What Changes Everything (25 page)

       "I know what I said was wrong and I have something to confess: part of me knew from the start that you were right, but I couldn‟t acknowledge it, even to myself. Somehow I thought that accepting Piotr had died in such a pointless way was like losing him all over again. But I know how hard that viewpoint must have been for you.

       "Eventually, a drop hollows out a stone. You are that drop, Dani, even in your silence. Please call me. I will keep writing for as long as I can hold a pen, waiting for a response. Our Piotr has been dead long enough, and there‟s nothing I can do except make up wishes. You‟ve been gone long enough too, and I‟m doing all I can to fix it."

       Danil refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, waiting for a moment to make sure his voice wouldn‟t crack when he called. He was wrong to let it get so big. That, he decided, was the first thing he would tell her.

—Eleanor Wilner

       
My dear d
aughters, I‟m sorry my conversation with each of you this afternoon had to be
so painfully brief. But I was glad to find a way to call, to make sure your mother knows I am fine
and strong and optimistic. I‟ve listened as the Talibs took the south and the wes
t, Kandahar and
Herat. Rockets have cratered my garden. A window shattered in my hallway. A hole gapes in my
ceiling. And now they have taken Surobi; they have the keys to Kabul. Yes, they sit 30 miles to
the northeast, prowling at the outskirts of our city. In the distance, I hear the ring of rocket fire.

       
Oh Heelo, if I could have answered your question today with a long reply. "What does
this mean for you?" you asked me, and I could only say, "I don‟t have much time on the phone; I
need to talk to your s
isters. Be strong and take care of your mother." Those words echo within
me; I did not want those to be the last you heard from me today; you are the oldest and you
deserved a longer answer. If it would have been possible, I would have told you: the moment is
serious, but still I say, Heelo jan, soon the branches shall be filled with flowers, for I have
noticed red buds on their tips.

       
It is not that I expect those who are sane to muster forces against those who are not at
this eleventh hour. No, it is too late for that; my repeated appeals to international leaders have
gone unheard, and now we will all pay the price, and they will one day say to you, "Your father
was right."

       
But all is not lost. If it is Allah‟s will, I expect to be rejoined with you in less
than a week.
I‟ve sent an urgent message to UN headquarters in New York. I told them: You promised me safe
passage all those years ago. The promise was delayed, but it is time to keep it. I seek the
immediate evacuation of myself, my younger brother Shahpur Ahmadzai, my bodyguard and my
secretary who have been with us for these long years. Thank you. I signed it: President Dr.
Mohammed Najibullah Ahmadzai.

       
So far, no word.

       
But I wait, and I trust.

       
The boy Amin stays with me, though I‟ve bid him to go. "Back to your family," I told him.
"You‟ve done your job well. Now you do not want to be found with me."

       
"I will serve you chai until the UN comes to deliver you to the airport," he said, but by
the way his eyes filled as he spoke, I knew he does not truly believe they will come for me.

       
I believe, though, my daughters. I believe.

       
On the strength of that belief, I twice refused Massoud‟s offers to spirit me away to the
north of Afghanistan, to Panjshir. I do not trust him—in the end, he is an Islamist just like
Rabbani. If the worst comes, these Taliban will capture me and then banish me from
Afghanistan—I am of their blood, a fellow Pashtun, and they will do nothing worse than that.
Gen. Tokhi agrees with my assessment. My younger brother, your uncle, does not, I fear. Though
he stays silent, when he looks at me, I see what is in his eyes. I do not allow such looks of fear in
my own gaze now.

       
Paradise is a good place, my brother says, but the heart must be lacerated to get there.
For those I have harmed, and this includes you by my absence, they will never know how fiercely
I wish I could stand before them—before you—and ask forgiveness. My daughters, I love you. I
love your mother. I love my siblings, and send special greetings to my oldest sister Saleha, my
khoro, who little Onie so resembles. I have missed you all almost to the limits of my endurance
over these years. I am not afraid and I will not say farewell. But just in case, I want you to know
I am thankful for all I‟ve had. Death on a full belly is bet
ter than a life of hunger.

        
I don‟t want—
nor expect, if Allah wills—to depart this earth without being in your
company again.

       
All my love, your,

       
Najib

To: Mr. James Fairfield, Editor, Arts Beat

Dear Mr. Fairfield,

       My name is Stela Sidorova and I am writing to extend a personal invitation to you for an upcoming gallery opening and to give you a very good tip on a young artist whose work should be covered by the New York Times if you are to remain truly relevant in the art world today. His work is compassionate, textured, stimulating and important. (Yes, I have looked at some of the descriptions you yourself have used in your columns.) It‟s street art making its way into galleries; it will be featured two weeks from now in the Rustlessend Gallery in the Chelsea area of Manhattan and the artist himself will be there, actually painting on a gallery wall as if to simulate the work he does late at night outdoors. His work is a visually moving reminder to America of its place in the violent world that we inhabit and to which we contribute. He defies the law in creating it, but there is a reason for that. The work is dedicated to his brother, who was killed as a soldier in Afghanistan under murky circumstances that are still under investigation, or should be. (Information on this is difficult to obtain.) Therefore, he questions the legality of his own brother‟s death. He is articulate, and his story is compelling.

       The artist‟s name is Danil Sidorov. I have held back that information until now because, yes, we are related. (He is my son, and it is my other son, Piotr, who died in Afghanistan.) But that is not the reason I am alerting you to this great opportunity. It is because too little of our art is this meaningful in so many contexts. Please send someone, a junior reporter if you must, or better come yourself. I will be there and will make sure Dani answers any questions you may have.

       Thank you for your time, and sincerely, Stela Sidorova

Dear Piotr, oh dear Piotr,

I remember. I remember so much. I remember it all.

Those early years, the three of us a core of light that burned at the center of every day.

       The Saturday morning that you and Dani went out after a rainstorm to play while I worked to clean the house and do the laundry. Then you appeared at the back door, both of you naked, covered with mud and laughing. For a second, I was angry, thinking of your dirty bodies tromping across my clean floor, but then I began to laugh, too. I lifted each of you in turn and carried you to the shower.

       The day I took you boys to a neighboring farm to see the cows and goats, and one of the baby cows came up and tried to kiss you, grabbing gently onto your T-shirt. I was laughing, and you were too, though you were also scared. I didn‟t notice that at first, but Dani did; he was the one who pulled you away.

       The day you came home after that nasty little boy had bullied you. Your cheek was bruised. And you said when he hit you, you found you couldn‟t lift your arms to hit him back, that they froze in place, and you didn‟t know why. Finally you were able to lift them, but only to shield yourself. And how angry Dani got on your behalf.

       Remember how you called a hippopotamus a "cow-fish"? And how you used to believe if you waved your arms quickly enough, you could make a windstorm? And how you could burp on command? Remember the Easter of freak weather, when you and Dani hunted eggs in the snow? Remember when I got frightened because your voice sounded like you were sick, but it was because you‟d inhaled the helium from a birthday party balloon?

       I want those moments back.

       Of course I wouldn‟t be able to have them back even if you were still here now, a grown man, and of course I would still mourn their loss. But not with the bitterness I feel now.

       I can‟t stand to have lost you.

       Piotr, Dani is an artist now, and has his first gallery show in New York City in a few weeks. I wish so much that you could be there, but you will be there, because the work is dedicated to you. In fact, he signs each piece not with his own name, but with IMOP. It stands for In Memory Of Piotr. We had trouble after your death, Dani and I. I couldn‟t accept the truth. But Dani made me see it. He did it out of love for you, which I didn‟t understand at first, but you would have, I‟m sure, even from the beginning.

       There is nothing to match the way I love you and Dani. There is nothing to ease what I feel with you gone before me. I haven‟t been able to find a philosopher or poet whose words bring true comfort, though I keep opening the books, searching. I hope you can rest in peace, without any burden of pain, and that we can carry that pain for you. I want you to know, if there is any way for you to know, that you live on through Dani and me, and that you touched us deeply and that we miss you beyond the power of words to say.

       I love you, Piotr. Mom

       Mandy leaned over her suitcase, tucking in the few items she was bringing home as gifts. A Tajik hat for her brother. A scarf to give one sister, a small container of saffron for the other. For Jimmy, a string of lapis lazuli prayer beads and a note signed by six men he‟d fought with who were still here; Hammon and Corporal Holder had helped her track them down. "It went so fast," she said.

       "I‟m just glad it went safely," Hammon answered. She hadn‟t seen him for three days, and no one had been able or willing to tell her when he would return, so she‟d feared she‟d have to depart without saying goodbye. He‟d managed to show up half an hour before she had to head to the airport.

       "You‟re going to be a little relieved to have me gone, I suspect. One less person to be responsible for."

       "It‟s been no trouble at all."

       "Now that‟s not true." Mandy smiled. "How long do you think you‟ll stay here? Or is that classified?"

       Hammon shrugged. "As long as there‟s work to do. Work that seems meaningful. So I think I‟ll be here when you come back."

       Mandy started; she actually was thinking of returning, but she hadn‟t said that aloud yet. Was Hammon kidding, or had he somehow read her mind? She studied his face, which looked serious. "You really think Jimmy could come here and help you?"

       "He‟d be great here. He‟s talented with the computer stuff and he understands the place and he‟s got solid judgment about people."

       Mandy considered Hammon‟s assessment. "I think that‟s true," she said. "But still… wouldn‟t he have to come face to face daily with the things he can‟t do anymore?"

       "There are things all of us can‟t do. You‟d never been here before and you don‟t speak the language. Would you call your trip successful?"

       Mandy sensed Hammon wasn‟t referring to the nurses‟ training or the supplies she brought. He was asking something more elemental. In fact, at last, a process of forgiveness was starting to take hold in her: forgiveness for Jimmy, and for herself. But that was too personal and tentative to share. "I‟m glad I got to see the first frame of what Jimmy saw," she said. "I made some connections that are important, at least to me. And I admit it‟s been good, in an odd way, to be in a place where tragedy isn‟t something to be denied. Nobody here is insisting I have a nice day."

       The driver who would take her to the airport appeared at her door. Hammon held up a finger, signaling one more minute. "Ready?" Mandy zipped up the suitcase, and Hammon carried it out for her.

       "What happened to Jimmy," Hammon said as they walked toward the car, "it could have happened to any of us."

       "I know," Mandy said. "I‟m sure you‟ve had your close calls."

       She stood on her toes to hug this friend of her son‟s, and then she leaned back to look him in the face. "One last question for now," she said. "Is Hammon your real name?"

He laughed. "Who wants to be google-able?"

"There‟s my answer."

"No, this is your answer: trust what you see, what you feel, and don‟t worry about

insignificant details."

       She smiled as she settled in the car.

       "You give Jimmy my best when you talk to him," Hammon said through the open