by John Wray
—Because he is still very young.
He opened his Qur’an and did not speak again. For the rest of the flight he remained as he was, sitting straight-backed and serene with the Book in his lap. Each time Aden awoke she looked shyly at him in his warm pool of light and found him exactly as he’d been before. When they arrived in Dubai he asked her help in bringing down his rolling suitcase and thanked her and wished her good fortune with her study of the Recitation. She never saw him again.
—Who were you talking to? said Decker as they came out of the gate.
—A Pashtun from Nangarhar. Can you believe it?
He let out a yawn. —That explains that.
—Meaning what?
—He had that sort of tribal shuffle. Like this. Decker took a few waddling steps. —It comes from walking barefoot over rocks.
—You’ve never seen an Afghan in your life. You’re just being ignorant.
—There’s an Afghan kebab place in Santa Rosa, Sawyer. You’ve been there yourself. What the hell kind of mood are you in?
* * *
She’d wanted so badly for things to be different. The place and the people. She’d hoped for grace and dignity and unity of purpose. Instead she felt the same disgust she’d felt at SFO, the same dismay, the same remove from everything she saw. Certain details had changed but the place was no different. The same shadowlessness, the same array of gaudy shops, the same sterility. She’d been a fool to think her country had released her.
They were sitting at their connecting gate before she spoke again. —I hate it here. We might as well still be in California.
—It’s an airport, Sawyer. Decker yawned into his sleeve. —What did you expect?
—I don’t know. She pressed a thumb to her teeth and bit down on the cuticle. —I don’t know, she repeated. —Not this place.
A group of Saudis passed them on their way to a neighboring gate, the men in tunics and keffiyeh and open-toed expensive-looking shoes. The wives walked a few steps behind their husbands, chattering and ignoring their overfed children, encumbered with bright bags of luxury goods. She felt sick to her stomach. The children clutched their own bags to their chests or dragged them indifferently across the polished floor. The smallest boy carried a bottle of cologne in a starfish-shaped box.
Decker sighed and cracked his knuckles as he watched the Saudis pass. —Are we just going to sit here for the next six million hours?
—I don’t like it any better than you do.
He gave her statement due consideration. —All right then, he said. —Let’s get up to no good.
They spent the next hour in a shop called Golden Ali Baba Duty Free. The prices were displayed on sliding vinyl tabs beneath each item and while Decker engaged the saleswoman in conversation Aden went stealthily to work in Scotch & Bourbon. The twelve-year Macallan that had been on sale at €59.99 was now offered at €99.95 and the eighteen-year at €00.99. The Glenlivet was €6,779.02 and the Jameson cost nothing at all. On the highest shelf, in a velvet-lined case previously occupied by Laphroaig Original Cask Strength, she set a starfish-shaped bottle of cologne. Then she noticed the saleswoman standing behind her.
—You are helping with my work? That is generous. But first to learn the difference between whiskey and perfume.
—Where we come from they’re the same, she heard Decker answer. —They’re both made from the devil’s urine. The dreaded Al-Kool.
—And where is this place? said the woman, beckoning to security.
—Nangarhar, said Aden.
—Don’t judge us, miss, said Decker. —We’re mujahideen. We were born in a cave.
To their amazement they were ushered out of the shop without further questioning and left to disappear into the crowd. Decker whispered that they should take this as a blessing, maybe even an omen, which did not sound like Decker at all. She spun slowly in place in the bustling concourse and everything she saw and heard surprised her. The distance she’d felt earlier had passed without her noticing and now she fought the urge to laugh or to dance or to shout at the top of her lungs. She saw women in niqab and men in keffiyeh and blinding white vestments and began at last to understand how far she was from home. It made her feel as weightless as a bird.
Sometime later they found themselves in a magazine shop and her sight fell on a row of books in Arabic and Persian. She saw no English names or words at all. To have traveled so far. To have crossed half the world. She ran a thumb across the richly colored spines.
—We made it, she heard Decker say. —We finally made it, Sawyer.
She chose a book at random and studied its cover. The word embossed there in silver foil was one she did not know. It lay dead on her tongue when she tried to pronounce it. She grew aware of Decker close behind her.
—Not yet, she said.
He hooked a finger through her belt and turned her toward him.
—The hell with that. We made it, girl. We’re gone.
—That old man, she said quietly. —The one on the plane.
—What? He drew her closer. —Don’t talk to me about some fat old man right now.
—He asked if you were an adventurer. That’s what he called it. If you planned to go and fight.
—Of course not.
—That’s what I told him.
—Admit it though, Sawyer. It would be—
—It would be stupid.
—For you, I guess. He gave a shrug. —Because you’re not a man.
She said nothing for a moment. —You’re just pretending now. It’s make-believe. You’re trying out a part.
—Of course I am, he said. —And so are you.
She stood there unflinching and let him appraise her. He’d earned this much, surely. This modest concession. His face too close to hers to get in focus. His warm smoker’s breath on her lips and her neck. She felt his thumbnail through the linen of her shirt.
—Sawyer, he whispered. —Let’s go find a place.
A shiver ran through her as she braced the heel of her right hand against his ribs. He smiled and leaned closer. She pushed away and saw his eyes go dark.
—Careful, Decker.
—What for?
—Use your head for a second. All right? Think about where we are.
He frowned and slid his hand under her shirt. The heat of it felt good after the chill.
—This is the Emirates, she whispered. —Not some park bench in Berkeley.
—I don’t—
—Not a place where you want to get caught with a boy.
—Don’t be an idiot, Sawyer. You’re not as convincing as that.
—Take a look for yourself.
He turned his head and as he did she watched the understanding hit. —How long have they been doing that?
—Doing what?
—You know what goddamn it. Staring like they want to hang me from a flagpole by my balls.
—I’m guessing probably since you got a boner.
He didn’t laugh. —Just get me out of here.
She led him by the sleeve past the cashier and a knot of hard-eyed patrons to an empty gate across the corridor. He followed her tamely. His expression was that of someone lost in thought.
—You’re angry at me, she said as they sat down.
—I’m not angry. He squinted at the floor. —I don’t know what I am.
—Listen to me, Decker. You came all this way and I’m grateful. I’m so grateful to you. I never could have made it by myself.
He shook his head. —You’d have made it fine without me. Better, probably.
—You’re the only friend I have. Do you know that?
—I do, actually. But you’re the kind of person who doesn’t need more than one. He grinned at her. —One might even be too much.
—Would you stop for a second?
—I’m not—
—Stop trying to be funny. She pushed his shoulders back as she bent toward him. —This is going to come out wrong.
—What is?
/> —It’s not too late for you to go back home.
His mouth came open but he made no sound.
—Because it isn’t going to happen, she said gently.
—What are you talking about?
—What you wanted back there, in that shop. It isn’t going to happen, all right? Are you listening? Not ever again.
She’d thought her roundabout way of talking might confuse him but he understood at once. —But you like it, he mumbled. —You told me you liked it. You never once said no to me before.
—That was before, she told him. —That was in a different country.
—What does the country have to—
—Look at me, Decker. Do I look like the person you did that stuff with? Do I even still look like Aden Sawyer?
—You look like Aden Sawyer with a haircut. He bowed his head. —It doesn’t matter anyway. I know who you are.
—You know who I used to be, maybe. When I had long hair and smoked pot and washed the piss out of my mom’s sheets every day. But I’m not even sure you knew me then.
She watched his features slacken. He put up no argument, said nothing at all, and she gave a silent thanks for the reprieve. She couldn’t have explained it any better. She was still trying to explain it to herself.
—All I’m saying is that you can change your mind. You don’t have to get on this next flight, even. You can do what you want.
Decker didn’t answer.
—I’ll tell you what, though.
—What?
—I can’t think of anything back home I’m going to miss.
To her astonishment he looked at her and laughed. —And here I thought this trip was my idea. All those chatrooms. All those books I made you read. Join the Caravan and whatnot.
—I’m not joining any caravans. I’m not joining any armies. Don’t go trying to change the game on me. Okay?
She sat back and waited for his grudging nod.
—Okay. Thanks. And one more thing.
—Holy shit. What?
—I won’t be using swear words anymore. I won’t be cursing.
He let out a breath. —You’re really fucking doing this.
—Of course I am. Just like we said.
—Hold on. He cocked his head. —Did something happen with your voice?
—What do you mean?
—Your voice sounds lower. Are you doing that on purpose?
—Took you long enough to notice. She grinned at him. —I’ve been practicing forever. Like a month.
He sat back in his seat. —And this whole time I’ve been worrying that you’d have second thoughts. I’ve got to be the dumbest shit there ever was.
—I didn’t think you’d come at all, she said, taking his hand in hers. —I was so surprised to see you on that bus.
* * *
Half an hour before boarding she dug her toiletries bag out of her father’s pack and followed the backlit signage to the restrooms. The men’s and women’s entrances were separated by a frosted glass partition and she stopped in front of it, flushed and lightheaded, waiting for her fear to die away. Men passed to the right of her, women to the left. The women glanced at her reflexively before averting their eyes but the men paid her no mind at all. She waited and watched, drawing courage from their obvious indifference. A boy of no more than ten shuffled by, fiddling sleepily with the zipper of his jeans. She gritted her teeth and followed him inside.
The restroom seemed more harshly lit even than the corridor and she was about to turn and bolt when she saw that the men at the urinals took care to look at no one but themselves. She hadn’t expected such a show of modesty. She had a dim but sharp-edged memory of being taken into a lavatory by her father years before, of staring up at the urinals in wonder and confusion, and she pictured him guiding her forward now, his strong square palm between her shoulder blades. The farthest stall was empty and she locked its door behind her.
The floor of the stall was littered with bunched wads of paper, the damp debris of bodies in extremis, worlds different from the brilliance of the terminal outside. She gave thanks for the mess: it made the space less frightening, less perfect. She might have been in any public restroom in the world. She lowered the lid of the toilet and sat—tentatively at first, then with all of her weight—and quickly pulled off her kameez.
She sat motionless then with the shirt in her lap, listening to the sounds from the urinals and the stalls and the sinks, so different from the noises women made. She heard no restraint or even self-awareness in the grunts of effort and relief around her. She was sitting on a toilet in a place reserved for men. No one had tried to stop her. She stared down at her fish-white arms and faintly freckled shoulders. The thrill of secret knowledge made it difficult to breathe. She pulled her pants and panties down and pushed her knees apart. The lure of invisibility. The power of deceit. These pleasures were ungodly and she endeavored to suppress them but they racked her with excitement all the same. She was no one in that instant, an animal with neither name nor history, which also meant that she was not a child. Her childhood meant less to her now than the wads of paper littering the floor.
A man came to the door as she sat there entranced and tried to force it open with his shoulder. He was wearing espadrilles and chinos and he abused the door in Arabic before he stepped away. He seemed to think that no one was inside.
She still wore a tank top that Decker had lent her and when the man had gone she looked down at her chest. Though the air in the terminal was perfectly conditioned she was sweating and her nipples stood out plainly through the cloth. The man was two stalls down from her now and she heard him muttering and fumbling with his belt. She pulled the tank top over her head and hung it from a hook and held her breasts in her cupped hands, as she sometimes did to lull herself to sleep. Her hands could still cover them, but only just. She felt secure again and let her mind wander for a time, listening to all the pissing men. Then she opened her toiletries case and brought out an Ace bandage that had once been her mother’s and wound it carefully around her ribs and chest.
* * *
Karachi proved a greater disappointment than the airport in Dubai. It reminded her of Oakland and Sacramento and the handful of other cities she knew, but it was hotter and more desperate and smelled of things she couldn’t put a name to. The housing complexes and vacant lots and even the construction sites seemed primeval to her, the ground cracked and septic, the packed bazaars and thoroughfares a scrim over some underlying ruin. It disgusted and dismayed her and the shame this triggered brought her close to panic. The fault was hers, she knew, and not the city’s. She was seeing it as her mother would have seen it.
She hailed an unmarked taxicab and rode with Decker to the terminal for buses headed north and bought two tickets. She’d expected him to protest, to insist that they spend that first night in the city, but he followed her like someone half asleep. He made no mention of his cousins in Karachi.
A bus left for Peshawar that same afternoon and they waited in the diesel-smelling courtyard of HINDUKUSH HI-WAYS, dipping flatbread into bowls of tepid dhal. The buses that passed as they sat on their duffels were garishly colored and slathered in images painted by hand: diamonds and horses and crude constellations, pomegranates and tigers, bluebirds and mountains and all-seeing eyes. She marveled at the profusion of graven renderings in a nation of Muslims but reminded herself how far from the true faith the country had fallen. She pictured the buses’ interiors as richly upholstered and smoky with incense, smelling of anise and cinnamon, like the restaurants she’d gone to on Sunday evenings with her father and mother, long ago and on the far side of the world.
Eighteen buses passed through the yard, each more ornate than the last, before the Bannu Line to Peshawar arrived. The passengers ignored them but the man who filled their teacups watched them closely. He watched her when she stood to use the toilet and he watched as she returned. When they settled their bill he gave an elaborate bow, leering frankly at Aden, and rested his
right hand on Decker’s shoulder. He said something in Urdu as he took the cups away.
—What did he say to you?
—Didn’t catch it, Decker muttered, stepping past her.
—What was it?
—Stop looking at him damn it. Let’s just go.
The bus to Peshawar was empty when they climbed aboard, as though some disaster had struck the north without their knowledge. They sat down and waited with their bags on their knees, neither of them speaking a word, and her stomach began to cramp from the fumes and the dhal. Men boarded singly or in pairs, many of them holding hands, and seemed to fall asleep as soon as they sat down. They had a forsaken look to them, chagrined and defeated, though it was possible that they were only tired. Many of them were wearing freshly store-bought shirts with creases at the collars and the sleeves. It was the day before Juma’a and she imagined them bound for villages along the northwest border, in the tribal regions, to pass the Day of Assembly with their families before returning by that same reeking bus to whatever form of work it was that had left them so expressionless and still.
As they drove northward out of the city, past tarp-covered bazaars and ornate mosques and slime-clogged aqueducts, she began by degrees to recover. The sun rode low over the shining alluvial fan of the Indus and a line of cranes flew gracefully across its red disk as if the sprawl the bus moved through were no more than a trick of the eye. Decker’s head came to rest on her shoulder. His touch was innocent in sleep and drew her back into her body and she felt safe inside her clothes again and comfortable and calm. A sentence she’d read in some chatroom came back to her as her own head grew heavy: You can either touch each other’s skin or you can touch the face of God. She slid nearer to Decker and felt his coarse disheveled hair against her neck. He was beautiful and she wanted him against her. For the briefest of instants she wanted not to disappear. Then she thought of the waiter in the exhaust-stained courtyard and the look on his face as he’d whispered in Urdu. She thought of the way his tongue had come to rest against his teeth.
She came awake in the night to Decker’s breath against her neck. —Did you say something?
—Tell me, said Decker.