Zia Rahman - In the Light of What We Know

When I arrived half an hour later, Suaif, the gatekeeper, let me in.

Miss Emily, he explained, she came to find you. We told her we did not know where you are.

From the courtyard, I could see that a window to my room had been broken.

Is she here?

She has paid for the window to be fixed.

Suleiman appeared across the courtyard.

I heard you were out on the town last night, he said.

I went to the UN bar.

Which one?

What do you mean which one ?

Kabul now proudly boasts dozens of bars.

Already?

At least two run by the UN.

How do locals feel about that?

The rich love it; the poor are disgusted.

Inside my room, we stood side by side looking at the broken window.

I’d kept the curtains drawn on the east side of the room facing onto the courtyard, in order to keep my luggage out of sight. The window on the south side had no curtains. Anyone could have looked in from there. If Emily had asked the gatekeeper to look for me, the man would have known to go around the side of the building and, standing by the black tree, look in through that window.

I hear there was some drama this morning, said Suleiman.

Sorry about the window.

Why did she break it?

I don’t know. I can’t call her. My cell doesn’t work here, I replied.

That’s the private sector for you. The UN brought in a multinational and it hasn’t set up roaming, so you have to get a dedicated phone to work on its local network. There’s a phone in the office.

Had she really come in, I asked myself, knocked on the door and, failing to get a response, smashed a window before asking anyone? Had she really left a roll of Afs to cover the costs? I thought of Suaif, this middle-aged engineering professor reduced to guarding a gate; this proud man who slept in a corner of a room in the AfDARI compound set aside for menial staff; this man in his home away from home, who watches helplessly as a Western woman enters and, by the power vested in her by the UN, ISAF, NATO, the West, and her white skin, smashes in a window without even asking him if there was some other way to get in or look in; this man who then stands stripped of his own authority, what feeble authority it ever was, as she hands him cash — did she bother to count? — to cover the costs and keep him sweet.

What was she looking for? Looking for me? Did she fear I’d been abducted? This was Kabul, after all. Or was it Nicky she had feared? Whatever the motive for breaking in, was it not the act of omission that was reprehensible, the disregard for the gatekeeper in his native land? Did it really not even occur to her to ask him for help?

I turned to Suaif and shook my head and prayed he’d understand that I wanted then to apologize for everything, for everything that had been done and was going to be done.

She left you a message, said Suleiman, fishing something out of his trouser pocket.

He handed me a note in a sealed envelope: Come to supper at the UN compound. 7:30. Please come. I want to show you off.

* * *

By noon, the windowpane was fixed with a square of wooden board, and I was in my room, writing in my notebook, when there came a knock on the door.

I heard you were in town. Remember me?

Hello, Crane, I replied. Good to see you again. How are you?

Crane Morton Forrester looked much the same as when you introduced him to me at that party a few years earlier, the same brutal mass, a giant slab of ham that obscured the whole doorway behind him. He wore military fatigues and boots, but covering his chest and shoulders was a great wool jumper, blue and plain. Something about Crane threatened clumsiness.

What brings you to this neck of the woods? I asked.

I could ask the same of you, he replied.

Tourism, I said. I hear they have superb beaches and the girls are to die for.

You Brits kill me. Crane laughed.

And you? I asked.

Just quit the Marines; signed up a couple of years ago.

Before September 11?

Yup.

You were in Operation Enduring Freedom?

Fuckers had me in the embassy. No action. Haven’t seen squat.

So you quit?

Military contracting, that’s where the money’s at. I’m with Blackstar.

I nodded.

First learn the ropes, then start my own outfit.

Sounds like a plan.

Sure is. Two words, my man: plausible deniability. That’s the beauty of private military contractors. Gives Washington plausible deniability.

He gave me a beaming smile with a knowing look, as if he’d shared a clever yet simple insight.

There was movement by the door. From behind Crane’s form, Suleiman appeared. Suleiman himself had to duck in doorways, but next to the huge American with his wide receiving arms, the young Afghani looked narrow and vulnerable.

There you are, buddy, exclaimed Crane.

He patted Suleiman on the back, though he might as well have patted him on the head.

You’ve met Sully? Crane asked me.

I nodded without engaging Suleiman’s eye.

Suleiman handed Crane an envelope. Crane took it but gave not a word of explanation.

Sully’s a Red Sox fan, aren’t you, Sully? Think you got a shot this season?

Suleiman glanced at me. Was he telling me something? I thought, of course, of the colonel and his request: Find out what’s in the envelopes. And be careful with Crane.

Baseball can break your heart, Mr. Crane. It’s a game of surprises.

He’s a philosopher, our Sully, a man with an impossible dream.

Crane turned back to me.

Listen, I’ve gotta get going. How about grabbing a beer sometime?

Sure, I replied.

How long you here?

A while.

Great. I’ll show you around. There’s a lot of action if you know where to look.

Crane then actually gave me a wink. The second wink I’d received in twenty-four hours.

Sully knows how to get hold of me, he added.

After he left, Suleiman pulled the curtain ajar. Crane’s massive frame lumbered across the courtyard.

That man is disgusting.

Why was he here? I asked.

He collects mail here. Always envelopes.

Where are they from?

They’re local, dropped off by jeep.

UN jeeps?

Unmarked jeeps. Can’t make out anything. Normally the director takes receipt and holds them for him.

But they trust you with them?

Not completely. The jeep was just here, and I don’t know if you noticed, but it didn’t leave until Crane stepped out into the courtyard with the envelope in his hands, and Crane always steps out as soon as I give him the envelope.

Why do you say he’s disgusting?

I met Crane several months ago, said Suleiman. He was some flunky in the embassy; I got the impression he was an errand boy in Kabul. One day I was here late and curfew was minutes away. Crane happened to be stopping by — to collect an envelope — and he offered to drop me home in his Land Cruiser. It had military markings — the curfew doesn’t apply to them. Crane has been here since the beginning but never far from Kabul. I think his father’s a senator.

He’s on the Armed Services Committee.

That’s right. So we’re in Crane’s air-conditioned Land Cruiser and I think he’s been drinking. The air stinks of alcohol. And he starts to talk. He tells me, and forgive me for repeating such words, about this girl he knows just outside Kabul, out west, and how tight she is, how much he likes that young pussy and her tight ass — I am telling you what he said, and believe me, I cannot bring myself to tell you it all in detail. He tells me he loves Afghan pussy. He swears that one time he fainted — dear God, forgive me — he swears he fainted, he came so hard in her ass. He tells me he tries to make it up there every week. The girl’s father knows what’s going on all right, he explains, but they don’t care so long as he sweetens the deal. The father stays away and the mother takes the kids out and he gets the girl and the little Afghan house all to himself. You know, Sully, he says, there’s nothing tighter than thirteen-year-old Afghan ass. I am sitting silently in the Land Cruiser. He goes on Fridays, he says, and stops by the dogfight on his way back. I don’t know what the driver is thinking. He must speak English if he works for the embassy. For all I know, this might be the driver who takes him to the girl. He asks me what I think. And I didn’t say anything, but I will tell you now that my very thought was: Should I kill this son of a pig? What I say to him is that he must be a very happy man. You bet your ass, he says, and laughs. So now you see. It is not enough to destroy the country; they rape our girls and they humiliate our men.