Читать книгу Into the Sun - Deni Ellis Bechard - Страница 14

JUSTIN

IN COUNTLESS CYCLES, a dream sequence that refused to finish, the plane turned, the horizon’s curve glowing the saturated blue of an LCD screen. Justin leaned close to the window. It must be time. He had a sense of floating, motionless above the gray field.

Over the intercom, the pilot explained they were circling high above Kabul, waiting for the cloud ceiling to lift. Every few minutes, the airliner tilted as it turned, windows on one side going dark as those across the aisle brightened, silhouetting turbaned heads and beards.

The discharge from Justin’s sinuses worsened. He blew his nose. The two men who’d begun the flight next to him had found seats farther up. Across the aisle, a bulky man with a mop of beard glared.

The blue vanished, dense clouds battered past the small passenger jet, and altitude losses jolted the wings. The landing gear dropped, the wind shear palpable as Justin’s seatbelt tightened against his hips. The plane vibrated through rough air like a car going over a rumble strip.

He checked his mind for fear. His arrival was only a waypoint. Death would be meaningless. If he trusted the knowledge that came to him in the seconds between waking and full consciousness, or in that confluence of daydream and vision, he would have the years he needed for everything he’d lived to have meaning.

At the front of the cabin, a cell bleeped: the text message alert of an early Nokia no longer used in America, a repeated double pinging that had become of another era within a decade. One by one, throughout the plane, other cells echoed — two, four, almost a dozen — so that, though clouds gusted and muscled at the window, he knew the ground was just below.

Brown lines of wet roads appeared in glimpses, framed by dirty snow. A white hill emerged then dissolved in mist. The city’s sprawl came into focus, two-dimensional at first, thousands of square rooftops in a maze of streets. The wheels thudded, the wing flaps went up, the plane rocked and then pushed hard against the tarmac.

Buckles clicked and men crowded the aisle to open overhead bins as the plane slowed, as if they were on a bus. They pulled out their bags, their beards angled upward. Some shouted into cells.

The edges of his nostrils burned. As the others were rushing out, he touched the drink napkin to his nose and stood. In the aisle, a black cloth lay in a heap. He stooped and lifted it, a headscarf maybe. The material felt smooth and synthetic between his fingers.

Just inside the airport, a woman stopped as the men hurried past, a few of them looking her over. Her back was to Justin, her brown hair cut below her shoulders. His sinuses ached, and he blew his nose.

He passed her and turned. He’d been told not to speak to Afghan women in public. She stared slightly up and beyond the ceiling, her black eyes unfocused. It took him a moment to realize that they seemed so dark only because her pupils were dilated. The thin rings of her irises were actually amber. One of her hands lingered at her shoulder, her fingers in her hair.

Did you drop this?

She focused on him, her pupils contracting. She was breathing fast.

Oui! Merci. Thank you. It is mine.

You’re French?

She took the scarf carefully, appearing at odds to control her fingers, and looped it over her head.

Québécoise. Thank you for finding this. I just realized.

As they walked together, Justin’s apprehension faded. He made himself confident to reassure her. Only his cold undermined his arrival.

What brought you to Afghanistan? she asked.

I’m volunteering at a school. A prep school, basically.

Side by side, like a couple, they approached the officer checking passports. They had their fingerprints scanned, headshots taken, and passports stamped. Her passport was Canadian. Why hadn’t she said that?

Outside the open doors of the baggage claim, the wet parking lot was threaded with melting snow. Men stood packed together at the inert conveyor belt. Justin asked what she did.

I’m a lawyer. I have a contract with an organization that defends women in prisons.

The conveyor began to chug and creak. His headache had worsened, and his back ached.

I’m finishing my doctorate in education, he told her. At the University of Houston. I was offered an academic director position here.

He didn’t want her to think he was just a volunteer, but he disliked how his words came out. He hadn’t meant to cut her off to state his superior credentials. The sense of the journey he’d lived through his prayers grew distant. He should be able to follow the truth without needing to tell another.

When they’d retrieved their bags, they walked out together, following the Afghans who pulled their suitcases across a road and through a gate into a parking lot where groups of people waited: families, women in headscarves, and taxi drivers, many of them in Western dress. Those in shalwar kameez had chosen tan or brown, a few blue. No one was in black, and none of the foreigners — except Justin — were dressed like locals.

Is it okay for us to be talking in public? she asked.

I don’t see why not.

Is this your first time?

As he said yes, she glanced down at his black Afghan tunic. With a few steps, she put space between herself and him, as if realizing he was not only new here, but possibly dangerous.

The sudden shifts in her carriage — the lengthening of her stride, the redressing of her shoulders and neck — gave her the air of someone on a routine visit. Lifted, her forehead was clear. There were faint determined lines on either side of her mouth, like those of a woman who didn’t want to be disturbed.

A man wearing a casual suit and trim goatee approached her and extended his hand. His accent was faintly British.

Ms. Alexandra Desjardins, welcome. I am Hamid. Please let me take your bag.

She thanked him and then observed Justin warily. Hamid was poised, appearing ready to lunge between them.

It was a pleasure meeting you, Justin told her.

Yes. Good luck. She smiled with only her mouth — her pupils suddenly tiny, her irises thin golden bands — before walking away.

A few taxi drivers called to Justin. Through a growing buzz of adrenaline, he realized how cold he felt, his jacket much too light.

IN THE DAYS before his flight, Justin had perfected his appearance: a fist of beard, close-cropped hair, and the black shalwar kameez. Ahmad, the Dari teacher he’d found on Craigslist, a grocery bagger at Whole Foods, had stood next to him before the mirror at the tailor’s.

You will do very well, Ahmad had said.

Justin was still confusing the shalwar and the kameez, one part of the outfit loose pants with narrow ankles, the other a tunic that hung to his knees. As he studied himself in the mirror, he envisioned his arrival in Kabul: his calm blue eyes contrasting with the auburn beard.

During his layover in Frankfurt, he began to sniffle. By Dubai, his nose was stuffed. On the flight to Kabul, his back muscles ached. When he took his window seat, the young Afghan next to him smiled. He wore black jeans, an ornate leather jacket, and had gel in his hair — clearly the son of an affluent family. Justin pictured himself having dinners with them, discussing politics and the parallels between Islam and Christianity. He tried out his Dari — Chettor hasten?

Khub hastam, the young man replied and then switched to English. Do you lift weights?

Yes, but only to stay in shape.

Then you must know Hamidullah Shirzai? He is one of Afghanistan’s great bodybuilders. There is a film about him. I believe he must also be famous in America now.

Justin’s sinuses throbbed with the drumbeat of his heart. Discharge stung the edges of his nostrils, gumming up his mustache. He put a drink napkin to his nose and blew.

The young man went rigid. He stood, walked up the aisle, and leaned to speak with other passengers. Afghans glanced back at Justin. By the time the plane landed, he was alone in his row.

He’d imagined his arrival as a new beginning, but now, feverish, he could see only risks: that he wouldn’t be able to communicate, that he’d be harassed for being an American, or even kidnapped — or that the Taliban would shoot down the airliner. How could it be safe to land in the capital around which America’s longest war had been spiraling for years?

As Justin waited in the parking lot, he thought how reassuringly familiar Alexandra had been — even if she was French and from Canada, a country that called to mind only his father’s stories about Vietnam and the men who escaped north to flee the draft.

He began to shiver, his muscles like icepacks.

Mr. Justin?

The young man wore jeans, and a belted jacket hung on his frame like a bathrobe. He had the starved look common to people who hadn’t recovered from being underfed as children.

Yes. That’s me.

I am Idris. Mr. Frank sent me.

If not so thin, Idris would be striking with his black hair, his cleft chin with a few sparse hairs, his unwavering dark eyes set against milk-pale skin.

You had a good voyage?

Long but good, Justin lied as they crossed the parking lot to a white Corolla. The car had mud all over it: on its panels, on the bottom of the trunk where he put his bags, on the floorboards. He’d expected dust, and the mud’s familiarity felt intrusive.

Idris pulled onto the main thoroughfare, the lanes packed with jockeying Corollas, some of the drivers steering on the left, some on the right.

Justin asked why there were so many similar cars — and why some of their steering wheels were on the left side and some on the right. Idris said that most of Kabul’s vehicles were shipped in from Japan, where people drove on the left. This made Afghanistan’s traffic treacherous, since most drivers couldn’t see oncoming traffic when they tried to pass.

Idris asked about Justin’s education, where he grew up, where he’d studied.

I’m from Louisiana. I did my undergraduate at Louisiana State in Baton Rouge.

So you wanted to be a teacher?

I wanted to be involved in education. Yes, I teach, but . . .

There was no easy answer, so Justin explained he’d done two master’s degrees, in English and education, and had nearly finished his PhD dissertation. Idris asked about university programs and scholarships for foreign students, but Justin admitted he didn’t know much.

Idris drove them past embassies with blast walls and guard posts. The main roads were sound, though the side streets were filled with mud and pond-size puddles whose ice had been smashed. As dusk claimed the unlit street, a convoy of dun armored vehicles passed — Justin recognized them as MRAPs — their headlights blazing over the traffic ahead. The thrill of being in a war zone arose in him, accompanied by a vague nostalgia for the days when he’d dreamed of being a soldier.

There are so many ways to use words ending in ing, Idris said. Would you be so kind as to teach me this?

Sure.

Justin reluctantly looked away from the convoy. He was still giving examples when they came to a highway under construction. Idris jammed the accelerator, and they shot through a gap in the yellow taxis and cargo trucks with flat-faced cabs and flowery paint jobs.

Justin put the tissue to his nose and blew. He’d been breathing through his mouth and could taste the dust, gritty on his tongue and between his teeth.

Your explanations are very clear, Idris said. You will help many people here.

That’s why I came, Justin replied.

Three muddy unpaved roads later, Idris pulled up to a nondescript house with a low compound wall, a metal door, and a dented gate with a scrawl of rusted barbed wire above.

May I give a suggestion? Idris asked.

Of course.

I am not bothered, but for many Afghans, this problem with your nose — this blowing of the nose — it can be insulting.

Why? It’s a bodily function.

Many bodily functions are not done in the company of others. Maybe it is like, for you, releasing wind.

It’s that bad?

Releasing wind for us is even worse than for you, so how can I know?

Briefly, Justin relived everything that had happened on the plane.

Frank is waiting, Idris told him, and pressed the horn twice.

The gate shook, and a short, bulky man with olive skin and blond hair pulled it open.

He is the guard, Idris said as he drove the car inside. His name is Shafiq. He does not speak English, but he is a very dedicated bodybuilder. Even though he is not so tall, his muscle is very good.

Justin had expected talk of God or war, at the very least politics, but instead he’d already had two conversations about bodybuilding.

Shafiq greeted Justin, squinting like a man reading a distant street sign. Weightlifting calluses scratched Justin’s palm as they shook hands. Shafiq’s forearms bulged, and swollen veins thinned at his wrists before spreading out again like roots.

I know the place doesn’t seem like much, Frank said from the doorway, waving him in, but if you put away your preconceptions and remember this isn’t America, I’ll give you the tour.

The school’s leanness — its sparse furnishings and undecorated spaces — seemed an expression of Frank: tall, even compared to Justin, but so fleshless he appeared a relic.

On the first floor, the dining and living rooms doubled as classrooms. There were mismatched chairs, dry-erase boards on easels, a shelf of espionage best-sellers, and a few mauled classics, Twain and Defoe. The kitchen held a blackened gas stove and some upside-down pots and pans. A low basement had been turned into the girls’ dormitory, rickety bunk beds lining the walls, their tops only about a foot from the ceiling. The girls were out, but a woodstove was going strong, and the air retained a hint of perfume.

You teach these kids, Frank told him, and they’ll make a difference. Today, we all read about changing our lives, but self-help doesn’t come close to what the military has been doing for years. You tell someone he’s a leader, he becomes a leader. You give him a role, that’s who he’ll be. I built this school because we need to empower young people to change their country.

Frank’s smile was gone, replaced with a sudden theatrical earnestness, like that of a pastor who speaks cheerfully from the pulpit only to become stern and deliver a moral.

I don’t need to be explaining this, do I? You’re the first volunteer who’s treated the job like a paid position. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Everyone’s heard that. Just working for a paycheck is biding time. The real pay is personal satisfaction.

Justin’s department administrator had forwarded the email about the school and, even though the position was voluntary and applicants had to pay their own way, Justin had given the cover letter more care than his PhD applications. The school wasn’t what he’d expected, but he reminded himself that learning should take place in the most meager buildings.

Frank showed him the top floor — a few couches in the wide hallway, two bedrooms, two offices, and a bathroom. The concrete walls exuded cold, the basement’s heat imperceptible.

Your room has a view and lots of light. There’s not a day I’ve woken up wanting to be somewhere else. A few weeks getting used to this air, and you’ll be unstoppable.

Before leaving him to unpack, Frank patted him on the back, his hand so bony Justin felt like he was being reassured with a cooking utensil.

Justin’s bags were already near the bed, and he began to close the door. Idris was leaning against the wall near the stairs, his arms crossed. Justin nodded, and Idris tipped his head before walking away.

Justin unzipped his roller bag. The narrow room held an electric heater, a closet with a shelf and row of hangers, a particleboard desk, two ladder-back chairs, and a narrow bed with a foam mattress whose center had been compressed to the plywood. Outside, the backyard was yellow. It contained a few brambly trees and leafless bushes, and Shafiq’s guardhouse.

Justin sat at the desk and took a notepad from his pocket. It held a phone number he’d transferred from a gum wrapper. For a moment, he wished it were Alexandra’s. He pictured her haloed pupils and then deprived his desire of thought until it receded. He’d come here for the school and was impatient for his new life in Kabul to begin.

And yet he’d brought this number. He studied the foreign assemblage of digits: three zeroes, a nine, a one . . . It had been written while he stood on a quiet Lake Charles street during his favorite season: when gulf winds blew the humidity away and pecans ripened and fell against rooftops, when the crisp shadows of branches draped the pavement and children rode bicycles from school, and a few lanes over black boys tossed footballs. A woman he hadn’t seen in a decade had given him the phone number. Elle was no longer pretty in the way she’d seemed when he was a teenager — but trashy, with her tattoos and jean shorts.

Justin, she’d called out, recognizing him despite his beard. She asked how he’d been, and he said he was finishing his PhD and leaving soon to be the academic director of a prep school in Kabul called the Academy of the Future. She’d written down Clay’s number and said, Make peace. It would be good for both of you. He never intended to hurt you.

Encountering Clay’s mother after so many years had felt like a mistake, and yet the synchronicity, before his departure, now seemed fated. Clay was here, as if, all along, destiny had been carrying them in a similar direction. Justin had spent years with a sense that something had to be done, but now he wondered if there were things back then he hadn’t understood.

He took his toiletry kit and opened it on the desk. He pressed his thumb beneath his right eye, against the ridge of bone, and pushed down his lower lid. With his index finger, he pinched the front of the eye and pulled it from the socket.