Andrea Busfield - Born Under a Million Shadows

The evening of New Year’s Eve, we placed a large board over the pool table and decorated it with candles. May and Georgie also brought six chairs from their offices, which they carried home in the back of a Toyota pickup Massoud had borrowed from his brother.

As Georgie lit the eight candles on our new “table” and James mixed a bowl of alcohol that he called “punch,” the first of our guests arrived. His name was Philippe, and he was a friend of May’s. He was thin as a pencil with tufts of beard that didn’t connect and struggled to cover his sharp face. He was dressed in the Afghan salwar kameez and wore a pakol . When he entered the house, James rolled his eyes.

“He’s only been in Afghanistan two months, and he’s French,” he whispered to me as I giggled at the man’s too-short trousers and badly rolled hat.

Philippe ignored the comment, as well as James, and came over to shake my hand.

“Salaam aleykum. How you are? What the name is it you are having?” He spoke to me in Dari.

“I speak English,” I told him, in English.

James laughed out loud, although I wasn’t making a joke. I was trying to be helpful, as the man was a guest in our house. “That’s my boy!” he shouted, then grabbed me in a headlock as May led her friend into the living room, spitting the word kids behind her.

About twenty minutes later our next guest turned up, a friend of James’s who—it came as no surprise to anyone—was a woman. Unlike the Frenchman, who’d brought nothing to the party, she carried with her a bottle of wine and a tin of chocolate biscuits, which she handed over to Georgie. Her name was Rachel, and she came from a place called Ireland. She may have been pretty, but it was hard to tell because for some reason she had hidden her face under a mask of makeup that would have put an Afghan bride to shame.

“You look, erm, stunning,” James said as he greeted her, kissing her on the cheek, which left his beard shining with glitter.

“Really?” Rachel asked. “I was having a dreadful time of it before I came out. The electricity went off, and the generator ran out of fuel. I had to use candlelight! Can you believe it?”

“Yes,” admitted May, coming into the kitchen to refill Philippe’s already empty glass with more punch.

Rachel giggled but sounded scared. “You know, I just wanted to make some sort of effort—look a bit festive and all that?”

“Well, you look divine,” James assured her.

“She looks like Ziggy freakin’ Stardust,” May muttered under her breath.

“Ziggy who?” I whispered to Georgie.

“Shhh,” she said, passing me an orange juice. “May’s just being mean.”

For the foreigners’ New Year’s Eve I had been declared Georgie’s guest of honor, although as I also lived in the house she could just as easily have been mine, and as the night wore on it became increasingly obvious that we were the only two people who actually appeared to get on with everyone.

Everything began fairly well thanks to the food from Taverne du Liban, which was a great success. Within an hour we had demolished all the fatoush , the tabbouleh, eight small pastries filled with potato and spinach, a plate of meat patties that came with yogurt, side dishes of hummus, twelve skewers of chicken and lamb kebabs, as well as a small mountain of fluffy white pita breads. By the end of it all I was fit to burst and imagined this must be how Homeira’s family ate every night.

Philippe and Rachel, however, didn’t eat half as much as those of us who lived in the house, though they probably hadn’t been living on watery noodles for the best part of a week. The Frenchman made excuses for his lack of appetite, saying he had a stomach upset. I didn’t believe him. He hadn’t run to the toilet even once during the meal, so I decided it had more to do with his mouth being busy with all the free alcohol my friends had provided, and the fact that he never shut up.

Rachel also spent much of the evening picking at her food, but I sensed this was because she was nervous, as she kept playing with her hair. I also noticed that her eyes grew big as saucers every time she looked at James. I liked her because of that, and I really hoped James liked her too. Her makeup looked a lot prettier in the candlelight of the room rather than the bright, generator-made light of the kitchen, and her voice sounded soft like summer rain whenever she spoke, which wasn’t often because the Frenchman was pretty much holding us hostage with talk about himself.

As Philippe went on and on and on, I saw James getting more and more irritated. It was easy to tell when he was annoyed because he’d constantly grab the back of his neck as if some pain needed to be rubbed away, and he’d flick the ash of his cigarette with sharp, quick taps of his first finger.

“I mean, it’s just so impossible to get anything done quickly here,” said Phillipe. “These people are so lazy.”

“Like Fawad, you mean?” James asked, cocking his head and raising his left eyebrow, which made him look surprised, and also a little dangerous.

“Well, no, he is obviously just a boy.”

“Oh. His mother then, the woman who works for us sixteen hours a day? Or perhaps the guards who protect our lives for a month’s wages that wouldn’t even pay for the fancy dress you’re wearing?”

“That’s enough, James,” May warned him quietly.

James took the comment with an angry look, then ignored her.

“Or perhaps you mean the bread guys who work from dawn to dusk in the blistering heat of their baking houses, or the shoe-shine boys who stand on our corner every day hoping to make a few afs, or the metal welders with their scarred skin and scorched eyes, or—”

“That’s enough, I said!” May hit the table with her fist, causing us all to jump, Rachel most of all.

“Well,” James said, lifting his voice and arms in surrender, “maybe when Philippe has been here for longer than eight weeks he might just be in a position to talk about another nation’s defects.”

As James finished we all sat in embarrassed silence, even me, because although he had been sticking up for Afghans like me he had been rude to a guest, and in our culture that was as bad as calling someone’s mother a whore, or, worse still, using her as one.

“I’ve been here ten weeks actually,” Philippe eventually said.

As we all looked at him, not sure if he was making a joke or not, Georgie started laughing, then slowly the rest of us joined in, even James, who nodded his head and lifted his glass to knock it against the Frenchman’s.

After finishing our meal, and after Philippe had pretty much drunk his own body weight in alcohol, all six of us moved from the table to settle on the long cushions in the other half of the room. James brought with him two bottles of red wine and sat close to Rachel, who looked as pleased as a boy who’d just been given a bike for Christmas. Georgie and May placed themselves on either side of me, like bodyguards. Georgie was just being Georgie, but May, I think, saw me differently now and I wondered whether she would have tried to adopt me if my mother hadn’t survived.

For the next half hour the Frenchman continued to bore us with stories about himself, but unlike at the dinner table, James didn’t seem to mind anymore, nodding now and again as he leaned back on the cushions, slumping closer to Rachel’s side. I thought they looked nice together.

When Philippe began a new story about his time in a place called Sudan, Rachel took the chance to escape. Getting to her feet, she apologized for the interruption and asked for directions to the toilet. As she left, Philippe continued with his talk about something called solar energy. I really had no idea what he was going on about, and I had no interest in trying to find out either. As nobody else interrupted him, I guessed they felt the same way.