Shooting Kabul Page 8

  “No problem,” said the man. “Very unexpected, but what can we do with youth today?” He shook his head sadly. “All troublemakers.”

  The tips of his ears burning with shame, Fadi slunk into the front seat. He looked in the side mirror and watched his father place two heavy suitcases into the trunk. Meanwhile the crotchety old passenger let himself into the backseat and put his walking stick across his legs. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes with a deep sigh of exhaustion.

  How am I going to explain this? Fadi cast a wary glance at his father. His stomach felt like it was on a wild roller coaster ride. Habib climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled on his seat belt. He ignored Fadi, turned on his blinker, and merged with traffic exiting the airport. Boy, am I in big trouble. What am I going to say? Fadi turned his face toward the side window and stared at the airport disappearing behind them. A line of planes stood at the gates and on the tarmac, one of them painted with the bright red Virgin Atlantic symbol. I’m such a loser. I couldn’t even get out of the trunk, let alone get on a plane. I’ve failed Mariam. Again.

  The rest of the ride passed in silence as Habib drove north toward downtown San Francisco. Soon the soft sound of snoring filtered in from the back. The passenger had nodded off. For a moment Fadi’s fear and embarrassment melted away as the taxi was shrouded in wisps of fog rolling in from the bay. Habib eased his foot from the gas, driving at a safer speed as light from the headlights bounced against the mist, creating a glow around the car. The fog ebbed away as they climbed a sloping hill. Coming around the peak, the city revealed itself with a burst of radiant light.

  Fadi blinked in awe, taking in the sprawling landscape. Tall buildings strung with jewel-toned neon signs pierced the inky sky. Curving streets spread out in a grid, glitter-ing with green, yellow, and red traffic signals. To the right Fadi could see the Bay Bridge stretching out toward Oakland, disappearing into plumes of fog. Pacific Bell Park sprawled below as they took an overpass, the park’s bright green diamond empty. Habib drove through the financial district and headed up Divisadero Street toward the marina. It was a Friday night, and the sidewalks were full of people going in and out of restaurants and cafés. Habib exited the main thoroughfare and took a right into a quiet residential neighborhood. He stopped at a small house painted bright yellow.

  “Sir, is this it?” asked Habib, a hint of worry in his voice.

  “Yes, yes, it is,” said the passenger, snorting as he blinked his eyes.

  “Wonderful,” said Habib. He pushed open the door to help the man with his luggage.

  “Study hard, young man,” said the passenger, bending down to look through the driver’s window. He tapped on the steering wheel with his cane. “If you don’t study and work hard, you’ll end up a taxi driver like your father.”

  Fadi angrily opened his mouth but saw the look of warning in his father’s face through the windshield. How dare he? Doesn’t he know my father has a PhD? He wanted to grab the walking stick and snap it in two. Then the anger deflated. Of course he doesn’t know that my father has multiple graduate degrees. How could he? To the man, my father is just a poor taxi driver. And I’m his troublemaking son.

  Habib took his fee and got back into the car. Fadi looked at him under his eyelashes and was surprised to see a deflated expression on his father’s face. Fadi’s breath caught in his throat, and a sense of sadness wafted over him. He looked away as Habib pulled away from the house. Fadi braced himself for a tongue-lashing, but as the minutes passed, his father remained silent. Fadi cast a look at his father’s tired profile and kept his mouth shut. Habib took a right back onto Divisadero and headed deeper into the city. He drove past a large hospital and pulled into a diner with a line of police cars parked out front.

  “Uh, you’re not having me arrested, are you?” said Fadi, sitting up straighter.

  “Did you do something illegal?” asked Habib.

  “No.”

  “Well, you won’t be arrested, then,” said Habib. He pulled his taxi into an empty spot in the parking lot. “Come on. I need some coffee.”

  Fadi followed his father into the busy restaurant, where a hostess in a beehive hairdo greeted them. A line of police officers sat at the counter, eating fried egg sandwiches and exchanging notes.

  “Table for two, please,” said Habib.

  “Certainly,” said the woman. Her eyeshadow was bright blue and sparkled.

  “I have to call the apartment first to let them know you’re okay,” said Habib. He pointed to the phone booth. “You go ahead and sit.”

  Fadi nodded and followed the hostess to a small booth.

  “Here you go, kid. Look it over,” said the hostess. She handed him two menus. “I’ll send over your waiter.”

  Fadi was halfway done reading the dinner specials when Habib returned.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Habib.

  Fadi shook his head. He looked down at his fingers gripping the menu. There were traces of engine oil under his nails.

  Habib flipped over his menu when a man in tight purple pants and an apron came by.

  “What can I do you for, gentlemen?” he asked, holding up a pad of paper.

  “Coffee for me, please,” said Habib. “And a slice of apple pie and a glass for milk for my son.”

  “Good choice.” The waiter winked. “It just came out of the oven, so I’ll bring it over as soon as it’s cut.”

  As the waiter hurried away, Habib turned his attention to Fadi. “Now tell me what you were doing in the trunk of my taxi.”

  Fadi gulped. He looked into his father’s eyes. To his surprise, he didn’t see anger. There was sadness there, mingled with concern.

  Fadi wiped away a stray tear and opened his mouth. A torrent of words spilled out, explaining the whole harebrained scheme.

  Habib took a deep swallow of coffee as Fadi finished his story. Then Habib paused for a few seconds, as if weighing his words. “So you thought you could go back to Peshawar and find Mariam?”

  Hearing his father say it aloud made Fadi realize how stupid the idea had been. Reluctantly he nodded.

  “Fadi jaan, I commend you for your desire to find Mariam,” said Habib softly.

  Fadi’s head jerked up. He’s not yelling at me.

  “But what you were doing was illegal. You could have gotten into a lot of trouble. Even if you had gotten on the plane, you would’ve been caught when exchanging flights in London. If you had, by some miracle, gotten onto a flight to Peshawar, you would most assuredly have been arrested by immigration officers. Do you know you need a visa to enter the United Kingdom and Pakistan?”

  “A visa?” said Fadi.

  “A visa is a permit given by a country allowing a traveler to enter. It’s kind of like getting permission to come visit. So, to go to London you would need a transit visa to travel through that country. Then you’d need a visa from the Pakistani embassy to go to their country.”

  Jeez, thought Fadi. I didn’t know that.

  “The probability of you succeeding with your plan was pretty much zero,” said Habib. He didn’t yell or get mad. He just stated the facts.

  “Oh,” said Fadi, feeling like a dumb donkey. Waves of embarrassment radiated through him. Even his ears were hot with shame. As the waiter came by and refilled Habib’s cup, Fadi glanced at the table next to them. A group of police officers chatted jovially, drinking coffee. Their black uniforms contrasted with the white and chrome tables, reminding him of the black-turbaned Taliban.

  “But … ,” whispered Fadi. “What if she’s not found?”

  Habib added four cubes of sugar to his coffee and stirred slowly. “She will be found,” he said, his voice confident.

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Fadi, expressing his worst fear, which he’d never spoken out loud.

  “She will be found,” repeated Habib, his lips compressed into a tight line. He paused a moment and looked Fadi in the eye. “I’m going to tell you something I haven’t told anyone else.”


  Fadi gulped down his mouthful of pie and sat back in surprise.

  “Can you keep a secret?” asked Habib.

  Fadi nodded in a rush.

  Habib twirled the spoon in his fingers, as if weighing his words. “After we found out that Mariam was picked up by that family, I sent Professor Sahib five hundred dollars.”

  “Five hundred dollars?” echoed Fadi. Where did he get that kind of money?

  “I collected it from driving the taxi … and borrowed some,” said Habib, as if hearing Fadi’s unspoken question. “Professor Sahib and I have hired private investigators.”

  “Private investigators?” mumbled Fadi, imagining men in trench coats with magnifying glasses, skulking around for clues.

  “There are men … ,” murmured Habib, “ex–army officers, mercenaries, and drug runners, who can be hired to find out things. Hopefully they’ll find information on what happened to Mariam after the truck left.”

  “Oh,” said Fadi, hope flaring in his chest.

  “It’s no guarantee,” said Habib, his voice grim. “Just have patience,” he added, “and keep praying, for Allah answers our prayers, in one way or another.”

  Fadi nodded. Patience and prayer. Not a very satisfactory answer.

  “Now, in regards to hiding in the trunk of my car,” said Habib, his voice hardening. “That was one of the stupidest things you could have done. You could have been seriously hurt.”

  As his father lectured him on his foolish behavior, Fadi tried to put on a sufficiently sorry expression. He didn’t mind the lecture one bit; his father loved him.

  NOOR WAS UP MAKING A CUP OF COFFEE for herself when Fadi and his father returned to their apartment the next morning. Fadi was exhausted but happy, and since it was Saturday, he could sleep in. He’d spent the entire night traveling around the city with his father. When the taxi had had no passengers, Fadi had helped his father memorize the stack of maps kept in the car’s glove compartment. They’d both watched the sun come up over the Golden Gate Bridge, which Fadi was a bit disappointed to learn was painted red and not gold. After dropping off the last passenger in Berkeley, near the University of California campus, they’d returned home.

  “Good morning, Noor,” said Habib.

  “Good morning, Father,” said Noor. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m off to bed. By the way, I hope you didn’t mention what happened last night to your mother.”

  Noor shook her head. “She’s been asleep the whole time.”

  “Good.” Relief flooded Habib’s face. “No need for her to worry unnecessarily.… She has a lot on her mind as it is. I’ll see you both later this afternoon, then.”

  Noor sipped her coffee and ate a slice of toast as Fadi handed his father his passport and the old tickets. Habib patted him softly on the back and went to the bathroom to take a shower before heading off to bed.

  “Your bedroll is in my room,” said Noor. She gave Fadi a calculating look that made him a little nervous. “Why don’t you take a nap in there, and when my shift ends at one, come meet me. And bring my library books with you.”

  Fadi looked at Noor and wondered why she wanted to see him. But he was too tired to worry about it now. “Okay,” he mumbled. “I’ll see you then.”

  As he dragged his backpack behind him toward Noor’s bedroom, he heard his sister’s voice one last time.

  “And put my watch back where you found it.”

  He put the Mickey Mouse watch on her nightstand and collapsed onto her bed. Within moments he was asleep.

  Why did I ever agree to meet her? thought Fadi with growing trepidation. He pulled on the rumpled clothes he’d been wearing the day before and ambled into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice. She’s going to yell at me, then pound me. I just know it.

  But he had to face his sister sometime, and obviously the time had come. In a strange way he was looking forward to it—relieved that things were going to clear up between them, however things turned out. He put Noor’s library books in a bag and left the apartment, after checking in on his mother. She was asleep under a pile of blankets, as usual; she was having trouble getting out of bed these days. Khala Nilufer had whispered to him the other day that although his mother’s body was getting better, her mind was taking a lot longer. Plus, all the strong medications didn’t help. They made her sleepy and out of sorts.

  It was an unexpectedly cool day for the beginning of the second week of September, and Fadi shivered a little, wishing he’d thought to bring a sweatshirt. He jogged through the parking lot of a grocery store and headed toward Paseo Padre Parkway. He slowed as the McDonald’s came into view. He came around the back, half expecting to see Noor waiting for him in the alley, but she wasn’t there. She’s probably inside because of the cold. He walked to the front door and held it open for an older couple to walk through.

  He spotted Noor sitting at a table facing the front window, overlooking the main street. She looked preoccupied, watching a group of kids go by.

  “How was Mom when you left?” she asked as he pulled up a seat.

  “Fine. Taking a nap,” responded Fadi, grabbing the box of chicken nuggets she held out. She’d chosen his favorite dipping sauce—honey mustard.

  “It’s a good thing she doesn’t know about your escapade last night,” said Noor, giving him a measured look.

  Fadi mumbled, his mouth full.

  “Did you try to run away?” she asked point-blank.

  Fadi started to cough, and Noor had to whack him on the back. “Not so hard,” he complained. “And, no,” he mumbled, “I didn’t try to run away.”

  “What were you doing, then?”

  Fadi chewed for a full ten seconds, took a sip of soda, and finally answered. “I was going to go look for Mariam,” he mumbled.

  “Are you crazy? How were you going to do that?”

  And for the second time in twenty-four hours Fadi explained his half-baked plan.

  “Wow. That takes guts,” she said, playing with her straw.

  Fadi blinked. She’s not telling me I’m an idiot.

  “Idiotic for sure, but ballsy,” she said, and grinned.

  Fadi smiled back, bits of nugget between his teeth.

  “Gross!” she yelled, throwing a french fry at him.

  Fadi laughed and slurped some soda.

  “So did Dad let you have it?” she asked.

  “No, he was really nice about it. But he yelled at me for hiding in the trunk of his taxi.”

  “Well, yeah,” said Noor. “You could have really hurt yourself.”

  “He has a lot on his mind,” said Fadi softly. Both of them looked at each other, and then looked away. Mariam was there, hanging over them like a ghost.

  “How come you haven’t told them?” asked Noor in a quiet voice, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Huh?”

  “About Tom …”

  “Who’s Tom?”

  “The guy … with the tattoos.”

  Then it dawned on Fadi what she was talking about. “Oh … him, the one you were … you were hanging out with in the back.”

  “Yeah,” said Noor, turning pink. “He’s not my boyfriend or anything like that,” she added. “He’s a senior at my high school, and he’s going to the University of California, Berkeley, next year to study astrophysics.”

  “Wow, Berkeley.” Fadi whistled. He remembered driving past the sprawling campus the night before.

  “Yup, he’s really smart. And very helpful … with different stuff.”

  “Well, it’s none of my business.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “It’s just that I haven’t made that many friends … and Tom is a really nice guy. Someone I can talk to …”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  She looked relieved. “So,” said Noor, changing the subject, “what’s this photo club thing? A bunch of nerds clicking away?”

  Fadi frowned. “No … it’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing, Fadi,�
�� said Noor. “I can see that it’s important to you.”

  “It’s a club where you learn how to take better pictures,” said Fadi, his face stiff. “There’s a competition. The winner gets to go on a photo shoot. You can go to China, Africa, or India.”

  “India?” said Noor. Comprehension dawned on her face.

  “Yup, India,” said Fadi. “Right next door to Pakistan.”

  “Wow,” she said with a whistle. “That’s quite an opportunity.”

  Fadi nodded. “But its fifty dollars to join.… It’s too expensive, like Mom said. We don’t have that kind of money to waste.”

  Noor sat back, a calculated look on her face again. “I’ve seen the pictures you and Dad used to take,” she said. “They were pretty good.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “So you think you can win?”

  “I’d try my hardest.”

  Noor pulled out her wallet and took out two crisp twenties and a wrinkled ten-dollar bill. “I’ll give you the money.”

  Fadi eyed the money with longing. “I don’t know,” he whispered. That money could pay bills, help with the groceries.

  “Take it,” said Noor. She put the money into his hand with a conspiratorial smile. “I’m not trying to buy you off, you know.”

  Fadi grinned, the weight lifting from his shoulders. Hope flared in his heart again. This is an omen. I know I’m going to win. I just know it.

  Fadi practically ran to school on Tuesday morning, Noor’s money safely tucked away in an envelope in his backpack. He flew up the steps and jerked open the front door. He fairly skipped down the crowded halls on his way to homeroom. As usual, students were milling around the halls, whispering to one another. But the looks on their faces were different. Fadi glanced at the table the school tree huggers association had set up to raise money for a campaign to clean up local beaches. Their collection boxes, decorated with peace signs, stood unattended. They weren’t laughing or joking around. They where whispering, and they look scared.

  “Did you see the news this morning?” said a boy in a Giants cap.

  Fadi slowed, pretending to adjust his backpack.

  “Yeah, I can’t believe it—,” said the girl next to him.