The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline (71 page)

I handed him a tiny pebble of polished quartz.

“I found it the first time I went to Long Beach.”

He closed his eyes and kissed my hair.

“I’ve never had something to come back to before, Caro. Don’t worry about me—just take care of yourself.”

He kissed the little pebble and slipped it into his pocket.

“I love you, tesoro. Stay safe for me.”

A car horn sounded in the street below us.

“Time to go, baby. Love you.”

I watched from the window as he flung his duffel bag into the car that waited for him. For a second he stared up at me, smiled, and then he was gone.

CHAPTER 12

I watched as his car disappeared into the dawn, and the emptiness I felt inside spilled out around me. I lay in Sebastian’s bed, drinking in the scent of sheets that still smelled of him, stretching my hands into the cold void where he had slept, and cried myself into an exhausted stupor.

He had gone: when and where we would meet again was out of our hands. I hoped desperately, of course, that I would see him in Afghanistan, but beyond that, a long six months apart seemed more likely. I tried to tell myself that we’d weathered ten years. What was another few months?

With the sun rising higher in the cool, gray sky, I forced my eyes to open and stare around the empty room. My throat hurt from crying, and the skin on my face felt stiff from salty tears. Tough. Get on with it. Do your job and do it well.

Despite my mental ass-kicking, Sebastian’s small shaving mirror offered a view of red, puffy eyes, lined with dark rings. I was glad he couldn’t see how ghastly I looked. I wondered where he was now. Probably on his way to some military airfield in Germany, before being cooped up in an uncomfortable C5 troop transporter airplane with perhaps as many as 200 other soldiers, for six or seven hours.

Sebastian’s possessions were piled into two boxes, ready for shipping stateside. I opened one, and placed inside the beautiful evening dress and matching shoes, silvery-gray underwear, and miniskirt that he’d bought for me. The leather ballerina flats I left out to take with me.

I laid out the rest of my gear on the bed, checking and re-packing it for departure. I had kept hidden my own set of body armor from Sebastian. We’d both colluded in the illusion that our work was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear—a walk in the park. Hiding evidence of the lie had made it easier.

I’d acquired the body armor after my first visit to Sudan, when I discovered that standard issue gear didn’t fit someone who wasn’t a six foot three, two-hundred pound soldier. After two weeks of wearing ill-fitting equipment day and night, I had backache that felt terminal, abs that would have thrilled a bodybuilder, and no boobs to speak of. My custom fit equipment was slightly smaller, but only a little less heavy. It was blue, to distinguish me from the military, although that was a double-edged sword: I wouldn’t be shot as a soldier or a spy, but sometimes journalists and nonmilitary personnel were targeted as the more valuable kill. Even insurgents knew the value of PR.

The rest of my gear was, perhaps, a little eccentric, but based on experience of several previous assignments to hostile environments. When working within US military zones, I always included Copenhagen Black tobacco as a gift for the soldiers who’d be assigned to babysit me. I’d learned that many of the men, especially those from the south, appreciated that little piece of home. I also carried garlic tablets, as one of the best means of avoiding insect and mosquito bites; and several packs of gum to counter the remedy. I had a pair of flip-flops, which were useful for crunching across floors where cockroaches had the run of the place in the night; a large sarong that could double as a towel, lightweight sheet, sleeping bag or mosquito net; and a knee-length man’s shirt that I wore in Muslim countries, to provide some modesty over skimpy t-shirts. I’d tried wearing a burka but found I couldn’t run in one, and somehow, it seemed more disrespectful to the local customs than simply showing that I understood their culture by covering up. I always carried a black headscarf: useful across the spectrum, from Catholic churches in Portugal, to bazaars in Baghdad.

Dry shampoo was a luxury as far as my male colleagues were concerned, but for me, it made the difference between feeling revoltingly and disgustingly dirty when there was no chance to shower for several days, and just a little less grubby. And thank heaven for whoever had invented baby-wipes. One other essential nonessential was a humble bottle of tamari soy sauce. People laughed at me when I produced my small bottle, but by the time they’d had MREs ration packs, three times a day for two weeks, the flavor my soy sauce could add, made me the most popular person around. Mango chutney was also a favorite.

I also carried
lavender oil, earplugs, an eye-mask, and a thin, inflatable mattress given to me by a US Army captain whom I kissed when I realized how comfortable it was. Which wasn’t something I’d be telling Sebastian about. His jealous streak was only ever a heartbeat away: I had to remember that. It wasn’t that I liked to see that side of him, but damn, it made me feel wanted.

I tried to keep my mind on the job—thinking about him would have me in tears again.

I checked my first aid supplies: dehydration tablets were important, but one of the most useful things, for a woman, was a Mooncup, for those awkward times when sanitary napkins and tampons were impossible to get hold of. Oddly enough, I usually carried condoms with me, too: I’d never needed them for myself, but I’d given them out to colleagues on a fairly regular basis. I’d been planning to buy some in Geneva while I was waiting for my permits to come through, but I’d met Sebastian first. Funny the way things worked out.

I also kept photocopies of my passport and Press ID badge, and would print out a dozen copies of my new credentials when I arrived at the airport. I would also keep JPEGs of important documents, which I emailed to a secret account that only I could access.

There was one more important job to do.

I booted up my laptop and reluctantly, tearfully, I deleted all the photographs of Sebastian and myself from my camera, memory stick, laptop and phone, instead emailing the pictures to the same, private account. I couldn’t risk anyone seeing them and identifying him as a US Marine. I was sorely tempted to keep one photo to look at, but it wasn’t worth the risk, for either of us.

The tears began again as, one-by-one, those photographs that recorded our all too few days of happiness were wiped from my camera’s memory. I knew Sebastian didn’t have a photograph of me either. All he had was my stupid little pebble. Suddenly that seemed terribly important and I was glad I’d given it to him.

I stared at my beautiful engagement ring, then pulled it off my finger, placing it on a thin, gold chain around my neck, where I could imagine it was near to my heart.

And I was ready.

I followed Sebastian’s instructions for having his belongings shipped home, and then returned his door-key to a confused, elderly woman who answered the bell at his landlady’s apartment.

I smiled and explained that Monsieur Hunter had left. She kept asking me if he’d gone back to America and, in the end, it seemed the easiest explanation to give her. I don’t know who she thought I was, but she shook my hand and kissed me on both cheeks.

My taxi dropped me at the airport ninety minutes before my flight. From Geneva, I’d fly to Frankfurt and then pick up a charter to Kabul with a Turkish airline. There were a few commercial flights to Afghanistan, and I expected that I’d either be seated with NATO servicemen and women, or private contractors, engineers, doctors and builders, who were trying to help put the poor, broken country together again, plus a few Afghans, bravely returning home.

By the time we touched down to land in Afghanistan, I’d been traveling for nearly 18 hours. I’d slept a little on the plane overnight, but I was exhausted, although keyed up and excited as well.

I got my first good look at Kabul. It was a sprawling, thriving city, squatting at the bottom of the
Koh Daman Mountains of the Hindu Kush. Many of the ugly, boxy homes that had begun to creep up into the foothills were made from the same dusty yellow as the soil itself.

It was a city of contrasts where ancient palaces stood next to a few modest skyscrapers; small mud houses snuggled next to gaudy compounds; narrow alleys led out to wide, modern roads thronged with vehicles of every brand, age, and stage of decay; and modern opulence walked side by side with biblical poverty.

Men with Rolex watches had the windshields of their Mercedes washed by children who had no shoes. International aid had flooded the desperately poor country with money, but the distribution left much to be desired; and it was whispered that billions of aid dollars had flowed out of the country into private numbered accounts in Swiss banks.

The streets were full of people going about their business: women in blue headscarves; men in a mixture of traditional robes and western clothing. Cars coughed fumes into the hot, dry air, and motorcycles with carpets for seats roared around, ignored by the donkeys pulling carts, and herds of goats that seemed to roam freely. The ever-present sound of people talking, arguing and selling their wares poured from rows of dimly-lit doorways.

But everywhere were signs of war: bomb-blasted buildings; walls with bullet holes; and ugly, burned out patches where cars had been used as weapons, exploding to shower hot fragments of metal over the unlucky ones who had been too close.

The bulletproof car that collected me from the heavily guarded airport now dropped me in a secure parking compound at the Mustafa Hotel. I was escorted inside by a burly Marine sergeant who answered to the name of Benson. I didn’t know if that was his first name or last, but his comfortable bulk made me feel safer.

The hotel was a favorite with correspondents, as was the owner, a regular Mr. Fix-it. And, even better, I’d heard from Liz before I’d left Geneva: she was still in Kabul, waiting on a ride out to Camp Bastion, to report on how British troops were training the Afghan National Army, with a view to a complete handover by 2014. There were few who didn’t think ‘the sooner the better’, but it was hard to see how the country would ever be ready to rule itself. Perhaps democracy didn’t suit a land where decisions were traditionally made at a tribal level. But I was there to report, not have an opinion, or look for solutions—thank God.

Liz had sent me a message saying that she’d happily share her twin-bed room at the Mustafa Hotel, which was just fine with me. There was safety in numbers, especially for women traveling alone. She’d also ensured that the room was not on the ground floor (too unsafe, for obvious reasons), and no higher than the third floor, as the fire escapes in Kabul were notorious for their shoddy construction.

I checked in, and was then escorted to my room by a cheerful boy in dirty white robes whose only English seemed to consist of ‘Hello’, ‘yes’ and ‘jolly good’. I suspected Liz had taught him the latter phrase.

The room was eye-wateringly colorful, decorated in a discordant array of oranges, yellows and reds. But it was comfortable and reasonably clean. Better still, it had its own bathroom. A luxury I’d be doing without once I was at Leatherneck.

I was grateful to drop the heavy bags and read the note that Liz had left. She informed me that we’d been invited to a dinner party being held by the UN for local military, Press, and important Afghan government officials. It was taking place at the Intercontinental Hotel—and I had 40 minutes to get my ‘arse’ over there.

So much for having a rest.

The shower sputtered intermittently, but it was nearly hot, and washed away most of the yellow dust that seemed to coat every part of me.

Formal functions in some Muslim countries could be a cultural minefield. Since this dinner was including women, it wasn’t going to be truly orthodox, so I wasn’t too worried about what to wear. I had my tried and trusted black cocktail dress, and planned to match it with the black ballerina flats that Sebastian bought for me. My ring was on the necklace hidden beneath my dress, but I could feel it, and that was important.

The dress had long sleeves, a high neckline, and a knee-length skirt. It passed in more conservative circles, and Liz had thoughtfully informed me that there would be a number of Muslim guests tonight. And although they were likely to be of the more liberal persuasion as women would be present, I didn’t want to risk giving offence. I had my plain, black headscarf in my purse to cover all eventualities.

It was lucky I was dark haired and dark eyed, because once I’d donned my headscarf, I attracted little interest. If I’d been blonde haired and blue eyed, it would have been a very different story. As
soon as my sweet Sergeant Benson escorted me to the Intercontinental, I went straight to the restroom, to take off my headscarf and brush out my hair.

My attention was caught by a stunning woman in a jade-green, designer gown, with plunging neckline and exposed back. She would have been perfect for a glitzy LA premiere, but here she was jaw-dropping—and not in a good way.

I suspected she was with the UN—certainly no journalist would be so ridiculously overexposed and underprepared, and I was surprised that no one had warned her to dress more appropriately. In the spirit of sisterhood, I decided to give her a heads-up.

“Excuse me, hi. My name is Lee Venzi, I’m with the Press. Forgive me, your dress is really beautiful, but it might give you some problems here tonight: for Muslims, green is Mohammed’s favorite color—they might find your choice, as a Western woman, disrespectful. And a more … conservative style usually goes down better.”

“Oh, I never bother with formalities like that,” she sneered, rolling her eyes up and down my simple, black dress with obvious contempt.

I was left speechless by her arrogant attitude. I seriously considered jamming her head under the faucet to see if her heavy mascara really was waterproof.

She left me standing, and turned to her friend who was applying an indecent amount of lipstick, although at least her dress was more respectful and less revealing.