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  “What was that guy’s problem?”

  “My advice to you Mr. Matthews, do not attempt to help another woman the rest of the time you are here. The men do not take kindly to it.”

  Charlie pulls out his Lonely Planet guide.

  “I read something about that, but I didn’t think it was that serious.”

  “I would not concern yourself with that book, Mr. Matthews.”

  “You’re right. My mom always said you could never understand a country from one.”

  “And all you must understand about Pakistan is that it’s a crazy place filled with crazy people.”

  “That’s it?”

  “The other day the United Nations publishes a list of the world’s most corrupt countries, and Pakistan is number two. ‘Why’, everyone asks, ‘did we not bribe them more so we could be number one?’”

  Charlie laughs and fishes a pen from his pocket. He scribbles on the guide book’s inside cover.

  “Okay. One‌—‌never help women. Two‌—‌crazy place filled with crazy people.”

  “You need know nothing more.”

  Wali merges onto a four-lane highway without a second glance.

  “So how’s Skeppar doing?” Charlie says.

  “Not well, I’m afraid.”

  “Still laid up, huh?”

  “He flew back to Stockholm two days since. I am telling you, he looked like a Chinaman he was so yellow.”

  “You’re shitting me.”.

  “I’m not familiar with this expression.”

  “Same as you’re kidding me.”

  Wali gets out his notepad and begins writing. The SUV veers towards the opposing lanes. Charlie leans in and corrects the wheel. Wali puts his notepad away and grins.

  “Oh, Mr. Matthews, this is most marvelous. You must know, it is my first and most important endeavor to speak like an American.”

  “Then don’t say ‘it is my endeavor’ just say ‘I want to speak like an American’.”

  “Understood.”

  Charlie floats his pack of Marlboros in Wali’s direction. Wali takes a cigarette. Charlie lights it and one for himself.

  “So who’s in charge?” Charlie says.

  “You are, of course.”

  “I mean who’s running the office?”

  “You are.”

  “Don’t think so; not what I was contracted to do.”

  “Mr. Skeppar explained everything in his letter to you.”

  “You read it?”

  “Mr. Skeppar did me the greatest honor of promoting me on his final day, and as your deputy I presumed it my duty. He says it will be three months before a replacement arrives.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “I am not shitting you in the slightest.”

  Wali grins at Charlie.

  “This is great news no? For now you can live in his house.”

  Charlie ruminates on this new piece of information. Responsibility is the last thing he’s looking for.

  “So I’m guessing you’ve got a ton of experience with mines?” Charlie says.

  “Most definitely.”

  “Where’d you get your training?”

  “Interesting you should ask. I’m not certain if you’re aware of this, Mr. Matthews—”

  “Charlie—”

  “But my sister, she was killed by a mine in Afghanistan.”

  “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

  “She was coming to visit me; took a wrong step, that’s the expression, am I not correct?”

  “Yeah, just never heard it used so literally.”

  “That’s the Afghans for you, you’ll see; everything and anything terrible that could happen to a people has happened to us‌—‌quite literally.”

  For a moment Wali appears almost tranquil, and Charlie takes the opportunity to stare out the window. The land is green and flat, dotted with one-story mud homes. They remind him of the adobe huts in Peru‌—‌just these ones don’t have windows. Shoeless kids toss balls at each other, women in scarves balance large ceramic jars on their heads, and old men plow their fields with horned cows.

  A smattering of rain drops patter on the windshield and then, just like that, the heavens open. Wali turns on the wipers and leans closer to the windshield. The one thing he doesn’t do is slow down. Outside the highway begins to resemble the surface of a lake.

  They come upon a couple of trucks whose gaudy murals look like they were created for a seventh grade art project. Wali honks at them to make way. The trucks belch out clouds of soot. Wali spits out a Pashtun curse and swings the SUV into the first of the opposing lanes. A car’s heading right for them.

  Charlie grabs his seatbelt; the buckle fails to click.

  Fuck.

  Wali wrenches the wheel to the right and they slide into the next lane. No better luck. A white mini-van’s fifty feet away.

  Wali pulls the SUV onto the side of the road sending brown water cascading down onto the windscreen. For a second they are blind. When the wipers swipe it away they see the rear-end of an emaciated cow in front of them. Wali swings the SUV back across the two opposing lanes until they’re on their side of the road, the trucks now behind them.

  Charlie lights another cigarette and takes a deep drag.

  “Wali,” he says.

  “Yes, Mr. Matthews.”

  “You probably should get my seatbelt fixed.”

  “It’s not necessary, see I don’t wear one.”

  “You probably should get it fixed all the same.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  That sounds strange. I’ve never been the boss of anyone before.

  Outside the rain stops as quickly as it began. Wali searches the floor beneath him and comes up with a cassette. He pops it into the player.

  “I have a feeling you are not a fan of Indian music so I have something I am absolutely certain you’ll relish.”

  The opening of Like A Virgin blasts from the speakers, and Wali sings along with the gusto of a backing singer. On ‘I didn’t know how lost I was until I met you,’ he points at Charlie with a gargantuan grin on his face.

  Shit, the guy’s hitting on me.

  Charlie decides it’s best not to encourage him.

  “I’m beat,” he says, “You mind if I get some shut-eye.”

  “Shut-eye?” Wali says.

  “Sleep.”

  “Of course, of course. Now shuteye is that one word or two?”

  “One I think.”

  Wali retrieves his notepad.

  “Do not worry yourself,” he says, “you’re in a most safe pair of hands.”

  “Don’t doubt it.”

  Charlie closes his eyes and is soon out for the count.

  ***

  CHARLIE AWAKES TO find Wali’s face mere inches from his own. He jerks back.

  “Mr. Matthews, we’re here.”

  Charlie realizes that Wali is standing outside the car. He wipes away the drool from his mouth and climbs out. For a moment he thinks his jetlag’s playing tricks. A mansion fit for an ambassador stands in front of him.

  “May I present your house.” Wali says.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I do not shit you. Mr. Skeppar called it his ‘precious gem’.”

  “I bet he did.”

  “Come, come, let me show you inside.”

  Wali sweeps open the front door and guides Charlie through the house’s domed hall and up its sweeping staircase to his bedroom. With its four poster bed, large Afghan rug and antique writing table it looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since the days of the Raj, and nor do any of the other bedrooms that Wali leads him through. Charlie loses count of how many there are; at least five on the top floor, another on the ground floor to go along with a book laden room that Wali calls the library, and a slightly less book laden room which he calls the sitting room. There’s a study with mounted heads of exotic animals and a vast kitchen straight from the 1930s. Standing in its center are two men; the younger, a r
ail-thin man with a sporadic beard, keeps nodding his head, while the older one stares at the black-and-white tiled floor, all the while sweeping a twig brush back and forth.

  “Who’re these guys?” Charlie says.

  “Your servants,” Wali says.

  Charlie retreats to the other end of the room and gestures for Wali to join him.

  “Is there an issue, Mr. Matthews?”

  “I don’t need servants.”

  “There’s no need to whisper, I promise you neither of these men understand a jot of English.”

  “I don’t need servants.”

  “But all aid workers have servants.”

  “You’re telling me there’s not a single aid worker out here that doesn’t have a servant?”

  “Not one I know, and besides without their jobs these men will be homeless.”

  “They live here?”

  “In a hut at the bottom of the garden.”

  Stumped, Charlie walks back to the men.

  “Okay, what are their names?”

  “This is Mukhtar, your cook and housekeeper.”

  “Good to meet you, Mukhtar.”

  Charlie sticks out his hand. Mukhtar shakes it vigorously.

  “Yes sir, yes sir,” Mukhtar says.

  “I like that,” Charlie smiles. “A firm handshake.”

  “And this is Rasul your gardener.”

  “Good to meet you, Rasul.”

  Charlie sticks out his hand. Rasul continues sweeping.

  “He is not much one for pleasantries,” Wali says.

  They go out onto a verandah and into a garden filled with flowering bushes. Jasmine vines run up the side of the house and a big oak tree stands tall in the center of a well-kept lawn. Wali and Charlie sit down in a couple of rockers. Mukhtar soon arrives with tea.

  “So I will come by after lunch to drive you to the office?” Wali says.

  “Don’t think that’s a good idea,” Charlie says. “I need a day to recharge.”

  “Recharge?”

  “You know, get my strength back.”

  Wali takes out his pad and pen.

  “But everyone is most eager to meet you.”

  “Please, Wali, just one day; it took me almost two to get here from New York.”

  Wali stops writing.

  “New York! You are from New York. Oh, you are a most lucky man, Mr. Matthews. Am I not correct in saying that New York has the most sexy women in the whole world?”

  “You’ve obviously not been to Brazil—”

  “And most of the time they wear almost nothing on their bodies?”

  “That’s not really true.”

  “Never, they never wear almost nothing?”

  “I guess when they’re in the Hamptons.”

  “Hamptons?”

  “On the beach.”

  “And when they’re on the beach, they let you have sex with them?”

  “No.”

  “Afterwards then?”

  “No.”

  “You mean to tell me you have never been to the beach with a young lady friend who let you have sex with her afterwards?”

  Charlie can’t help but smile. Wali jumps out of his chair.

  “Oh, I knew it! Mr. Matthews may I be so bold as to enquire how many females you’ve had the good fortune of having sexual intercourse with.”

  “It’s tough to count.”

  Wali lets out a groan.

  I guess he’s not gay after all.

  “Oh you do not understand, Mr. Matthews, the most dreadful conditions sexy young men like myself must endure. I am more likely to have sexual intercourse with a goat than a woman.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Why? It’s not like you can make idle chit chat with women.”

  “You mean there’s no way you could date someone?”

  “Date?”

  “You know, go to dinner, a movie, that kind of thing.”

  Wali starts laughing so hard that Charlie grows uncomfortable.

  “Oh, Mr. Matthews, you are quite the comedian. No, once in my village, there was this girl and boy who fell in love. So the boy goes to her father and begs to marry her. Of course, the girl’s father would not hear of it: he looked down upon this boy’s family. So one day they decide to run away to Kabul, but the girl’s family soon catch up with them, and they dragged them into the hills and buried them up to their waists. Now tradition is they always start with the small stones so as not to kill you too quickly. It goes on for hours, I tell you. The boy and girl were in agony, their bones broken, blood pouring from their faces, and then the girl watched as her father and uncle carried over a large stone and dropped it on her lover’s head. After that, her father turned to her and said, ‘You know I only did this because I love you’.”

  “And then what did he do?” Charlie says.

  “He shot her in the head of course.”

  Jesus, Wali wasn’t kidding. This place is crazy.

  “But you are fortunate,” Wali says. “You can go to the American Club. It’s where the foreigners go to drink. The foreign women too. It’s no more than a five minute drive.”

  Charlie looks out into the expansive garden and leans back in his chair.

  Okay, maybe living here won’t be so bad after all.

  THREE

  NOOR CROUCHES OVER her fire and tends the few sticks of kindling she was able to scavenge the night before. She hopes they’ll burn long enough for her water to boil. She’s never understood the logic of drinking tea on a hot day. Her mother never did either, but her father hasn’t gone a day in his life without a morning cup and, despite their circumstances, this is one indulgence she has no intention of depriving him of.

  The water begins to boil, and she chastises herself for letting her mind wander. She focuses once more on the Dutch phrases she’s learnt.

  Goedemorgen‌—‌Angenaam kennis te maken‌—‌Hoe gaat het met u? Goed dankuwel‌—‌Tot ziens.

  Noor lifts the pot away from the fire and the kindling disintegrates into a pile of ash. She pours the water into their chipped teapot. The corrugated door of their mud hut creaks open, and her father emerges. He runs a hand through his straggly, gray hair.

  “You are up early,” he says.

  “It’s like an oven in there. I don’t know how Bushra can stand it.”

  “Quite comfortably it seems.”

  Her father picks up the teapot, leaving the cups and saucers for Noor.

  “Care to join me in my study?” he says.

  His joke lost its power to amuse years ago, but for her father’s benefit Noor forces a smile. They head along a dusty path until they come upon a bedraggled eucalyptus tree and a carved bench that her father constructed some years back. They sit down and stare out at the barren graveyard. A rabbit pops up from behind a nearby grave and sniffs the air. Noor thinks she’s hallucinating. She shakes her head only to see it still there.

  How have you managed to survive in a place like this?

  The rabbit stares right at her, its ears twitching and makes a couple of hops in her direction. Noor holds her breath. The rabbit hops closer.

  “It should be ready by now,” her father says.

  The rabbit bounds away over the endless earthen mounds towards the crimson Khyber Mountains in the distance. Noor sighs and pours the tea. There’s no milk to go with it; that’s a luxury they’d had to forego a long time ago.

  “So, do you have a busy day ahead of you?” her father says.

  “The administrator’s visiting.”

  “That is a rarity.”

  “The headmistress wants each class to perform a song. I suggested one from The King and I.”

  “Ambitious.”

  “She deemed it too provocative and said we had to do Watan Rana Kawoo instead.”

  “Ah, that familiar favorite.”

  “She thinks the lyrics are inspirational.”

  “‘We are the army of education and bring light in the darkness.’ You must admit
that tugs on the old heart strings.”

  “If you understand Pashtu.”

  “Maybe your fearless administrator does.”

  “I doubt it. None of them do.”

  Noor’s stomach rumbles. She figures if she gets to school early enough she might be able to scrounge some naan from the kitchen.

  “Do you think she might know the status of that scholarship?” her father says.

  “I’m trying not to think about it.”

  “And failing, it would seem; you were tossing and turning all night.”

  “That had everything to do with this damn heat.”

  Her father takes a sip of his tea. She knows he isn’t buying her explanation.

  Why should he? I don’t buy it either.

  “I had the strangest dream last night,” her father says.

  Noor waits patiently. Listening to her father’s dreams is another indulgence she’s never deprived him of.

  “It was raining, in a manner you could not imagine, and there we were, you, Bushra and I huddled up inside the hut. Water started seeping under the door, and soon it was so high that we resolved to flee. We waded outside to discover the whole camp engulfed by a flood and everything and everyone being swept away. At that moment all seemed lost, but then, right ahead of us, was a boat with your mother at the helm. It was so tiny she only had room for one of us, and do you know whom she chose to go with her? She chose you.”

  “I wouldn’t have left you.”

  “But you did, and as I watched the two of you drift away, I do not think I have ever felt happier. It is a sign, my love, I think your time in this camp is coming to an end.”

  “You always dream of Mamaan around her birthday.”

  “I do not deny that, but this felt different. Truly it did.”

  Noor kisses her father on the cheek.

  “I love you, Baba.”

  “I love you too, my dear.”

  Noor pulls her headscarf over her hair and heads for a nearby alley. Noor read once that the Eskimos had twenty words to describe snow, and she wonders why the Afghans haven’t come up with a similar number for mud. Everything in the refugee camp seems to be made of it; the huts, the walls, the alleys, even the latrines. She comes to a wider lane already crowded with men making their way towards Jamrud Road, and crosses over the footbridge that spans the concrete storm channel. Shirtless boys are cooling off in its sewage-filled waters. She enters a ramshackle market.