Naveed Page 5

  ‘That is good, but what about food? Will we have enough? We can barely feed ourselves most of the time.’

  ‘I will make sure we have enough, Madar. On my honour, I will not let us be shamed.’ Naveed laughs and claps his hands. ‘Stop your worrying. We’ve had a banquet tonight, have we not? We will again when Mr Omaid comes. I’ll see to it.’

  Naveed looks at the remainder of the meal still laid out before them. His mother made an excellent qorma, a lamb stew with caramelised onions, sultanas and spices, served with fluffy basmati rice baked in butter and salt. A big piece of nan is also left. They’ll eat well for breakfast, too, he’s pleased to see. And all thanks to his time at the waste disposal depot.

  When Mr Omaid let him off in town he traded the two best cassettes of Afghan music and the one uncrushed packet of biscuits for the ingredients that went into this meal. It was extravagant, he knows, but he doesn’t care. Seeing the smile on his mother’s face, and hearing Anoosheh squeal with delight, has made it all more than worthwhile.

  ‘God has definitely been watching over me today.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Anoosheh, shaking her finger at him like a scolding schoolteacher. ‘But he may not watch over you next time.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ Naveed’s mother says, her face turning serious. ‘I forbid you to go to that horrible place.’

  ‘But Madar, look at how well we have eaten tonight.’

  ‘I don’t care, Naveed. This is only one night.’

  ‘There’ll be more.’

  ‘Not if you must risk your life for it, or even your health. Nothing is worth that. I mean it, my son. You know what those gangs can do. They could easily injure you so badly that you would never be able to work again. They could even kill you. What would your little sister and I do then, hmm?’

  Naveed knows his mother is right. She and Anoosheh do need him.

  ‘We would have nowhere to turn but Mr Kalin. You realise that, don’t you?’

  Her words send a chill right through Naveed. ‘Of course, Madar,’ he says at once. ‘As you wish. I will not go back there.’

  She leans across and kisses him on the forehead. ‘We’d be lost without you, my son. Wouldn’t we, daughter?’

  Anoosheh nods and mumbles something. Her eyes are downcast, and Naveed notices that she is trembling slightly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he assures her. ‘I said I won’t go back to the depot, and I mean it.’

  Anoosheh remains staring at the floor, but shakes her head. ‘I believe you, brother,’ she mutters, almost swallowing the words. ‘That’s not the problem.’

  Anoosheh has been quiet all afternoon. It’s not like her. She didn’t prattle and tease him on the way home from school. She didn’t ask anything about his day, which she mostly would. She did brighten when he showed her the food he’d bartered for the cassettes and biscuits, and seemed happy enough as she helped prepare the evening meal. But her usual bubble and fizz were nowhere to be seen. And now she is all hunched up as if trying to hide from the world by becoming even smaller than she already is.

  He reaches out and touches her. ‘What is it, Noosh? What is the matter?’

  She lifts her gaze from the floor and stares at him. Her big eyes are swimming in sadness.

  ‘Madar’s talk about Mr Kalin, that’s what has upset me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, little one,’ her mother apologises. ‘I only said it to make your brother see some sense in all this.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s true, Madar. That’s what’s so horrible about being a woman. Our lives are not our own. And that’s not right. We’re people, with hopes and dreams and feelings and everything that men have. And yet on our own we hardly even exist.’

  Naveed and his mother glance at each other, neither knowing what to say.

  ‘I used to be sad about having no legs,’ Anoosheh continues. ‘But now I realise it’s a blessing in disguise. At least no man will ever want me; with no legs I’m no use to anyone.’ She lets out a short laugh. ‘Now I won’t have to be married to some horrible man old enough to be my father, or even older.’ She pauses, her voice faltering, her eyes welling with tears. ‘Not like Pari. Poor, poor Pari.’

  Naveed sits up at once. ‘What do you mean?’ he almost shouts.

  ‘That’s why she’s been so sad lately. I kept at her today after you left us at school. In the end she broke down and told me: she is to be married.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Naveed says. ‘She’s so young!’

  ‘Ha! That makes her even more marriageable, dear brother.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She doesn’t know yet. But he’ll be old, don’t you worry. Her father has promised her to someone rich and important in payment of a debt he owes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not for a while, but still too soon. She’ll be married by the time winter returns.’

  Naveed shudders at the thought. He sits in stunned silence, wishing there was something he could do but feeling a great weight of helplessness bearing down on him.

  Later that night, after his mother and sister have gone to bed, Naveed works in the outside alcove on the goods he will have for sale at the market tomorrow. He’s exhausted and his mind is a jumble of worries about Pari. But he has to make sure that everything is prepared. A great deal depends on it.

  The items are lined up along the wooden bench, ready to be packed away in his hessian bag. The Russian medals and badges have been varnished, the cassettes and CDs cleaned, as have the saleable magazines. The broken biscuits have been repackaged in small plastic bags to sell separately. All the minor items are lined up as well – stationery, paperclips, pens and so on. And finally there are the Russian army shells – all cleaned and polished so they shine.

  Naveed takes the biggest of these, an artillery shell approximately twelve centimetres in diameter and forty in height. It comes from a 122mm howitzer known as the D-30, one of the most lethal weapons in the Russians’ armoury. It should sell well tomorrow.

  He inspects the shell, pleased with how it sparkles, and then places it back on the bench. As he does so, his eyes fall on the medals, tags and badges. He glances back and forth between them and the big howitzer shell, and an idea shines in his mind.

  ‘Yes,’ he mutters excitedly. ‘Not bad at all.’

  Chapter 13

  Naveed squats on his haunches and watches three soldiers make their way through the busy marketplace, a piece of cardboard held over his head for shade. The wind has dropped, and with it the choking dust, but the afternoon sun is still cruel. The soldiers must be very hot in their helmets and body armour, camouflage jackets, fatigues and heavy boots, he thinks. But they swagger through the crowd, pretending to be comfortable and relaxed, pausing at stalls and even trying to speak to people. He can tell they’re on edge, though, their weapons at the ready.

  A small cluster of children swarms about them like flies. A few stallholders and beggars call out as they pass. But most people either give them a wide berth or ignore them completely. The Americans believe such patrols win hearts and minds by giving some degree of security. But to many locals the soldiers are like aliens in their strange outfits: not wanted at best, fiercely hated at worst.

  Naveed is pleased to see them, however. They mean business, and he needs more business. The day has not been as successful as he’d hoped. He’ll make a small profit this time, after paying rent for his space, but that’s all. There are only a couple of hours left before the market closes, and he was hoping for at least one more sale. Maybe these soldiers are it.

  He stands, straightens his threadbare clothes and slicks down his hair. Then he rearranges his wares, making a single strategic change. He takes one particular item from the back, gives it a quick spit and polish and puts it in pride of place at the front of all the other things. That done, he sits cross-legged, his back straight, and looks up as the first of the soldiers draws level.

  ‘Salaam alaikum, mister,’ he says, raising his open palms to the
soldier.

  ‘Ditto, kid,’ the American replies, busily chewing gum. He glances down at Naveed’s wares and very nearly moves on. But then he sees what Naveed wants him to see.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ he calls to the others. ‘Over here.’

  Laid out on the black plastic is a strange assortment of items: three oranges, a bunch of plastic flowers, a number of neatly folded plastic bags, half a dozen sheets of once-white writing paper with odd envelopes, a few batteries, a pile of paperclips and a shoe box filled with second-hand cassettes and CDs.

  Of course, none of these things interest the soldier. His attention has been caught by an artillery shell that sits among a number of smaller shells. The soldier swings his rifle to one side and leans down.

  ‘That’s Russian,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, mister,’ Naveed replies, holding up the shell for the soldier to take. ‘From Soviet gun. You know this?’

  The American smiles and takes the shell.

  ‘You bet I know this. It’s from the D-30 howitzer. The Reds tried to blast you guys to hell and back with these. The place is riddled with the goddamn things.’

  The soldier is right. D-30 shells are everywhere in Afghanistan, part of the military detritus the Russians left behind. So there is nothing unusual about this shell as such. It is what has been done to it that makes it special. It has been polished so that its casing shines, and Soviet medals, badges and military tags have been glued around the outside. Naveed did the job last night.

  ‘Look at that, will ya?’

  The soldier lowers his voice as he inspects the items adorning the shell. Each one would have been a thing of great personal value to the soldier who’d owned it. But they’d been abandoned like the tanks and guns and other equipment as the Soviets fled in panic.

  ‘You guys really did kick ass back then. Did you make this?’

  Naveed nods. ‘Yes, I make. You like?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s cool. It’s a kind of weird trophy.’

  ‘Aha. You man of good taste.’ Naveed claps his hands. ‘We talk business, yes?’

  The soldier laughs. ‘And I see that you’re a good salesman. You’ll go places, kid. And your English ain’t half bad, neither.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Naveed replies, and then waits patiently while the soldier further inspects the shell, turning it in his hand.

  Eventually one of his mates gives him a shove.

  ‘Come on, Horten. Just buy the freakin’ thing and put the little guy out of his misery and let’s go.’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ The soldier holds up the shell. ‘How much, kid?’

  ‘What money you have? Afghani? Pakistan rupee? America dollar?’

  The soldier pulls out a wad of Afghan money. He peels off a couple of notes without even looking and presses them into Naveed’s hand. ‘That do?’

  Naveed is speechless. The soldier has given him far too much, ten times more than he would ever expect in his wildest dreams. He gapes at the money, struggling to contain his excitement; it is more than he would make in a whole month. He finds himself going over all the things he can buy for his mother and Anoosheh with so much money.

  And yet, even as these thoughts tumble through Naveed’s mind, he knows that he cannot keep the money. It would be wrong. It would be against everything his father stood for, and everything he hoped Naveed would in turn stand for.

  Always try to be a good person, Naveed’s father had said on many occasions. Try to be the best person you possibly can. Try not to hurt others, or lie, or cheat, or steal. Those things are wrong. A tilted cart never reaches its destination.

  And Naveed knows exactly what his father would say now if he were still alive. He can hear him in his head.

  The soldier does not know what he has given you. He does not know our money. To take it would be stealing. You must give it back.

  But he is foolish, Padar, to have such money and not know its worth. A fool and his money . . .

  Stealing is still stealing whether it be from a wise man or a fool. You must give it back.

  Naveed wants to argue, but knows better. He looks up at the soldier, and holds out the money in the palm of his hand.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the soldier asks. ‘Not enough?’ He peels off another note. ‘You drive a hard bargain, man.’

  ‘No, no!’ Naveed frantically shakes his head. ‘Not more. You mistake. Is too much. Take back.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ the soldier says to his mates. ‘An honest Afghan.’ They all laugh as Horten pushes away Naveed’s hand. ‘Listen, kid. I’m gonna be outta here in a couple of weeks, and your play money is worth exactly zilch back home. So take it. And here’s another just for being honest. Go get yourself some decent shoes, huh.’

  The soldier slaps him on the back and strides off with his mates.

  Naveed watches them go, and then stares down at the money, barely able to believe his eyes. Khoda ra Shuker, thank God! This really is his lucky day. He feels like jumping and clapping and whooping and yelling all at once.

  And he almost does. But then from the corner of his eye he sees that he’s being watched. By them? The ones who watch everything? In his excitement he’d completely forgotten about them. Naveed breaks into a cold sweat.

  How much did they see? he wonders. Aram shoo, he tells himself. Calm down.

  He folds his hand around the four Afghan notes, squashing them into as small a ball as possible, and squats on his haunches again, trying to decide on his next move.

  Chapter 14

  Naveed packs his wares into the hessian bag. His movements are casual and unhurried, so as not to let on that he knows he’s being watched. With his back turned, he peels and eats one of the oranges, and then chews on a piece of nan bread he’s kept from the morning. At the same time he cups a small mirror in one hand and holds it up to check out who is spying on him.

  Just as he thought. It’s the Ranii boys; they’re always snooping around the market on the lookout for easy money. They run a kind of protection racket; you pay them to leave you alone. They tried to make him pay earlier in the day, but he refused. Now they’re back and he doubts they’ll let him escape this time.

  There are only three of them, though. The youngest and smallest member of the gang, the one they call The Flea, has his eyes fixed on Naveed, not letting him out of his sight. But the two older boys are busily glancing around, no doubt watching out for the rest of the gang.

  Naveed considers making a run for it while they don’t have the numbers. But before he can move, four more gang members turn up. A moment later their leader arrives as well, a thick-set youth about seventeen years old. He listens carefully to The Flea, glancing towards Naveed and nodding with a sneer as the small boy talks.

  At that moment a trolley piled high with wares passes in front of the gang. Naveed seizes the opportunity. He grabs his bag, rolls to one side, and scrambles underneath a fruit and vegetable cart, almost upsetting it. The vendor shouts at him, but then quickly realises what is happening when he sees the gang members charging through the crowd, pushing people out of the way. He deftly kicks a few boxes in place to hide Naveed as the gang stops in front of his stall.

  ‘Gom shoo!’ he yells at them as they look about. ‘Get lost.’

  ‘The boy who’s been there all day,’ the gang leader snaps back, pointing to Naveed’s selling place. ‘Where did he go?’

  The vendor waves his hand in the air. ‘That way.’ He points towards a narrow lane leading away from the marketplace. ‘But you’ll never catch him. He’s too fast for you lazy donkeys. Go on, get out of here.’

  The gang races off with other vendors cursing after them.

  ‘Thank you so much, sir,’ Naveed says, crawling from under the cart. ‘I will repay you when I can.’

  ‘Khwahesh mikonam – you’re welcome,’ the vendor replies. ‘But hurry. God be with you.’

  Naveed sprints away in the opposite direction to the gang. He is tempted to take a shortcut through the lanes an
d alleys, but decides to keep to the main road. It will take him longer to get home, but he feels safer in the open, surrounded by other people.

  Once away from the marketplace, he relaxes a little and slows to a jog. The afternoon traffic is building up in both directions – soldiers returning to Bagram Airfield from their missions, merchants and workers heading home – but it is still moving quite quickly. Naveed makes good headway through the crowd, although he is barely aware of his surroundings; his mind is filled with the thrill of what happened that afternoon. He cannot believe his good fortune.

  He is still holding the four notes tight in his clenched fist, longing to feast his eyes on them again. But he keeps moving, keen to place as much distance as possible between himself and the gang. Only when he is within a few hundred metres of the road that leads to Anoosheh’s school does he allow himself a quick peep at the money.

  He stops, opens his left hand a bit and peers down at the scrunched-up notes lying in his sweaty palm. He can hear his own heart thumping in his chest. This is more money than he has ever seen in his life. He folds the notes into his father’s leather pouch and lets out a tiny squeal of delight. But a voice in the distance sends a chill of dread through his body.

  ‘There he is!’

  Naveed flicks his head around. A beaten-up black utility is weaving in and out of the traffic, heading for him. Hanging off the back of it are the gang members. He curses and runs, pushing through pedestrians, carts and trolleys, darting into the very first lane he comes to, hoping it will be too narrow for the vehicle.

  But it isn’t. The utility screeches around the corner and races down the lane after him, scattering people before it. With the vehicle bearing down, Naveed just manages to slip into a thin alley on the right. The utility skids to a stop; the gang members leap off and charge down the alley after him, yelling and whooping like savages.

  The lane twists and winds, becoming narrower all the time. Naveed has a good lead, but the gang is fresh and he can hear them gaining. They will catch him eventually, he thinks, and decides to get rid of the big money the American soldier gave him. While he runs he pulls the leather pouch over his head and then swiftly kneels and slips it into a hole at the base of a wall, shoving a piece of broken brick roughly into place to hide it.