by John Wray
—The religion I’ve spent my life studying teaches deference to one’s elders, he said slowly. —It teaches the child to venerate the teachings of the father.
—Not if the father is an apostate.
—Aden, do you fully understand what that word means?
She got to her feet. He shook his head at that, regretfully and stiffly, as though forbidding her to take another step.
—I’m sure you’re aware that I could put a stop to this adventure with a phone call. And the more I hear you talk, sweetheart, the more inclined I am to do so.
—You did this yourself when you were my age. You’ve been talking about it my whole life. It’s the only thing you’ve ever talked about.
—I’d just turned twenty-two when I went to Kandahar. Twenty-two, Aden, not barely eighteen. And there’s a more significant issue than your age.
—I don’t know what you mean.
—You’re being childish again. The possibilities for a woman in that part of the world are limited, as you know very well. You have disappointments in store, I’m afraid.
—Well Teacher you’re wrong about that.
—We’re fighting again. Let’s both just take a moment—
—I’m going to get to places that you’ve never been. All kinds of places. I’m going to see things that you couldn’t even dream of.
* * *
She met Decker on the airport bus at noon. He was dressed in a tracksuit and a Giants cap and his sneakers sat beside him on the seat across the aisle. His duffel was black and his high-tops were the same acidic orange as his tracksuit. An unlit Camel dangled from his downturned boyish mouth. When he saw Aden coming he picked up a book.
—You don’t smoke, she said.
—I’m an international man of mystery, Sawyer. There’s things you didn’t know about me yet.
She nodded. —Like that you can read.
—I’m just reviewing this here list of conjugations. He puffed out his chest. —I happen to be traveling to Pakistan today.
She glanced across the aisle at his high-tops. —I thought you might be traveling to a kickball game in Oakland.
—This look is like American Express, he said, adjusting his cap. —It’s accepted worldwide.
—There’s a lot of places don’t take American Express. She passed him the high-tops and sat where they’d been. —La Tapatía, for example.
—La Tapatía? Decker said, raising his eyebrows. —That taco place back of the Costco?
—Lots of places don’t take it.
—They’ll take it in Karachi, he said as the bus began rolling. —What did you think people wear over there, Sawyer? Turbans and pointy slippers?
—I couldn’t care less.
He frowned at her. —Why’s that?
—Because Karachi’s not the place I want to be.
* * *
It was hot on the bus and Decker nodded off quickly, his forehead propped against the greasy glass. She looked past him at outlets and drive-throughs and strip malls and cloverleaf ramps. The light on the hills was the light she knew best, the embalming golden light of California, and it lay thickly over everything she saw. Already looking out at that landscape was like watching footage of some half-forgotten life.
Decker started awake just as they reached the airport. —What time is it?
—We’re all right.
—Did we miss our one o’clocks?
—It’s okay. We can pray when we get out.
The terminal was the last part of America she’d see and she made a point of paying close attention. The guideways, the acoustic tile, the sterility, the equivalence of every point and feature. She’d loved it as a child, seeing her father off to Islamabad or Ankara or Mazar-i-Sharif, and the child that survived in her loved it there still. The most American of places. A luminous blank.
A flight crew hurried past—the genteel blue-eyed pilots, the coquettish attendants—and an usher with a bindi waved them forward with a bow. The scene might have been choreographed for her express instruction: the quick servile gesture, the noblesse oblige. She felt the old childish thrill and did nothing to curb it. It posed no danger anymore. Her eyes were open.
—What are you smiling at, Sawyer?
—I used to come here sometimes.
Decker stopped and adjusted his sneakers. —Tell you what. I’ve never even been inside a plane.
—You’ll like it.
—What does Swiss food even taste like?
—Swiss food?
—We’re taking Swiss Air, right? It’s a sixteen-hour flight. They’ve got to feed us something.
She took his hand. —Let’s go, man of mystery. We’re late for prayers.
They found a small bluish room labeled INTERFAITH CHAPEL past the food court and set their bags in a neat row beside its entrance. A family of Mennonites rose to leave as soon as they came in. A limping old man and his wife and two toddlers. Decker held the door for them. Their dark formal clothing rasped and whispered as they moved. The wife seemed barely older than he was and she smiled at him sweetly as she sauntered out. Decker watched her until she was out of sight.
—I’m not supposed to say this in here, but that old Hasid is one lucky bastard. Did you see the look I just got?
—You’re right.
—Damn straight I’m right. Did you even—
—You’re not supposed to say that in here.
—Okay, Sawyer. My bad. Seriously though—
—And those weren’t Hasids.
Decker sucked in a breath. —I’m getting a tater tot kind of smell. Tortilla chips maybe. I’m guessing from the Taco Bell next door.
—Shut up and help me move these chairs around.
They cleared a space at the front of the room and laid their prayer mats on the stain-resistant carpet and cleansed themselves with water from a bottle. Decker’s prayer mat matched his tracksuit and his sneakers. Aden watched him for a moment, then shifted slightly to the left.
—How do you know that’s east, Sawyer? There’s no windows in here.
—It’s east.
He nodded dubiously. —We’re praying at the food court, basically.
—I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Decker. I’m going to go ahead and say the prayer we missed. What you decide to do is totally your call. Maybe your Mennonite’s waiting at the Taco Bell. Maybe you guys can split a quesarito scrambler.
—Is that what you think she was? A Mennonite?
She gave him no answer. Eventually he kicked off his high-tops and knelt next to her.
—That’s better, said Aden, prostrating herself.
—So long as you’re happy. I think this is south.
* * *
When they came out of the chapel their luggage was gone. They stood blinking wordlessly down at the carpet, listening to the crackle and hiss of the PA. She felt no panic, only a coldness mustering under her ribs. Her passport and visa had been in her duffel.
—Those motherfuckers, said Decker. —We were praying, for shit’s sake.
—It’s all right. It’s all right. We just need to find security. They can’t be far.
Decker let out a groan. —I bet it’s illegal, leaving bags around like that. Do you think they’ll—
—No I don’t. We were stupid, that’s all. I was stupid.
Lost Baggage was in another terminal altogether and by the time they’d found it both their shirts were dark with sweat. Its foyer was the same jaundiced blue as the chapel. The guard at the window knew what they’d come for before they said a word. Their passports lay facedown on the countertop in front of him.
—You kids might as well take it easy. No one’s flying anywhere today.
They waited for him to go on, wavering slightly in place, struggling to master their breathing. The guard looked down at them from on high, remote and unmoved, like a judge at some inconsequential trial. He took off his glasses and began to clean them with a wrinkled handkerchief. He seemed to consider the matter resolv
ed.
—I’m not sure I understand you, sir, said Aden.
—Leaving two unmarked black duffel bags in the busiest part of the international terminal, right outside of the chapel. And a backpack. The guard shook his head. —Right next to the food court, for Jesus’ sake. Neither of you been in an airport before?
—I’ve been to this airport eighteen times, sir, not counting today. With my family. We live in Santa Rosa.
The guard squinted down at her passport for a time. —Aden Grace Sawyer, he said thoughtfully.
—That’s right.
—You’ve cut your hair since this passport was issued, Miss Sawyer.
—So what? said Decker.
—I wouldn’t of recognized you, the guard went on. —You look like a boy.
—We’re students, said Decker before she could answer. —We’re on our way to Pakistan for school.
The guard flipped through her passport with an elaborate show of disinterest. He seemed unsurprised to find its pages blank. —What kind of a school?
—A madrasa, said Aden.
—A what?
—It’s a religious school, said Decker. —Like a Catholic school, but for the study of the Holy Qur’an. It’s actually—
—Just do what you’re going to do to us, said Aden.
—Excuse me, Miss Sawyer? I’m not sure I heard you quite right.
—There’s nothing illegal in those bags. You’ve searched them already so you ought to know.
—I wouldn’t say nothing, Miss Sawyer. I wouldn’t say that. He lifted Decker’s duffel onto the counter. —Defense of the Muslim Lands, he said, bringing out a paperback without a cover. He brought out another. —Join the Caravan.
—Those are religious texts, she said. —They’re for our course of study.
—These books are on the State Department watchlist. They’re recruitment texts for militant jihad.
—We bought them from the campus bookstore of the University of California at Berkeley. There’s nothing illegal about having those books.
—Her father’s the dean of Middle Eastern studies, Decker cut in. —You know what a dean is?
—Tell your Arab friend to shut his mouth, said the guard.
This is what it means to live with open eyes, she thought. This place was here when I came with my father and we passed it by without even noticing. This same man sitting here at this same window. People stood where I’m standing but I never saw them. Where are those people now.
Decker was shouting something about freedom of religion.
—If you’re not going to give us our bags back, tell us, Aden said. —Tell us that and we’ll go.
The guard’s drawn and bloodless face regarded her through the window, so leached of human feeling that it barely seemed a face. The waiting area smelled of exhaust and toner cartridges and sweat. The noise of traffic carried in from the outside. He hears this all day, Aden said to herself. All day long he hears these sounds and breathes this air. No one ends up here by choice. Not even him.
—I never said you couldn’t have your bags, the guard said finally, shutting Aden’s passport with a shrug. —I don’t think you’ve heard a single word I told you.
* * *
By some undeserved miracle they reached the gate at final boarding call and were rushed aboard the plane like VIPs. People glared at them but she was used to worse. As they made their way up the aisle, disheveled and short of breath, a rush of jubilation overtook her. They were headed to Dubai and after that to Karachi and more of the faithful surrounded her than she’d ever seen outside a mosque. The plane would soon be airborne, a sovereign state, accountable to no laws but its own. Her country had relinquished her without a hint of protest. She was gone.
—I expected that to be rough, Decker whispered once they’d gotten to their seats. —The scanners and the pat-downs and the questions and all. But that was— He shook his head. —I don’t know what that was. Son of a bitch, Sawyer. They made me unbuckle my pants.
—They do that to everybody.
—It’s because we’re Muslim, isn’t it? They think I’m going to set my beard on fire.
—I’m kind of hoping you will, to be honest.
—Fuck you.
—Might not be worth the trouble, though. I’m counting maybe fifteen hairs.
—Better than you can do, Sawyer.
—No argument there.
—You look about six with that haircut. Like they had to shave your head at school to check for fleas.
She smiled at him. —What was up with all that b.s. back there? My father isn’t dean of anything. You know that.
He shrugged. —You told me that he used to be. Back before his, shall we say, romantic complications.
—You were lying, she said. —You were bearing false witness.
—Your virtue does you credit, pilgrim. But it would be a hell of a lot more convincing if you stopped grinning like a monkey.
She closed her eyes and settled back into her seat. —I can’t believe we’re on this plane, she said.
* * *
She came awake in the dark to the sound of her name. She was far from herself and returned only slowly. The voice she had heard was not her mother’s or her father’s, not exactly, but the same silvery thread of worry ran through it that her parents’ voices had. She waited with her eyes closed but it did not speak again.
—You are traveling to the Emirates? said a man across the aisle.
Blearily she turned to take his measure. He was portly and bearded and he blinked at her kindly. His voice was not the voice that had spoken her name but he seemed a remnant of her dream regardless. He wore a blue chalk-striped blazer over a shalwar kameez and a Qur’an lay open on his seatback table. She sat up and made an effort to seem boyish.
—Just to change planes, she said. —We’re going to Karachi. My friend has family in Pakistan.
—Ah, the man said. —Karachi.
He pulled the Book toward him and asked no more questions. He sat spotlit and solemn, the only passenger in sight who wasn’t sleeping. His thin lips moved subtly. He seemed to be reciting from memory.
—We’re traveling to Peshawar, she said. —To a madrasa there.
—A madrasa! the man said. —That is very fine. He spoke a musical and British-sounding English. —Your intention is to memorize the suras? To learn them to heart?
—Yes, sir. It is.
He nodded gravely. —You are embarking on an honorable spree.
—I am, she said, biting her lip to keep from smiling. Beside her Decker mumbled in his sleep.
—But it is soon for you, I think, to leave your family. You can’t have many more than fourteen years.
—My family can spare me, she said.
The man inclined his head. —You do them credit.
—Thank you, sir. I’m not sure they’d see it that way.
He let this pass without comment. —Peshawar is an uncertain place. But in the madrasa you will have your security. They will see to your case.
—To my case?
The man smiled and said nothing.
They sat for what seemed a great while without speaking, listening to the sighs and protestations of the plane. Underneath or behind the man’s amiable manner was a quality that set him apart from the passengers around him. Or so it seemed to her as she watched him in the artificial twilight of the cabin.
—We hope to continue on from Peshawar, she said. —After we’ve finished our studies.
The man nodded politely.
—My friend says Pakistan is not an Islamic state. Not in the true sense of the word.
He gave what might have been a laugh. —Ah! he said. —Of course. It’s very far from that.
—We’re hoping to visit Afghanistan.
—Yes?
—Yes, sir. To cross into Nangarhar by the Torkham Gate.
The man’s expression brightened. —But that is my own country! The Nangarhar province. We have a saying on the road when you arriv
e, a kind of advertisement: Nangarhar, House of Knowledge, Cradle of Peace. He nodded to himself. —It is warm in Nangarhar, and very green. Green all the year. We have another saying there: Forever Spring.
Of course this man is an Afghan, Aden thought. Of course he is. She waited respectfully until he spoke again.
—My work is in fabrics. I reside in Karachi. I have not seen Nangarhar in quite some years.
—I would like to see it, Aden said. —I’m excited to see it.
—You must see it.
—It’s safer now, I think. My friend tells me it’s safer. The warlords have all been pushed back to the north.
The man made a gesture she couldn’t interpret.
—Isn’t that true?
—The animals of the north have been given a kick, he said, repeating the same cutting movement.
—Yes.
—By other animals. By other beasts.
—By students, she said. —By the devout. By a learned coalition.
—Young man, he said slowly. —Where have you heard of this?
She held her breath and counted down from ten. It was hard to speak calmly. —My friend told me about it. He gave me a book.
—A book? said the man. —Not the Qur’an, I think.
—They’re talibs, sir. Students. They’re fighting to bring faith back to the country. They’re fighting against the godless, like the mujahideen did against the Russians. Am I wrong about that?
—I will ask you a question.
—Please.
—Why do you care to pass over the border?
—I told you already, sir. I— She hesitated. —I just want to see it. A place ruled by believers. A country full of people living by the word of God.
—Your friend fancies himself an adventurer, does he? A bearer of arms? He glanced past her. —He has this ambition? To join in the fight?
Reflexively she turned to look at Decker. His mouth was working quietly as he slept.
—He told me he doesn’t, she answered. —He promised me that.
—I see.
It struck her now that the man’s manner had changed. Though he remained civil he no longer looked at her. —No such ambition, he said, letting his eyes rest on Decker. —I am satisfied to hear it.
—Why is that?