Trey pushed through the onlookers. Rudy had her arms pinned. Michelle had a mouthful of her own sleeve and was trying to rip the fabric with her teeth. When Trey grabbed her shoulder she kicked him in the shin.
“Bastards! Beat up on me!”
They each took an arm and pushed her through the crowd.
Michelle was laughing now. “Fook these dirty people,” she said. “They have never seen teets before?”
Trey was hoping no one could make out the English behind her French accent. The crowd followed them, their eyes already hostile. When Michelle tried to wrench herself away, Trey dropped the new cassette player, which had been pinned under his arm. The people behind them hissed and muttered. Trey looked back and saw a man pick up a stone from the side of the road. Others carried rifles. A boy darted forward to grab at the neck of Michelle's shirt; Trey turned and kicked him hard in the knee, provoking many indignant shouts.
“Don't look back,” Rudy said.
Michelle was no longer resisting. Her face was pale.
In front of them a man emerged from behind one of the stalls. Trey raised his fist.
“Please follow me,” the man said. “This way.” He guided them through a narrow passage between two stalls. “Here,” he said, holding back the flap of a tent. “They will not come here,” he told them, closing the flaps. He then lit an oil lamp and beckoned them to sit.
The first thing Trey noticed about him was that his eyes were blue and the sharply hooked nose seemed to be placed a little too high on his face. He wore a pale-blue turban and had a long, wispy beard that he stroked with his left hand. And the ring finger on his other hand was missing, nubbed below the first joint.
“An accident,” the man said, catching his glance. He introduced himself, but Trey missed the name. He said he was of the Afridi tribe of Pathans, and that it was the code of his people to offer shelter and protection to strangers.
Trey was stroking Michelle's hand, watching her.
“She is your woman,” the man asked him.
Trey shrugged.
“I am nobody's woman,” Michelle said. “Nobody cares about me.” She was pale and her hands trembled.
“She is beautiful,” the Pathan said.
Trey put his arm around Michelle and began to knead the muscles in her neck, but stopped suddenly when he saw how the Pathan was looking at her. It was a look he had seen on the faces in the bazaar.
Rudy touched his arm. “We should be pushing on, chum.”
They thanked the man, who assured them that he was always at their service. He was a merchant, a broker of commodities, and if they should require anything, anything at all, during their stay in Landi Kotal …
To Trey he offered the advice that you did not display a jewel in the bazaar unless you intended to sell it. Then he looked again at Michelle.
They saw Rudy off a few hours later. The taxi stand at the edge of the bazaar had a fleet of fifties Chevys, which rattled off over the Khyber Pass once a sufficient number of passengers had presented themselves. A taxi was nearly ready to leave when they arrived. The driver had seven fares in the cab itself and intended to put four more in the trunk. Four of the passengers were Caucasian. A woman with matted blond hair and dirt in the creases of her face was leaning out the rear window, moaning, the man beside her holding her hair back behind her neck. While Rudy dickered with the driver, she vomited. “That's the way,” the man said, “that's the way.” Someone else was telling a story about a guy from Ohio who had his balls cut off when the border guards found a ball of hash taped underneath his scrotum. A Pathan with an automatic rifle over his shoulder was securing a canvas bag to the pile of luggage on the roof.
“Well, that's it,” Rudy said after he'd paid the driver. “I've got a seat on the observation deck.” He indicated the trunk, then turned to Michelle and opened his arms. “How about a kiss for the soldier going off to the wars?”
She allowed herself to be embraced, and kissed him on the cheek.
Rudy hugged Trey and said, “You take care of that lady. That's your only job.”
Trey nodded and tried to smile. He was suddenly very nervous. He felt there was something they were forgetting. They'd been planning this for weeks, but now he didn't like the idea of splitting up. The blond girl leaning out of the cab heaved again, and Trey felt his own stomach shrink in on itself. “You'll be back in a few days?” he said.
“A few days, maybe a week. Just as soon as I can.”
Rudy had done this before. He liked to buy direct from the tribes in Afghanistan because it was cheaper and the hash was better than anything that came into Landi Kotal. He had a third of the money in his boot heel. Trey was holding the rest. Rudy would catch a bus from the border to Kabul, hire a guide into the hills, arrange the buy and make a down payment. He would come back through customs clean, and they would wait for the Afghanis, who did not believe in borders, to bring the stuff over the mountains. That was their plan.
The taxi driver told Rudy they were ready to go, and he climbed into the trunk and settled himself next to three old men in pink turbans. A cloud of smoke engulfed the rear of the car as the driver gunned the engine. When he popped the clutch, the car lurched violently and died.
More than an hour later, the driver still hadn't managed to get the car running again. Trey and Michelle had waited with Rudy as the sun dropped through the cloudless sky toward the jagged ridge of mountains to the west. He could feel the dry rasp of high-altitude sunlight on his face even as he was slapping his arms and chest for warmth, and Michelle claimed she was freezing to death. Rudy said they shouldn't bother to wait.
“I've been thinking,” Trey said. “Why don't you stick around another day, get a fresh start tomorrow.” It seemed to him that the signs were not auspicious—the near riot in the bazaar, the sick blond girl, the taxi breaking down. And he was not eager to see his friend leave.
Rudy went to talk to the driver, who had climbed in behind the wheel. When the engine turned over, sputtered and finally caught, Rudy jumped back into the trunk and waved as the car lurched forward. Trey put one arm around Michelle and waved with the other as the taxi disappeared into the dust.
They were staying in a fortified dwelling on the hillside just off the main road. This sort of earthen pillbox was characteristic of the region, designed for defense against bandits. Rudy had arranged for them to stay there, explaining that the family was on a pilgrimage to Mecca. The heavy wooden door on the ground floor opened into a dark space rank with smells, the quarters of the family sheep. A steep stairway led to the second level, where the small, vertical windows admitted little light. There was no escaping the residual aroma of the animals downstairs. “Le château des pourceaux,” Michelle said, holding her nose, when they first surveyed the place.
Things had gone sour after the incident in the bazaar. Michelle had seen all she cared to of Landi Kotal and wanted to move on. She began talking about Katmandu, where she and Trey had met. He didn't want to be reminded of Katmandu. They'd spent three weeks together there, Trey having just arrived in Asia. Then one night Michelle went off with an Italian, and he didn't see her again until six months later. She now spoke wistfully of Katmandu's pastel-colored temples and the tall, crooked houses with hex eyes painted on the lintels.
“And the monkeys,” he said absently. “Don't forget the monkeys.” They were lying on a single pallet in the upstairs room, in the dim light of an oil lamp. Rudy had been gone for three days.
“I hate the monkeys,” she said. “Nasty, ugly things. I hate them.”
“Sorry,” Trey said. There was no telling when some little thing would set her off. He turned onto his side and looked at her. Her face was rigid. He stroked her shoulder; she pushed his hand away.
“It smells like pig in here.”
“Sheep. It's sheep.”
“Pig. Pig pig pig. Big-time, big-deal businessmen. They make a big deal and stay in a pig house. Pig time. Pig deal. Pig guys.”
“Mic
helle.”
“Pig!”
He leaned over and kissed her neck. “Once we finish this we'll have money, lots of money. Then we can go anywhere.”
“I want to go now.”
“We have to wait for Rudy.”
“Rudy. Always Rudy. Rudy Rudy—”
Trey clapped a hand over her mouth and she bit him, then resumed the chant, her voice rising until she lashed out at him with her arms and legs. When he tried to cram the blanket into her mouth, she kneed him. He got a handful of her hair and rolled her off the pallet. He thumped her head, hard, against the wooden floor. She stopped struggling and began to cry.
After a while she said, “Do you love me?”
Trey said that he did.
“Do you love me more than Rudy?” she said.
“Do I sleep with Rudy?”
“Maybe you do,” she said after a minute.
It was an easy thing for her to think, a quick reduction of whatever was exclusive in Trey's affection for Rudy. They had been traveling together for six months when Michelle showed up in Goa, where they were renting a beach hut for the winter. In Michelle's version of Katmandu, Trey had abandoned her, and when she moved in with them she made him promise he would never run out on her again. For a few weeks it had been idyllic. Rudy liked Michelle, and she liked him. But then she had turned petulant and jealous, quizzing Trey with hypothetical situations in which he had to choose between the two of them.
“I don't go for redheads,” he said now. “Now go to sleep.”
The next day Michelle stayed in bed complaining of cramps, and he went to Peshawar to check on bus schedules. When he got back she was high. He could see it in the way she greeted him, giddy and languorous, and in the slight drop in register in her voice. She'd had a habit for three months in Goa, and he knew the signs.
“Where did you get the stuff?”
“Come hold me, Trey.”
“Where did you get it?” Even as he asked, he didn't know why he bothered. The point was, she had it. But it was the only thing he could think of to say.
“Only a little bit,” she said. “To make the sickness go away.”
She nodded off before sundown. He stayed with her through the next morning. By noon she was sweating and trembling. He held out until three, when he could no longer stand to watch her. She told him she'd bought it from the Pathan who'd helped them that day. Trey went to find him, and returned an hour later with her fix. There would be time to straighten her out when this business was all over.
He went outside the moment she started to tie off. He might have bought it, but he wasn't about to watch her put the needle in her arm. He looked out over the barren gray peaks. The afternoon sun cast harsh, angular shadows. There was no vegetation in sight. To the west, the road threaded between the jaws of the pass. Three eastbound vehicles crawled like beetles toward the bright mosaic of the town. It was possible that Rudy was in one of them. Trey wanted to think so. But he felt that a landscape like this didn't have anything encouraging to say about the fate of individuals.
He went daily to the Pathan, buying Michelle's fix and checking for news from the border. Afternoons, while she slept, he went back down to the bazaar and lingered over tea in one of the shops. The days were warm and getting warmer.
It was the thirteenth day of waiting when he saw the Australian's pendant for sale in the bazaar. It seeemed like an omen. He went immediately back to the fort, waiting until Michelle was on the declining slope of her afternoon fix to tell her that he wanted her to leave. If there was going to be any trouble, he wanted her to be clear of it. At the same time he wanted to streamline his own concerns. Worrying about Michelle was sapping him. He felt he would have to do something soon, and her presence severely limited his options.
“Listen,” he said. “This is important. Do you still have friends in Katmandu?”
She shrugged and smiled. “I have friends in Katmandu, I have friends in Goa, I have friends in Paris, friends everywhere. So many friends.”
He took her by the shoulders. “This is serious. Things could get bad here. We have enough for a plane ticket. You go to Katmandu and stay with your friends. I'll meet you there as soon as I can.”
She frowned. “You come too.”
“I have to wait for Rudy.”
“You're wanting to give me the dump.”
He shook his head.
“It's true. You don't love me.”
“I do love you and I don't want anything to happen to you. I'll come get you as soon as Rudy shows up.”
“I stay here with you.”
He knew she wouldn't change her mind. He also knew his idea wasn't very practical. She was in no shape to travel alone, yet it seemed more dangerous to let her stay. He'd been having nightmares about the incident in the bazaar.
That night he brought the subject up again, but Michelle put her hands over her ears and began singing whenever he tried to speak.
The Pathan was more discursive than usual on the morning of the seventeenth day. After taking note of the weather and inquiring after Michelle, he began to discuss the business climate. The government was stepping up border patrols. Rival tribes were fighting over the smuggling routes. Trey guessed he was being softened up for a price hike.
“It is especially dangerous for amateurs,” the Pathan said. He shook his head slowly and frowned.
Trey registered a new note in the conversation. He felt his heart in his chest, as if it had just started pumping a moment before. “You've got news for me?”
The Pathan raised his eyebrows, as if amazed by Trey's acuity or else by his lack of tact in coming so abruptly to the point. He scrupulously smoothed the baggy folds of his sleeves. “There is a rumor.”
Trey waited.
“The men your friend contacted across the border, they are not honest men. They require a payment for his safe return.”
“Why haven't I been approached?” Trey demanded, but the answer came to him without any hint from the Pathan, who was gazing impassively over the bazaar as if he'd lost interest in the conversation.
“How much?” Trey said then. He guessed that whoever had Rudy would know exactly how much he was planning to pay on delivery and therefore would ask for a little more. For a moment he felt almost relieved, finally knowing what the situation was, and what was required, but at the same time he didn't feel he knew anything for certain.
“If you wish,” the Pathan said, “I can look into the matter.” Trey doubted that any such inquiry was necessary, but he had to observe his broker's ritual. That he appear to trust him was crucial now that he didn't know if he could.
He went back to the fort and read to Michelle, not even broaching his conversation with the Pathan.
That afternoon Trey was told that the kidnappers would settle for nothing less than two thousand dollars. He had a little more than eighteen hundred in his money belt, and wondered if the Pathan had any way of knowing this.
“I don't have that much.”
“Then your friend is dead.”
“Tell them I have fifteen hundred.” This was the amount Rudy would have promised the Afghanis on delivery.
“I do not believe they will change their minds.”
“What if I wired for more money?”
The Pathan laughed. “Where do you think you are?” He was looking at Trey intently now, having shed the bored manner of a man performing an unwanted and unprofitable task.
“I need some proof.” He could think of no way to get the other two hundred but felt he somehow had to keep the process moving forward.
“I was asked to show you this.” The man reached into a leather pouch on his holster belt and removed a gold signet ring. Rudy's.
“That doesn't prove anything. Why didn't he send a note?”
The Pathan shrugged. “These are not literary men.”
“But how do I know he's alive?” Until that moment it hadn't really occurred to him that Rudy might be dead. Even if he came up with the
money, he had no guarantee except this man's word.
“I believe he is alive,” the Pathan said.
“I have to think this through.”
“Do you have the money?”
Trey shook his head. “Not all of it.”
“Perhaps,” the Pathan said, “I could assist you with the balance.”
And then Trey realized he had been waiting to say this all along.
“In exchange for what?” he said, then fixed his eyes on the man's face and listened.
Michelle was sleeping on the pallet with her mouth open. Trey knelt down beside her and pushed the hair away from her eyes. He timed her respirations: twelve a minute, low even for a junkie. He watched an insect crawling up the earthen wall above them and wondered if there was a right thing to do.
“Trey?”
“I'm here.”
“What time is it?”
“Afternoon.”
“I think it is time.”
“There's something I have to talk to you about.”
“Not now.”
“Yes. Now.”
She turned to look at him, her face slack. He tried to remember her as she'd been in Katmandu. The outlines of her beauty were still there, but back then this beauty seemed to be projected from an inexhaustible source of reckless energy that kept her always in motion, her eyes full of mystery. When he saw her again in Goa she was showing signs of wear. She'd lost weight and her eyes didn't have the precision he remembered.
“You're crying,” she said, then reached up and wiped a tear from his cheek.
Trey said, “Michelle.”
“Don't be sad,” she said. “Maybe you take a little fix with me.”
He shook his head.
“Give me one, Trey. I want you to do it.”
“Rudy's in trouble,” he said.
She sighed dreamily. “Don't worry. You will think of something, no?”
“I need your help.”
“You do what's best.”
“Listen to me.”
“Please, Trey. Not now. After a little fix.” She reached down and stroked his crotch. “Then we make love.” They hadn't, not since she'd started shooting up again. The drug had swallowed all of her desire, and he found he didn't want her as she was now.
How It Ended Page 9