Naveed Read online

  This morning has been reasonable, though, Naveed decides, after dropping off the last parcel and collecting another coin for his effort. He counts his money: twelve afghanis so far, a good start to the day. He takes a small pouch from around his neck and slips the coins into it. The pouch was his father’s. He runs his fingers fondly over its soft leather before placing it around his neck again and securing his top button. Then he leans against the trolley and takes out the rest of the mantu. But just as he raises it to his mouth he sees the dog.

  It’s her, the dog that’s been following him for a couple of months now, ever since he gave her a bone he found in the garbage at the back of a restaurant. He’s fed her a few times since, only scraps, but enough to make her lock onto him. She’s not been around for the last few days, and he had assumed she’d left. But here she is again, standing about twenty metres away in the shadow of a truck, her whitish coat giving her a ghostlike quality.

  She’s a tall dog, about eighty centimetres at the withers, with a big head, straight back and thick neck. The hair on her body is of medium length, a strip of longer hair down the middle of her back. She looks as if she could have strayed from some Kuchis, passing nomads, and become lost. A mastiff bred for the steppes or mountains, she is not coping at all well in the city. She should be quite a heavy dog, but her body is bony, thinner than last time they met, her ribs showing, and Naveed can see the hunger in her eyes as she stares at him.

  That stare makes him pause with the dumpling almost in his mouth. A few quick chomps and it would be gone, he thinks but then lowers his hand instead.

  ‘Very well,’ he mutters and walks towards the dog. ‘You need it more than me.’

  When he’s about five metres away, she sits, as she has every time he’s fed her. She seems to have been well trained at some stage, used to obeying and keen to please. And now it’s almost as if she’s decided to take him on as her new master. Even when he places the mantu on the ground she doesn’t rush forward, despite her obvious hunger. She waits until he retreats to the trolley and nods. Then she goes straight to the dumpling and quickly devours it, licking at the ground for a while to get every last morsel. A moment later she turns her big sad eyes on Naveed again, asking for more.

  ‘Sorry, it’s all I have,’ he says. ‘And it won’t do you any good looking at me like that. I have enough trouble feeding myself and my family.’

  The dog keeps her gaze on him. Naveed stares into her eyes, feeling oddly captivated by them. Then he shakes his head, suddenly annoyed with himself. Why is he wasting time talking to a dog? He has to make more than twelve afghanis if they’re going to eat tonight. He turns and walks away.

  The dog watches him go, sniffs the spot where the dumpling had been, and leaves as well.

  When Naveed returns to Mr Waleed’s, he quickly sets about doing the other jobs the shopkeeper has for him. He stacks the shelves and sweeps the aisles. He scrubs and washes the pavement outside the shop, then cleans and polishes the front window until it is spotless. When he steps back to inspect his work, he notices his own reflection in the glass, and is immediately shocked by how poor he looks.

  His clothes come from a charity pool, discarded garments from overseas. His mother got them almost a year ago but is having trouble finding more now that the charity has closed. The dirty canvas sandshoes are old and tatty, his toes poking out of one of them. The brown trackpants are patched on both knees and too short for his growing legs. He likes the warmth of his maroon woollen jumper, but it is definitely too small. He even needs a new beanie; it barely covers his ears.

  As Naveed gazes into the window, he imagines how wonderful it would be to have some good clothes, proper Afghan ones. He can just see himself in his own perahan toombon with a chapan coat like President Karzai’s, topped off with a karakul hat and scarf also like the ones worn by the president. He turns sideways, imagining himself in such finery.

  ‘What’s this, then?’ Mr Waleed’s portly figure appears in the window. ‘Admiring yourself?’

  Naveed laughs nervously. ‘I’m just giving it a final check.’ He pretends to spy a smudge, and springs forward, buffing the window briskly with his cloth. ‘There.’ He stands back. ‘All done. Anything else, Mr Waleed?’

  ‘Not today, but there should be more deliveries tomorrow. Mind you, business is not quite as brisk as it used to be, now that the foreigners are running away.’ Mr Waleed presses a few coins into Naveed’s hand – another twenty afghanis. Then he gives him a brown paper package. ‘A few more of those mantu,’ he explains. ‘Mrs Waleed always cooks far too many for me.’

  Naveed dips his head. ‘You are too kind, sir.’

  Chapter 7

  Naveed has many more places he can visit for work. It’s a matter of where he will make the best money for the time he has left in the day.

  He decides to check out Mr Hadi’s chai house next, and arrives with seconds to spare before the lunchtime deliveries begin. Mr Hadi is known for his excellent teas – shir chai and others – as well as a wide assortment of sweets and pastries. Offices and shops in the area order from him throughout the day, so there’s often work for chai boys.

  A crowd of boys are already milling around the chai house when Naveed arrives. But he has a good name among the customers; his service is prompt and efficient, he never spills anything, and he’s always respectful. Mr Hadi knows this and beckons him at once, sending him off with one of the first trays.

  Naveed works quickly, managing to deliver three more trays before the lunchtime rush is over. When finished, he looks for Mr Hadi and finds him in the kitchen. The café owner sits at a table, hunched over a small radio. He has the volume low and is listening so intently that he doesn’t even notice Naveed.

  ‘Hear me, fellow Afghans.’

  Naveed immediately recognises the woman’s voice on the radio. It is the politician for peace, the great Malalai Farzana. For over a year now she has been talking to ordinary Afghans, many of whom long for peace. She broadcasts speeches on radio and television, and travels to remote areas at great personal risk, talking to anyone who will listen. Loved by the ordinary people, hated by extremists and the powerful, she is called the Voice of the Voiceless.

  ‘The foreign forces are leaving Afghanistan,’ Malalai Farzana continues. ‘Each day more of them go. By the end of the year, there will be few left. It is what we want – to take charge of our own destiny. But it will not be easy. More than ever we must think as one people, not as Pashtuns, Tajiks, Hindus, Uzbeks, Hazaras and so on. That is how the enemies of peace want us to think – the warlords and drug barons and the Taliban – so they can divide and rule us. Believe me, while ever we remain separate tribes the winter of war will chill our land and our very souls. We are all Afghans. Never forget that idea. Hold it in your hearts, for within it lies our future.’

  Mr Hadi flicks off the radio and glances up at Naveed. ‘That is a wonderful woman, my boy, a real force for good and hope. She speaks wisely. May Allah watch over her.’ He sips at his chai for a moment, frowning. ‘But I do fear what might happen when the foreigners leave. I fear that the enemies of peace will have their way.’

  Naveed leaves the chai house with Malalai Farzana’s words at the back of his mind and fifteen more afghanis in his father’s leather pouch. He decides on a car wash as his last stop for the day. There’s a new one on the way home, and he reckons he can do three or four cars before he has to pick up Anoosheh from school.

  To his delight, he washes five cars in the time available. But the manager finds fault with two of them and only pays for three. It’s an old trick, and Naveed would normally protest. But he’s tired and doesn’t have time to argue; he’s already late for his sister. He makes a mental note to put the car wash on his black list, and accepts the money with a polite smile.

  Then he runs. The school is about a kilometre away, and he should be there by now. He knows that Anoosheh will be fine. Pari will wait with her if need be. And then there’s Mr Farzin; the principal
would never leave Anoosheh on her own. But that’s not the point. She is his sister, his responsibility. He has a duty to be there for her.

  ‘This is heaven,’ Naveed murmurs.

  He lies on Anoosheh’s toshak, eyes closed. His head rests in her lap as she gently massages his neck while his mother massages his tired, sore feet. She has already washed them with hot water, smoothing a little ointment into the blisters, and now draws out the aches and pains with exquisite skill.

  Your mother has hands of magic. Naveed recalls his father’s words as he lies back.

  ‘Of course it’s heaven, brother,’ says Anoosheh. ‘You’re in the very best of hands. Mind you, we’re not cheap. We charge by the minute, you know.’

  Naveed chuckles. It is wonderful having the two people he loves the most fuss over him so tenderly. A perfect end to a good day. Meeting Fariad was such a delight that Naveed still feels boosted by it. And then the work was good; he made decent money and bought food with Anoosheh on the way home. They will eat well tonight, and for the next day or two provided they’re careful. The rest of his earnings went towards the rent; they now have the next month’s payment in hand. That alone is a great relief.

  ‘Allah is kind to me.’

  Naveed opens his eyes a little, enough to see his mother. She works vigorously at his feet, pressing hard with her fingers, pushing with her thumbs. Her hair is swept back, revealing her high, wide brow and strong features. Your mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, his father used to say, and Naveed can see what he meant. But he can also see the lines of worry on her brow, the same ones which were there that morning.

  ‘What’s the problem, Madar?’

  ‘Hich,’ she mutters and shakes her head dismissively.

  ‘You said that this morning, but it isn’t nothing, I can tell. You also said: Whatever happens, I only hope that . . . But you didn’t finish. What did you mean, Madar? I won’t give up until you tell me.’

  Naveed’s mother stops massaging and flicks her large black eyes up at him.

  ‘The future – what lies ahead for us, for you and Anoosheh in particular – that’s what worries me now the foreigners are leaving. I can only see darkness.’

  ‘No, Madar, it doesn’t have to be that way. I heard Malalai Farzana again today, on the radio at Mr Hadi’s. She says it will be good, the foreigners leaving. It will mean we can decide our own future for a change. She says we have to pull together as one people, not as a lot of tribes.’

  ‘That’s the problem, my son: we are a lot of tribes. And because of that, the Taliban will certainly return, strangling any joy we might ever have hoped for in life. They’re waiting to pounce. They’ll squabble with the warlords over this carcass of a country, as they’ve always done. It’s just an endless game of buzkashi.’

  Naveed hears the sadness in his mother’s voice, and sees the anguish glisten in her eyes. He gets to his knees and hugs her. ‘Don’t fret. I will look after you, always.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know you will, as best you can. But these are big forces, Naveed. We’re nothing to them, nobodies. When elephants fight, the grass gets trampled.’

  ‘Madar!’ Anoosheh exclaims, rushing to her mother’s side as well. ‘What would Padar think of such talk? You told me he said we must always seek the light. Look for the jewels in life and you’ll be rich. If you only ever stare into the dark corners you’ll never see anything.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her mother takes a deep breath, pulling herself together. ‘How silly of me.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Anoosheh claps her hands together. ‘Besides, I think our hard-working man of the house needs feeding.’

  ‘You’re right, little one. And what good things you two bought. We’ll eat like khans tonight, thanks to you, my son. Your father would be proud of you.’

  She kisses Naveed on the forehead and rises from the toshak, holding up her hand when he moves to stand as well.

  ‘No. Stay where you are. You need your rest.’

  Naveed is only too happy to do what his mother bids. As she and Anoosheh set to chopping the vegetables and spicing the meat, he eases back on the delectably soft toshak, lets his head sink into the pillows, and closes his eyes.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Good onya, mate. You’re the best.’

  Jake pats Stingray and rubs his muzzle. Then he slowly slides his hand into his pocket. The dog stares up expectantly, tail wagging.

  ‘Guess what I’ve got?’

  Ears pricked, the kelpie trembles as Jake slowly pulls out the very thing he’s been waiting for . . . a ball. His ball! Stingray barks and drops onto his front paws as Jake leans back and hurls the little round thing into the air. The dog is after it in a flash.

  This is his reward. It’s even more of a reward than any special bits of food he might receive when he’s performed well. For him the ball is sheer excitement. He will run after it and fetch it back for as long as Jake keeps throwing. And this is what makes him a good explosive detection dog, his unquenchable love of chasing and retrieving. It’s one of the most important qualities in such a dog, and Stingray has it in buckets.

  Jake continues tossing the ball as he walks towards the southern entry control point for Bagram Airfield, smiling all the way. He’s so pleased with the kelpie. They’ve just finished a week of specialised training in explosives detection, and Stingray has shone at every stage.

  ‘You were amazing, mate,’ Jake says as he takes the saliva-covered ball from Stingray’s jaws and throws it yet again, shouting out loud, ‘AMAZING!’

  ‘Someone’s happy.’

  Jake has reached the entry control point with its maze of Hesco barriers and concrete blast panels, manned machine-gun posts and armoured Humvees at the ready. Four American soldiers and a few Afghan trainees stand about. The voice comes from Private Horten, the American soldier from Jake’s B-hut.

  ‘G’day, Horto,’ Jake replies. ‘You bet I’m happy. I’ve got the best sniffing mutt on the base.’ Jake takes the ball from Stingray and pockets it this time. Then he clips on his lead. ‘I’m taking him out for a taste of the real world.’

  ‘Okay, but be careful. Those hajis might look harmless but there are some bad dudes among them.’

  Jake raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ll be right, mate. The “hajis” have enough going on without worrying about me.’

  ‘All right,’ Horten says, raising his hands. ‘Just be careful, that’s all. I don’t want no dead Aussie on my hands.’ He thumps Jake on the arm. ‘Now go on, git.’

  Jake slips under the boom gate, past the busy bazaar the local merchants have set up outside the airfield, and heads straight down the avenue that leads off the base. Before long he is on a quiet tree-lined road, with orchards and tended fields on either side.

  He unclips Stingray’s leash and lets him go. The dog immediately comes to life. He darts from one new smell to another, loving his freedom, cocking his leg and leaving his mark at every stop. He pauses briefly to drink from a drain, and then is off again. Jake keeps a close eye on the dog, making sure he doesn’t wander too far, but also wanting him to feel the sense of freedom that every dog should know.

  They wander on until they come to a simple fence: a line of crooked steel posts about ten metres apart holding up one strand of sagging barbed wire. Jake tenses, seeing the red triangular landmine tags hanging from the wire at intervals. He stops, and gazes across a field riddled with Russian wrecks: tanks and trucks, cannons and ATVs. A huge transport carrier lies on its side like a beached whale, one wing poking up like a fin. About fifty metres away is the skeleton of a tank that has been picked to its bare bones.

  Jake sighs, and is about to turn his back and carry on when he notices movement near the tank. He peers closer. It’s a boy. On his knees. Digging.

  ‘What the . . .’ Jake mutters and then shouts, ‘Hey. You.’

  Chapter 9

  Naveed hears the voice. He stops digging, straightens himself and looks over his shoulder. He sees the soldier waving his arm
s in the air and calling. He waves back but then goes on digging. He has one more piece to collect and then he’ll be finished. He’s been working here all morning, collecting Russian medals and military tags. The area is littered with them; it’s like a gold mine. He pulls the last one from the soil and drops it into a hessian bag. Then he stands, stretches and waves to the soldier again.

  ‘I come,’ he shouts in English.

  Naveed takes his time, eyes down, placing each step in a particular spot marked by a small stone. Only when he reaches the wobbly barbed-wire fence does he look up.

  ‘Hello, sir. What you want?’ he says with a broad smile. ‘I help you?’

  ‘Are you bloody mad?’ Jake replies, trying to keep his voice down so he doesn’t frighten the boy. ‘Landmines. You know? Kaboom!’ He throws his arms in the air.

  ‘Yes, sir, I know kaboom. But I careful.’ He points to the flattened grass and the stone markers for each footstep. ‘I make good check of ground first.’

  ‘I don’t care how good you check. Those things can be really hidden. And they can kill you. At the very least they’ll blow your legs off. Get me? No legs, no walk!’

  Naveed grits his teeth. ‘I know no legs, too.’ His smile dims. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Stop calling me sir.’

  ‘What I say then?’

  ‘Just get out of that minefield first, eh? You’re making me nervous.’

  Naveed ducks under the barbed wire. ‘So? What your name?’

  ‘I’m Jake.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Jake.’ Naveed grasps Jake’s hand and shakes it. ‘I, Naveed.’ He glances down at the kelpie. ‘This your dog?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s Stingray.’

  Naveed wrinkles his brow. ‘Sting, er—?’

  ‘Ray. It’s a kind of fish.’

  ‘But he dog.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Jake shakes his head. ‘It’s a long story, mate.’ He points at the hessian bag. ‘What have you got in there?’