Naveed Page 9

  ‘Is good, Mr Jake. We here to learn.’

  And learn they certainly do. In no time at all Nasera is able to find the ragdoll when she hasn’t seen where Jake has placed it.

  ‘That means she’s sniffing out the explosive now, not the doll. We don’t need the toy anymore. She’s made the link; the scent is imprinted.’ Jake shakes his head. ‘And let me tell you, that has to be a record. This dog never ceases to amaze me.’

  After that Jake removes the ragdoll completely from the sessions, and hides the TNT on its own in all sorts of places, making the task more and more difficult. He buries it in holes on the side of the road, placing it deeper each time. But even beneath twenty centimetres of packed dirt Nasera still manages to pick up the scent.

  ‘That’s gotta be a record, too,’ Jake says. ‘The best I’ve ever come across is a Labrador that located explosives at just over fifteen centimetres. I reckon Nasera has the makings of a vapour dog. She seems to be able to pick up the scent of explosive in the air, like a vapour drifting through. If so, that makes her really special.’

  He sets up building searches for Nasera, in warehouses, soldiers’ compounds and mess halls, under mattresses, on top of wardrobes, inside drawers and desks. He hides the explosive in laundries and toilet blocks and other places with strong competing smells that might mask the scent of the TNT. But Nasera keeps right on target every time.

  ‘I could take her on to other explosives and stuff,’ Jake explains towards the end of the week. ‘I’m talking gear like PE4, RPGs and other grenades, plastic landmines that can’t be located by metal detectors, and so on. But we might leave that for later; I’ve no doubt she’ll do those ones dead easy. Right now I want to see how she works when we up the stress level.’

  So in the exercises after that, Jake increases the noise level around Nasera as she searches for the hidden explosives, to see at what point she becomes too distracted to work effectively. He starts with crow scarers, then goes on to loud engines, recordings of street noises, people shouting, distorted music booming from big speakers, screeches of electronic interference. But he never seems to reach the point where she can no longer work. The whopping blast from an ordnance detonation makes her jump, but she’s soon back on the job. She is even able to work close to choppers and jet planes as they take off and land.

  ‘A lot of dogs are really freaked by the noise from those monsters,’ he tells Naveed. ‘But for Nasera it just seems to be business as usual. She’s incredible.’

  On the last day Jake tests Nasera in a simulated manoeuvre to see how she copes. As part of the operation he kits out Naveed in a flak vest and helmet. Jake’s boss comes along, too, as an observer. They hunker down behind a wall with a platoon of soldiers in the midst of a fierce battle, guns and mortars raging all around them.

  ‘They’re firing duds,’ yells Jake. ‘But this is so close to the real thing. And look at her, will ya?’ Nasera lies between them licking her paws. ‘Cool as a cucumber.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ his boss agrees. ‘She’s got real battle ’tude, all right.’

  Eventually the ‘enemy’ in the operation is silenced and it’s time for the troops to move forward. But the road has to be checked for booby traps.

  ‘That’s you,’ says Jake. ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Time for rock and rolls, yes?’ Naveed holds up his finger.

  ‘You said it,’ Jake replies with a grin.

  They climb over the wall. Naveed has Nasera on a leash.

  ‘The guys have planted an IED somewhere on the road ahead,’ Jake’s boss explains. He nods at the dog. ‘Let’s see how she gets on.’

  Naveed unclips the leash and Nasera goes straight to work. She paces back and forth across the road, moving steadily forward.

  ‘She’s good,’ says Jake’s boss. ‘Methodical, focused, intense.’

  It isn’t long at all before Nasera finds the IED. She stops immediately, her body stiffens and she stares directly at a spot on the road, her tail poking straight out like a pointer dog. Then she turns her head to Naveed and barks.

  ‘Perfect,’ Jake whispers.

  Naveed is nervous, worried that he’ll make a mistake with Jake’s boss and all the soldiers watching. But he takes a deep breath, steps forward and calls to Nasera.

  ‘Sug khob – good dog,’ he shouts, raising both arms clearly above his head, one hand in stop mode, the other holding up her ball. ‘Stay. Sit.’

  Nasera obeys, but keeps her eyes trained on the spot where the IED is planted as Naveed walks towards her. When he reaches her he places a small circular marker at her front paws; it has a red arrow pointing towards the suspected IED. That done, he steps back a few paces and slaps his thigh. The moment Nasera hears this she relaxes and goes straight to Naveed’s side, gazing up at him expectantly.

  He holds out the ball. She barks until he throws it high. Then she leaps up and catches it mid-flight. The soldiers clap and cheer.

  ‘You’re right,’ Jake’s boss admits. ‘She’s everything you said she is.’ He slaps Jake on the back and then he turns to Naveed. ‘Most impressive, young fella. We’re going to have to find a place for you and your dog.’

  Later that day, when the training program is finished and they’re alone together, Naveed turns to Jake.

  ‘I have question, Mr Jake. Your boss, what he mean find place for Nasera and me?’

  They are passing the very same tree where the training program started over a week ago. They stop and sit together in its shade.

  ‘You two have come a long way in a short time. What you’ve achieved has confirmed what I knew on day one: that Nasera has the makings of a top search and detection dog, and that you have all it takes to be a top handler.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jake.’

  ‘But this is only the start, Naveed. I had to put you and Nasera through this solid week of sessions because I needed to be one hundred and ten per cent certain that you were up to the mark. You see, we are going to recommend that you two be included as a team in a full-time training program that will take months to complete. It’s a program operated by Afghans, for Afghans. If you’re accepted you’ll be paid a wage for the training period, Nasera will be cared for and fed well, and you’ll be assured of a job when it’s over.’

  Naveed gives a gasp of excitement, but Jake holds up his hands.

  ‘Hang on, mate. Don’t get your hopes too high just yet. I have no doubt you’ll be accepted for the course. But because you’re so young there is a chance they might insist you wait a few years. I’ll tell them that’d be crazy, and I’m fairly sure they’ll listen to me.’

  ‘You are very kind, Mr Jake.’

  ‘There’ll be paperwork, of course; I’ll handle that. But it all may take a few weeks to push through. Maybe even a month. In the meantime we’ll try to keep up some exercises and sessions for you and Nasera here on the base.’

  ‘How I ever repay you?’

  ‘Forget it, Naveed. Just watching you two work together this week, and knowing that you’ll be making Afghanistan a safer country, is more than enough payment for me, mate.’

  Naveed cannot reply. He is too choked up to say anything.

  Chapter 23

  On the way home that afternoon Naveed stops at several stalls in the bazaar. He buys a good piece of beef, some long-grain rice, eggplants, onions and capsicums, as well as a pastry.

  ‘We’ll have a proper meal tonight,’ he tells Nasera. ‘One fit for a khan. And don’t worry,’ he adds, holding up a big bone, ‘I haven’t forgotten about you. We have so much to celebrate.’

  Naveed gets to the school before the classes are finished. As he waits, he decides that he won’t tell Anoosheh anything yet. He’ll keep the good news for when they get home, over dinner.

  ‘I can’t wait to see their faces when I tell them,’ he says to Nasera, who is sitting at his side. Naveed chuckles, a smile escaping across his face.

  ‘What are you smiling about, big brother?’ Anoosheh says, hobblin
g towards him.

  ‘I’m just happy, that’s all. I had a good day. And I bought some treats for tonight. It’s time we had a really good meal, I thought.’ Naveed looks around. ‘Where’s Pari?’

  ‘She didn’t come today,’ his sister replies.

  ‘She didn’t come yesterday, either.’

  ‘So?’ Anoosheh shrugs as if her friend’s absence is of no importance. But Naveed sees the frown sneak across her brow, and knows better.

  ‘Pari loves school. She wouldn’t miss it for anything. Is something wrong?’

  ‘You’re always so full of questions, brother,’ Anoosheh snaps. ‘How should I know?’ She moves off before he can ask more.

  They walk most of the way home in tense silence, Anoosheh clumping along angrily. As they near the long lane leading to their house Naveed thinks that perhaps he should reveal his good news to brighten her spirits. But before he can do so, she stops and turns to him.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she says, bitterness in her voice. ‘It’s not right.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What’s not right?’

  ‘I discovered who is taking Pari as his wife.’ She winces and then spits out the name like poison. ‘Salar Khan!’

  ‘What?’ Naveed steps back as if he’s been slapped across the face. ‘But he’s—’

  ‘Yes, he’s old and fat and ugly and cruel, and everything that’s horrible. He’s a monster driving around in his big black Humvee. And Pari is to be sacrificed to that creature.’

  ‘There must be something we can do.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, brother. We’re nobodies. What could we do? Her family is poor. They’ll take what they’re given – that’s how things work.’ Anoosheh sighs. ‘Her life will be a misery.’

  Anoosheh hurries off. Naveed stares after her, too stunned to move. He feels as if he’s going to be ill at any moment. When he does eventually move, his gait is more of a stagger than anything, the wobble of a blind man. And as he walks, the words of Malalai Farzana turn over in his head.

  Girls are free to stay at home instead of going to school, free to be married off to old men. Married off to old men! Look around at your country, fellow Afghans. It is a tragedy. Allah weeps for us.

  Only when a shadow crosses his path and Nasera growls does Naveed come out of his trance.

  ‘Mr Kalin,’ he mutters. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘No. You’re as bad as your sister.’

  Naveed is in the part of the lane that passes Mr Kalin’s warehouse. A truck has just finished unloading.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was thinking about things,’ Naveed says.

  ‘You need to teach that sister of yours some manners. She nearly knocked me over and she didn’t say a thing.’

  Naveed almost apologises for Anoosheh. But then a wave of anger washes over him at the arrogance of this man.

  ‘Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Mr Kalin, but my little sister has no legs.’

  ‘I’m not blind. Of course I know she’s a cripple. I’m talking about manners.’

  ‘So am I.’ Naveed keeps his gaze fixed on Mr Kalin.

  The landlord narrows his eyes. ‘My, you are the proud one, aren’t you?’ he sneers.

  ‘When it comes to family, we should all be proud. Don’t you agree, sir?’

  Mr Kalin laughs. ‘I’m glad to hear that. Very glad.’

  Naveed frowns at Mr Kalin’s tone.

  ‘Don’t worry, boy. I have a surprise for you, that’s all. And he happens to be family.’

  Mr Kalin snaps his fingers and a youth several years older than Naveed appears from behind the warehouse door. He is gaunt, his skin sallow, his features skeletal. He is smiling but there is no happiness in his face, and it takes Naveed a moment to actually recognise him.

  ‘Cousin Akmed,’ he stammers, trying not to sound shocked.

  The youth nods and steps forward, a tattered bag slung over his shoulder. They hug, Naveed immediately struck by how feeble his cousin’s embrace is and how bony his body.

  ‘It’s been such a long time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Akmed replies in a wispy, faraway voice, but has nothing else to add.

  ‘A long time, indeed,’ Mr Kalin says. ‘More than two years, I believe. Your cousin has been in Pakistan, at one of the very best madrasas. He’s been improving himself. Spiritually. Isn’t that so, Akmed?’

  ‘Yes,’ the youth says again, although he doesn’t sound all that sure. He seems to flinch when Mr Kalin speaks to him. He is also watching Nasera closely, perhaps nervous of her as well. Naveed is about to assure him that he need not fear the dog. But Mr Kalin speaks first.

  ‘Akmed is just passing through and is in need of somewhere to stay,’ he continues. ‘When I heard, I immediately thought of you, Naveed. I knew you’d love to take him in, being so proud of family.’

  ‘I would,’ Naveed replies, smiling apologetically at his cousin. ‘But ours is such a tiny home. You may—’

  ‘Only for a few days,’ Akmed explains. ‘And I won’t get in anyone’s way, I promise. A few days and I won’t ever bother you again.’

  ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean that. You are more than welcome to stay in our house. I only meant that you may be cramped and uncomfortable.’

  ‘Mohem nist – no problem, cousin. Allah gives me all the comfort I need, wherever I am.’

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ says Mr Kalin, slapping his arms around the boys’ shoulders. ‘I can’t tell you how good it makes me feel bringing you together like this.’ He pushes them on their way. ‘Off you go. And make the most of each other’s company while you can.’

  Naveed grits his teeth as he walks down the lane, seething at Mr Kalin’s hypocrisy, despising his false friendliness.

  ‘Khuk! Korreh khar! Pig! Son of a donkey!’ he mutters and then peeps at his cousin.

  But Akmed seems not to have heard. He stares ahead, as if in a daze.

  When they reach the alcove into his home, Naveed glances back along the lane. Mr Kalin is still watching them. Nasera is looking back as well. She growls.

  Chapter 24

  It is a difficult evening for Naveed and his family. Akmed is a dark cloud that has invaded their home, and nothing they do seems to lighten him.

  Naveed’s mother rushes to embrace her nephew the moment she sees him, her face bright with joy. Anoosheh even pushes aside her dejection about Pari and tries to be her playful self. They serve him chai and kishmish, and shower him with questions. But Akmed is awkward and self-conscious through it all, answering their questions with a yes or no before lapsing into silence again. At times he even seems to be brooding, as if trapped in his own thoughts.

  At one point, just before the evening meal is served, Anoosheh makes a desperate effort to lift Akmed’s mood by giving a short hip-hop demonstration. Naveed knows it’s a mistake and tries to catch her eye to warn her. But to no avail. She goes ahead with her performance. Naveed loves the act, and laughs. Their mother laughs as well. But Akmed doesn’t. He stares at Anoosheh as she spins and twists about the room on her stumps, supported by crutches, his brow knitted, his lips pursed, one hand pressing on his copy of the Quran.

  ‘There,’ Anoosheh says when she has finished. ‘That’s hip hop. I can give you a lesson if you wish, cousin Akmed?’

  She reaches out to him, smiling. But Akmed pulls back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ A nervous laugh escapes from her lips. ‘Don’t you care for dancing?’

  Akmed’s reply is quiet, but the tremor in his voice is like anger on a leash.

  ‘I can only tell you the Prophet’s words, Allah bless him and give him peace. Mohammed said: Allah has sent me to eradicate musicals, pipes and the habits of jahiliyyah, the old ways that existed before Islam. I’m sorry, little cousin, but that sort of dancing is jahiliyyah. It is haram, forbidden.’

  Anoosheh’s smile fades. Naveed sees this and speaks up at once.

  ‘Come now, cousin. Anoosheh is only playing, having fun. There’s no
harm in that. How can it be forbidden?’

  ‘Of course, you’re right,’ Akmed replies, pursing his lips. ‘Children must be allowed to play. But she will not always be a child. She is not that far from the age of puberty, I suspect, and that sort of excessive dancing would not be fitting for a Muslim girl who wants to live in a righteous way. That is all I am saying.’

  Anoosheh’s face drops and a tense silence invades the little room. Naveed doesn’t know what to say. Cousin Akmed was harsh and strict in his words to Anoosheh, but Naveed is nervous of replying in case he frees his own anger. Luckily his mother saves the day, announcing it is time to eat.

  The meal helps to break the tension that has built up. Naveed casts his eyes over the feast his mother has prepared. She’s made a plate of ashak, leek dumplings coated with her own special quroot, mint and garlic sauce. There’s a large chapli kebab, a round flat patty of minced meat and flour served with nan. He notices his very favourite dish as well, qabili palao, baked rice with fried raisins, finely sliced carrots and nuts. And there are side dishes, too: several torshi – pickles – and fruits and spiced vegetables – along with chutney and yoghurt.

  ‘Wonderful, Madar,’ he says, proud of what she’s created at such short notice to honour Akmed.

  Anoosheh agrees with an enthusiastic nod. So does Akmed, and the dinner passes quietly with a mix of smiles and pleasantries.

  When finished, their cousin sits back, satiated, wiping scraps of food from his wispy beard.

  ‘Thanks be to Allah for feeding us so well,’ he says. Taking the copy of the Quran that has been by his side the whole evening, Akmed raises it to his lips and lightly kisses it. ‘How fortunate we are.’

  Naveed flinches. It was a good meal, yes, but he can’t help feeling that Allah was not the only one involved in creating it. After all, he was the one who bought the food, and his mother and sister were the ones who prepared the meal. They’d even found extra rice to make sure Akmed got his fill – which he did, wolfing down the food as if he were starving.