Into the Sun. Deni Ellis Bechard
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she asked.
I don’t see why not.
Is this your first time?
As he said yes, she glanced down at his black Afghan tunic. With a few steps, she put space between herself and him, as if realizing he was not only new here, but possibly dangerous.
The sudden shifts in her carriage — the lengthening of her stride, the redressing of her shoulders and neck — gave her the air of someone on a routine visit. Lifted, her forehead was clear. There were faint determined lines on either side of her mouth, like those of a woman who didn’t want to be disturbed.
A man wearing a casual suit and trim goatee approached her and extended his hand. His accent was faintly British.
Ms. Alexandra Desjardins, welcome. I am Hamid. Please let me take your bag.
She thanked him and then observed Justin warily. Hamid was poised, appearing ready to lunge between them.
It was a pleasure meeting you, Justin told her.
Yes. Good luck. She smiled with only her mouth — her pupils suddenly tiny, her irises thin golden bands — before walking away.
A few taxi drivers called to Justin. Through a growing buzz of adrenaline, he realized how cold he felt, his jacket much too light.
IN THE DAYS before his flight, Justin had perfected his appearance: a fist of beard, close-cropped hair, and the black shalwar kameez. Ahmad, the Dari teacher he’d found on Craigslist, a grocery bagger at Whole Foods, had stood next to him before the mirror at the tailor’s.
You will do very well, Ahmad had said.
Justin was still confusing the shalwar and the kameez, one part of the outfit loose pants with narrow ankles, the other a tunic that hung to his knees. As he studied himself in the mirror, he envisioned his arrival in Kabul: his calm blue eyes contrasting with the auburn beard.
During his layover in Frankfurt, he began to sniffle. By Dubai, his nose was stuffed. On the flight to Kabul, his back muscles ached. When he took his window seat, the young Afghan next to him smiled. He wore black jeans, an ornate leather jacket, and had gel in his hair — clearly the son of an affluent family. Justin pictured himself having dinners with them, discussing politics and the parallels between Islam and Christianity. He tried out his Dari — Chettor hasten?
Khub hastam, the young man replied and then switched to English. Do you lift weights?
Yes, but only to stay in shape.
Then you must know Hamidullah Shirzai? He is one of Afghanistan’s great bodybuilders. There is a film about him. I believe he must also be famous in America now.
Justin’s sinuses throbbed with the drumbeat of his heart. Discharge stung the edges of his nostrils, gumming up his mustache. He put a drink napkin to his nose and blew.
The young man went rigid. He stood, walked up the aisle, and leaned to speak with other passengers. Afghans glanced back at Justin. By the time the plane landed, he was alone in his row.
He’d imagined his arrival as a new beginning, but now, feverish, he could see only risks: that he wouldn’t be able to communicate, that he’d be harassed for being an American, or even kidnapped — or that the Taliban would shoot down the airliner. How could it be safe to land in the capital around which America’s longest war had been spiraling for years?
As Justin waited in the parking lot, he thought how reassuringly familiar Alexandra had been — even if she was French and from Canada, a country that called to mind only his father’s stories about Vietnam and the men who escaped north to flee the draft.
He began to shiver, his muscles like icepacks.
Mr. Justin?
The young man wore jeans, and a belted jacket hung on his frame like a bathrobe. He had the starved look common to people who hadn’t recovered from being underfed as children.
Yes. That’s me.
I am Idris. Mr. Frank sent me.
If not so thin, Idris would be striking with his black hair, his cleft chin with a few sparse hairs, his unwavering dark eyes set against milk-pale skin.
You had a good voyage?
Long but good, Justin lied as they crossed the parking lot to a white Corolla. The car had mud all over it: on its panels, on the bottom of the trunk where he put his bags, on the floorboards. He’d expected dust, and the mud’s familiarity felt intrusive.
Idris pulled onto the main thoroughfare, the lanes packed with jockeying Corollas, some of the drivers steering on the left, some on the right.
Justin asked why there were so many similar cars — and why some of their steering wheels were on the left side and some on the right. Idris said that most of Kabul’s vehicles were shipped in from Japan, where people drove on the left. This made Afghanistan’s traffic treacherous, since most drivers couldn’t see oncoming traffic when they tried to pass.
Idris asked about Justin’s education, where he grew up, where he’d studied.
I’m from Louisiana. I did my undergraduate at Louisiana State in Baton Rouge.
So you wanted to be a teacher?
I wanted to be involved in education. Yes, I teach, but . . .
There was no easy answer, so Justin explained he’d done two master’s degrees, in English and education, and had nearly finished his PhD dissertation. Idris asked about university programs and scholarships for foreign students, but Justin admitted he didn’t know much.
Idris drove them past embassies with blast walls and guard posts. The main roads were sound, though the side streets were filled with mud and pond-size puddles whose ice had been smashed. As dusk claimed the unlit street, a convoy of dun armored vehicles passed — Justin recognized them as MRAPs — their headlights blazing over the traffic ahead. The thrill of being in a war zone arose in him, accompanied by a vague nostalgia for the days when he’d dreamed of being a soldier.
There are so many ways to use words ending in ing, Idris said. Would you be so kind as to teach me this?
Sure.
Justin reluctantly looked away from the convoy. He was still giving examples when they came to a highway under construction. Idris jammed the accelerator, and they shot through a gap in the yellow taxis and cargo trucks with flat-faced cabs and flowery paint jobs.
Justin put the tissue to his nose and blew. He’d been breathing through his mouth and could taste the dust, gritty on his tongue and between his teeth.
Your explanations are very clear, Idris said. You will help many people here.
That’s why I came, Justin replied.
Three muddy unpaved roads later, Idris pulled up to a nondescript house with a low compound wall, a metal door, and a dented gate with a scrawl of rusted barbed wire above.
May I give a suggestion? Idris asked.
Of course.
I am not bothered, but for many Afghans, this problem with your nose — this blowing of the nose — it can be insulting.
Why? It’s a bodily function.
Many bodily functions are not done in the company of others. Maybe it is like, for you, releasing wind.
It’s that bad?
Releasing wind for us is even worse than for you, so how can I know?
Briefly, Justin relived everything that had happened on the plane.
Frank is waiting, Idris told him, and pressed the horn twice.
The gate shook, and a short, bulky man with olive skin and blond hair pulled it open.
He is the guard, Idris said as he drove the car inside. His name is Shafiq. He does not speak English, but he is a very