Refuge (39 page)

Elma turns to Noor and forces a smile.

“Would you mind seeing if the kroket are ready? They should have come out by now.”

“Of course not,” Noor says.

Noor scurries to the kitchen, and finds a cook already arranging the krokets on a silver platter. She looks around and wonders if she should go back to the party.

No, you’ve won yourself a reprieve.

She heads out into the garden. There by the leaf strewn pool, she sits on a recessed stone bench and slips her shoes off her aching feet.

What’s going on? This article. That man back there. None of it makes any sense.

She shivers and wraps her arms around herself.

This is nothing to how cold it must be in Afghanistan.

Yet she would give anything to be there with Charlie right now.

You can’t deny it,
a voice within her says.
You love him. You know you do. You’re going to love him forever.

She laughs. It’s true, and it’s the greatest, craziest discovery she’s made in her life.

FORTY-SEVEN

CHARLIE LOOKS AT
the map‌—‌a solid swathe of blue surrounds the village He rolls it up. When they get back to Peshawar he’ll have it framed and hung in his office.

“Mr. Matthews.”

In the dim morning light he makes out Najib at the door.

“We just finished our prayers.”

Charlie nods at a couple of boxes on the earthen floor.

“Do you mind taking one?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Charlie picks up the other box, and they walk down the alley towards the center of the village.

“I’ve never asked,” Charlie says, “you married?”

“Ten years. I’m fortunate, my wife’s most intelligent and has blessed me with three beautiful children.”

“Does she work?”

“She did, at a woman’s health clinic, but it has closed since. This job has been a gift from Allah to us.”

“What’d you do before the war?”

“I was a lawyer in Kabul.”

“Ever think then that you’d end up being a deminer?”

Najib laughs.

“Not in my wildest dreams.”

They turn onto the main street. Down below the men are standing around smoking, their blankets wrapped tight around them, the vehicles exhaling exhaust fumes into the freezing dawn air.

“Najib, what’d you say if I put you in charge of these guys? It’d mean more responsibility but also more pay.”

“What about you? Mocam?”

“We’ve got to concentrate on a fresh group of recruits.”

“I’d be honored.”

“Then the job’s yours.”

Najib smiles.

“Thank you, Mr. Matthews, thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“That’s the point, Najib, you never have.”

They come up to the Pajero. Bakri rushes over and opens the trunk. There’s just enough room to shove the boxes in.

“Load everyone up,” Charlie say to Najib.

Najib shouts out to the men, and without hesitating they scurry for their vehicles. Charlie smiles. He chose right.

FORTY-EIGHT

NOOR SQUATS IN
front of her mother’s grave and spies on the man sitting under the eucalyptus tree.

It’s one of the few advantages of wearing a burqa.

She’d guessed Tariq would have someone watching their hut, yet she’d still come to an abrupt halt when she’d seen the effeminate young man sitting on the bench reading a Quran. She’d recognized him immediately; he was one of the men who’d chased her. He’d looked up and asked if he could help her. She had shaken her head and moved on.

Now to her relief, he was once again immersed in the holy book. From time to time he glances in the direction of their hut, but that’s it. As far as he’s concerned, she’s just another war widow visiting her long dead husband. She closes her eyes and tries her best to forget him.

“Mamaan, are you there?” she says. “This is when I need you.”

In the distance she hears the cries of children playing and dogs barking, a plane flying overhead and a dull explosion far, far away. But not her mother.

“I remember you telling me once how much you loved, Baba. It was after that day at Bamiyan when he’d taken us to see the Buddha statues. Just as we were leaving Baba had realized that he didn’t have his keys on him, and for hours we scoured the paths looking for them. It was me, remember, who thought to go back to the car and look in his jacket. There they were. They’d dropped through a hole in his pocket and were nestled in its lining. The whole drive back‌—‌how long was it, three, four hours? —you harangued him. I sat in the backseat in tears. I knew Baba was forgetful, but this felt so unfair. That night you knelt by my bed and begged my forgiveness. It had nothing to do with Baba, you explained, you’d just had a miscarriage, and the real reason you were so angry was because the idea of having another child with this wonderful man had filled your heart with joy. ‘We’re harshest on the ones we love the most,’ you said, ‘one day you’ll discover that, and though there’s no excuse for it, if they love you too they’ll weather it until your mood changes, and the sun shines on your relationship once more’.

“I was terrible to Charlie in the beginning, Mamaan. I couldn’t have said uglier things, but he weathered it. That letter Elma gave him, I don’t think I ever truly believed what I wrote, they were as much her words as mine, but he weathered that too. Is that true love, Mamaan? Elma says that all men move on, if not literally then in their hearts. But how does that explain Baba? You were forever putting him through the wringer, and yet he only loved you more.”

Noor waits for a response but receives none. She opens her eyes. Over at the bench, there’s a changing of the guard. She screws her eyes tight.

“Mamaan, why have you been so silent recently?”

I haven’t,
a voice says in her head.

Noor laughs out loud as she realizes that the voice, she hears on occasion, is her mother’s.

Of course,
I’ve forgotten what you sound like.

“What should I do, Mamaan?”

Noor waits, her body still.

“It’s up to me decide, isn’t it?”

Trust your feelings, never disown your instincts,
the voice says.

Noor smiles.

“I won’t, I promise.”

She heads back towards the camp, this time taking a more circuitous route in order to avoid Tariq’s snoops. Her legs feel strong, her head clear. She knows what she has to do.

As soon as she arrives at Elma’s house, she goes to her room and writes a draft in her notebook. She needn’t have bothered; the words flow effortlessly. She rereads it and feels her heart beat faster.

Once you send this, there’s no turning back
.

She pulls out a sheet of letter paper and transcribes it. She seals it in an envelope and writes Charlie’s name on the front. She looks at the clock. Half past ten. She might as well drop it off now while she still has a chance. She hears a car roar up the driveway. Noor freezes.

“Noor‌—‌Noor, where are you?” she hears Elma shout.

Noor jumps up from her desk and runs out of the room. The front door flies open.

“Noor‌—‌Noor—”

Noor enters the kitchen at the same time Elma does. Elma’s face is bright red.

“You got in.”

“I got what?”

“You, Noor Jehan Khan, are officially a scholar at the University of Amsterdam.”

Noor screams.

“They called me at the office; it’s a full scholarship. That means everything‌—‌a living allowance, tuition, even your travel to Holland, and you know what the best part is?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“They want you to start this semester.”

“That’s good, right?”

“That’s one week from now.”

Noor lets out another scream. This one more in shock.

“But how?” Noor says. “I’ll need a visa—”

“They can expedite it. Just please tell me you have a passport?”

“My father has it.”

“Good, I’ll go get it.”

Noor hesitates.

“I can do it,” she says. “In fact I’d prefer to, if that’s okay. I’d love to tell Baba myself.”

“But Charlie—”

“He’s in Afghanistan.”

“Of course. But hurry, I want to fax it over straight away.”

Noor runs out of the house, and down the street. The mansions pass by her in a blur.

In a week, they’ll be replaced with canals and barges, cafes and museums, bridges and bicycles.

She reaches Charlie’s driveway and takes a moment to catch her breath. She studies his grand old house.

To think this was once my home.

She rings the door bell and waits. The door swings open to reveal Wali in his wheelchair.

“Ah, so you’ve returned to grace us with your presence,” he grins.

“Only for a moment,” she smiles.

“Well a moment’s better than nothing.”

Noor steps inside and remembers the first time she was here; Charlie standing there in his jeans and flip-flops, reeking of aftershave and cigarettes.

I couldn’t have thought less of him
.

“Is Baba around?” she says.

“That’s it, no inquiry as to my own well-being, your sister’s, Mr. Matthew’s perhaps?”

“You’ve heard from him?” she says a little too quickly.

“Less than you.”

Noor blushes.

“Thank you for getting his letter to me,” she says.

“You should really thank your sister.”

“She helped you?”

“Even I’m not strong enough to wheel myself all the way to that woman’s house.”

Noor stands there uncertain as to what to say. This is the last thing she’d have expected Bushra to do.

“I’m telling you, Miss Noor, your sister is a lot more open minded than you give her credit.”

Noor smiles.

Maybe she is.

She takes the envelope out of her pocket.

“Well here’s another letter for you.”

“For me? Oh, you are too kind.”

Noor gives Wali a stern look.

“Don’t worry I’ll see that Mr. Matthews gets it.”

Wali deposits it in the side pocket of his chair.

“Now follow me.”

Wali rolls through the house and out onto the verandah.

“Look who I found,” he shouts.

Aamir Khan sees Noor, and jumps up from his rocking chair. Noor runs over and wraps her arms around him.

“Is everything all right?” Aamir Khan says.

“They gave me the scholarship, Baba. They want me there in a week.”

Aamir Khan raises his arms and whoops.

“What’s going on?” Wali says.

“This amazing young woman is going to Holland, Wali.”

Aamir Khan grabs a hold of Wali’s chair and twirls it around. He dances back to his daughter.

“Oh my dear, our prayers have finally been answered.”

“My passport is still valid, isn’t it?” she says.

Concern flashes across Aamir Khan’s face.

“Hold on, let me go retrieve it.”

Aamir Khan hurries away leaving Noor alone with Wali. In the garden Rasul is tilling a flower bed.

“I sat here with Charlie the night after your accident,” Noor says. “I know there’s a part of him who wishes it’d been him rather than you.”

“I tell you, Miss Noor, I have never known a truer friend.”

And I a truer man.

Noor hears someone approaching and turns expecting her father. Instead she finds Bushra there. She looks leaner, her complexion rosier.

“Congratulations,” Bushra says. “I just heard.”

“Thank you,” Noor says.

“You’ve always worked so hard, Noor. It’s why I respect you so much.”

Noor blushes overwhelmed by her sister’s words. Bushra looks down at Wali, and Noor can’t help but notice that her sister’s eyes are sparkling.

“It’s time for your exercises,” Bushra says.

Wali groans.

“I am telling you, Miss Noor, your sister may seem like a gentle woman but she is a taskmaster.”

“Someone has to be,” Bushra says.

Wali grins, and Bushra gets behind Wali’s chair and pushes him down the ramp towards the parallel bars.

Noor hears Aamir Khan huffing and puffing back down the verandah.

“Here it is,” Aamir Khan says.

He hands Noor a passport swaddled in cloth. She unwraps it with a reverence due a medieval text.

“O Lord,” she says.

“Don’t tell me.”

“It expires in three weeks.”

“Thank God for that.”

Aamir Khan takes the passport and gazes at the photo of his nine-year old daughter, her mouth twisted up in a goofy smile. His eyes water over.

“Finally it can be put to good use.”

The two of them sit down and watch Bushra help Wali out of his chair and up onto the bars.

“He’s making real progress,” Aamir Khan says.

“And so is Bushra, it seems.”

“She has a project, may I even say a purpose once more. It’s a marvelous thing to behold.”

Aamir Khan gives Noor one of his sweet, gentle smiles, and she feels an overwhelming sadness. It takes everything not to cry.

“I don’t know if I can leave without you,” she says.

“After all these years, after all this effort, now you say this.”

“It was never a reality before.”

Aamir Khan clasps Noor’s hands in his.

“I do not believe I have ever told you this, but in nineteen seventy-six I received an offer from my old professor at Duke. Over the years he had asked me to write some articles for the literary magazine, and from what he told me they were for the most part well received. In any event he was getting on in years, and wanted someone to take over the magazine’s day-to-day running. He thought I was the ideal candidate.”

“Why did you turn it down?”

“I didn’t, I did something far more odious, I prevaricated. I had a young family, a sick father, responsibilities at Kabul University. I wrote to him and asked if his kind offer could wait until the end of the year. He wrote back and said it could. By the time January rolled around much had changed. Your grandfather had died, the political situation had deteriorated, and well, by now you will have forgotten, but the winters in Kabul are bitterly cold, and it had been an especially frigid one that year. All I could think about was my beautiful family ensconced in a cozy North Carolina home with rocking chairs much like these on its porch. So I wrote to him and said I gladly accepted his offer. January came and went, then February, and I began to wonder if he had received my letter. So one morning I went down to the post office and placed a call to his home. His wife answered and informed me that he had died on New Year’s Eve. Whatever job there had been was no longer mine for the taking.