Shooting Kabul Page 4

  A tall balding man with an ample belly stood behind a woman carrying roses. He waved energetically at them.

  “That’s him,” said Zafoona, a rare smile stretching her pale lips.

  “Salaam Alaikum!” exclaimed Uncle Amin, giving Habib a hug. Behind him lurked a boy around Fadi’s age, who leaned forward to give Zafoona a kiss on the cheek.

  “Mashallah, Zalmay,” said Zafoona. “You’ve gotten so tall and handsome.”

  Zalmay blushed and mumbled something,

  “Fadi, come meet your cousin,” said Zafoona.

  “Salaam Alaikum,” said Fadi. He reached out to shake Zalmay’s hand.

  “Walaikum A’Salaam,” Zalmay responded. “You, uh, have a long trip?” he added in a rush.

  “Yes.” Fadi gave a weary grimace. “Really long.”

  “Zalmay, help your uncle Habib with the suitcases,” said Uncle Amin. “Fadi, is that you? My goodness, you were a tiny fellow when I saw you back in Kabul. And, Noor, you have grown up into a young lady—no longer dashing around with pigtails and a runny nose.”

  Noor turned red and mumbled her Salaams.

  Fadi froze. What if he asks about Mariam? Does he know? Then he remembered. His parents had called Uncle Amin from Peshawar, as they had all their relatives, to tell them what had happened.

  “Well, let’s go,” said Uncle Amin, leading them toward the wide glass doors that opened onto the curbside pickup area.

  “Wait here and I’ll bring the car around,” said Uncle Amin.

  Half an hour later Fadi was wedged firmly in the backseat of a beat-up Dodge Caravan. He dislodged Noor’s elbow from his back and scooted closer to the door. He pressed his nose against the window, watching traffic as they exited the airport and merged onto Highway 101.

  “So,” said Habib, “how is the family doing?”

  “All doing well, Alhamdulillah,” said Uncle Amin. “Nilufer is so excited you are here. She and my mother have been cooking up a storm all day.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Zafoona from the backseat. “It’s been too long since I saw her. She was the best cook out of the three of us. I was always more interested in my studies.”

  “Well, you were first in your class, as I recall,” said Uncle Amin, nodding. “Your parents were so proud when you were accepted to Kabul University. Especially your father, may Allah bless his soul.”

  “That seems like such a long time ago now,” replied Zafoona with a deep sigh.

  “How were things in Kabul when you left?” asked Uncle Amin. “We’ve heard that the drought this year was bad.”

  “Very bad,” said Zafoona. “Low rainfall ruined this year’s crops, and there have been food shortages. Many people have resorted to eating grass. Grass! Can you imagine?”

  Uncle Amin shook his head sadly.

  “The Taliban came with so much hope,” said Habib, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. “Now fighting with the Northern Alliance has flared up. They are all the same—power-hungry and arrogant.”

  “What is the problem with people?” said Uncle Amin, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “What has happened to common decency?”

  “War, war, always war,” grumbled Zafoona. Fadi could see she was getting more exhausted by the discussion, and he squeezed her arm. He didn’t want her to get breathless and succumb to a fit of coughing.

  Zafoona glanced over at him with a smile and held his hand. She turned her attention back to the front.

  “Maybe it’s in our blood,” said Uncle Amin with a shake of his head. “Afghanistan has been invaded so many times. By the Persians, Greeks, Arabs, Turks, Mongols, British, and then the Soviets …”

  Fadi listened with half an ear. He’d heard it all before.

  “But perhaps we are our own worst enemy,” commented Habib quietly. “We are always fighting, either with others or among ourselves. No one has defeated the Afghans, but centuries of war have left our country full of strife—one of the poorest in the world.”

  As the adults continued their gloomy conversation and Zalmay played with a handheld video game, Fadi shrank back into the fading brown leather seat. He gazed in trepidation at the white-crested churning water of the San Francisco Bay as they headed across the San Mateo bridge. Fascinated, Fadi pressed his nose against the glass, feeling as if he could reach out with his hand and touch the cool water. A seagull flew low over the waves seemingly motionless, buffeted by the wind. The water below undulated in shades of blue to green to purple in some spots. Fadi thought of a book he’d read last year that he’d found at the underground book shop. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. He wondered what kind of creatures lurked under the shifting water.

  For a moment Fadi felt queasy, a little seasick. They were traveling awfully close to the water. Afghanistan was landlocked, with the nearest coast lying along the Arabian Sea three hundred miles to the south. Even when he was young, in Wisconsin, Fadi had never seen the ocean. This was the first time he’d been this close to so much water. A gazillion gallons of shimmering water flowed beneath them. Mariam would have loved it.

  WITH A BURP OF SMOKE BILLOWING FROM its tailpipe, the Dodge exited the bridge and hopped onto Interstate 880. They headed south for another ten miles, as a comfortable silence descended over them. Fadi looked at the cars racing by and marveled at their speed. He’d rarely left their house on Shogund Street these past few years. Although the Taliban had brought some order to the city, it still hadn’t been safe to go outside. Zafoona had decided to homeschool Fadi, Noor, and Mariam, especially since all the girls’ schools had been closed by the Taliban.

  Fadi stared at the new white strands in his father’s hair and couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. His father had wanted to go back to Afghanistan to help, but it just hadn’t turned out that way. Initially he’d hoped to teach at the agriculture department at Kabul University. Founded in 1931, the university had once been the finest in Asia, the intellectual heart of the country. But after years of war it was in shambles and had to be shut down.

  Habib had opened a small dry goods store in downtown Kabul to support the family after the opium crops had been destroyed. Every once in a while his father would take Fadi to work with him. Downtown Kabul’s maze of streets was usually jam-packed with cars, donkey carts, and people on foot.

  Fadi gazed out the window at the tall walls that lined either side of the freeway, sheltering buildings, shopping plazas, and parks on the other side. Everything looked so big and so new.

  Uncle Amin eased his way into the right lane and took the Thornton Avenue exit into Fremont. They passed an elementary school and drove along a street lined with shops, teahouses, restaurants, and a small theater. Fadi rolled down the window to let in fresh air, and he caught a whiff of freshly baked bread. He could see signs in familiar Persian script on many of the storefronts.

  “Here we are. Little Kabul—home away from the real thing,” joked Uncle Amin with a rumbling laugh.

  “Really?” asked Habib, looking out the side window. A group of women in long dresses and head scarves strolled by.

  “Fremont has the largest population of Afghans in the United States,” said Uncle Amin. “There are dozens of Afghan restaurants, cafés, and shops. You can drop by, get a cup of tea, and hear the latest news.”

  “That must be nice,” said Zafoona.

  “Yes, it is. Nilufer can find all the ingredients she needs to make her famous kebobs and pulaos.”

  The mention of kebobs got Fadi’s stomach rumbling. He hadn’t eaten much on the plane and he was hungry.

  “Ah, here we are,” said Uncle Amin. He took a right turn down a residential street and pulled up next to a single-story brown shingle house with overgrown rosebushes out front.

  They had just stepped down out of the car when the front door burst open and a group of women and children came flying out.

  “You’re here!” cried a woman in a flowing dress. She looked like a younger version of Zafoona, but her hair was cut fashionably short and her
eyes were leaf green.

  “Nilufer,” cried Zafoona, stumbling forward to give her sister an enveloping hug. Without warning they both burst into tears and started talking at once.

  “Jeesh,” said Zalmay. He exchanged an embarrassed look with Fadi, who grinned in return.

  Behind Zafoona and Nilufer stood an elderly couple, who Fadi guessed were Abay, grandmother, and Dada, grandfather—Uncle Amin’s parents.

  Habib moved forward to kiss the old woman’s cheeks. “Salaam Alaikum,” he said reverently. “How good it is to see you.”

  “I’m so thankful to Allah you are here safely,” she said, her voice as wispy as a spider’s web. She kissed Habib’s forehead and then his cheeks.

  Cocooned in the flow of people, Fadi and his family were bundled into the house. Over the next half hour Fadi met a blur of people, which included Uncle Amin’s two brothers and their wives and children. Zafoona was settled in a bedroom for a quick nap despite her protests that she wanted to help, while the other women retreated to the kitchen to prepare endless platters of food. The men caught up on the latest news, and the kids set out plates and cutlery.

  “Let me say a prayer before we begin lunch,” said Uncle Amin an hour later. The family sat around the traditional dastarkhan, a tablecloth laid out on the floor on top of which the food was placed. “Let us thank Allah that Brother Habib and his family have made it safely to San Francisco.”

  As he paused, Fadi’s back stiffened.

  “May Allah also be watching over brave little Mariam, who, insha’Allah, will soon be found and brought here to us.”

  “There are dozens of people looking for her,” said Habib. “She’ll be found very soon.”

  Father’s right. She’ll be found soon, thought Fadi. There are so many people looking for her. The knot between his shoulder blades eased a bit.

  “Ameen,” came the murmurs from around the room.

  Fadi glanced at his mother. Tears pooled along her eyelashes. The familiar feeling of guilt returned, though he pushed it back. He looked around the room at the solemn faces. Even the younger kids were quiet. They must have been horrified at the thought of being lost out in the middle of nowhere. By themselves. What if they knew it was my fault Mariam was lost? They’d hate me.

  Conversation buzzed around him, about their escape … about Mariam.

  “Poor bacha,” came a whisper near his ear.

  Startled, Fadi turned to see that Abay had settled down next to him. She placed a soft hand on Fadi’s shoulder and pulled him in for a hug. Fadi stiffened, then melted into her embrace, which smelled of cardamom and cinnamon. He wondered if she could read the guilt in his face. He avoided her probing eyes and averted his face.

  Abay patted him on the face and passed him a glass of fizzy orange drink. He gulped it down, the coolness easing the dryness in his throat. Steaming plates of food were passed around as Habib told them how, although neither the American consulate nor Nargis had tracked down Mariam yet, it was only a matter of time before she’d be found. The UN Refugee Agency had sent out a bulletin about Mariam, and Habib’s professor and his sons were looking for any news of her in Jalalabad.

  Khala Nilufer piled a mound of qabuli pulau—rice and lamb—onto Fadi’s plate. He dug in, savoring the candied carrots and raisins. There was also spinach, fried eggplant with yogurt, and chicken stew. Abay added two mantu to his plate. Fadi stared down at the two plump dumplings smothered in a meat sauce, and his hunger vanished. Mantu was Mariam’s favorite dish.

  After lunch Fadi wandered toward the back of the small house, wanting to get away from the crush. Zalmay had offered to show him his collection of video games, but he wasn’t interested. He ducked inside the empty kitchen. The pantry door stood invitingly open, so he slipped inside. He slid to the ground between a huge bag of rice and shelves packed with canned goods and spices. He’d been sitting for a few solitary minutes when he heard footsteps enter through the doorway.

  “So what happened, Zafoona?” prodded a concerned voice.

  Fadi spotted Khala Nilufer through the gap between the door and the frame. He shrank into the shadow as chairs were pulled back from the small dinette set near the window.

  “It’s all a blur,” said Zafoona, her voice scratchy. “We were at the appointed place when the truck arrived. It was late, well past midnight, and we hurried to get on board. Noor practically carried me because I was so sick. Habib led the way, carrying the suitcases, while Fadi and Mariam trailed behind. Then within seconds, complete chaos descended over us.… Dozens of people appeared from out of nowhere. There was a mad dash for the truck.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” murmured Khala Nilufer.

  “It’s my fault she’s lost, you know,” whispered Zafoona.

  Fadi stiffened. Her fault? He peered through the crack at his mother’s hunched shoulders.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Zafoona jaan!” cried Khala Nilufer.

  “She’s my baby. I’m her mother. It’s all my fault,” cried Zafoona, and, she burst into ragged sobs.

  Fadi could see her shoulders shaking as Khala Nilufer grabbed tissues. He closed his eyes, blocking out her tears, but he couldn’t extinguish the anguished sounds.

  “Zafoona,” comforted Khala Nilufer, “you’re making yourself sick. You can’t think like this.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” said Zafoona. “If I wasn’t so sick, I could have looked after her. But instead everyone was looking after me. Noor and Habib were so worried about getting me on board the truck that they lost track of Fadi and Mariam. It’s my fault.”

  Fadi sank his fingernails into the bag of rice. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t the one responsible for losing Mariam.

  “No, no, you can’t think this way, Zafoona jaan,” soothed Nilufer. “You were sick. You can’t help that.”

  “I don’t know …” Zafoona paused a few seconds. “I’ve always tried to be a good mother. But I’ve had to be the disciplinarian. Habib has always been the soft one, the one who the kids turn to when they skin their knees or want to share a secret. I hate to think that Mariam doesn’t think I love or care for her.”

  “Of course Mariam knows you love her,” said Khala Nilufer forcefully. “You can tell her yourself when she comes home. There are so many people looking for her, she’ll be found soon.”

  “Insha’ Allah,” said Zafoona softly.

  “Now come and sit in the backyard,” said Khala Nilufer. “The fresh air will do you good. I’ll make a fresh pot of green tea.”

  As the women headed to the backyard with their tea, Fadi sat alone, in the dark. It’s where I deserve to be.

  FADI TEETERED ON THE EDGE OF THE BED, inspecting the cramped room he and his family shared at the back of Uncle Amin’s house. He glanced with unease at the calendar with the dancing cats. It was the last day of August 2001, and they’d been living there for more than six weeks. He twisted the silky bedspread in his fist as a sense of weary hopelessness settled over him.

  Over the preceding weeks he’d sat, tucked away, next to the couch in the living room, listening while Habib and Uncle Amin called their relatives and friends in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Dozens of people were searching on both sides of the border, but without much success. Not even Khala Nargis’s contacts had found any trace of a little girl named Mariam.

  But would Mariam have told anyone her name? Fadi’s chest tightened. He remembered his father ordering her never to reveal who she was. Maybe they can’t find her because they don’t know who she is. How would she ever be found, then?

  At nine p.m. on Friday, as he did every week, Habib dialed the number given to him by the U.S. consulate in Peshawar, where it was nine in the morning, exactly twelve hours ahead. The week before, the scratchy voice of the assistant on the speakerphone had told them that she was still sending out inquiries, but the situation in Afghanistan was getting worse. The United Nations Security Council had passed a new resolution to tighten the monitoring and enforcement of sanctions against t
he Taliban. Because of this, things on the border had become very tense. Hopelessness threatened to turn to despair as Fadi remembered Mariam’s tiny fingers slipping through his. Father was so sure Mariam would be found in a few weeks.

  But week after week of no news, or bad news, had set Fadi’s nerves on edge. He withdrew and kept to himself. Zalmay tried his best to pull Fadi out of his funk. He introduced him to his friends, dragged him to Lake Elizabeth park to feed the ducks, and let him play his best video games. After learning that Fadi liked taking photos, Zalmay even offered to pose for him, dressed as Superman, but Fadi’s heart wasn’t in it.

  One day the entire family piled into two cars and headed to the Great Mall. It was the largest shopping complex in the Bay Area, built in an old Ford assembly plant. It was so different from the simple markets in Kabul that Fadi couldn’t help but become distracted by the amazing array of stores, in particular the shop selling electronic gadgets. But when he later ran into Zafoona, wandering in a daze among rows of little girls’ pink party dresses, he wanted to go home and hide in the kitchen pantry. After that the only thing he sort of wanted to do was sit with Abay, parked in front of the television. Her wrinkled face mirrored the emotions on the screen as he translated ER, The Price Is Right, and Oprah for her, which helped improve his English.

  During the day when his mother was taking a nap and the other adults were at work, even Noor, who’d found a job at a nearby McDonald’s, Fadi went online. He surfed the Web, looking for articles on Afghanistan and the flood of refugees pouring across the border. He kept typing in “Mariam Nurzai,” hoping for a random hit. But there was nothing.

  Fadi sighed, spotting the two suitcases standing at the foot of the bed. Everything was packed and ready to go, even the copy of From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. He’d finally finished reading it but couldn’t get himself to give the book away. It reminded him of Kabul, and for some odd reason, Claudia felt like a friend. She and her brother, while hiding at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, had managed to solve an amazing mystery concerning a Renaissance statue, and Fadi admired her guts. So he’d stuck the book into his backpack, and it had come to rest against the old honey tin. He couldn’t get himself to take it out of the bag, so it just sat there.