Mark Taylor: Genesis (Prequel in the Mark Taylor Series) (2 page)

“It’s going great, Dad. I’m getting some good commercial jobs.  I even shot a national print ad for a major diaper brand.”  That job had allowed him to make his last loan payment for the photography equipment he had needed when he started the business. He might not earn close to what his dad earned as a doctor, but he was self-sufficient and building a nice cushion.

“Diapers?
Really
?”

Mark bit back the burn of resentment his father’s tone ignited. On the surface, a diaper ad did sound kind of silly, but it paid big bucks and was a lot more work than his dad would ever understand. Babies didn’t perform on command. Granted, it wasn’t the cover of
Life
or
Time
magazine, but he hoped his trip would provide him some shots that might be worth submitting.

His mother glared at his dad, then turned to Mark. “I bet chasing after those babies was quite a task.”

He gave her a grateful smile. “Yeah, it was exasperating, but kind of fun too. It kept me on my toes, that’s for sure, because you just never know what a baby is going to do next. If I’m not alert…bam! I miss the money shot. I mean, it’s not like I can ask the baby to repeat the action.”  Despite the undercurrent of resentment, his enthusiasm bubbled up when describing the shoot.

To his credit, his dad laughed at some of the antics Mark recalled and by the time his mother brought the apple pie to the table, the mood had mellowed.

She handed him a carton of vanilla ice cream and the scooper. “Look what I found in the back of the freezer.”

Grinning, he dug the ice cream scooper into the carton and plopped a scoop on his dad’s slice of pie, and then his own. His mom passed. Mark shrugged. “You’re missing out, Mom.” With the edge of his fork, he sawed off a mouthful of pie, making sure to get some ice cream in the bite. The apples, lightly browned with cinnamon, were still warm, and their tart flavor was balanced by the cold ice cream. Heaven on a plate.

“That’s okay. I’m not even sure I can eat this piece, I’m so full.” She took a small bite and then looked at Mark with her eyebrows raised. “So, did you have something special you wanted to tell us while you were here?”

Lifting one shoulder, he edged off another bite, and said, “It really isn’t that big of a deal. I’m going to Afghanistan with Mohommad. He has a great idea for a book, and he wants me to do most of the photography.”

Mark jumped when his dad’s fork clattered onto the table. “You’re going to Afghanistan? Are you out of your
mind
?”

He had expected skepticism but not the vehemence his father displayed. “No, it’s a great opportunity. It’s the kind of photography I’ve always wanted to do.”

“The country is unstable. Even the Red Cross is pulling a lot of their workers out of the country after a bunch of them were beaten. Didn’t you see that on the news?”

Poking at the edge of the crust with his fork, Mark nodded. “Sure. I heard about it, but that doesn’t mean something like that is going to happen to me. Mohommad has family there. His uncle is some kind of mayor or whatever they call it, of his village.”

With a grunt, his dad picked up his fork and polished off his pie, his jaw working it as if the crust was leather instead of delicate, flaky pastry.  “What about your business? Do you think you can really go off and just leave it?”

“I don’t know why you’re so dead set against this before you even hear me out.” He slid his plate away and glared at his dad. “I’m kind of surprised that you’re concerned about my business since you’ve never shown an interest in it before.” Immediately he regretted his remark and sighed, scrubbing his hands against his eyes before spreading them. “Look, I just feel like it’s something I have to do, okay? I may never get another chance like this and as far as my studio goes, the trip is planned for July.  That’s my slowest time. People are busy or out of town, and the fall print ads haven’t started yet. It’s the best time of year for me to go. Besides, I have a little money saved up, and Mo is paying for most of the expenses in return for me doing most of the photos. It’s like a working vacation.”

His mother touched his hand and said, “Mark, we’re just worried that something could happen. Couldn’t you go somewhere like Europe?”

“No.” What was there for him to photograph in Europe? French women walking their dogs down the Champs Elysee? Italian women catering to their forty-year old sons? He took a deep breath. “Look, while I agree there might be
some
risk, it’s not like I’m going into battle. Mohommad wants to do a book about the plight of women in Afghanistan. They are almost prisoners in their homes. They can’t drive, the girls can’t go to school, and basically the women are the property of their husbands.” He saw a hint of understanding in his mother’s eyes, but his dad was leaning back, his arms crossed, obviously still skeptical. He tried one more time. “Don’t you understand? Mohommad intends to help the women of Afghanistan with the book. It’s a chance for me to do something good. I know it doesn’t compare to being a doctor, but I think I can help make a difference.

Nobody spoke and only the sound of the clock ticking on the soffit above the sink broke the silence until Mark said, “You realize that I’m not asking permission. I’m just asking for your blessing, but either way, I’m going.”

His parents exchanged a look across the table. Mark wasn’t sure exactly what they said in their unspoken communication, but they must have come to a conclusion because his mother nodded to his father.

“You’re a grown man, so we can’t stop you even if we tried, but if you feel you have to go, there isn’t much we can do to change your mind. Just stay safe.”

The muscles in Mark’s neck eased. He hadn’t been aware of how knotted they had been until they relaxed. Almost giddy with relief, Mark nodded. “I intend to. Mohommad has been back to visit several times in the last few years, so he knows where it’s safe to go and where it isn’t. Plus, he already has an itinerary planned for us.”

For the next hour, Mark spoke of Mohommad’s plans and his father offered advice here and there, while his mom reminded him of items he would want to pack. Most of their suggestions were just common sense ones that Mark would have done anyway, but he thanked them nonetheless, and pretended that he would never have thought of those things without their help.

CHAPTER TWO

Mark slung his camera bag across his chest, one hand resting on it as he and Mohommad navigated the teeming streets of Kandahar. 

Tan. That was his first impression of the city. The color dominated the landscape — from the jagged mountains in the distance to the dusty ground beneath his feet, but as he took in the streets up close, he realized that splashes of color were everywhere and the crystalline blue sky seemed endless. Motorbikes, cars and bicycles fought for dominance on the roads, and if there were traffic rules, Mark couldn’t figure them out. It looked like a free-for-all. 

A figure covered head-to-toe in blue cloth passed him and he tried not to stare. Mohommad had briefed him on the laws of Afghanistan, but it was one thing to hear that women had to wear the stifling burqas, but to see it close-up was unsettling. How did the women even see where they were going? It went beyond merely a veil. In the burqas, even the women’s eyes were covered, and only a rectangular window covered in a mesh of sorts, kept the women from being blind under the garment.

His shirt stuck to his chest as the heat beat down from the sky and radiated up from the pavement. He pulled it away from his body and wondered how the women managed not to faint dressed as they were.  As they passed a street vendor selling some kind of food, it crossed his mind that eating in public must be difficult or impossible. Maybe they only ate at home? Mohommad said they only had to wear the burqas in public.

The camera case bumped against his side and he steadied it. His travel visa allowed him to take photos only of landscapes not people, and especially not women, but Mo had assured him that once out of the city they would be able to use the cameras without worrying about Taliban watching. While members of the militant group lived in the smaller villages too, everyone knew who they were and so Mo said it would be challenging, but possible to avoid them. The fact that they had to basically sneak photos had Mark uneasy, but Mohommad didn’t seem worried and had relatives who said they would help arrange photo opportunities.

Their hotel looked like it had once been opulent, but after years of war and inner strife, its best days were behind it. Far, far behind it. Mark didn’t care. He was so tired from the flight which had two layovers, he just washed up and slept like the dead. The next morning, they ate a light breakfast of scrambled eggs, which weren’t much different than he was used to eating, except these had tomatoes in them. They rounded out the breakfast with fruit, nuts and tea, and although he would have preferred coffee, the tea went well with the fruit.

“So, are we heading out to your uncle’s home today?” Mark popped the last grape in his mouth.

Mohommad nodded as he drained his tea and set the cup down. “Yes, they live a bit north of here. We’ll go there, and tonight there will be lots of food and celebrating. Tomorrow, we’ll go out and begin working on photos for the book.”

“Sounds good.”

Mark sat on the floor with Mo’s uncles and cousins and shook off with a smile another entreaty by Mo’s uncle to eat more. His stomach already felt like it was going to burst, but he almost wished he had room. The food was delicious. They had dined while sitting on the floor and eating from communal bowls filled with lamb kebabs and some kind of rice with raisins, small slices of carrots and pistachios which he scooped up and ate with a toasted sesame seed flatbread. Fruit was offered at the end of the meal while tea was once again the beverage of choice. Tea had never been a favorite beverage, but it was beginning to grow on him.

He sipped it and glanced around the room. The home itself had reminded him almost of the mud homes that Pueblo people of the U.S. Southwest had lived in, except this one was surrounded by a high wall. Mo had explained that his cousins all lived within the compound with their families too. Mark couldn’t keep straight who was who and he wasn’t sure exactly of the living arrangements, but children were everywhere, the sound of their laughing and playing filling the house.

Women had been present and served the meal, but they had left the room and Mark assumed they ate elsewhere. Sleeping arrangements hadn’t been made clear to him yet either, and he blinked with fatigue. A pile of blankets occupied one corner of the room. The only thing he knew was that everyone slept on the floor, which was fine with him.

The men around him all burst into laughter and he wished he could follow the conversation. If he could, he knew he wouldn’t feel so sleepy, but while everyone was welcoming and friendly, he felt out of place. Although several of the men spoke English, they all were speaking Pashto now, even Mo. While Mark had known that English was not Mo’s native tongue, it was still strange listening to his friend converse in his own language. It was as if he became someone else. His mannerisms changed along with the tone and inflection in his voice. In his first language, he was no longer Mo, but Mohommad.

The next morning, after a surprisingly restful night on a thin mattress on the floor, Mark and Mohommad loaded their cameras into the back of their vehicle. The plan was to visit some neighboring villages where Mohommad had some distant relatives. Two of Mo’s cousins, Faisal and Sayeed, were going to accompany them. The men were a bit younger than Mo, and had seemed friendly enough the evening before.

While Mark checked to make sure all his lenses had come through the trip unscathed, Mo stepped close and said, “My cousins speak English very well, and they think we are only here to take photos of how life is in Afghanistan. I’ve insisted that we need pictures of everyone, including the women so that we can show the people in America the truth about the beauty of this country, but they weren’t too thrilled about having to ask the men in the village for permission to photograph the women. It might help that I remember some of the men, but you’re a foreigner and not Muslim. You might have to sit tight until we know for sure if it’s okay.”