The Pakistani Bride (16 page)

“Now why are you angry? I just asked a civil question. I always tell you everything I do. Or do you have something to hide?”

There we go again, thought Carol, the familiar bitterness boiling up within her. With an effort of will she remembered that today she could afford not to retaliate. She wanted to prevent the endless inevitable scene . . . She recalled the Major's caresses soothing her and his warm, hard embrace. Yes, she had avenged Farukh's grotesque jealousy—helped its nightmares come true!

Carol was suddenly shocked by her reaction. Was that all it amounted to? Was her romantic afternoon interlude with the Major only an ugly act of revenge?

“What are you doing to me? Oh God, what are you doing . . . ?” she whispered, aghast, and Farukh, sensing he had pushed her too far, blanched and said, “I'm sorry . . . I don't know what comes over me . . . I'm sorry . . .”

 

The officers were already gathered in the Mess, awaiting the visitors. The sun had slipped behind the hills and Carol and
Farukh, after snuffing out the candles in their room, walked hand in hand into the glare of the Petromax-lit sitting room.

The officers rose politely, shook hands with Farukh and bowed, smiling warmly at Carol.

The couple were offered the recently vacated seats closest to the blazing log fire. “How did you like our work at Pattan?” inquired the Major.

“Excellent bridge,” said Farukh. “What impressed me most, though, was the road itself, the Karakoram Highway. A magnificent feat. I went up to where it ends. I can't imagine how you'll continue hacking it into those mountains.”

“Progress is measured in yards, not miles. It is tough.” For a moment Mushtaq's face shed its social affability. He showed an unexpected sadness. “We've lost men—dynamite, avalanches, landslides, sudden crazy winds that lift men off the ledges . . .”

The room fell silent. They became aware of the evening wind rattling the windows, its hiss half submerged by the crash of the river. The wind would increase and howl and it would whistle through the night as if fierce demons had been let loose.

Carol ventured hesitantly. “H . . . how can you tell where to cut the road? I mean . . .”

“That was all taken care of two thousand years ago,” smiled Mushtaq, his face lighting up. “We are following the ancient Silk Route of traders from Central Asia. Their caravans carried jade, bolts of silk, and tea—some perished and some made it to the Indus plains. The Silk Route follows the Indus gorge most of the way and then swerves east from Gilgit through Hunza to the Khunjrab Pass on the Chinese frontier. It continues to Yarkand, Kashgar, and other fabled cities of Sinkiang!”

“How far is that from here?” asked Carol.

“About 350 miles. The road will wind through Kohistan for about one hundred miles and then enter the Gilgit, Hunza and Baltistan agencies, where the Hindu Kush on the west, Karakorams on the north and northeast, and the Himalayas to the south interlock with the Pamirs, at the very ‘Roof of the World.' It is spectacular! Especially where the snows of Nanga Parbat and Rakaposhi look down on the ancient path.”

“I wish I could see it all,” sighed Farukh.

“Well, the Northern Area covers over twenty-seven thousand miles. It forms our borders with Afghanistan, Iran, India and China. You'll be able to see a lot of it once the road's complete.”

“I heard at Pattan—the Chinese are working on the road from their end?” asked Farukh.

“Yes.”

“There'll be quite a celebration when the two teams meet.”

“You bet!” laughed Mushtaq.

Farukh leaned forward. “I met some decent chaps at Pattan. Ran into a childhood friend in fact. Captain Ahmed. We used to be neighbors.”

“You met a friend? You didn't tell me,” smiled Carol. Her voice was acid.

“Didn't I? Oh, so sorry.”

Carol clenched her fists and blushed. “It's all right. I was only joking.” She lowered her eyes fleetingly. The circle of men sat in an awkward silence. The Major cleared his throat.

“D'you know what?” Carol smiled, “I've been brushing up on my vocabulary. Can't make as poor a showing at Scrabble as last night!”

They laughed, and the conversation eased. Suddenly, Carol heard her husband say: “It was nice of you to show Carol the other side of the Indus. She can't stop talking about it.” He beamed around the gathering.

“Yes,” the Major said hastily, “your wife is delightfully adventuresome.”

He gave Carol a quick, cold look. She might have warned him.

“What will it be? Whisky-and-water?” he asked Farukh.

“Please.”

Mushtaq busied himself at the table crowded with bottles and cheap, thick glasses. Carol, her face hidden from Farukh by the swing of her hair, tried to concentrate on what the doctor was saying.

Earlier that evening, feeling a belated twinge of guilt, Mushtaq had decided to avoid her. Even so, pouring Farukh's drink, his glance slid in her direction.

He walked across the room.

“Thanks,” Farukh took the glass. “Can't be much different across the river?” he inquired.

“The camp here makes a difference. I'll take you across sometime. It's weird, but one is really quite helpless there. We had to stay quite close to the bridge, but you I could take deeper into the area.”

“Any time you say, Mushtaq.” Farukh beamed contentedly.

“By the way,” Mushtaq continued, settling in the chair next to his, “I meant to tell you. We have an interesting glacier about a six-hour trek from here. It's more than fourteen thousand feet above sea level. Worth visiting. Would you like to try it tomorrow? I'm afraid I'll be busy, but you can go.”

“Wonderful,” said Farukh. He caught Carol's eye. “Like to come?”

“It might be too tiring for her,” interposed the Major smoothly. “Besides, I wouldn't advise taking your wife that far away from civilization.”

She pulled a face. “I miss all the fun!”

“But,” she laughed, turning to Farukh, “you go, darling. I'll be happy here with my paint box and my books.”

She addressed Mushtaq. “How about a drink for me?”

“I'm sorry. Any preferences?”

“Beer?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. Terribly sorry, I forgot. It arrived this evening. I don't know where the orderlies disappeared to. If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll fetch some.”

Mushtaq went into the pantry and pulled two bottles from an open crate. Through the door leading to the kitchen, he saw the tribal and the girl from the plains squatting on the kitchen floor before a pile of chappatis and a small enamel bowl holding a curry. “Is there enough food, Barey Mian?” he inquired hospitably.

Qasim jumped up.

“Yes, Sir,” he salaamed. “We are grateful. We thank you.”

“If you require anything else, tell the cook.”

Qasim touched his forehead and remained standing until Mushtaq returned to the sitting room.

Mushtaq handed Carol a frothing glass. “I forgot to mention, the truck that brought our beer brought a couple of civilians as well.”

“Where from?”

“Lahore, I believe.”

“Aren't they joining us?”

Mushtaq laughed. “They are just a poor night-watchman and his daughter. He is taking her to his ancestral village to get her married. It is deep in the unadministered territory.”

He took a chair by Carol.

Farukh was engrossed in conversation with the engineer, who was detailing for him the technical difficulties encountered in the construction of the road. The unit doctor and the remaining officers were grouped around the table, pouring drinks, talking, and laughing.

“What does she look like?”

“Who?”

“The girl you mentioned . . . the one who's to be married on the other side of the river?”

“You want to see them?”

“May I?”

Mushtaq motioned to the Mess orderly who had just come in. “I want to speak to the civilian and his daughter. Tell them to come after they finish their dinner.”

“Yes, Sir,” the orderly said smartly.

Mushtaq turned to Carol, “I must say I was quite surprised to see the girl. She is altogether Punjabi, while her father surely is from here.”

T
he orderly ushered Qasim and Zaitoon into the room. Qasim stood hesitantly at the fringe of the party. Zaitoon, in her agony of shyness, her head covered by a huge shawl, cowered by his side. Blinded by the glare of the Petromax, awed by the tall men in western suits, and by the blurred presence of an “Angraze” woman aglow with golden hair, she felt out of her depth.

“Come, Barey Mian, come here, both of you,” the Major beckoned paternally.

Qasim stepped awkwardly within the semicircle of chairs around the fire, salaaming, and Zaitoon edged in close behind him. The officers, drawn by curiosity, drifted back to their chairs. Finding herself unbearably conspicuous in the center of these sophisticated people, Zaitoon folded her knees and squatted abruptly before Carol. She settled to one side so that she could see only Carol, the Major and the fire.

“Sit down, Barey Mian,” the Major invited Qasim.

Qasim sat gingerly on his heels in the center of the circle, facing the Major anxiously. He shifted the cartridge strap so that his pistol rested comfortably on his thigh.

“I have arranged for you to spend the night here. Tomorrow morning our transport will take you to Pattan.”

“Allah bless you,” said Qasim, his eyes full of gratitude.

“You cross the river at Pattan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How far do you travel from there?”

“I have not been to my village for a long time, sir, but with the new road it shouldn't take more than a day.”

Nervously, with the hem of his shirt, Qasim wiped some chappati crumbs off his mouth. The red tassel of his trouser-cord dangled disconcertingly between the folds of his shalwar.

“What about our Dubair bridge. Can't you reach your village by crossing here?”

“Yes, sir. But it would be a long trek upstream. Now that you have a bridge at Pattan . . .”

“I see.”

Mushtaq conducted the interview in a bantering, condescending manner. He endeavored to amuse his audience by baiting the old tribal, exploiting his simplicity and awe. It helped to pass the evening.

“Tell me, Barey Mian, why are you so anxious to get to your village? Is it a feud? How many old enemies are you going to bump off?”

Mushtaq was gratified by Qasim's fervent denials.

“Ah, the revered Chinaman does not wish to tell us the truth,” he teased good-naturedly. Qasim, rising to the bait, whirled angrily.

“Chinaman!” he protested. Removing the turban from his shaved head, he thrust his bearded face forward.

“Look at this,” he said, tapping his nose that dipped, hooked, and sprang out between his flat cheeks and slanting eyes. “Is this a Chinaman's nose? No! It leaps forth as a banner of my race! A legacy from Persian ancestors who came through those hills with Cyrus and Darais . . . or from the Yahudis even . . . some say the lost tribe of Israel settled here . . . or . . .”

“Ah, yes,” the Major said, “the lost tribe of Israel! Cyrus and Darais! But what about Taimur the Lame? and Changez Khan? and Kublai Khan? and Subuktagen and the other Mongols who swarmed through these mountains to India?”

Qasim, lightly dismissing the Mongols, said, “They came. And the Greeks came with Sikander!” He had been through this scene before when people called him a Chinaman. Each time he felt obliged to vindicate the honor of his ancestors.

“See here,” he pushed back a sleeve and waved a powerful,
hirsute
hand. The skin of his palm was like pale, cracked leather. “These veins flow with Kohistani blood, brave mountain blood.”

Meanwhile, Zaitoon, crouching on her haunches, stared at Carol in wide-eyed admiration. The halo of golden, fire-lit hair, Carol's light bright skin and her strange tight trousers, fascinated her.

Carol glanced at Zaitoon indulgently and said, “She's beautiful.”

Zaitoon, overawed and confused by the sudden attention, made Carol uneasy. There was a slight strain in her smile. She asked, “
Tumhara shadi honay ka hai?
” (Are you getting married?)

The construction of the sentence and the stilted foreign accent kindled Zaitoon's smile. Then, she burrowed her head so low Mushtaq could barely see her nose.

Why must these women be so goddamn coy, thought Carol.

“You ought to know better than ask such delicate questions, dear,” reprimanded Farukh primly. “Our women, particularly the young girls, are modest, you know.”

Furious at the rebuke, Carol's face burned red. Tears smarting in her eyes made them sparkle:

“Really! One would imagine they achieved one of the highest birth rates in the world by immaculate conception!”

The room was suddenly still, hot with Carol's anger and Farukh's consternation.

“D . . . don't talk like that,” he spluttered.

Mushtaq laughed uneasily. “It's all right. We're among friends. Beneath their shyness, these little girls can be delightfully earthy, you know.”

He turned to Carol. “The girl is probably confused with so many strangers around. I should imagine she's nervous.” Carol glanced at Zaitoon's bowed head, barely concealing her resentment, exasperated with these attitudes which were so alien to her. Attempting a smile that looked brittle and forced, she glanced away—and caught Qasim's ice-brown eyes measuring her with cold menace.