
The ice clattered in her glass. Liv braced her wrist against the arm of the chair to stop her hand from shaking.
“It’s a two-year appointment. Minimum. We’ll need that long to get things up and running. After that, we can decide whether we want to stay on.”
Liv tipped the glass against her lips and let the whiskey burn down her throat. “We?”
In the silence, the Gray Man watched.
“A moment, please.” Liv ushered him into the den and waited until the door closed behind him.
“Martin.” Her voice caught. He stood at her grandmother’s heavy oak sideboard. It was too large for the living room, but it had been a wedding gift from her parents. Indeed, their wedding photo sat atop it, two tall, smiling strangers within an ornate silver frame. Martin’s hair was untidy then just as it was now, his tie askew, his shirt working its way free of the cummerbund. As always, he drew attention away from Liv, with her high-necked dress, her careful makeup, her waist-length hair lacquered into smooth golden loops atop her head.
Liv tilted her glass and watched the ice settle into a new configuration. “This organization? It’s connected to the government?”
“You heard the man. It’s an NGO. Nongovernmental organization.” Not exactly a denial. “Liv,” he pleaded. “I can’t pass up an opportunity like this. It won’t happen again. You know that.”
What about my job? She took a swallow of scotch, tightening her throat lest the words escape. A futile effort.
“But that’s the good part! You’ll be able to work with me. If anything, your skills will be more valuable than mine. We’ll need to collect as much information as we can about the place.”
Their eyes met. Liv saw something shaded in his. “Information? For whom?”
“It’s not like that. It’s an organization for women’s rights.”
“Then why that confidentiality clause? Nonprofits keep their books open. It’s a requirement.” Another quick swallow of scotch warmed rather than seared.
“This benefits you, too. You’ll finally get the recognition you’ve always deserved. Your name as a coauthor. Well, at least in the credits.”
Another nonanswer. But: coauthor. Something swelled within Liv. She touched her fingertips to her temples. “And if I stay?” Pushing the question past the constriction in her throat.
“Liv.” Not a plea this time.
She thought of Mandy, bold enough to show up at the house. What else had she dared? She wondered about the kinds of young women who might work for NGOs. Resourceful. Adventurous. Heedless of convention. Two years at least, Martin had said.
She forced herself to recall the man’s name. These things would be important now. “Call Mr. Williams back in.” She waited for him to settle himself in the wingback chair, another legacy from her grandmother. He nestled birdlike within its sheltering contours, watching her with unblinking eyes.
“I understand there would be a role for me?” she asked.
“Quite right. And not just your research abilities, which, as your husband has led me to understand, are considerable. For a job in this region, a married man is essential, but a married couple would be far more acceptable. Your husband wouldn’t be allowed in a private home, but you’d be able to talk to women directly. The combination of your work and that of your husband—you two make good partners. As I told your husband earlier, it’s rare to find a couple so evenly matched in their skills, and with a strong marriage besides. Isn’t that right”—he paused, looking at Martin—“History Guy?”
Martin choked on his scotch, a fit of coughing so prolonged that Liv rose, hand lifted to pound on his back. But he waved Liv away and spoke quickly. “We’re both so excited about this opportunity. I’ve wanted to go back for so long now.”
“And I’ve never been.” Liv tried to tamp down a growing sense of panic. She splashed more whiskey into everyone’s glasses. “I’ve heard so much about it from Martin. Would we be based in Islamabad? Are the refugee camps close by?”
The two men took an interest in their drinks.
“We’ll do our orientation in Islamabad,” Martin said.
Liv started. She looked to the other man.
“Oh, no,” she said. “No.”
“Oh, yes. Our organization benefits Afghan women. We’ve had to work out of Pakistan for years. But now, although we’ll keep a small satellite office in Islamabad, we’ll move our headquarters to Kabul.”
“How? The Taliban shut the whole country down even tighter after 9/11.”
The Gray Man bestowed a smile upon Liv so wholly unexpected that she started, spilling some of her scotch. He spoke to Martin. “You see? The fact that she knows that—it’s exactly the sort of detail-oriented approach we’re looking for.” He turned back to Liv. “We don’t expect the Taliban to stay in power much longer. As soon as they’ve been defeated, we’ll begin the move. The office should be ready for you in just a few months. We’ll have plenty of time for orientation. It’s ideal. And once you’re there, it will be quite safe. As in Islamabad, our compound in Kabul will be guarded.”
“Kabul.” Along with everyone else in the library, Liv had been called upon to do her share of research about the place since the attacks. She thought of tanks, turbaned soldiers. Makeshift bombs, mountain hideouts. Women in burqas. Stonings, beheadings.
Compound, he’d said. Guarded. Liv’s chest tightened. “Will we be on our own? Or will there be others with us? Other Americans?” Her head ached from the scotch. She remembered why she didn’t like it.
“There’s a small contingent of Americans who’ve been there throughout. One can reasonably expect their numbers to grow exponentially now.” He attempted a laugh. “But, no, in Kabul your staff will be all local. The more bridges we build with the Afghan people, the better. In fact, we discourage contact with the other NGOs, beyond what is absolutely necessary for infor
mation sharing. That sort of independence will build credibility with the Afghans. To an extent, you’ll be largely on your own.” He ignored Martin and spoke directly to Liv in creamy, irresistible phrases. “We feel quite lucky to have happened upon someone with your husband’s expertise, and your own, of course, and with such a strong personal foundation as well.”
Liv tried to remember the last time she’d seen Martin looking so purposeful, expectant. Kabul. “Cobble, yes?” She pronounced it as they had.
“Yes,” Martin breathed.
“Kabool sounds so much more exotic,” she said pointlessly. It was time for an answer.
Partners, the Gray Man had said.
“I suppose,” she said, “if I’m going to live there, I’d better make sure to say it right.”
Eleven
AFGHANISTAN, 1993
“You must not speak of that time,” Gul had told Farida about his family’s earlier move to Kabul.
Wishing he could banish memory as easily as speech, could erase the events launched by his father’s momentous announcement eight years earlier, amid the civil war that began in Jalalabad after the Russians finally fled Afghanistan. The Taliban, with the weaponry they’d acquired from both the Soviets and Americans, and egged on by the Pakistani mujahideen seeking to topple the government, had turned the eastern Afghanistan city into a war zone, which devastated civilian life—and Nur Muhammed’s business.
Opportunity beckoned in the capital, where the government finally had collapsed under a prolonged assault by briefly united factions, his father said. Or so Gul surmised. He’d been drowsing after dinner, lying against his father, the rumble of Nur Muhammed’s voice soothing him toward full sleep. He heard the word “Kabul.” Nur Muhammed had just returned from yet another visit to the capital, so frequent that Maryam often griped that he spent more time there than at home.
A long pause followed. Moments later, Gul’s cushion vanished as Nur Muhammed leapt to his feet. Gul’s head bounced hard against the carpet. A teacup hit the wall behind them.
“No!” Maryam screamed.
Gul had never heard his mother refuse his father anything. The oil lamp on the floor sputtered. Maryam’s face moved in and out of shadow. Gul couldn’t tell if she was more frightened by what his father had said, or by her own defiant reply.
Nur Muhammed, surprising his son as much as his wife, turned his back and left the room, his restraint more unsettling than a blow. He paused in the doorway and spoke with finality over his shoulder. “My business is there now. There is no reason to remain in Jalalabad.”
Maryam sank to the floor. Gul crept across the carpet. She raised her face and he saw the fear in it, fear of the unknown in the outside world. Her plump cheeks were wet. “Kabul,” she whispered, and tightened her grip on her son. Gul held his breath. In his whole life, he had never traveled beyond the outskirts of Jalalabad.
* * *
Nur Muhammed hired two cars to shuttle his family from Jalalabad to Kabul.
Gul had just turned fourteen, and his father now spoke to him of manly concerns—the significance of appearances and of actions to back up those appearances. Yes, he told Gul, the cost of the cars was high. But it was important that their new neighbors know them as people of worth, not the common refugees who had been arriving in the city by truckload for years.
Maryam, sitting in the second car with the children, her burqa wrapped tightly around her ample form, saw little of her surroundings. But Gul pressed his face to the window, jostling for position with Bibi, eager for the occasional lull in traffic, when the great clouds of dust briefly parted, revealing war’s detritus: burnt-out cars, skeletal tanks already cannibalized of their metal plates, and the occasional rocket crater in the dirt track that had once been the main highway from Kabul east through Jalalabad across the Khyber Pass and into Pakistan. Even with the windows cranked so tightly shut that the car’s occupants broiled, a fine layer of dust soon coated its interior. It settled on Gul’s face, forming muddy tracks in the sweat that trickled into his eyes and blurred his vision.
The car labored as it climbed out of the wide river plain that surrounded Jalalabad. The driver sped through the notoriously bandit-ridden Tang-i-Gharu gorge. Several times, the car careened perilously close to the edge of the road, and Gul averted his eyes from the sight of the Kabul River rushing in a shining silver fury over hungry rocks far below.
It was dusk when they finally entered the outskirts of Kabul. The lowering light revealed houses clinging to craggy slopes. The ride smoothed, the car coasting on pavement. Gul hazarded a turn of the window handle and was rewarded with a rush of cool, reviving air. Maryam sighed and held the burqa’s damp folds away from her. Bibi stirred in her sleep.
The car turned a corner and the mountains vanished behind the tallest buildings Gul had ever seen. A man sputtered past on a motorbike, swerving to avoid the car. He shouted something rude, his words lost in the noise. The car slowed almost to a halt in the bewildering maze of traffic. Maryam forgot that she needed relief from the heat and sank lower in the seat, barking at Gul to raise the window again. He pretended he didn’t hear her. The car crept past a long, low mosque with a broad, deserted plaza, then a stadium with bullet-scarred walls. They crossed a bridge over the wide riverbed, the water only a filthy trickle. Merchants, packing up their wares at the end of the day, thronged its banks.
The cars stopped. Nur Muhammed got out of the first car and approached with small, quick steps. His expression, usually so impassive, was oddly eager. He tapped on the window. Maryam turned her head away.
“This is Macroyan,” he said. “We will live here until I find a suitable house.”
Rows of stained concrete buildings, five, six stories high, rose before them. Gul let his head flop backward, trying to take in their height. Narrow windows slashed the rough gray walls. Clothing hung from them, fluttering in a smoky breeze. The air smelled of fried onions and coal dust. His eyes watered. He lowered his gaze and saw small balconies beneath the windows. Stovepipes protruded above the balcony walls. A line of women toting plastic containers waited at a well. Children ran among them, barefoot despite the increasing evening chill.
One glanced in Gul’s direction and saw the family and its two cars. All of the children, on a signal Gul somehow missed, drew close together and approached at a trot.
An older boy with bad skin shoved his way to the front of the group and reached for one of Maryam’s bundles. Nur Muhammed’s foot moved in a blur, and the boy lay on the hard earth, his friends jeering all around him. Nur Muhammed gestured for the drivers to pick up the bundles. With Nur Muhammed leading the way, they set off, Maryam shepherding Gul’s two little brothers before her, Gul bringing up the rear.
A blow stung the back of his head. Something else hit the ground near him. He turned and sidestepped fast. A stone narrowly missed his face.
The boy was on his feet again, another rock readied in his hand. He smiled, and it was not pleasant.
“Welcome to Macroyan,” he said.
* * *
Jalalabad was a horizontal city of sprawling warrens of mud or cinder-block homes. Only the wealthiest had two-story villas, their flat roofs barely visible behind high concrete walls. Or they lived like Gul’s family, in countryside compounds, collections of low buildings within fortresslike mud walls thirty feet thick and twenty high.
Homes in Kabul strained toward the sky. People lived stacked atop one another like chickens in the cages at the market. Nur Muhammed hurried them through the courtyard created by Macroyan’s surrounding towers and into one building so quickly that Gul barely had time to take it all in.
Nur Muhammed urged them faster past knots of feral youths. Garbage and chunks of concrete littered a dank stairwell, lit only by the fading evening light leaking through broken windows. People shoved past them, carrying water that slopped over its containers and spilled onto the steps, adding to the hazards underfoot. Maryam reached for a railing, but it had been torn away. She c
alled to Nur Muhammed to help her, but he was already a flight above them, brushing at his clothes as he climbed. Gul moved to his mother’s side, and she leaned on him, wheezing at the unaccustomed exertion.
Nur Muhammed stopped at the fourth floor, so abruptly that the younger children stumbled into him. He seemed barely to notice, preoccupied as he was with shaking the last of the road dust from his clothes and running his fingers through his beard, newly brightened with henna. He pulled a handful of candied anise seeds from the pouch beneath his tunic and chewed, sweetening breath made sour by the long journey. “This is good, yes? High enough for safety, low enough for an easy walk.”
Maryam labored up the last steps, hiking up her burqa so as not to trip. “Easy? We’ve climbed into the clouds. Where is this place?”
Nur Muhammed jutted his chin toward a door down the hallway. Despite his haste into the building, he lingered, still straightening his clothing and smoothing his hair. Maryam waited a few steps behind him. Safe within the empty hallway, she pushed the folds of her burqa away from her face. The wavering call to evening prayer sounded faintly above the din within the building.
“Take us in,” she said. “You’ll want to pray.”
Before they could reach the doorway, it was flung open. A girl stepped into the hallway, her face alight. She said something in Dari, and moved toward Nur Muhammed, smiling tilt-headed at him through lowered lashes. His features softened in a way that Gul had never seen. Gul thought his father looked foolish. Maryam stiffened beside him. She made a noise in her throat. Nur Muhammed remembered himself and shouted to all of them to get inside, that it was time for prayers and that he needed tea after the journey. Touching his head to a hastily unrolled prayer rug, Gul slid his gaze sideways toward the girl, who busied herself in an alcove. She was young, maybe a year or two older than Gul, slender, with the narrow face of a Tajik. She wore a brightly flowered velveteen dress over white pantaloons with cutwork hems. A white scarf inadequately covered her hair, which was pulled into a braid thick as his forearm. Gul muttered his prayers quickly, aware of his mother’s harsh breathing somewhere behind him. He had not finished praying when Nur Muhammed stood and addressed his wife.