Naveed Page 4

  Naveed grins proudly and opens the bag wide, revealing the collection of medals and tags.

  ‘You risked your life for a few scraps of rusty old metal?’

  ‘I clean clean clean. Now no rust.’ Naveed rubs his thumb and fingers together. ‘You Americans pay good.’

  ‘I’m Australian, mate, and it doesn’t matter how good anyone pays. Nothing’s worth the damage those things can do.’ Jake points to the field. ‘The Russians put them there, heaps of the buggers. Do you understand what I’m talking about? The Russians?’

  Naveed understands exactly what Jake is talking about even though the Russians had come and gone well before he was even born. He knows because his father had been a resistance fighter as a young man and had battled the Russians to the bitter end. He used to talk with great sadness about the decade of war this plunged Afghanistan into. And he talked with even greater sorrow about the years of civil war that followed – of the warlords and the Taliban, Afghan killing Afghan – until the Americans came with their promise of hope.

  And what had that promise come to? Some Afghans felt nothing much had really changed for ordinary people. Some even said things were worse now – more fighting, more killing, more orphans, more poverty, hunger, disease, more desperation.

  ‘I understand.’ Naveed stares straight at Jake. ‘But always you have food,’ he says slowly. ‘Always you have house. But not Afghan people,’ he adds, pausing to let his words sink in. ‘Do you understand, Mr Jake?’

  Jake is struck by the fierce intensity of the boy’s eyes, the pride and defiance burning in them. They are the eyes of a much older person. And it’s only then that Jake sees the threadbare clothes, the worn-out shoes, the thin face turned towards him. He suddenly feels embarrassed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters. ‘I didn’t mean . . . There just has to be a better way, that’s all.’

  He rummages in his pockets, wishing he had some money to give the boy. All he can find are two energy bars. But Naveed shakes his head.

  ‘No, no. I not take,’ he says.

  ‘Just take them, please.’ Jake presses the bars into Naveed’s hands. ‘And tell me you won’t go near those landmines again.’

  Naveed smiles. ‘Tashakor, Mr Jake. Thank you very much.’ He picks up the bag and slings it over his shoulder. ‘I go now. But I keep look out for you. And I keep look out for dog.’ He pats the kelpie. ‘Stingfish, yes?’

  Jake chuckles. ‘Yeah, that’ll do.’

  ‘Salaam alaikum, Mr Jake.’

  ‘And peace be upon you, Naveed.’

  Salaam alaikum. The words ring in Jake’s mind as he watches the boy walk away. Such a futile expression in this war-ravaged land, where kids like him have only ever known fighting and killing, guns and bombs. Peace be upon you. If only it were that simple.

  Chapter 10

  That will do for now.

  Naveed steps back from the wooden bench in the little alcove outside the room he calls home, and massages his aching fingers. Laid out before him are the Russian medals and badges he dug up near the American base earlier that day. He’s worked tirelessly on them – washing, scrubbing, rubbing and brushing – gradually cleaning away the rust. Then endless polishing. He has kept at it all afternoon and well into the night, working by the light of the full moon to save kerosene; what little they have left is needed for cooking.

  It is late. His mother and sister have been asleep for hours. Naveed is tired but still not ready to sleep himself. He’s worried. He inspects his work, trying to keep his mind off his concerns. The medals look good. Some further polishing in the daylight, plus a coat of varnish given to him by Mr Waleed, and they will be ready. He will offer them for sale at the special market bazaar in town the day after tomorrow. American soldiers often come to that. God willing, they will buy the medals. He also has some Russian artillery and bullet shells that he hopes they will like.

  This is only Naveed’s second venture into the marketplace, but he knows he has to make as much money as possible on the day. He must arrive early, leave late, and sell hard all day. Last time he just managed to break even. He’s determined to make a real profit this time. But he has to pay rent. The cheapest selling place in the bazaar is a hundred afghanis, a lot of money to him, for which he only gets an area slightly bigger than a metre square, plus a sheet of black plastic on which to display his goods.

  As Naveed looks over his wares, he decides that he needs more items to sell if he’s going to come away from the market with more than just a handful of afghanis. But there’s only one day left to find those extra things. The best place to do that is the big waste disposal depot on the other side of the American air base. Naveed sighs, knowing that tomorrow won’t be easy if that’s where he’s going.

  His stomach groans. It’s been groaning ever since the evening meal. All they had were potatoes, one each, and Naveed had given some of his to Anoosheh. She said no, but he insisted. There were also the energy bars, of course; he’d almost forgotten about those. They were delicious, but small, and they’ve worn off now, no more than a sweet memory.

  Naveed closes his eyes. Allah will look after us, he tells himself.

  What started out as a good week has turned into a bad one. He’s had very little paid work – a few jobs for Mr Waleed and some car washing. That’s all. A fire closed down Mr Hadi’s chai house, and it will remain closed for many more days. It is said that his shop was targeted because he was a known sympathiser with the Americans.

  There is the rent money, of course; that has been put aside. Naveed is tempted to dip into it for a little food, especially when he sees how hungry his sister and mother are. But he knows better.

  Oh Padar, I’m no good at filling your shoes. Naveed steps from the alcove into the laneway. When I see Madar and little Noosh hungry I ache inside. It’s so hard just feeding ourselves, let alone finding the rent. And Mr Kalin gives no credit; he’d throw us out if we couldn’t pay, I know he would.

  Naveed gazes up at the starry night, and sighs.

  He’s pestering Madar, too, you know? She will hardly talk about it, but the other day she told me he wants to take her as his wife. How dare he? She would be wife number three, a nobody, a slave. She doesn’t want to marry Mr Kalin, but she thinks he’ll look after me and Anoosheh. He won’t, of course; he’ll just get rid of us.

  I won’t let it happen, Padar, not while I’m the man of the house. The trouble is I’m not really a man yet. And this is not my house. I fear that if I can’t find enough work to pay the rent and to feed us, Madar will decide she has no choice but to accept Mr Kalin’s offer.

  I hope some good will come our way soon. If it doesn’t I’m not sure what we will do.

  Naveed turns back into the alcove, to the rickety table with the jug and basin. Exhausted, he pours a little water into the basin and begins cleansing himself for the last prayer of the day – the Namaaz e Eshaa. He knows he is very late for the night prayer, but he had to finish the work on the Russian medals and badges while he still had the energy. Surely Allah will understand.

  When the wud’u is finished Naveed stands up straight and takes a deep breath. With his hands raised to shoulder height, fingers slightly apart, he begins the first of the four raka’at, uttering his cry of faith.

  ‘Allahu Akbar.’

  Then he places both arms over his chest, right on top of the left, and goes on to prayer.

  Chapter 11

  ‘She’s late again.’

  Anoosheh stands with Naveed inside the school gate. They’re waiting for her friend Pari.

  ‘That’s the fourth time this week.’

  ‘Maybe she’s decided to be like you,’ says Naveed with a smirk. ‘Always late, never ready, always keeping others waiting.’

  ‘Very funny, big brother. Actually, I think you’re the reason she’s been late all this week.’

  ‘Oh yes? And how can I be to blame?’

  ‘All those eyes you’ve been making at her. I bet she’s embarrassed
.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Naveed says, blushing.

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Everyone has.’ Anoosheh’s eyes glint with mischief. ‘She’s probably coming as late as possible in the hope that you won’t be here to embarrass her more with those moony I-love-you looks you give her.’

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘You do.’

  Naveed groans. ‘Well, in that case I’ll leave right now.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, brother.’ Anoosheh grabs his arm. ‘I’m only joking. In fact, if you must know, I think she likes you, too, though I can’t imagine why.’

  Anoosheh laughs as Naveed’s face turns bright red. But then her brow furrows and her lips tighten.

  ‘What is it?’ Naveed asks.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think there is actually something wrong with Pari. I haven’t seen her laugh once this week, and I’ve tried my best to make her. At lunchtime yesterday I thought she was about to cry. When I asked her what was wrong, she said it was nothing. When I kept asking, she snapped at me. Pari has never done that. Never.’

  ‘I see.’ Naveed sighs. ‘We must—’

  Before he can finish, Pari appears at the school gate. She is frowning and seems deep in thought. She falters as if unsure whether to enter. Anoosheh calls to her at once. A smile stamps itself on Pari’s lips, but the frown stays, and the usual spring in her step is missing as she walks towards them.

  ‘Good morning, Pari,’ Naveed says. Her gaze is downcast and he suddenly realises that she is shaking. ‘Pari? Are you all right?’

  She looks up. Her eyes are red and puffed, with dark shadows under them.

  ‘You’ve been crying.’ Naveed says. ‘What is the matter? Is there something we can do?’ he asks as Anoosheh reaches out and takes her friend’s hand.

  Pari immediately pulls away; her smile vanishes and she stiffens.

  ‘You are kind to be concerned,’ she says, obviously struggling to control the tremble in her voice, her words clipped. ‘But no, there is nothing you can do. Nothing at all.’ She steps back and turns to Anoosheh. ‘Sorry I’m so late. It’s just tha—’ She cuts herself off. ‘Come along. We really should be in class.’

  Without looking at Naveed again, Pari walks away with Anoosheh. All Anoosheh can do is glance back at him and shrug. He stares after them, wanting to call out to Pari, wanting to stop her, but knowing he cannot.

  Once they have disappeared into the school building he slowly walks away, a lump in his throat.

  Naveed crouches on a mountain of garbage, clutching his hessian bag, gazing out over a vast range of other mountains, piles left by the trucks that come and go. The waste disposal depot is huge, covering many acres several kilometres from Bagram Airfield. Naveed walked all the way this morning, but hopes he’ll be lucky enough to hitch a ride back, especially since his bag is heavy. He’s made some good finds today. Allah must be smiling on him. All he has to do now is keep hold of them, and that might not be so easy.

  A convoy of trucks arrives. Naveed watches them dump their loads, beeping at the horde of children swarming around like rats in a feeding frenzy. One truck almost runs over a tiny girl who only just hobbles out of the way in time. None of the other children even notice this, though. They’re too busy scurrying about, scavenging through the rubbish in a mad scramble, grabbing anything that might be of any value whatsoever, often fighting over items.

  They have to move quickly, for a bulldozer squats to one side, a gnarled creature, growling impatiently. The moment the trucks drive away, it roars into action, herding the rubbish into mountains like the one Naveed is on. It rumbles relentlessly, blind to the hobblers, the weak or the slow. Even so, children keep flitting around it in a deadly dance, swooping perilously close to snatch things from the path of its heavy blade or bone-crushing tracks.

  Naveed sees the mayhem, but knows that there is order behind it. Standing back, safely watching the little ones scrounge, is a group of older boys. Further away still are two men beside a battered Toyota pickup. The bonnet of the vehicle is raised, and the men have been working on the engine. Their main concern, though, is what happens with the rubbish, for they are the bosses of the depot gang, and everything happens according to their wishes.

  When the garbage has been fussed and fought over and the best bits removed by the scavengers, the bigger boys step in and take a commission, basically whatever they want. The little ones know better than to argue. Then, before the next lot of trucks arrives, the older boys take their booty to the men in the Toyota, who sort through it and keep what they want. The boys are allowed to fight over what is left. And fight they do.

  Naveed has no desire to be part of that mad scramble. He prefers to be a floater, sifting on his own through rubbish that has already been sifted through more than once by the depot gang. There are risks, of course. A few gang members might be sent to extract a fee from him, or some other lone forager stronger than he might muscle in. But Naveed is happy to take the risk. He keeps a low profile, mostly working out of sight of the gang, in the valleys between the mountains of garbage. It means he can move at his own pace, unhurried and unhassled. It also means he usually gets to keep what he gathers. He hopes that will be the case today because he’s pleased with what he’s found.

  He inspects his collection of items. There are two music CDs, no doubt thrown out by US soldiers, and five cassettes of Afghan music. Tape spews from them, tangled and twisted, but Naveed is sure he can fix that. He has four glossy magazines as well, three in good condition, with pictures of Afghan film stars and singers. The three will sell well as they are, while he’ll paste pictures from the damaged magazine onto cardboard sheets for jingle truck drivers to hang in their cabins.

  And then there is the food. Naveed’s eyes lit up when he saw the packets, seven of them, peeping from a buckled cardboard box. Sweet biscuits of some sort. Two packets had burst open and most of those biscuits were crushed and broken. But that didn’t worry Naveed. He ate all the crushed ones without pausing, thanking Allah as he munched.

  He licks his lips now, the memory of that sweetness still fresh in his mind as he gathers his gear and prepares to leave. He slides down from the top of the mound, careful not attract attention, and moves away. He follows the troughs between the piles of garbage, eventually emerging onto open ground a few hundred metres from the depot’s exit. He can see the trucks lining up to leave. He can also see the Toyota with the two men and the boys standing around it, and he freezes at once, sensing danger.

  The depot gang has finished dividing the load and is waiting for the next set of trucks to come. Not good, Naveed thinks, and slowly sinks to the ground. They’ve got nothing to do; they’re standing idle, gazing about. If they look my way I’m finished. He edges towards the exit, keeping as low as he can.

  There is only one truck still at the gate, the driver climbing up into his cabin. Naveed moves as quickly as he can in such a crouched position, covering half the distance to the exit. At this speed, though, he knows he will not make it before the truck drives away. He has no choice other than to stand up and sprint the last one hundred metres. It’s a risk he has to take. But as soon as he straightens, one of the men sees him. He points and shouts. Immediately the gang turns as one and gives chase.

  The boys are closer to the truck than Naveed, and they’re not carrying a load as he is. There are some good lean runners among them. But Naveed has desperation on his side. If caught, he’ll not only lose everything he’s spent most of the day collecting. He’ll be seriously bashed as a lesson. He’s seen gangs like this one turn on a victim, and he doesn’t want to be kicked and punched senseless.

  So he runs as he’s never run before, and manages to reach the truck a few metres ahead of the lead gang member. But the truck is accelerating, and run as he might, Naveed cannot quite catch it. He’s exhausted, his legs are aching, his chest pounding, and he can hear the older boy right behind him, gaining by the second. It’s no good, Naveed realises. He’s not going to m
ake it.

  Drop the bag! a voice in his head yells as the truck draws away. Save yourself. Drop it!

  At that moment Naveed sees the driver’s face in the side mirror and screams out to him. The driver glances back and quickly sees what is happening. The truck slows down enough for Naveed to grab a bar across the tailgate. He hauls himself up just as the boy takes a running leap to tackle him. The truck accelerates away and the boy sprawls face first onto the gravel road.

  Chapter 12

  ‘I only just managed to hang on as the truck sped away. I could hear the whole gang yelling at me. Lucky they couldn’t start their truck. Otherwise they’d have come after me.’

  Naveed leans back and smiles at his mother and sister, laughing with a mix of relief and excitement. They’ve finished their evening meal, and it’s been a good one. They’ve eaten well, far better than Naveed would have expected that morning. He’s tired but contented, and delighted with how his day has gone.

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ he continues. ‘Talk about good fortune! Once we were a safe distance from the garbage depot, the driver stopped and let me climb in with him. His name is Mr Omaid. He said I looked so desperate that he felt sorry for me and had to help. I am so glad he did.’

  ‘We are too, my son,’ says Naveed’s mother. ‘We owe Mr Omaid a debt of gratitude.’

  ‘Yes, Madar. That is why I have asked him to share a meal with us one night. Please don’t be angry,’ Naveed adds, on seeing her frown. ‘I felt it was my duty. He saved me from a bad situation. And please don’t worry about having a strange man in the house; he will be my guest, of course.’

  ‘Of course. I understand, my son. You did the right thing. I’m more concerned about our home; it is so small and so—’

  ‘Perhaps a picnic in the park, then. Whatever way, Mr Omaid is a humble man, Madar, and a kind one. He will not look down on us.’