Refuge (12 page)

“I admit it,” Wali says.

“There that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Do you think less of me now, Mr. Matthews?”

“Hell no.”

“Really?”

“You got a lot of other talents, finding mines just isn’t one of them.”

“You won’t tell Mr. Skeppar.”

“Who do you think I am? Now come on, let’s go.”

They get out and the boys crowd around them jabbering away at Wali. Wali picks the wiriest of the bunch and hands him a five-rupee note.

“What did you say to him?” Charlie says.

“If the car is in the same condition when we return he gets another ten rupees. Trust me, he will fight with his life to protect it.”

They turn off the main street and enter the tight alleys of the Old City. They’re heaving with men and a mixture of shawled and burqaed women. It’s a frenetic, upbeat maze with smoke from open fronted restaurants wafting down the alleys like evil spirits searching for victims. A schizophrenic fusion of smells assaults Charlie’s nose. One moment it’s sweet cinnamon and nutmeg from the spice stores, the next it’s the putrid stench of chicken entrails from the butchers’. Wali barrels forward ignoring the sales pitches of the storeowners and the pleas of the deformed beggars, and by necessity Charlie has to as well. They plunge into the shimmering jewelry bazaar, its stores heaving with bronze ornaments and gaudy jewelry, and burst out into a large square, teeming with hundreds of turbaned men sitting on their haunches.

“This is Sarafa, the moneychangers’ bazaar,” Wali says.

Charlie looks in one of the stores. A money-counting machine whirs its way through a large stack of bills. They leave the square and head down an alley filled with stationers and booksellers, the books piled high like they’re part of some ancient library. Wali leads Charlie down a couple of passageways so dark and narrow Charlie half-expects to be knifed. They emerge into an area that is split between pharmacies and motorcycle garages. Above each of the pharmacies a neon half crescent shines, and combined they bathe the area in a pale green light. They enter an open garage that seems to be more a repository of spare parts than actual motorcycles.

“You sure this is the right place?”

Wali calls out, and a grease-stained mechanic emerges from the back with a gleaming black and chrome motorcycle.

“Honda Rebel,” the man grins at Charlie.

Charlie inspects it. It’s in good shape.

“You won’t believe this but this was my first bike. Bought it with my army signing bonus.”

“Ah, there’s nothing like a man’s first love,” Wali says.

The mechanic comes over and points at the chain.

“He says he changed the rear sprocket from thirty-three tooth to thirty. Says it can go at least eighty miles an hour.”

“What’s he want?”

Wali asks the mechanic.

“He says one thousand five hundred dollars.”

“Forget it, I could buy a new one for that price back home.”

Wali translates and the man replies.

“He asks what’s your price?”

“I don’t know. Seven. It’s in good condition but it’s been driven a lot.”

Wali gives the mechanic Charlie’s offer, and the man cries out.

“He says why do you want his children to starve?” Wali says.

“Tell me you’re kidding?”

“Oh no, he’s very upset.”

“So what’s his price?”

Wali turns to the mechanic who goes into a sales pitch full of gesticulations and hair pulling.

“He says one thousand three hundred dollars but only because you are friend.”

“I just met him.”

“Still he considers you a friend.”

“Seven hundred.”

Wali goes back again. The man raises his fist.

“He says you are cruel, cruel man, why do you torment him so?”

“Screw this,” Charlie says, “He can keep it.”

Charlie turns. The mechanic runs over and tugs him on his arm. He launches into another impassioned diatribe.

“He says the price is one thousand one hundred,” Wali says, “but he will make no money from the sale.”

“One thousand and we’re done.”

Wali tells the mechanic, and the mechanic, wiping tears from his eyes, nods.

“He says okay for you he’ll do it.”

Charlie counts out ten one hundred dollar bills.

“Please tell me he’s making money on this deal?” Charlie says.

“Oh, I suspect at least three hundred dollars,” Wali says.

Charlie stares at Wali.

“You tell me that now?”

“If you had wanted me to bargain for you, you should have said.”

Charlie sighs. He hands the bills to the mechanic whose mood has transformed markedly. Charlie suspects Wali’s getting a hefty commission.

Charlie wheels the bike outside.

“Want to give it a spin?” he says to Wali.

“Would you mind if I visited one of these chemists first.”

“Go for it.”

Wali enters the nearest pharmacy. Charlie turns the ignition and the engine purrs.

A thirty tooth rear-sprocket. Who’d have thought?

He looks through the pharmacy window. Wali is haggling with the storeowner. Wali throws up his hands and storms out of the shop.

“You didn’t get anything?” Charlie says.

“He charges too much.”

“What for?”

“It is of no importance.”

“No, tell me.”

“Morphine. My mother has cancer, she needs it otherwise the pain is too much.”

For the first time Wali seems worn down and vulnerable. Charlie looks down and notices how tattered Wali’s shoes are.

If he’s into all these side businesses he’s sure not spending the money on himself.

“Is she getting treatment?” Charlie says.

“There are no cancer hospitals for refugees.”

“I’ll get her into one.”

“That’s most kind but I’m afraid she is beyond help.”

“Then let me pay for the morphine.”

“I could not ask you to do that.”

“Why not? I’m your friend.”

“You are?”

“Course I am.”

Wali’s smile returns. Charlie heads into the store, and triples Wali’s orders. He comes out with the pills and hands them to Wali.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Wali says.

“I’ve been there. It’s the least I can do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My mom, she died of cancer when I was fourteen.”

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

“I wouldn’t wish cancer on my worst enemy.”

“On that I am in utmost agreement with you.”

Charlie smiles.

“Now come on, jump on.”

Charlie revs the bike, and they take off on a twisting journey through the darkened alleys of Old City Peshawar. At each intersection Wali taps on either Charlie’s right or left shoulder to tell him which way he should turn, and ten minutes later they find themselves back in front of the cinema. The boy is there standing guard over the Pajero. Charlie throws Wali the keys.

“It’s yours.”

Charlie winks at Wali and takes off. He threads his way through the late night traffic until he’s on an open stretch of road. He opens the throttle, and when he looks down at his speedometer he sees he’s going eighty-five miles an hour. He whoops with delight.

ELEVEN

NOOR HEARS A knock and turns to find Elma standing in her classroom doorway.

Oh Lord, is she here to deliver more bad news?

“I’m sorry, I can come back later,” Elma says.

“No,” Noor says, “we’re almost finished.”

Elma comes in, and the girls’ eyes follow her as though she’s some sort of exotic animal. She leans up against the wall in an attempt to make herself inconspicuous, but, in so doing, her pert breasts push up against the fabric of her starch white shirt. Both Noor and the class look at them goggled eyed.

“Miss Noor, don’t mind me,” Elma says.

Noor jerks out of her trance and blushes.

“Girls,” Noor says, “this is Elma Kuyt. She’s in charge of the aid agency that funds this school.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Kuyt,” the girls says.

“It is Miss,” Elma says, “but thank you for your welcome.”

Kamila makes a face at Noor as if to wonder what woman would still be unmarried at Elma’s age. Noor ignores her and finishes writing the quote from
Anne of Green Gables
on the chalkboard. Noor turns back to the class. She does everything she can to avoid Elma’s gaze.

“So tell me, like Anne, what are each of you interested in finding out about the world?”

She turns to a plump girl at the end of the front row.

“Hila?”

“I don’t know,” Hila says.

“Oh come on, there must be something that you wish you knew more about?”

Hila’s face lights up.

“Watermelons,” Hila says. “Why do they grow so big?”

The class cracks up. Noor shushes them and writes watermelons on the chalkboard.

“I’m curious about that too,” Noor says. “I mean why aren’t they just the size of mangos, for instance? Let me do some research and we can it discuss it more on Sunday.”

Noor turns to a sparrow-like girl next to Hila.

“Rashida?”

Rashida blushes.

“I do not know if this is rightful,” Rashida says.

“Rashida, how many times have I told you there’s no such thing as a wrong question.”

“I do wonder who my husband is going to be.”

“That’s a totally legitimate query. How many of you also think about that?”

Every hand in the room goes up.

“Well here’s the good news, whoever he is, it will never change what you know up here,” Noor says. “No one can take that away from you.”

A girl near the back raises her hand.

“Yes, Gulpira.”

“Miss Noor, do you think about who your husband’s going to be?”

No,
because I never intend on having one.

Noor glances at Elma. Elma is staring at her intently.

“In such matters, I trust in Allah’s providence.”

The girls nod as if that makes total sense. Noor turns next to Kamila.

“How about you, Kamila? What are you interested in finding out?”

“I want to know why Miss Kuyt cut your wage so much.”

Noor stands there with her mouth agape.

“I am so sorry, Miss Kuyt,” she says, recovering. “I don’t know why Kamila would ask such a question.”

“You just said there’s no such thing as a wrong question?” Kamila says.

“That’s true but—”

“How can there be a ‘but’. Either there is no such thing as a wrong question or there isn’t.”

“Kamila, enough,” Noor hisses.

Elma wanders into the center of the room.

“No, it’s alright, Miss Noor, I’m not offended by Kamila’s question. Actually I’m proud we’re teaching the girls to not be afraid of authority figures.

“So why did you do it?” Kamila says.

Noor stares at Kamila in an attempt to quiet her, but Kamila has all her attention focused on Elma.

“Because if we hadn’t cut costs across the board,” Elma says, “we’d have had to close the school entirely.”

“Did you cut your own wage?” Kamila says.

“I cut mine first, and I cut it the most.”

Kamila sits there, her righteous fury doused.

“Now does anyone else have any questions?” Elma says.

Elma glances around the room; the girls shake their heads. Kamila raises her hand.

Oh Lord, what now?

“Yes, Kamila,” Elma says.

“You should know that Miss Noor is the best teacher we’ve ever had. Before I go to sleep at night I thank Allah that she is my teacher.”

Elma smiles.

“Trust me, we feel very blessed to have her.”

Out in the courtyard Miss Suha rings the bell for recess. Noor sighs with relief and excuses the class. The girls grab their books and rush out the door.

“She’s feisty that Kamila,” Elma says.

“She’s the brightest student I’ve ever taught.”

“Maybe she’ll be a teacher like you one day.”

“That’ll depend on her husband.”

“Well let’s pray he’s as educated and enlightened as she is.”

“I fear that won’t be the case. She tells me her father’s adamant she marry when she’s fourteen.”

“That isn’t legal.”

“No, but you know how it is, the authorities don’t care. There are some days when I think about going on the run with her.”

Elma doesn’t saying anything.

Oh my Lord, what have I said?

“I would never do that of course, it’s just a silly fantasy, I mean where would we go?”

“I know that, Noor,” Elma smiles. “Though I have to say you and Kamila would make a unique Thelma and Louise.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the reference.”

“It’s a movie about two American women who go on the run.”

“Why do they do that?”

“One of them killed a man who was raping her friend.”

“And they didn’t go to the police?”

“They should have, but they panicked.”

Neither needs to tell the other that in Pakistan a woman never would. Without four male witnesses to a rape the authorities would charge her with adultery, and once convicted, hang her for her trouble. The thought darkens Noor’s mood, and she starts gathering her books.

“I want to apologize for the other day,” Elma says. “I can’t believe I was so insensitive, I mean to be talking to you about Salman in that way, I’m still mortified.”

“I overreacted.”

“No, you stood your ground, just like Kamila did, and I appreciate that. What do you say, can we start afresh?”

“Of course,” Noor says.

Elma sticks out her hand, and Noor shakes it.

“So tell me, how good are you at learning languages?”

“I speak English, Pashtu, Arabic and a little Farsi.”

“What do you say to learning a fifth?”

Elma opens her leather folder and hands some fax pages to Noor. At the top in large letters are the words
Universiteit von Amsterdam
.

“My friend works in the admissions office; she suggested a scholarship that might be right for you.”

The pages tremble in Noor’s hands.

“The only catch is you have to be proficient in Dutch. I can translate your application and essay, but if you get to the second round there’s a telephone interview in late January.”