Authors: Elliot Ackerman
Returning along the north road, our truck kicked up a dust cloud
announcing us to anyone who lurked in the miles of surrounding ridgelines. Driving during the day was dangerous but quick. We crested a final rise. From here, we could see the mud walls of Gomal drawn into the dirt valley below. It all appeared close, but was still miles away.
A difficult but worthwhile trip, yes? said Atal.
Yes, I said, difficult.
Worthwhile for you?
I kept my eyes on the road as I spoke: If it was for you, then yes.
I needed to see the American, he replied.
And the American, he seemed upset when he left?
Atal offered no answer. Had I overstepped? He stroked his beard, while I concentrated on driving. As the last switchback spilled into the valley, we entered the road’s final dusty stretch. Atal gazed out the window. He rattled a bottle of pills in his pocket and spoke again: He couldn’t have been too upset. He gave me Fareeda’s medicine. I would say he was disappointed. They have a different sense of time than us, rushing all things. This often leads to disappointment.
What was he disappointed about? I asked.
He wants to be involved in things he has no business being involved in, explained Atal. He wants to meet Gazan. He wants his plans to move quicker than they should. But I made progress today with the American. I think life will be getting better in our village.
So, he has never met Gazan? I asked.
No, he said, and as long as I can I’ll keep it this way. The Americans believe that if they give you something they can take everything. That makes them dangerous friends.
He looked at me through the sides of his eyes. There was nothing more to say. Soon we arrived in Gomal, where late-afternoon shadows cast down from the walls of the compounds, greeting us darkly. We pulled next to Atal’s home and I turned off the engine. The two of
us sat in the silence of the cab, unmoving and exhausted. After a few moments, Atal spoke: Don’t worry about cleaning up the truck, Aziz. I’ll take care of it in the morning.
I was grateful for this, but to reinforce my status as his employee, he reached into the pocket of his shalwar kameez and from it pulled an envelope filled with crisp U.S. dollars. He peeled off a few bills and pressed them into my hand.
For your work before and for today’s work, fair? he asked.
Yes, thank you, I said.
Good, he replied. There is more to be done, but now we rest.
He stepped from the truck and toward his front door. For a moment longer, I sat alone in the cab. Then I stuck the crisp bills in my pocket, next to my cell phone. Before I left the truck, I reached to the small of my back and readjusted the Makarov that pressed there. I’d need to find a place to hide it.
As I went back to Mumtaz’s home, the village streets filled with morning traffic. Dirt-faced children chased each other through the narrow lanes, their sweat forming mud canals down their reddened cheeks. Men, their stares downturned, heaved wheelbarrows full of gray-branched wood, blond straw bundles, and slabs of scrap metal to sell at the bazaar. The dingy shopfronts seemed like the chambers of some great communal heart, which today pumped the commerce of optimism through all Gomal. I felt like an imposter as I walked among the villagers. I hadn’t slept and therefore hadn’t awoken to whatever hopefulness these people had found. I was a remnant of yesterday and last night.
Mumtaz’s gate was unlocked. It clanged as I swung it open. I was grateful to get off the street. As I crossed the courtyard, Iskander stuck his head out from the chicken coop. His ears were pinned back anxiously but relaxed on seeing me. He returned to his shaded coop and
continued his nap. Exhaustion felt like a dull itch in my eyes. I entered the house and wanted to collapse on its dirt floor. Empty stillness rang in my ears. I was grateful for the solitude. The old man would’ve filled the space between us with his suspicions, even if he never said a word. But whatever sharp thing I felt toward him softened when I saw he’d left a dish of food out for me.
I stretched along my foam sleeping mat and hungrily scooped fistfuls of rice into my mouth. Cold grease covered each grain. The dirt on my face soon mixed with it to form a slick and gritty film that spread across my lips and cheeks. I smeared the mess on my sleeve and settled into my bed. The previous night’s chill still clung to me and my fleece-lined blanket slowly absorbed it. I was filthy but content as I lay in Mumtaz’s house and in his care.
I rolled onto my side and the Makarov stuck at my back. With one last bit of energy, I rose to my feet and looked for a place to hide it. Neither the blankets nor the mats strewn across the floor, nor the stove, nor the pots and pans we cooked from offered any good option. The room was bare and without possibilities. In the corner next to me was the pile of firewood. This would have to do. I pulled apart the branches and restacked them with the Makarov hidden beneath. As I crept back to the warmth of my bed, I wondered how soon it would be before I’d need to use it. I doubted it would be long.
–
Then the war left the village.
Whatever Atal had negotiated between Gazan and Mr. Jack seemed to bring the peace. Days and then weeks passed with no mortar attacks, no mines on the north road, nothing. During this time Atal never called on me. Every few days, I’d leave in the morning to gather firewood in the high forest. Once in the mountains, I’d steal off behind the large
boulder and pull the phone from my pocket. There was never a message from Commander Sabir and I felt no desire to leave him one. I’d return at night and as I added to the stack of firewood, I added to my confidence that the Makarov would never be found. But I also added to my doubts, doubts that I’d have the chance to use the Makarov and doubts that I even wanted to.
Around the warm stove, Mumtaz still spun large stories of his youth. He’d smile easily and mutter happily about the old days, his brother, and trips with his father to places I’d never heard of or only imagined. He told these stories with a certain hope, as if the memories he welcomed could destroy the memories he didn’t. As these new days rolled out in front of us, the villagers accepted them with a similar hope, as though days of peace could destroy memories of war.
After dinner one night Mumtaz reclined on his bed. He chewed on a bone from a scrap of lamb we’d mixed with the rice to make a qorma. Aziz, he said, where did you get that ring of yours?
I’ve always had it, I told him.
So it came from your family, said Mumtaz. That is good. I have nothing of my family, except for this. He framed his face with his hands and said: My good looks!
I’m not as good-looking as you, I answered. So my family gave me the ring.
He laughed and I relaxed a bit.
The stone is a ruby, is it not? he said. Was it your father’s?
And my brother’s after that.
Your brother is dead?
Why do you say that?
If you wear your father’s ring, he said. I would think it meant your brother is dead.
He’s not dead.
For a moment after I answered, it became quiet between us. If he no longer wears the ring, said Mumtaz, then you’ve taken his place in your family.
I could never take his place, I said, and emotion filled my words, surprising me. To take Ali’s place was to accept all we’d lost.
No, of course, said Mumtaz. He looked away from me and gazed toward the wall of firewood. Again he spoke: The peace these last few weeks, it feels like living in a new memory.
Yes, I said, new memories to replace the old ones.
I don’t think they’ll replace the old ones, he replied.
You shouldn’t speak so.
Mumtaz grabbed my shoulder and pointed to where the firewood concealed the Makarov. He answered: Whatever thing you’ve hidden there makes it so.
I gave the old man a sharp look. I had only lies and I wouldn’t respond with these. I am old, not blind, said Mumtaz. This peace brought by Atal and the American is a bad one. What you’ve chosen to hide will destroy it.
I said nothing else. Neither did he. We slept in his room built of mud.
The next morning, Mumtaz left to wander the bazaar. He asked if I wished to join him. I never did, but always he asked. As soon as he left, I unstacked the firewood and tucked the Makarov into the small of my back. I’d carry it there until Atal called.
I walked into the courtyard. The hard mechanics of the pistol stuck into me with every movement. Iskander stepped from the chicken coop with his ears pinned back and his head cocked. He gave me a moment’s consideration. A dog always knows what’s hidden, and his ears now pointed straight up. He turned away from me. He then trotted back to the molted air of the chicken coop, preferring it to my company.
Carrying the Makarov this way couldn’t be sustained. I wanted an
end and badal. And the pistol, with its ever present sticking, made me all the more certain that Atal’s next call would come. Soon it did.
–
With the Makarov tucked into my waistband, I slept only in fits and starts. I dreamed of it going off, crippling me as my brother had been, or of awakening with it lying out for Mumtaz to see. In my dreams I saw the old man’s face, disappointed but never surprised. I slept like this for only a few nights. In the middle of one, a glare washed everything out and then there was a kicking at my feet. I awoke. Out by the coop, Iskander howled but was too afraid to confront whoever held the light that shined down on me.
Come, Aziz. There is work to be done.
The voice was Atal’s.
I put my hand up to block the light.
Who do you think you are, barging into my home like this! grumbled Mumtaz.
Your friend and I have business, said Atal. Then he turned to me: Hurry.
I rose and fixed my shalwar kameez. The Makarov still poked in my waistband, a reminder of my commitments.
Mumtaz grasped my leg. He said: You don’t have to, Aziz . . .
Have you enjoyed the peace as of late, old man? snapped Atal.
Mumtaz stared back stupidly. I couldn’t tell if he was considering the question or startled by the flashlight that flushed out his vision. He held an upturned palm toward his eyes. Of what importance is this? he asked.
You are right, none, said Atal. What is important is that Aziz must come.
I nodded.
Aziz! Mumtaz called after me.
He stood from his bedding, his stocking feet planted sadly on the fleece blanket. I turned toward him. He struggled with his words: I hope you’ll return here—instead of where else you might go.
I clasped each of his shoulders and held him in front of me. Of course, baba, I said. Then the two of us embraced. The meat of his forearms brushed against the Makarov. I knew he felt it, but he didn’t flinch. What passed between us had no deception in it. And as I left, I wanted to return to him.
Outside the courtyard wall, the white HiLux idled warmly. We climbed inside and Atal leaned over the steering wheel. His eyes were wide. He seemed determined not to blink until he’d made a full explanation. Tonight, he said, we have a meeting with Gazan. He paused for just a moment to see my response.
I offered him none.
He’ll be walking down the north road, explained Atal. You’re to pick him up.
I nodded.
Once you do that, he said, drive back toward the village. I’ll be on the side of the road waiting for you both and we’ll have our meeting in the truck.
I nodded again.
Atal’s eyes bulged wider.
The American is here, he said. He wants to meet you.
He blinked, shifted the truck into gear, and drove toward his house.
–
We pulled into Atal’s courtyard, and the black HiLux I’d seen many times in Shkin was parked next to the dead generator. We walked inside. Mr. Jack sat on the edge of the wide sofa, his elbows perched
on his knees and his American rifle, an M-4, leaning against his leg. His shalwar kameez still held the creases from where it’d been folded in plastic packaging. A green T-shirt peeked from beneath its high collar and I could see where the cuff of his blue jeans snuck from beneath the traditional baggy trousers, the same worn by Atal and me. He stood as we entered and crowned his head with a wide Waziri-style pakol. The pakol framed his blond hair and faded blue eyes, making his whole face seem as happy and bright as a sunflower. His costume now complete, he extended his hand in friendship and spoke in Pashto: Aziz, I am Jack. Atal has told me all about you. I am glad for your help tonight.
I paused, gripped by the incredible whiteness of his teeth. I’d seen Mr. Jack many times from afar in Shkin. He was a sort of celebrity to me. I gladly shook his hand, but as I did my awe of him melted away. His friendliness, American Pashto, and awkward wardrobe made him ridiculous.
I’ve explained our plan to Aziz, said Atal. He will do well.
Good, replied Mr. Jack. You’ll also help with security during the meeting.
That is fine, I said, shrugging my shoulders.
Mr. Jack rested his eyes on mine for another moment, taking some last measure of me. Satisfied, he offered his white teeth again.
You are doing a great service for your village tonight, he told me, and I found it amusing that Mr. Jack assumed Gomal was my village. He continued: We have to straighten things out around here. As a gesture of how grateful we are, I wanted to give you this ahead of time, for tonight’s work.
Mr. Jack handed me a yellow envelope. Inside it was a stack of hundred-dollar bills as thick as a small book. My eyes went wide and I struggled to restrain a surge of many emotions. This was nearly a year’s salary in the Special Lashkar. With it I could lay the foundation of a new
life, perhaps in Orgun, even as far away as Kabul. Money like this had the power to change everything.
Thank you, I muttered weakly.
No, thank you, said Mr. Jack. Your efforts to bring peace to your home are worth more than this. I hope we can continue our relationship. It is important for us to have friends we can trust.
And, as friendly as he was, his tone made me feel very small.
Atal seemed interested but unimpressed by Mr. Jack’s advances. He watched our flirtation with the cynicism of a first wife who watches the courtship of the second. I tucked the envelope into my pocket, next to the few dollars Atal had paid me for the ride to Shkin some weeks before.