The Eleventh Trade

by Alyssa Hollingsworth

  “If you drink, you will feel better,” Mrs. Michele says. “Layla, go ask for a glass of water.”

  Baba frowns like he will argue more, and I don’t know what to do but get him to drink. At least water should give him relief from his symptoms, even if it won’t solve the problem.

  “If you fall again, or something more serious happens, we will have to go to the hospital,” I tell him in Pashto. “Drink and be better. God will be understanding.”

  Baba opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “Please, Baba.” What I mean but do not say is: I can’t lose you. You’re all I have left.

  The paleness in his face is even more pronounced now. For a moment we just look at each other, and then Baba sighs his agreement. He must be feeling terrible, because he normally would not give in so quickly. Breaking Ramadan—after being unable to participate during our journey—must feel like a failure.

  Layla arrives with the water, and I watch Baba drink, but my chest still hurts from the pounding of my racing pulse. I have to get the rebab, quickly, and nothing I’m doing is enough. The laptop isn’t enough.

  With a nod to my purchase, Baba says, “You have a laptop now? A laptop and an iPod?”

  “Yes,” I say, though it’s not strictly true. “Dan needs to check it, though.”

  Baba frowns. “How do you have money for these things?”

  “I—uh—”

  “I paid for it,” Dan cuts in. “But, um, Sami and I will share it for school.”

  The corners of Baba’s mouth lift out of the frown, but stop short of a smile. “Hm. You are becoming a regular American.”

  “I guess.” But that’s not true, either.

  The water does help Baba, because he starts teasing Jared again, letting the boy crawl on him and try on his white cap. At home, in Afghanistan, he would not have played in public with others people’s children. With my cousins, yes—they would sit in his lap while they ate and lean on his shoulder while he tuned the rebab. Family is one thing. But Jared and Layla’s family are practically strangers to us.

  Those customs changed on the route, when we traveled beside orphan boys and babies born in ports. We had no family, and so Baba said the world would be our family. I know he is right, yet it hurts me when Jared laughs. The sound is so much like my tiny cousin Navid. Even Baba winces, so slightly that only I see it.

  The rebab would dull the pain.

  But without it …

  My legs have become wobbly, and I sit in the grass nearby. It’s not enough, I keep thinking, over and over and over again. It’s not enough. I’m not doing enough.

  “Your grandfather is so good with Jared, Sami.” Suddenly Mrs. Michele is beside me. I was so lost in thought I didn’t even hear her approach. “I think Jared might want to stay in your family!”

  Baba chuckles. “He would make a good Afghan boy.”

  I glance between Baba and Jared. How can he call me—his blood and bone—a regular American but say this stranger would make a good Afghan? I am his family, not a foreigner.

  Jared squeals in delight, and Mrs. Michele grins at me. My anger ebbs into shame. Baba used to watch over many of the children along the route, to give their parents a rest. It doesn’t mean anything. The only person acting unusual here is me.

  We finally get up and make our way to the car. I have to support Baba over the uneven lawn. He complains of my over-caution, but his arm trembles as I hold it, and he has to lean on me with every step. Mrs. Michele says he should be fine with water and rest, but my pulse still buzzes in my ears. I tell myself that she is right—he may be better. But deep down I know that he’s breaking, more and more every day, and it’s up to me to stop it.

  While everyone’s getting in the van, I tell Mrs. Michele I need to go to the bathroom. But instead, once I’m out of sight, I slip away to a quiet spot on the far side of the street. I fish out the business card, now a little wrinkled, from my pocket.

  The last thing I want to do is talk to someone about what happened. I want to keep the memories of before—before the wedding, before the journey—for me and Baba. And I want to forget the most vivid memories—I don’t want to think about the event that tore me away.

  But Coach said there would be compensation for talking to this man. It’s just another trade, really. The sixth trade: my story for funds.

  I take my phone and dial.

  * * *

  TRADE LOG

  Days: 17

  Have: $25

  Need: $675

  THINGS TO TRADE:

  Laptop (waiting on battery)

  PLANNED TRADES:

  Combat boots for art supplies (Julie)

  Story for money (Lincoln Trudeau)

  COMPLETED TRADES:

  1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod

  2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines

  3. iPod -> Figurines

  4. Figurines -> $145

  5. Magazines -> Combat boots

  * * *

  18

  On Monday after school, instead of going to the rec center, I take the Orange Line to Ruggles. Despite the knot in my stomach, despite wanting to do anything but talk about my past—despite everything—I’ve arranged to meet the PhD student for an interview.

  I have to pursue every lead. And right now, while I’m waiting on the laptop battery and Julie’s supplies, this is the only one I have.

  I exit Ruggles Station and blink in the sunlight. Northeastern University is right in front of me. The traffic noise has died down, and student voices and guitar music fill the courtyard. Tall buildings covered in shining windows are directly ahead of me. The sky reflects in the glass, turning the panels vibrant shades of blue and green. There’s a map across the street, and I go to check that the courtyard on my left is Centennial Common. But before I’m halfway there, I notice a man and a young woman walking toward me.

  The man breaks into a grin and calls, “Hello! Are you Sami?”

  “Yes, sir.” My stomach tightens all over again. “Mr. Trudeau?”

  “That’s right. But Lincoln is just fine.” He holds out his hand, and we shake. His beard is more scruff than anything, almost too blond to be seen against his pale skin. “This is my teaching assistant, Cheryl Mizell.”

  “Hi!” The young woman, holding a notebook and folders to her chest, makes a little bow. Her purse almost falls off her shoulder when she does, and she barely catches it in time. “Sorry I can’t offer a hand.”

  “Oh, it’s okay.” I’m actually a little relieved. I’m getting used to playing soccer with girls and riding in the car with women, but shaking hands would feel strange.

  “You got all that, Cheryl?” Mr. Lincoln asks, sounding amused.

  “Yes, definitely.” She smiles apologetically at me. “I’m just about to go to class, but I’ll walk with you both to Meserve—it’s on the way.”

  “Meserve Hall is where the interview will happen,” Mr. Lincoln explains. “Before we go, do you have the permission slip from your grandfather?”

  I nod, reaching into my backpack and taking the paper out to hand to him. I slipped it under the forms for the rec center when I had Baba sign them, knowing he was too exhausted to read anything. As I suspected, he just looked for the empty line and left his signature.

  It is dishonest—but it’s all for the rebab. All to make things right. I try to hide the twinge of guilt while Mr. Lincoln looks over the form.

  “Great, this is in order.” Mr. Lincoln meets my eyes. “And your grandfather knows where you are, right? He doesn’t mind you speaking with me?”

  “Right,” I say, though it’s another lie. Baba believes I am at the rec center. He probably wouldn’t mind me talking with Mr. Lincoln, but I couldn’t really explain why I wanted to without telling him about the trades for the rebab. So I just … didn’t exactly say where I was going.

  “Okay, excellent. On to Meserve, then!” Mr. Lincoln begins to walk. Though Miss Cheryl is dressed in jeans and a blouse, he’s wearing a brown suit with a
dark blue shirt and red tie. Next to him, I feel sloppy and small in my secondhand school clothes. “It’s too hard to find on your own, which is why I thought Centennial would be an easier spot to meet.”

  I nod, trying to look around without looking like I am. The campus is bewildering and huge and full of sounds—shouted laughter, guitar riffs, discussions from students in the oversize outdoor chairs. A mural painted on a brick wall shows a girl with braided hair, paintbrush in one hand and lightning in the other. I want to ask what it means, but I don’t want to seem ignorant.

  “Have you visited a university before?” Mr. Lincoln asks, waving to some of the students we pass.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, this is Northeastern.” He extends his arms. “It’s a bit empty right now. The students here are taking summer classes. The history department is in Meserve Hall, so that’s where Cheryl and I spend most of our time. Cheryl’s getting a dual degree in history and psychology.”

  “I’m interested in the way the two relate.” Miss Cheryl smiles at me. “I’m thrilled to be working on this project with Professor Trudeau. And it’s been wonderful meeting survivors like you.”

  Survivors. The way she says it makes it sound like a badge of some sort, a title of honor. But it makes me sad.

  Before I can figure out why, Mr. Lincoln adds, “We have great science and humanities programs, too. Do you like any subjects in school particularly?”

  “I like music,” I say, though I’m not sure that’s a class subject or something people go to university for.

  “Nice!” We turn down a little street, into the shadow of two buildings, and he asks, “What do you play?”

  “A rebab.”

  “The official instrument of Afghanistan!” Miss Cheryl volunteers. “I’ve been listening to Homayoun Sakhi while I transcribe interviews. Love him!”

  I nod, surprised she knows so much. I search for a question to ask in return. “How long have you been studying here, Mr. Lincoln?”

  “Two years now.” He heads to a large gray door. “The degree might take four or five years, depending on how this dissertation goes. Which—again—so excited you’re here.”

  “I need to head this way, Professor Trudeau.” Miss Cheryl nods toward the street. “I’ll come by after class to see how it went—but I might be late because I have to go to the Geek Squad. Again.” She makes a face but frees one hand to give me a quick wave. “Have a good day, Sami.”

  “You too.”

  “See you later. Good luck with your virus!” Mr. Lincoln takes me inside to an elevator. “This is super lazy, but the door to the stairs is jammed, so…” He shrugs.

  We take the elevator to the first floor. Mr. Lincoln leads me past a red wall with a huge black 1 on it, past an intricate sketch of a crowded street that reminds me of Hamida’s work, and to a glass-walled space with a sign that says CAMD CONFERENCE ROOM.

  “Come on in.” Mr. Lincoln grabs the door for me. “Do you want some water or anything?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, right, Ramadan.” He smacks his palm against his forehead. “That was stupid. Let me go put your permission slip in my office and grab something down the hall. Take a seat wherever you want and make yourself at home.”

  He smiles again and ducks away.

  I hesitate as I try to pick somewhere to sit at the long table. In Afghanistan, a guest would be seated in the place of honor, as far from the door as possible, where they would be more comfortable. For an Afghan, especially a Pashtun, the seating arrangement allows the host to protect their guests’ lives if someone breaks into the room or house. I know this convention does not matter here, but I still stall, looking at the table, turning the question of where to sit over and over in my head, searching for an answer that does not matter anymore, because I am far from that world. Finally, I slip into a chair midway down the table. I decide to put my back to the glass wall. The windows show the building on the other side of the street, bricks bright in the sunshine.

  By the time I’ve settled, with my backpack near my feet, Mr. Lincoln returns with a plastic bag in one hand, a tissue box in the other, and a notebook, pen, and cell phone balanced on his arm. They don’t even wobble while he sets the tissue box down.

  “Two years as a waiter come in handy,” he says with a wink.

  He puts the plastic bag between us. My heart skips. It’s full of dried mulberries, Afghan treats I haven’t seen since we left.

  “I was in DC this weekend.” Mr. Lincoln sits in the chair across from me. “They have an Afghan grocery store. Did you know? The Afghan couple I was interviewing recommended these. I figured you would like to wait for iftar to break your fast, so I’ve made them to go.”

  It’s a kindness I didn’t anticipate, and the knot in my stomach loosens. While Mr. Lincoln arranges his things, I study the berries. With this unexpected piece of home, I close my eyes for a moment. I can almost see Kandahar again.

  My mor sits on the toshaks after dinner, putting down the plate of snacks. It is divided into different sections, with nakhod in one and cashews in another and wrapped chocolates in the middle. One of the four sections has dried mulberries, my mor’s favorite, and after she pours the tea for Plar, Baba, and me, she takes a small handful. We chat about our day while we sit there, around the tablecloth on the floor. The hum of helicopters, on their way to or from war missions, sounds far off beyond the white-painted stone walls. Plar laughs as he tells us funny stories from the base, and Baba offers sage sayings. He claims they are from “the poet,” always revered by Pashtuns, but I think he makes some of them up.

  My mor jani reaches across the plate to brush dust out of my hair. Were her fingers soft, or callused? Were the bangles on her wrists red and gold, or blue and silver? The color blurs in my head, but the gentle clinks of her bracelets make a song in my ears.

  “Okay, so here’s the plan.”

  I blink, and I’m back in Boston. Mr. Lincoln has set his phone, notebook, and pen on the table in front of him. He pauses to align the phone and pencil so that they are evenly spaced from the notebook.

  “With your permission, Sami, I’d like to record you on my cell. That will make it easier for me to access the information in the future. I’ll also be taking notes. Does that work for you?”

  I nod, swallowing to wet my dry throat.

  “I’ll be asking you some questions, but mostly I’m just here to listen to however much you want to tell. If you ever feel unsafe, or if there’s something you are uncomfortable saying, you can say so, and we’ll go to a different point or angle. I want you to feel at ease about everything. Yeah?”

  I nod again.

  “All right, so let’s begin.” Once he turns on the recording, he sets the phone between us. “Okay, it’s June twentieth at”—he checks the clock on the wall behind him—“four o’clock.” He faces me. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Sami,” I say. I hesitate. I only used my first name when I talked to people on the trek—there was a risk that if our surname leaked it would be a threat to the distant relatives we left behind—and I can’t seem to say it now, even though I know that I am safe.

  Mr. Lincoln sees my hesitation and says, “First name only is just fine. How old are you?”

  “Twelve years old.”

  He winces but takes a deep breath and writes it down.

  “Okay, Sami, what’s your story?”

  19

  “My plar worked as an interpreter in Kandahar during the war,” I begin, feeling it is the right place to start. If he hadn’t, would any of the rest have even happened? I might still be in Afghanistan if he had been something else.

  “Is that why your English is so good?” Mr. Lincoln asks. “Sorry, I won’t interrupt much—your English is just really good.”

  I nod. “Also, my mor was a flight attendant before I was born. She knew a lot of English, too. They would often speak in English at home—that is how my baba and I became better at it.” I pause, glanci
ng at the dried mulberries on the table. I will have to come up with an explanation for them to give Baba—later. But looking at them now helps me remember the better times, the before times. “My mor made up words, just to tease my plar.”

  And because the sun is out, and because I have mulberries for tonight, and because Mr. Lincoln is the first person eager to listen, and because I do not want to talk about the true beginning of our journey—not yet—I tell him a story from long ago.

  The truth is, my mor’s English was better than my plar’s. She joked with him about it endlessly. Sometimes she would switch to English mid-conversation and use the biggest words she knew. My plar could not always understand and would make her speak more slowly and tell him the meanings.

  Once, he came home from the base red-faced and frustrated.

  “Zarmina!” He called for my mor. “Frameire is not an English word!”

  She peered from the kitchen innocently. “Oh? It must be French, then.”

  He shook his head. “I used it with the men today, and they assured me—with many a laugh—that it is not a word at all.”

  “How strange!” she exclaimed carelessly. “I must have dreamed it.”

  My mor jani was always dreaming.

  Though my plar was cross when he came in, he was smiling when he said, “Perhaps you should dream less when you are teaching me.”

  “Ah, my heart, if I dreamed less, wouldn’t you love me less?” My mor lifted her eyebrows and turned to me. “Sami, would you have me dream less?”

  I shook my head. “Your dreams are my favorite.”

  “Even when they are silly?”

  “Yes!”

  “There, you see? Your son loves my dreams.”

  My plar rubbed his face. “I would not have you change at all, zama da zra armana. But perhaps you could let me know whether you speak from a dream or from a textbook?”