Farishta Page 25

  After my dramatic rescue from Stefan, who did turn out to be a Russian intelligence agent, I could no longer deny the fact that Major Mark Davies was on my mind constantly. I tried hard to dismiss my feelings as the impossible longings of a lonely middle-aged woman. But I could not. I knew only that I had to extinguish this flame while it was still manageable and before I said anything more to Mark that I would regret. My drunken mumblings about his blue eyes the night he pulled me out of Stefan’s car were embarrassing enough, even though he had never mentioned the incident again.

  Was it the difference in our ages that kept my behavior in check? I presumed but didn’t know for certain that Mark was ten if not fifteen years my junior. Was it the fishbowl nature of life inside the walls of the PRT, where there was no privacy at any time anywhere? All of these might have contributed to my uncertainty, but there was really only one thing that had kept me from making a total fool of myself in Mark’s presence. It took me far too long to admit it, but I was terrified of being hurt again.

  For a decade after Tom’s death, I had sought comfort in the arms of other men. In my desperate search for solace, I had not only failed to bury the anguish of losing my husband and child, I had gone out of my way to find the worst sort of men, as if I were trying to punish myself for not finding another Tom. The stunning end to what I thought had been a genuine friendship with Stefan made me even more wary of the feelings I had for Mark. But he was different. I knew I could never replace Tom, but I seemed to be reaching a level of trust and friendship with Mark that I had not experienced with any other man. I was stronger now. I had survived Stefan’s betrayal. And I was falling in love.

  After the incident with Stefan, Mark and I found ourselves once again lingering over coffee following the evening meal in the officers’ mess, engaging in spirited arguments about the pacification of Afghanistan or the propriety of females in war zones. We had even begun to share stories about our personal lives.

  Although I finally felt comfortable enough to talk to him about Tom, he had never mentioned his ex-wife except once in passing. He was visibly upset when she came up one evening during our conversation in the officers’ mess. Colonel Jameson had interrupted us with an offhand remark while Mark and I were deep into a heated discussion about my impulsive gallop across the buzkashi field in January.

  “I say, Mark, your wife, Edwina, is quite the equestrian, is she not? ” The colonel had twisted around in his chair but was staring directly at me as he addressed the major.

  Mark stiffened imperceptibly, and his face darkened as he turned to face the colonel. “Actually, sir, no. My ex-wife never showed the slightest interest in riding. You must be thinking of Mitchell’s wife, also named Edwina. She’s a champion dressage rider.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said the colonel, clearing his throat and returning to his conversation with the ops officer.

  Mark stood quickly and picked up his dinner tray. “You’ll excuse me, Angela,” he said, glancing back at the colonel. He paused as though about to speak again, then left the room without another word.

  Mark avoided me for the next several days, approaching only to bid me a safe journey as I climbed into a PRT Land Rover and rolled out the gates with a patrol of British and Swedish soldiers. We were off on a two-day trip into Jowzjan Province, where we would be purchasing several horses for a police outpost that had turned down the PRT’s offer to buy them jeeps.

  The grateful Afghan police chief had insisted that horses would be far more useful for patrolling than jeeps since, unlike diesel fuel, grass was free and available everywhere. He and his men knew how to take care of horses, he told us. They had no idea how to maintain a jeep.

  “Don’t let Angela on any of those horses, Peter, or you’ll never see her again,” Mark shouted to the Gurkha captain who was commanding our patrol as we headed out the gate. “And take care she doesn’t set any brush fires with those solar cooking boxes of hers.”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain replied with a laugh and a casual salute out his open window. I waved and Mark gave me a thumbs-up as our convoy rumbled off, chased down the road by a pack of mangy dogs and a rolling cloud of ochre dust.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  September 5, 2005

  “Angela?”

  I was cooling down after a hard run on the treadmill, but I could hear Mark’s voice through the music on my headphones. I punched the STOP button. We hadn’t spoken since I’d returned from the patrol to Jowzjan Province.

  He was standing in the doorway in his uniform. The rest of the soldiers who had come to work out after dinner were streaming out of the gym and heading for the pub to watch a major international soccer match that was about to start. Mark waited until we were alone.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I’ve missed our after-dinner chats.”

  “So have I, Mark. Was it something I said? ” I asked as I wiped the perspiration from my face and neck.

  “No, it was the colonel, when he mentioned Edwina in front of you.” He looked down and pressed his lips together.

  “Most of the men know that she left me last year for a senior officer, but Colonel Jameson apparently did not. His comment took me by surprise and I reacted badly. I just don’t like being reminded of the whole messy affair. It was painful and embarrassing. Nothing like what you experienced, I know, but it’s still fairly fresh and I . . .”

  “It’s okay, Mark,” I interrupted. “I understand.”

  “Would you like to join me in the pub? It may be a bit noisy with the boys watching their game, but . . .”

  “I’d love to.”

  We switched out the lights and walked together down a narrow cement path that led to the back entrance of the pub. Mark stopped halfway down the walk and turned to face me. Taking my hand in his, he brushed his thumb over the back of my fingers and raised them to his lips. I was suddenly out of breath, and it wasn’t from the three miles I’d just run.

  We stared at each other in silence under the glare of the halogen security lights until a scraping latch signaled that someone was about to exit the pub. Mark quickly released my hand and nodded formally at the sentry who opened the door. The young soldier, oblivious to what had just happened, greeted us both with a nod and a smile. We entered the pub just as another goal was scored. The boys were all cheering wildly. I was dazed and confused.

  Mark ordered two Strongbows, and we stood together at the bar discussing inconsequential matters until the game ended and the pub closed. I went back to my room, and he went off to his. There was no place inside the PRT that could provide the privacy we needed, and leaving the compound was not an option. When I saw him the next day, he made no mention of what had happened the previous evening. And neither did I.

  A note from Jeef was delivered to the PRT the following morning by one of the guards from his dig. Rahim brought it to the bullpen and waited attentively while I read it. I was still distracted by what had transpired between Mark and me, but I forced myself to focus on Jeef ’s message.

  His cell phone was not working, so he had sent a handwritten invitation to join him and Fazli the next afternoon at their dig in Balkh. There was a postscript urging me to bring Rahim along.

  “Will you take me, Farishta-jan,” Rahim asked when I looked up from Jeef’s note. “I have some questions to ask Professor Mongibeaux about the archaeology books he sent me last month.”

  “Have you already read this note, Rahim?” I asked.

  He nodded shyly. “I’m sorry, I thought it might be . . .” He stopped speaking mid-sentence and paused. “I thought it would be . . . interesting to go along.”

  Rahim was keeping something from me, but I decided not to pursue it.

  “The Romanian MOT is going to Balkh City tomorrow to meet with the new police chief. I’ll ask them if we can ride along.”

  “Thank you, Farishta-jan. I will send a message back to Professor Mongibeaux and tell him to expect us.”

  The Romanians dropped us the following mor
ning at Jeef’s dig, which had grown deeper and wider since our last visit. Rahim was strangely subdued as he and I climbed down the bamboo ladders to the lowest level, where Jeef and Fazli were examining a tunnel crammed with fragments of Greek columns that the workmen had recently uncovered.

  “Angela, Rahim, welcome to our newest hole in the ground,” shouted Jeef as he crawled backward out of the tunnel and switched off his flashlight.

  Fazli waved at us both and motioned for Rahim to join him at the mouth of the tunnel. I noticed that Fazli was smiling and slapping Rahim on the back.

  “So, are you ready to hear Rahim’s good news?” asked Jeef, his eyes dancing with excitement.

  “What good news? ” I asked, glancing over at Rahim.

  “A jury of French and Afghan judges has selected Rahim’s design, over a host of professional submissions, for a proposed Bactrian Cultural Center that will be built near here using traditional building materials.”

  Rahim overheard our conversation and approached me with downcast eyes and an embarrassed grin. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was certain.”

  “Rahim, this is wonderful news. Congratulations. I had no idea!”

  “A licensed architect will have to draw the actual construction plans,” Rahim added.

  “Yes,” said Jeef, “but the design is yours.”

  “Are you angry that I kept this from you?” Rahim asked me with a worried look.

  “No. Of course not,” I assured him. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “There’s a prize, too,” Jeef added before exchanging another guilty look with Rahim.

  “I have been offered a scholarship to study architecture and archaeology in Paris,” said Rahim, looking oddly despondent at such wonderful news.

  “And he is guaranteed a job for life when he returns to Afghanistan from his studies,” added Jeef. “Fazli and I will have to retire someday, and we’ll need capable hands and educated minds to carry on our work here well into the twenty-first century. We both agree that Rahim is the perfect candidate, and we said so to the committee.”

  “But you don’t speak French, Rahim.”

  “That is not a problem, Farishta-jan,” Rahim replied. “They will give me a year of intensive French language training and, like you, I learn foreign tongues fairly quickly. I am the main support of my family, but even my mother is urging me to take this scholarship.”

  I didn’t push him for more information since I already knew the reason for his lack of enthusiasm despite this wonderful news. His sad brown eyes betrayed the agony he was feeling at having to leave Nilofar behind and give up all hope of marrying her.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  September 7, 2005

  “Need any help, Angela?” asked Fuzzy, as he walked into the atrium after supper with several Gurkha soldiers.

  “Come on in, guys. I can always use some extra hands,” I said, smiling at these marvelous young soldiers who were giving up their free time in the pub to help me build more solar ovens. This group had been up here before and they knew the drill. Within a few minutes, they were chatting quietly about an upcoming rugby game as they measured and cut squares of cardboard.

  “Sergeant Major told us that more of the MOTs are taking these things when they go on patrol,” said one of the Gurkha corporals as he spread glue over a piece of foil, “and the Romanians saw a shepherd in the foothills near Marmol heating water with one of your solar ovens while he watched his flock.”

  “When do we get to try more of your solar-cooked food, Angela?” asked Fuzzy, who was carefully marking a large square of cardboard using one of my templates.

  “My cooking experiments are over, Fuz,” I replied. “My goal now is to get as many of these ovens as possible into the hands of Afghans before I go home in December.”

  The screen door creaked open again. It was Mark with two MOT commanders. The Gurkhas jumped up and stood at attention. Fuzzy nodded in their direction but kept on with his work.

  “As you were, men,” said Mark. “We’ve come to lend you a hand, Angela.”

  My pulse jumped when I heard Mark’s voice, but I kept my eyes down and continued cutting cardboard. He sat down next to me and pulled a knife from his pocket. “Perhaps you should start charging a few dollars for these.”

  “Great idea,” I replied, still too flustered by his unexpected appearance and his proximity to make eye contact.

  Sensing my discomfort, he added in a loud and formal voice, “Right, Angela, tell us what to do. We’re ready for our marching orders.”

  During the next two hours, my little band of helpers managed to produce six more small solar ovens that the MOTs could take with them on patrol to demonstrate and give away to village men, who would hopefully share them with their wives. They all stayed to help me clean up, but Mark was the last to leave.

  “Come outside, Mark, the sky should be spectacular tonight,” I said, after we had stacked my supplies in the corner of the empty atrium.

  I opened the balcony door, and we stepped outside into a balmy late summer evening. The power was out again all over Mazār, and there was no moon. The sun had set almost an hour ago, but a sliver of sky along the western horizon still glowed a deep indigo blue. The Milky Way shimmering in the blackness overhead, arched like a ribbon of lace over the Hindu Kush.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t respond and I didn’t press him. We scanned the sky and avoided each other’s eyes, until he broke the silence.

  “I’ll be going back to Basra in less than two months, Angela. Perhaps we could meet somewhere after you’ve finished here in December.” He hesitated, his voice rising into a question as though he were uncertain about my response.

  My heart jumped, and I inhaled so sharply that it actually hurt. I remained mute, staring out at the dark shapes of the mountains until I felt his hand on mine. I turned to face him, my eyes flooding with tears.

  “I’d like that, Mark,” I replied avoiding his gaze, “very much, but . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’m too old for you,” I whispered, choking on my words and feeling like an idiot as soon as they had escaped my lips.

  “There are a few things about you that do bother me, Angela,” he said, brushing away my tears, “like your refusal to stop encouraging a certain illicit romance and your impetuousness, but I promise you that your age and mine are of no consequence whatsoever.” He kept his impossibly blue eyes trained on mine.

  Although I was melting inside and was aware at that moment of little other than Mark’s eyes and voice, his reference to Rahim and Nilofar still pained me.

  “I’m forty-seven years old, Mark, and you’re what . . . thirty-three?”

  “I’m thirty-six and I believe I have fallen in love with you, so does it really matter?”

  “I don’t know. It shouldn’t matter.” This difference in our ages, the last line of defense I felt I could raise to protect myself from being hurt again, was crumbling fast. “I don’t want it to.”

  “Then tell me it doesn’t,” he said.

  I was about to reply when footsteps in the atrium interrupted our conversation. A member of Mark’s intel staff pushed open the screen door.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the colonel needs to speak with you urgently. One of the boys said you were up here helping Angela build her stoves. Sorry, Angela,” he added with an embarrassed laugh since it was clear we had long ago finished working on the stoves.

  “Thank you, Corporal. I’ll be right there,” said Mark crisply.

  “Sir,” he said, spinning smartly on his heels.

  “To be continued,” Mark said as he took my hand in his and kissed it before vanishing into the atrium.

  Mark and I struggled to conceal our growing affection, but it was difficult. We took meals together as often as we could, but found it impossible to be completely alone for more than a few minutes without being interrupted. In the presence of the interpreters, we were always excessively formal, b
ut I’m sure that even they could see that something had changed between us. Inviting Mark into my tiny room next to the communal loo on a floor I shared with twenty men was out of the question. He shared a room on the other side of the compound with two Gurkha officers. Anything more than our daily conversations would have to wait until we were both out of Afghanistan.

  I had continued making sporadic visits with Nilofar to the neighboring Hazara camp throughout the summer, but Rahim was still the only one who knew about these unauthorized trips. My method of getting back into the PRT seemed foolproof. When I got within a block of the compound, I would call Rahim’s cell phone, and he would wait just inside to open the gate when I knocked.

  My secret excursions came to an abrupt halt a few days after Mark and I had declared our feelings for each other on the balcony.

  Nilofar had hired a taxi to take ten solar ovens to a newly established Hazara displaced-persons camp on the other side of town. The women in our neighborhood camp had told their Hazara relatives about what we were doing, and the newcomers wanted a demonstration.

  Nilofar could have made this trip on her own, since she knew as much as I did about solar cooking, but I wanted to see the camp and meet the women.

  It was foolish of me to think that no one would notice us leaving the PRT and loading so much equipment into a taxi that morning, but I had grown careless in my subterfuge. It had been so easy all summer to slip out of camp and return unnoticed.

  Unfortunately, Mark was speaking to one of the Gurkha sentries on the ramparts just as Nilofar and I got into the taxi. As he watched us drive away, there was no doubt in his mind who was hidden under the two burkas.

  He went immediately to speak to the Afghan sentries and learned for the first time about my many forays outside the PRT and about Rahim’s complicity. Rahim was ordered to notify him as soon as I called.