Dani and Joni met in school seven years ago, before he‟d dropped out. She became a web designer, with an eye for color, a wide streak of practicality and a brain for business. He was both pleased and amazed that they‟d stayed friends, even as he‟d grown more solitary, more
isolated. "Send me an email," he said.
"Hand that line to someone who thinks you read email."
Dani kicked off the covers and moved his legs to the floor, planting his feet, propping up his head on one arm.
"Your friend Eli stopped over," Joni said.
Danil sighed. "He‟s not exactly a friend."
"Remind
me a
gain why he has
my a
ddress? And why he doesn‟t know where you live now?"
Danil sat up. "You didn‟t tell him, did you?"
"If I had, he‟d be here already. Listen, he said to give you this. Apparently your work has shown up on some blog site, and some gallery owner is trying to find you. Eli says the guy wants to give you a show."
"How did Eli get this?"
"Trolling blogs? Maybe the guy wandered into his tattoo gallery. How do I know?
Anyway, here‟s his email address and cellphone number. Contact him."
"Yeah. Whatever. I mean, thanks, Joni. I appreciate you bringing this by."
"But?"
Danil reached for the coffee cup and swallowed a gulp. How many people in your life understood you with only a gesture, an expression, maybe a half-dozen words? The reasons he couldn‟t do a gallery show were too complex to explain to her, and to try would involve breaking a promise. "I‟m just not sure I want to be in a gallery, with all its expectations and requirements, with people who don‟t know anything about me or my brother—and don‟t really want to know— judging me based on shit that doesn‟t mean shit," he said.
"Shit that doesn‟t mean shit?" She leaned closer to him. "T
hat‟s bu
llshit, Dani. You get your stuff in a gallery, with more eyes on it. Ultimately, the rest doesn‟t matter."
Almost always, Danil thought, Joni saw through him.
"That window?" She rose, pulled back the drape. "Every time I‟ve ever been here, it‟s curtained. And the refrigerator?" In two steps, she reached and opened it. "Damn close to empty. Dani. You‟re not doing too good. Why would you pass this up?"
"I have a job, you know," Danil said. "I paint office and living spaces."
"Are you kidding me? When‟s the last time you did that? Besides, that‟s not the work you want to get old with, is it?"
Danil sighed. He cracked his knuckles one hand at a time.
"I brought you a present." Joni reached into her bag and tossed him a cellphone. It landed on his lap but he didn‟t pick it up. "Brand new and ready to use," she said. "You can even set up email. Call the gallery owner. Then open up one of your mom‟s letters and fucking reconnect with your family."
Danil shook his head. "Not an option."
Joni shrugged. "Whatever. But while you‟re on your „alternate trajectory,‟ don‟t ignore a potential break that I gave up a lunch hour to help pass on. Opportunities only fall in a person‟s lap so often." She leaned over and kissed his cheek, and then waved over her shoulder without waiting for him to respond.
Danil rubbed his palm over his chin and stared at the cellphone. Then he put it and the piece of paper with the gallery owner‟s contact information on the corner of the only table in his apartment, the table that still held the coffee. "I‟ll figure it out later," he said, as if talking to the phone itself, and then he headed into his bathroom.
Amin, September 5th
Bleach and yeasty bread: the scent of Maiwand Hospital as Amin entered through the main doors. A woman in a
burqa s
quatted by the entrance, holding in her arms a child whose head drooped like a wilted poppy flower. Amin couldn‟t be sure if she was begging or simply waiting, but he scrambled his fingers into his pocket and pressed a few Afs into her hand. "T
ashakor," she sai
d, barely glancing up.
He‟d never been inside Maiwand. Though it was barely adequate, the hospital‟s primary purpose was to serve as a training ground for Kabul Medical University interns. Amin himself would never come here for care. Of course, he wouldn‟t go to any hospital in Afghanistan for anything serious—better to India, or the States if possible. Even Pakistan. Backward, violent, filled with war-battered souls: what was it about this country that drew him beyond all logic? He‟d been educated abroad and could have stayed. Yet he found himself rooted to this soil. Whatever he hoped to accomplish lay here, along with whatever debt he owed.
To his right, in an office with huge windows, Zarlasht sat at a large desk. One other woman sat at a second desk across from hers. Amin strode into the office. For a moment she didn‟t glance up, focused on her paperwork. Then she saw him, and her surprise registered. "
As
salaam alaikum," she sai
d, her expression turning formal.
He stood without speaking. Zarlasht glanced toward her colleague, who nodded and left the room. She then looked toward Amin, silent. Though he distrusted her, her self-confidence struck him as impressive.
"An American woman was supposed to meet with Mr. Barbery the day he was taken," Amin said. He took a paper from his chest pocket. "A nurse. He was going to help her, but he cannot. Here is her name. She wants to visit hospitals. I‟d like you to arrange a visit to Maiwand."
She laughed. "An American woman nurse? In this hospital? Do you think that‟s appropriate?"
"She will dress appropriately. She wants to help improve our medical practices. But that part doesn‟t matter to you. I‟m acting on behalf of Mr. Barbery. I‟d like you to arrange it for an afternoon sometime in the next week."
Zarlasht narrowed her eyes, studying his face for a moment. Then she looked down at the paper silently. Finally she nodded. "Thursday would probably be fine. In the women‟s and children‟s wards only, of course."
"Good," he said, but he didn‟t move.
"There is something else?" she asked after a moment, a note of challenge in her voice.
"The motivation," he said. "It‟s a little confusing to me. Was it accidental, or half
intentional, a target of opportunity? Or was this your sole intent from the start?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Todd Barbery is a good man," he said.
"Yes, I know."
"No. No, you don‟t. He loves this country, Allah save him. At least up until this week, he did. And he‟s been foolish at times. He‟s failed to discern. But he is a good man."
"I heard what happened. I am sorry. I meant to come by and say—"
"But whether or not he is good," Amin interrupted, "that is not relevant to you. What is relevant, what you should know, is that aid workers are not soldiers."
"Of course I know."
"They are not politicians and they are not ousted leaders."
"I realize—"
"And if all the aid workers are driven out of Afghanistan—"
"But why are you telling me—"
"Todd Barbery," Amin spoke over her, "would never abandon this country, no matter what. But his big boss, his e
mir bac
k in America, and the other e
mirs, they w
ill finally say no. Do you understand that? And if all the aid workers are driven out, this will not be a good thing. Not for this hospital—how much foreign money have you received here? Not for the women. Not even, ultimately, for you."
"Of course I know this," she said, rising from her seat as she spoke. "You think this is something I can control? Have you forgotten the country from which you come? Have you forgotten how little we women mean here? How quickly they muffle our voices, if they let us speak at all?"
"You have ears, at the very least."
"Which do me no good now."
"And you also face threats," Amin went on as if she hadn‟t spoken, "because this country is not ready to smile and bow to a progressive woman, is it? In Afghanistan, progressive women must also be wise, playing one side against another so they can stay safe. Passing on information if needed. That could be motivation, I guess."
She glared at him. "Your implications insult me."
"Really? I was trying hard to be polite."
"I have no connection to criminal elements."
"In our country, politics and crime are wedded."
"Who took him? And why? Those are the questions you should be trying to answer if you hope to win his release."
"Those are the questions I‟m trying to answer, Zarlasht."
Zarlasht gestured to the door. "I request that you leave."
Amin studied her face silently, trying to assess if he could extract any information at all from her, or if he was, for the moment, forced to count a delivered warning as enough.
A young female medical student opened the door. "Zarlasht jan, an ambulance has just arrived. A boy stepped on a mine and—" Her words were drowned out by a mother‟s wailing. The nurse left the office, leaving the door ajar.
"Stay, then," Zarlasht said coldly. "Sit here alone, if you wish. I must admit the patient."
"Of course. But first." Amin leaned forward so he could speak softly and Zarlasht could hear him above the cries of anguish, which would not abate, he suspected, for some time. "Once before I let someone down."
"I know. We all know." She turned her head and murmured under her breath, "He who has been bitten by a snake now fears a piece of string."
"This time, I won‟t let a good man be sacrificed to wrong-headed beliefs."
"It is not my business," Zarlasht said, "but you know you put yourself at risk in this alliance."
"That is my worry. Here is yours: if you had anything to do with it, you better make sure Mr. Todd is released safely, and soon. If he is not, and if it links back to your family in any way, I will find out. And you will discover you made a mistake."
She narrowed her eyes. "I must go now," she said.
"Of course." He straightened. "I speak out of respect, Zarlasht," he said, allowing his voice to turn conversational again. "I wouldn‟t bother giving this warning to a man." He inhaled deeply. "Go with Allah," he said as he turned to leave.
Clarissa, September 5th
Clarissa dimly realized, as she reached for it, that the phone had been ringing for some time. Out of a desire for silence, not conversation, she groggily lifted the receiver. She put it to her ear but did not speak.
"Clari." It was her brother‟s voice, and he sounded stern. "Clari," he said again.
"Mmmm." She was aware that the scratchiness in her throat betrayed this as her first attempted word of the day.
"Are you okay?"
"What time," she managed, "is it?"
"Almost noon. I‟m downstairs. Let me in."
She replaced the receiver and sank back into bed. How nice it would be simply to close her eyes, go back to sleep and wake up when she wanted to—that shouldn‟t be too much to ask, should it? But then she heard the bell again, insistent as a crying baby. She swung her legs to the floor. "Patience," she murmured. Still barefoot, she went downstairs and opened the door. Mikey swept her face with his eyes. "I‟m fine, only I couldn‟t fall sleep until about 6 in the morning," she said, adding unnecessarily, "Come in," as he moved past her into the kitchen. "Want some coffee?" she asked his back.
"I‟m already making it." He went to the cabinet and poured beans into the grinder on the counter. She watched him a moment, then slipped into the bathroom off the kitchen.
When she emerged a moment later, she saw that Mikey was trying to carry out an unobtrusive inspection. What worried him? That he would find pills or empty wine bottles? She smiled a little at the thought. In fact, the kitchen looked clean; she‟d shoved most of the food Ruby had prepared into the refrigerator, leaving the rest stacked on the counter, one container atop another.
"Ruby‟s gone mad," she said. "She dropped all this off last night. I know she feels helpless and wants to be doing something, but—what am I going to do with all this? Will you take some?"
He glanced sideways at her as he bent over something on the kitchen table; she saw it was the dead insect she‟d left there, centered on a paper napkin. She‟d forgotten about that. Mikey straightened, raising his eyebrows in a question she ignored.
"How about some of the salads?" she asked. "It‟s too much and it really isn‟t for me. It‟s food for Todd, even if she doesn‟t realize that, and I don‟t want it to spoil."
"What can I do to help?" he asked.
"I‟m telling you, Mikey. Take the food. It feels to me like an offering left at a grave."
"Clari," he said. "I know this is hard—"
"Listen," she interrupted. "I really appreciate your coming and all, but I don‟t want to—I can‟t do a conversation right now. I haven‟t even had coffee."
"Let‟s remedy that." He poured two cups full, brought them to the kitchen table and sat. "You heard from the FBI again?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. You‟re my wake-up call."
He gestured with his chin to the center of the table. "What‟s this?"
"A bug," she said flatly.
"I meant, what‟s it doing on your table?"
She looked down, took a deep breath, and then raised her eyes to his. His expression—so serious, as though he were waiting for her to explain a concept like God or soul or identity— made her think of when they were children and the evenings when they would slip away from the grownups and he would ask her to tell him a story and then tuck his legs beneath him in patient preparation. This triggered an irresponsible and irrepressible desire to laugh, which quickly morphed into a need to cry. The strangled sound that came out instead startled both of them. She took a sip of coffee, waiting to speak until she‟d swallowed and taken a breath. "Look at the wings," she said then, sliding the napkin toward him. "Look how delicate they are. They‟re small as a baby‟s finger, but veined, and they have this orange tinge."