Naveed Page 11

  Jake nods. ‘Look at him,’ he says, pointing.

  Horten searches the faces until he spots Naveed. ‘Whoa. That is one upset kid. He’s sure giving you the big dirty. There’s a lotta anger in that face, man.’

  There’s more than anger, Jake thinks as he stares back. Naveed isn’t yelling or gesturing. He’s simply staring. But what a stare it is. Jake cannot take his eyes off the boy. Naveed stands totally still among a swirling mass of movement and sound, glaring at Jake with a look that sends a shudder right through him. It’s all there – confusion, disillusionment, anger, betrayal and hurt. More than anything, hurt.

  Horten slaps his arm around Jake’s shoulders. ‘Don’t take it too hard, pal. That’s hajis for you. You’ve worked your butt off for that kid, and look at the payback. Gratitude, ha. They don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  ‘I’ve got to talk to him,’ Jake says, pushing away from Horten.

  ‘Whoa! I wouldn’t go out there if I was you.’

  ‘I have to explain. He’s just a boy. He doesn’t understand.’

  ‘They’ll tear you to pieces.’

  Jake leaps over the blast panel. Horten yells at him to come back, but then follows a few seconds later.

  Jake strides towards the protestors, but he’s too late. Naveed has already gone.

  ‘Naveed!’ he shouts, desperately searching for the boy. But he’s nowhere to be seen, swallowed by the crowd.

  Jake stops. He’s about halfway between the entry control point and the protestors. He stares at the angry mob, every face a reminder of Naveed’s. With a mix of regret, frustration and failure, along with a deep sense of sadness, Jake turns and begins to walk back towards Horten. But before he’s gone far, the American is yelling and pointing behind him.

  ‘Get the hell outta there!’

  Jake spins around in time to see the dark figure at the edge of the crowd aiming an RPG launcher straight at him. He instantly drops to the ground and the rocket-propelled grenade howls overhead.

  Horten isn’t so lucky.

  Naveed hears Jake call as he runs through the crowd, but keeps going. He wants to get as far away as possible from all of this, to leave the whole horrible nightmare behind.

  Naveed!

  He thinks he hears his name again, but stumbles on, everything a blur once more, sounds and voices swirling. He bumps into people, trips and falls, scrambles to his feet and staggers on.

  He hears an explosion behind, or thinks he does. He hears the crowd cheer – Allahu Akbar. And then the gunfire, rapid bursts, followed by screams.

  He clamps his hands over his ears and keeps running.

  Chapter 28

  The rioting continues for another three days. Naveed tries to stay away, but several times finds himself lured back, moth-like, to the flaring violence. He stands well away on such occasions, observing from a distance, yet still gripped by this creature of war.

  Demonstrators pour in from other parts of Afghanistan – Herat, Jalalabad, Kabul, Helmand. Naveed watches them swarm around the airfield like flies on a carcass, feeding their frenzy of hate. More effigies are torched and trampled, more flags burned, more bonfires of tyres belch black smoke into the sky.

  Attacks on the base grow more daring. Attempts to scale the perimeter fence are carried out in different locations. A suicide bomber even makes it as far as one of the entry control points on day two, killing three marines and badly injuring several others. Naveed only hears rumours of this, for he refuses to go anywhere near the entry control points lest he see Mr Jake again.

  Night attacks increase, too, despite total floodlighting and round-the-clock surveillance. And loudspeakers blare out constantly, inciting all true Muslims to avenge the insults upon God. Naveed hears them as he lies in bed and feels their pull.

  On the third night, unable to resist, he creeps back to the base and watches from a ditch as a major attack is made. About twenty protestors break through the first perimeter fence at the northern end of Bagram Airfield, backed by sustained mortar fire. A fierce fight rages for hours, turning night into day, ending only when all the attackers are killed.

  After that defeat the enthusiasm of the demonstrators fades. Naveed doesn’t go near the base again. There are vehement speeches the next day, trying to whip up anger, but they fail. By the afternoon, everyone has drifted away.

  The riots are over, and Bagram Airfield heaves a huge sigh of relief.

  That same afternoon Private James Edward Horten is flown home. He didn’t regain consciousness after being hit by the RPG, and died on the last night of the riots. Jake sat at his bedside every chance he got, and talked to him. At one point he thought there was a flicker of recognition, but that was as good as it got for the boy from Utah.

  Jake stands at the edge of the airstrip, watching the big C-17 Globemaster carry Horten into the clouds, along with three other casualties of the last few days, and a shipment of Humvees that won’t be needed anymore. Stingray sits beside him, and seems to sense his sadness, nudging him with his muzzle.

  ‘Horto got his wish.’ Jake glances down at the dog. ‘He’s going home,’ he mutters thickly. ‘And he won’t be coming back.’

  ‘O my Lord, forgive me.’

  Naveed is out in the countryside as the big plane climbs across the sky. He’s beside an old irrigation ditch, finishing his midday prayer, the Namaaz e Zohr.

  ‘O my Lord, forgive me,’ he whispers again, drawing the last of the four raka’at to a close.

  Nasera lies nearby, her huge uncomprehending eyes watching Naveed. He’s been different for days now, and she doesn’t understand what’s wrong. He’s been moping around, hardly saying anything, often snapping angrily when he does speak. He hasn’t patted her at all, and last night he just tossed her some food as if she didn’t matter. At least he’s taken her with him today on his walk, the first time in a couple of days.

  The roar of the plane slowly fades. Naveed watches its white trail slice the blue sky. He’s been walking all day, making himself keep as far away as possible from Bagram Airfield. Not that the base has kept away from him. It’s in his head, thoughts that won’t go away, questions nagging at the back of his mind.

  What do I do, Padar? How do I make sense of all this?

  Akmed would know what to do. He would have answers. But then Naveed is not sure he wants those answers.

  He saw very little of his cousin during the rioting. Akmed didn’t even appear on the first night. Naveed’s mother had a meal prepared, but he didn’t show up at all. He came home the next night, but was tired and worn out and kept falling asleep during the meal. The next morning he sneaked away while everyone was asleep, and hasn’t appeared since.

  Naveed is pleased not to have had Akmed around. He has more than enough weighing him down without adding his cousin’s gloominess to the burden as well.

  He stands and, without a word to Nasera, walks off. She watches, waiting for him to look back over his shoulder or call. But he does neither. When he’s almost out of sight she gets up and follows him.

  Naveed walks aimlessly, kicking stones out of the way, wishing he could kick his thoughts away as well.

  So many people yelling, Padar. I don’t know what to think.

  Do not be fooled by the loud voices, my son. Empty vessels can make the greatest noise.

  That’s easy to say, Padar. But sometimes they’re the only ones you can hear.

  Then you must listen harder. Listen for the quieter voice, the one deep inside. Listen to your heart.

  Naveed sighs. Barely aware of anything around him or where he’s heading, he eventually ends up at a truck stop on the outskirts of town. About twenty vehicles are parked in the big vacant lot, many of them jingle trucks. A group of drivers squat together, talking, smoking, sipping chai. Others are washing their trucks; a few are polishing them. Naveed gives the scene a sideways glance and hurries on. But then he hears his name being called.

  Chapter 29

  ‘Just the person I need
.’ Mr Omaid is standing at the front of his jingle truck, beckoning. ‘Come and earn some money to buy your mother a treat. She deserves one.’

  Naveed forces his lips into a smile and walks over to Mr Omaid, who has just finished working on the truck’s engine.

  ‘The old girl is giving me trouble,’ the truck driver explains as he closes the bonnet. ‘She’s spluttering all the time. Perhaps a good polish will make her go better. Praise be to Allah for sending you along to help me.’ He tosses a rag to Naveed. ‘The other side needs a thorough buffing, my boy.’

  At first Naveed tackles the job half-heartedly, but after a while finds that it is just what he needs, something to take his mind off the endless brooding. Mr Omaid whistles a tune as he works, occasionally humming and even singing parts of the song. Before long Naveed is humming the tune as well. Soon he is completely lost in his work, briskly rubbing the cloudy waxed duco, section by section, watching his reflection appear in the polished paint.

  ‘Perfect.’

  Naveed is startled from his reverie by Mr Omaid. The truck driver stands behind him, hands on hips, nodding in approval.

  ‘That’s the best job I’ve ever seen,’ he says, flipping Naveed a coin. ‘Excellent work.’

  Naveed steps back to inspect the truck, and can’t help feeling a tingle of satisfaction. The vehicle looks fantastic. The painted parts shining bright and happy make him want to smile, while the glow of chrome in the setting sun sparks a little warmth inside him that wasn’t there before.

  Mr Omaid pats him on the back. ‘How time flies when you’re enjoying yourself, eh? Come along then,’ he says. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  Naveed clambers onto the running board and hops into the cabin in a flash. He loves going in the truck; it sits up so high above everyone and makes such a great noise. Mr Omaid joins him, but doesn’t start the engine at once. Instead he turns to Naveed.

  ‘Tell me, young man. How is your mother?’

  ‘She is as well as can be expected, Mr Omaid, thanks be to God.’

  ‘It was good to see her, to see all of you, I mean, at the kite-flying competition. I enjoyed myself very much. Perhaps we could do it again before too long. Why, we could even drive into the countryside to picnic, for instance. In my truck, that is, if you see what I mean.’

  Mr Omaid seems unusually awkward and self-conscious all of a sudden, and Naveed wonders why that is so, even as he hastens to put him at ease.

  ‘It would be most kind of you, Mr Omaid,’ he replies. ‘I think my mother and sister would love such a treat.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The man beams with delight. ‘And how is little Noosh? Still racing around everywhere?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She’s unstoppable. I think that if she ever grew legs we would never catch her.’

  Mr Omaid laughs. ‘Ah, how wonderful that would be.’ Then he looks directly at Naveed. ‘And you?’

  ‘Me?’

  Naveed is caught out. He can’t tell the truth: that he feels terrible – angry, sad, lost, bewildered. And yet Mr Omaid’s intense gaze seems to ask for that. Now Naveed is the one feeling self-conscious. He doesn’t know how to reply.

  ‘You’re not happy, are you?’ Mr Omaid speaks for him. ‘I can see it as plain as the nose on your face. You have worries on your mind. There is anger in your heart. And more, I suspect. Am I correct in this?’

  Naveed nods. ‘You are,’ he says. ‘You are most correct.’

  In the next breath he lets everything spill out, an avalanche of emotion, all the feeling he’s held inside since that first day of the riots, when he saw the charred Quran in the hands of that angry young man on the back of the truck. His anger with the Americans for insulting Allah. His hunger for revenge. The shame he feels, for letting himself be drawn into the foreigners’ web of deceit. And the pain, the deep pain from being hurt inside. He spits it all out like bile that has been eating away at him for days.

  Mr Omaid listens without interrupting. Even when Naveed finishes he doesn’t reply at once.

  ‘You are a good boy,’ he says eventually. ‘Your heart is pure, and I am sure Allah sees it is so. But you are wrong in this, and I believe your father would tell you as much if he were here.’

  ‘But the Americans, they insulted—’

  ‘Yes, I know, they insulted God, and I condemn them for that. But do you really think Allah needs us to avenge him? Of course not – Allah is everything, we are nothing. And to respond with violence is indeed a much bigger crime. The riots of the last few days, especially the suicide bombers, were wrong, the work of radicals who only want to fan the flames of hate within us. Believe me, they are not defending the faith. They are exploiting our religious feelings for their own evil ends. They don’t want us to heal our wounded country. They want to open those wounds further and bleed us to death. These acts of violence harm the people of Afghanistan much more than they help us.’

  Naveed is surprised at how passionate the normally mild-mannered Mr Omaid has suddenly become.

  ‘I know there are bad people among the foreigners here in our land. But there are many more good people who want to help us get back on our feet again. Your friend, Mr Jake, is one of those. I know of his work with you and your dog. He is helping you to do something that will make our country a safer place in which to live. He is a good man whose heart is in the right place. Do not judge him harshly. Do not spurn his offers of help.’

  Mr Omaid pauses, fumbling with the keys of the truck. A piece of the sun glows on the horizon like a tiny but fierce ball of fire. Naveed watches it burn, the glow warming him inside as words echo in his thoughts.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve kept you long enough,’ Mr Omaid says after a while. ‘We really should be going. But haven’t you forgotten someone?’

  ‘Of course,’ Naveed gasps. He looks out the window. Nasera is sitting on the ground staring up at him, waiting patiently. ‘Is she allowed in with us?’

  ‘Most definitely. She is a very special dog, with very special skills. One day soon you and she will save many, many Afghan lives. I’d be honoured to have her sit in my truck.’

  Naveed calls Nasera. She leaps aboard and is soon sitting up between the two of them.

  Mr Omaid turns the key in the ignition, but the truck only splutters. He curses under his breath.

  ‘I have work at Bagram Airfield tomorrow. I need the old girl to behave.’ He raises his hands and eyes to heaven in supplication. ‘Please be kind to me, Allah,’ he cries, turning the key in the ignition once more.

  The truck grumbles and rumbles for a while, backfires twice, and then suddenly roars to life.

  Chapter 30

  Jake is on the steps outside his B-hut, just after lunch. He can’t get Naveed out of his mind. He can still see the boy’s face among the rioters, full of confusion and anger. And yet there had been such hope and promise. Naveed and Nasera were total winners, able to do untold good in a country where good didn’t happen nearly enough.

  There is something else bothering Jake, too. He has just received confirmation from the hospital that they will assess Anoosheh for prosthetic legs. But for that to happen the family will have to bring her to Bagram Airfield.

  Jake clenches his fists and curses with frustration. If only he could just talk to Naveed. But he knows that’s not likely to happen. The boy won’t be coming back; his face at the riots made that clear. And as for finding him, Jake wouldn’t have a clue where to start.

  ‘Let it go,’ Jake’s boss told him only that morning. ‘You win some, you lose some; that’s life. He’s just a kid anyway.’

  ‘No,’ Jake mutters to himself. Some things are far too important to just let go of.

  He gazes across at several jingle trucks that have stopped on the other side of the road. One has broken down; its bonnet up, drivers gathered around, poking at the engine. Jake watches them for a moment and suddenly recognises one of the drivers. He dashes over the road.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says to the man. ‘Remember me? We met at the
park with the kites. Remember?’

  Of course Mr Omaid recognises Jake, but he knows almost no English. He smiles and nods, struggling to reply. ‘Yes, friend, er, Naveed,’ he says.

  ‘That’s right. I need to talk to Naveed. Understand?’

  Mr Omaid smiles nervously and keeps nodding. ‘Naveed friend, yes.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. But—’ Jake turns to the other drivers. ‘Any of you speak English?’

  ‘I do,’ one replies.

  Jake sighs with relief. ‘Ripper, mate.’

  ‘Hundreds of our people have been injured. More than fifty have died. That’s over fifty martyrs. Allah will embrace them and give them a special place in Paradise.’

  Naveed wishes Akmed would stop this talk. He glances at Anoosheh – the cousins are walking her home from school – and shrugs. He’s been politely listening to Akmed ever since leaving home to pick up his sister. He had been looking forward to a quiet stroll by himself, but Akmed insisted on joining him. No sooner had they left home than he began talking – ranting, really – about foreign devils and such matters, and he hasn’t drawn breath since. Naveed is not sure how much more he can take before saying something. Anoosheh looks as if she’ll explode at any moment.

  The riots at Bagram Airfield seem to have sparked a change in his cousin, Naveed can’t help thinking. The young man who arrived at their house less than a week ago was moody and brooding; he kept to himself and had almost nothing to say. The Akmed who turned up again that morning and is now walking at Naveed’s side, Quran in hand, is outspoken and strident in his views. And now his rant builds to a climax.

  ‘They have special kill teams, undercover squads that murder Afghans. There are snipers who pick off people in the street just for fun. Then there are the bombings; they happen all over Afghanistan. Only last week eight shepherd boys were slaughtered in a NATO air attack, some only six years old. And the random night raids never stop: families abused in their own homes, children terrified. Everywhere you turn this is happening. Everywhere! ’ Akmed shouts. ‘They are destroying Afghanistan!’