The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan (32 page)

I was still hyped by the morning game and got a lift back to the hotel. Noor, Mike, Kit and Mom just finished their afternoon tea when I walked in with my Frisbee. Kit suggested we all play Frisbee in the cool-shaded garden. They were all quite pleased with the changes in the political landscape and said so openly.

My son is doing well at the American school. His main interest is making friends. Due to my business dependency on Kalq party officials, Kirk is only in contact with other teens at school and not after, except at an occasional movie.

I didn’t realize that I would be putting Kirk in such a position that he would receive a cool reception from American teens. Embassy staffers continued to invite my son to go riding and for basketball and ping pong. But, it was the same old story. American, Russian, and Chinese staffers continued to pump him for information or plant information for him to transfer.

The Italians and Afghans seemed to genuinely enjoy Kirk’s company. My friends at the embassies were kind to my son, but were pressured to patronize him. They viewed my son as an information conduit, and this I regretted.

Embassy staffers paid a great deal of attention to Kirk and I was grateful for that. Kirk realized what was happening, but didn’t let it bother him. In this regard he was getting quite savvy. He happily took each invitation in stride and mostly enjoyed himself in the process.

My son was reading and writing much more than he did in the States. The situation in Kabul encourages Kirk toward a more contemplative and reflective lifestyle. He was maturing noticeably and for that I was grateful. Yet, he remained a typical teen whose reading preferences included
Amityville Horror
and
Things that Go Bump in the Night
.

School events are easy to get accustomed to. Gym is now 2:15 each day and I played at grinding a softball 200 feet diagonally toward third base. I reached first base but did not get batted home. After the game I checked out an electrical transformer to amplify my electric guitar, my ax. I jammed about thirty minutes, drawing a dozen or so people.

My secret admirer phoned today. Jan and I agreed to meet at AID, a local Kabul theatre. AID is showing the film Network. Jan did not show up, it’s the kidnapping fear, I guess. Now that I have a clearer picture of the American fear of kidnapping, I don’t feel “stood-up” and I’m not angry or hurt. As Mom says, “It’s all part of the Great Game here in Kabul.”

Events of this sort provide incentive to practice guitar and spend more time with my Afghan friends. I play cards with Noor, Mike and their kids. I teach them to “count cards” in black-jack and poker, deal from the bottom of the deck and other American gaming techniques.

I told my Afghan buddies the W. C. Fields story that dad is so fond of. In one of Field’s films he’s on a train and, to pass the time, offers to play cards with a traveling salesman. The salesman asks “Is this a game of chance” and Field says, “No, not the way I play it.”

Of course, the Afghans never heard of Fields and did not understand any part of the story. First, Noor asked, “What’s a traveling salesman?” I said, “He’s a merchant who travels from town to town selling goods and bads.” Then he asked, “What’s a game of chance?” So I told him, “It’s like a gambling card game where you take a chance to win or lose.”

Now the conversation really got funny and I began to see that no matter how good their English is, the special meaning of jokes completely escapes them. Noor asked, “What are goods and bads?” I began to think how my teachers must feel with my questions in class. I replied that goods and bads refer to good merchandise and bad merchandise.

I was about to use the word “bogus” to describe bad merchandise, but decided to use “bad” instead. I thought that I’d finally explained an American joke when Mike asks, “What does he mean when he says “No, not the way I play it?”

So I tried to be patient and explained slowly that the ‘way Fields plays it,’ other card players have no chance of winning. Now my friends laugh politely. I tell them that if they were to tell me an Afghan joke I would probably have similar problems understanding.”

My son and I were getting homesick, especially Kirk. While my Afghan business associates and friends put on a great show of cheerful friendliness, to other Americans my son and I were treated with noticeable reserve. The embassy staff knew I’d been in business here going on five years, but they were suspicious of my ties to Afghan Kalq party officials.

It was obvious, at least to me, that Afghan cheerfulness was increasingly forced. My friends never missed an opportunity to praise the government, and it began to sound like some sort of political mantra. My mantra was to reply, “Yes, new clinics are wonderful. More schools, better roads, women’s rights, and ending serfdom; all are great improvements.”

I’m a progressive-internationalist, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that the freedom to speak, act, and travel out of the country was evaporating. All the bazaars, shops and stalls had to display a picture of the new president.

Red banners everywhere were at first comforting, but now it was getting tiresome and Kabul was looking as bloodshot as my eyes. It was getting to be just plain sickening. Kirk told me one day that after his last class some classmates told him that “Tonight we’re going to kill their flags on top of the hill and add blue and white lights to the red ones. Want to come along?”

Kirk replied “sure” but had no intention of showing up. I suggested to Mike that armed soldiers be planted to guard the lights as mischief was afoot. We didn’t need any more diplomatic trouble, and I certainly did not want a bunch of stupid kids getting hurt. Amazingly, no one asked me about my source of information, and it would turn out that no one was hurt or embarrassed that night, which was a relief.

School here is a new event each day, mostly triggered by the political changes taking place. None of the kids at school asked me why I didn’t show up for their “light-show.” One girl told me that they were all “grounded” last night. “Me too,” I added. She figured that parents were alerted to keep their kids at home.

Mom and I had lunch with Nazur, one of her dealers. The red banners in the café and all over Kabul now had gold lettering that translated to “Peace, Bread and Land.” Mom said that was the motto Lenin used in the Russian revolution.

Nazur gave me a large copper plate that was beautifully embossed. At his shop, Mom told me to buy an antique oil lamp that looked really ancient. The lamp is unusual and eye-catching. I never saw anything like it before.

I should have been at school today, so I excused myself from Mom and Nazur and rushed to the school library to complete my Chemistry homework. When any of us miss school the teachers only say that they missed us and ask if everything is OK, that’s the extent of punishment for absence and tardiness. Later in the day we had a game of baseball and I got two runs.

Being sweaty and tired from the ball game, I took a shower and checked out an ax for group guitar practice. After fifteen minutes of practice the music instructor made me give up the ax to another kid that signed the list after I did. This angered me and I had a long face all the way to the hotel.

That night Rosy phoned from the American Embassy asking if I wanted to go riding with her in the morning, I replied, “Great, can I have that roan appaloosa mare, Lucy?” The next morning, just as the sun rose, we rode up the mountains and onto an ancient burial site. I gave Lucy an apple and a carrot before we started and she nuzzled me every chance she got.

From the top of the mountain (the Afghans call it a hill) we could see all of Kabul. It was beautiful with the sun rising over the light-colored buildings. Ridding up the hill required pains taking zigzagging up to the peak.

As we watched the sun rise, Rosy thanked me for tipping-off Mom about the planned prank. “You saved us a lot of trouble, Kirk, and we are truly grateful to you and Lela. I guess it pays to have friends with a foot in both camps,” she told me.

We descended the mountain slowly and carefully, especially around the hair-pin curves. It was far scarier going down than going up. I kept scratching Lucy’s ears since the deer-flies began pestering the poor mare as well as us. Rosy sprayed her horse’s head and herself; then handed me the spray to do the same. Lucy snorted what sounded like a thank you.

As we trotted through small villages on the way down the dusty mountain trail, kids ran alongside our horses, screaming and waving, patting the horses flanks as we waved to them. Rosy reached into her saddle bags, tossing out candy and gum. She always seems well prepared and, in my view, she’s an awesome Greek goddess.

Passing a small army post, we waved and cheerfully wished them good morning in Pashto. Rosy stopped and gave them a bag of candy. The soldiers were delighted; they seemed about my age and were happy for the gift. Continuing on, Rosy said, “That candy is probably their breakfast.” The way they rushed at the candy, I think she was right.

My inner thighs and upper leg muscles were sore for days afterwards. Rosy said I grasped the horse too tightly with my legs; I should relax more to relieve the muscle strain. So I asked her, “How can I stay on my horse going down those steep trails?” She told me to press my heels forward in the stirrups for better control. That’s enough cowboys and Indians for a while.

Rosy took me for breakfast after returning the horses to the stable. She paid the stable boy 200 AFs (less than $5) and he returned 50 AFs, so she gave him a bag of candy and he was delighted.

I joked with Rosy, “If you’re giving out so much candy, you should provide dentists along with the candy.” She laughed and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. She rides so well and is really agile in the saddle. Maybe she can teach me.

Later that day Rosy took me to the AID center to watch another American film,
Bell, Book and Candle
—it’s about witchcraft and magic, which I love. As far as I’m concerned, Ernie Kovacs and Jack Lemon are the stars of that film. James Steward is boring in that film. I think he’s supposed to be that way. Kim Novak is a delicious witch, just my type.

Perhaps the whole point of the film is that witches, by comparison, make ordinary people seem like they’re made of wood. Maybe that’s what makes witchery and magic so popular; drawing us away from the hum-drum into a temporary world we want to believe is real. Well I do anyway. On the other hand, Kabul is exciting enough for now.