Refuge (7 page)

You, of course, were part of the second phase; the training of our demining teams. Wali, who you’ll find is most eager, has assured me that he’s identified thirty capable recruits and for the next three months it will be your job to bring them along as much as you can.

Remember my admonition – “first, do no harm”. You may conduct practical exercises, but under no circumstances should anything more than inactive mines be used. I also ask that you keep all training within the confines of our compound. Coming from the US Army, I suspect you’ll have a certain confidence as to how quickly you can train these men. Let me assure you nothing comes easy around here. If they know how to identify basic mines and operate a metal detector by the time Stephen arrives you’ll be ahead of the game.

So good luck, be sensible and stay well.

Yours truly,

Johan Skeppar

Charlie puts the letter down.

Doesn’t sound too hard. Not too hard at all.

There’s a knock on the door.

“I apologize for the delay,” Wali says, “I had trouble finding Qasim. He was taking crap.”

“A crap.”

“Good to know.”

He hands Charlie a scrap of paper with the number on it. Charlie picks up the receiver. He’s about to dial when he sees Wali still standing there.

“Do you mind? It’s a private call.”

“Oh, I see. Just so you know I have told the recruits to be here at four o’clock.”

“Great.”

“A most wonderful and dedicated group of men.”

“I believe you.”

Wali backs away and closes the door behind him. Charlie dials the number.

“Dutch Aid,” a voice on the other end of the line says.

“Yeah, I was looking for Elma Kuyt,” he says.

“I’m sorry, sir, but she is out in the field right now.”

“Any idea when she’s going to be back.”

“Two, three hours, I believe. May I take a message?”

“Sure. Tell her Charlie Matthews from Mine Aware called.”

“Certainly.”

Charlie replaces the receiver.

Three hours. Perfect.

He draws the blinds and lies down on the couch.

***

“MR. MATTHEWS, MR.
Matthews.”

Charlie struggles to open his eyes. Wali is standing over him beaming.

“The recruits are here,” Wali says.

“I thought you said they were coming at four.”

“It is four-thirty now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why would I shit you about such a thing?”

Charlie struggles to sit up. His mouth is dry and his head woozy. Wali holds out a glass of water.

“Here, this will help,” he says.

Charlie drains the glass.

“Thanks, you’re a life saver,” Charlie says. “By the way did anyone from Dutch Aid call back?”

“I do not believe so. Why? Was it important?”

“Not really. Come on, let’s go meet the guys.”

Wali leads Charlie outside where a group of men are standing in two ragged lines. Charlie takes them in; half of them look like the residents of an old folks home, the other half like the inhabitants of an insane asylum.

“How you pick these guys?” Charlie says.

“By an utmost rigorous selection process.”

“Right, well I might as well introduce myself.”

Charlie walks up to the first man in line. The man’s face is bathed in sweat. Charlie decides not to shake his hand.

“As-salaam Alaykum,” Charlie says.

“Wa-alaykum asalaam,” the man says.

“I’m Charlie. What’s your name?”

“Please meet a you.”

“No your name?”

“It is Zulfikar Mohammad,” Wali says.

“Yes, yes, Zulfikar Mohammad,” the man says. “Please meet a you.”

Charlie turns to Wali.

“He okay?”

“I do not understand.”

“His eyes are kind of yellow, don’t you think?”

Wali peers at the man.

“He’s Hazara, they all have yellow eyes.”

Charlie shakes his head and moves on to the next man. There’s no mistaking the defects in his eyes. The pupil in his right is milky white while the one in his left zigzags like an out of control cue ball. Charlie exchanges salaams with the man and does the same with the next, an old man leaning on a cane. He comes to the fourth in line, and his hopes rise. Here, at last, is someone young and fit.

“As-salaam Alaykum,” he says.

“Wa-alaykum asalaam,” the man says.

“My name’s Charlie, what’s yours?”

The man smiles at him.

“I said my name’s Charlie, what’s yours?”

The man continues to smile. Charlie turns to Wali.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“Oh, he’s just a little deaf. He can read lips most excellently however.”

“In English?”

“No, that he cannot accomplish.”

Charlie looks down the line and sees no better prospects.

“Mind coming with me?” he says to Wali.

“Is there a problem?”

“Just need to chat, that’s all.”

Wali shrugs. They walk back to Charlie’s office. Charlie closes the door.

“Okay, cards on the table time. How many of these guys are your relatives?”

“I do not understand, Mr. Matthews, not one of these men is my brother.”

“I didn’t ask if they were your brother, I asked if you were related to any of them.”

“I do not understand the difference.”

“Okay, how many of them are cousins?”

“Mother or father’s side?”

“Both.”

Wali counts them out on his right hand.

“No more than four and may I tell you I personally vouch for them; if they fail you I will undoubtedly resign.”

“You related to any of the four I met?”

Wali doesn’t say anything.

“It’s not a hard question, Wali.”

“Two of them.”

“Which ones?”

“The second and the third.”

“The old man and the blind dude.”

“He isn’t blind.”

“In one eye he is.”

“Which leaves the other.”

“Which seems pretty fucked up as well.”

“It’s not his fault he stepped on a mine.”

“You telling me he’s only got one leg?”

“No, he has two legs.”

“Does he have two feet?”

“Unfortunately not.”

Outside the wails of first one then dozens of muezzins pierce the air.

“Okay, we got to find some new guys.”

“Mr. Matthews, if you are accusing me—”

“Listen, I couldn’t give a shit about that.”

“About what?”

“Nepotism.”

Wali gives Charlie a blank stare.

“You know giving friends and relatives jobs—”

Wali gets out his pad.

“—but I’ve got to train these guys. Please, I beg you, make this easy for me. Find me a bunch of guys who can see, hear, speak English and run a mile in less than ten minutes.”

“But this would mean I would have to replace all of them.”

“I’m sorry but that’s the way it is.”

Wali pouts as if he is on the verge of tears.

“Now do you mind giving me the keys to the car?” Charlie says. “I mean that is my car you’ve driving, right?”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“If you could give me some time—”

“It’s okay, I can drive.”

“But you will get lost.”

“Sometimes getting lost is the best way to get to know a city.”

Wali looks at Charlie as if he’s now officially lost his mind.

“The keys, Wali.”

Wali reaches into his pocket and retrieves the keys.

“This is not a good idea, Mr. Matthews.”

“Send out a search party if I don’t turn up tomorrow,” Charlie grins.

Charlie jumps in his Pajero and heads to Jamrud Road. He finds it no less mad than earlier that day. Buses, coming in the opposite direction, drift onto his side of the road and play chicken with him. Rickshaws dart in and out of traffic as if their very intent is to cause a pile up. Donkey drawn carts plod along as if it’s their God given right to hold everyone else up. Everyone honks, no one brakes unless they are truly forced to, while random animals and humans cross his path as though they’re playing Frogger and have more than one life to give.

By the time he reaches the refugee camp, his nerves are frayed. He wasn’t thinking of going back to the American Club so soon, but now he’s desperate for a drink.

He looks at the clock. Five-thirty.

As long as you survive,
you’ll be drinking a beer by six.

He hears a wrenching sound and plumes of smoke start pouring from the hood. He pulls the car over and the engine takes a final gasp. Charlie gets out and goes to pop the hood. The latch scalds his fingers and he jumps back.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He stuffs his fingers into his mouth. An old man squatting nearby looks up at him with a vacant expression. It takes Charlie a moment to realize that the man’s pants are around his ankles, and he’s taking a shit.

“Jesus,” Charlie says.

Across the road he sees a group of refugees standing around. He knows there’s only one thing to do. He’s got to go back to Mine Aware and get some help. He waits for a gap in the traffic and joins them.

“Evening,” he says.

They all look his way.

“Guessing there’s no triple A around here.”

No one says a thing.

“Guess not.”

A packed bus pulls up. Four of the refugees try to get on. Only three make it. Five buses later, Charlie is the only person left at the side of the road. By now the sun has dropped below the Khyber Mountains, and the wind’s picked up. Charlie shields his eyes from the dust and sees a couple more buses approaching. Charlie waves his hands in the air but neither of them stop.

“Ah, this is bullshit,” he shouts.

Fifty yards out, he makes out the headlamps of another bus. He steps into its path. The driver leans on his horn. Charlie doesn’t budge. The bus’s brakes squeal, and at the last moment Charlie jumps out of the way. Charlie runs up to the door and grabs a hold of the handle.

“Oh come on, let me in.”

The driver shakes his head. Charlie grabs a ten dollar bill from his wallet and sticks it against the glass. The doors hiss open. Charlie clambers on board and hands the money over. He looks up the bus. It’s crammed tighter than a cattle trailer. A wizened old man is picking himself up off the floor. He jabbers away at Charlie in Pashtu.

“Sorry about that,” Charlie says.

The man starts poking Charlie with his cane.

“Hey, I said I was sorry.”

The bus lurches forward, and Charlie and the old man end up on the floor. The man brings his cane up and catches Charlie in the balls. Charlie rolls over gasping. The man clambers to his feet and jabs him from above. Charlie scrambles down the aisle on his knees until he’s out of range.

He raises his head and finds himself staring up at the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life. The woman looks down at him with the hint of a smile and then drops her eyes to the books in her lap. He clambers to his feet and tries to catch her gaze again. Her head remains stubbornly bowed, her threadbare, red scarf hiding the top of her head.

Charlie senses others staring at him. He looks around and finds that in fact every passenger is. He glances up at the ceiling; someone has painted a landscape on it dotted with burning tanks and Soviet soldiers dying in pools of blood.

If that isn’t a warning, what is?

Charlie lowers his gaze; most of the passengers have turned their eyes away. He glances at the girl; her head’s still down.

Damn.

The bus slows, and she gets up, her eyes fixed to the floor.

“Excuse me,” she says.

Charlie doesn’t budge.

Please, just one last look.

She raises her chin and stares at him. There’s not a hint of make-up on her face and he wouldn’t want there to be; nothing could improve her beauty.

“Please,” she says.

“My bad,” Charlie says.

He pushes himself up against the refugee next to him, and she slides past. He scrambles into her seat and through the window watches her walk past the glowing cooking pits, and the ramshackle stalls at the side of the road. She crouches down, and Charlie thinks she must have dropped something. He squints into the darkness and discovers she’s stopped to give money to a legless young girl who’s propped against a stack of used tires.

My God. She’s an angel.

The bus drives forward. Charlie jumps up.

“Stop,” he shouts.

The bus lurches to a halt, and the old man goes sprawling. Charlie clambers over him and scrambles off the bus. He navigates his way through the throng and sees the young girl. He feels an obligation to give her something and hunts in his wallet. All he has are one hundred rupee bills.

“Here,” he says shoving one of them into the girl’s outstretched hands.

He hurries on and spies the red headscarf. The young woman is standing at a stall stacked high with mangoes. She picks up a couple and asks the price. When the owner gives it to her, she puts one back, hands him some coins and keeps on walking.

Shit, what now?

A young kid comes up to him. His nose is running and he keeps wiping away rivulets of goo with his sleeve.

“You want Coke, mister?” the kid says.

“You got a pen,” Charlie says.

The boy gives him a blank stare. Charlie writes in the air.

“Pen, pen,” Charlie says.

The kid rushes off. Charlie catches a glimpse of the girl’s red headscarf just before she turns down an alley next to a bicycle repair shack. The kid returns with a chewed up ballpoint pen. Charlie hands him one of the hundred dollar bills

“Here,” he says.

The kid grins like he’s won the lottery. Charlie takes out another and starts scribbling on it

***

NOOR HURRIES DOWN
the claustrophobic alleys of the camp, her notebooks held tight to her chest. With each gust of wind ever more dust coats her face and her headscarf edges further back until her hair billows behind her like laundry on a line. Noor prays she can get to their hut without running into a fanatic. There have been more and more attacks on ‘loose women’ of late.