She regards me with her piercing gaze, the toddler on her hip still chewing on his fist.“It is my experience that most Americans think of Afghanistan as a backward country with backward people.You don’t want to hear about corner coffee houses, or that most of us talked on cell phones and worked in cubicles that look exactly like the ones you have here.You don’t want to know that I went to my office at eightA.M.one Sunday morning to catch up on paperwork, and by eightP.M.the Taliban entered the city, and my country as I knew it was gone.”
Her voice cracks slightly at the end.She glares at me, as if daring me to acknowledge her pain.I’m starting to understand the housing coordinator’s point more and more.I may know death.I may know grief.But I’ve never known the kind of anguish that comes from losingeverything.
“Do you still have family there?”I ask at last.
“My sisters made it to Islamabad.My parents remain in Kabul.We can WhatsApp for now.My family are Tajik, though, and the Talibans are Pashtuns; they don’t care for Tajiks.They are starting to seize property, possessions.Each time we talk, my parents’ faces are thinner, their clothing shabbier.”
“There’s no one to help you?What about the resettlement agencies?”
“There are forms for reunification, but there are rarely results.”
I don’t know what to say.Eventually, Nageenah fills the silence.
“Isaad got a package,” she repeats.“But not from UPS or FedEx—there was no delivery truck.Just a man in a black shirt, black pants.He handed Isaad a box.Isaad opened it, inspected the contents, then signed on the delivery man’s tablet.Ten minutes later, Isaad knocked on my door with Zahra in hand and asked me to watch her for the night.”
I frown, consider what she’s saying.“Sounds like a private courier.Delivering something Isaad expected.Needed?What size was the package?Envelope, container, chest?”
“Say, a box no larger than a shoebox.”
I frown, still contemplating.Sabera has been gone for three weeks, though her husband doesn’t seem worried.Yesterday he received a package from a private courier and then took off without his daughter.I run the information through my head several times, still have no idea what it means.
“Do you think Sabera was doing okay?”I ask at last.“With marriage, motherhood?I don’t know.Any of it.All of it.”
Nageenah regards me with her level brown stare.So does baby Hasan, who’s finally pulled his fist out of his mouth.
“Speaking for most of us,” she says at last, “this is a lonely life.We’re used to being surrounded by our grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins.Everyone, everywhere, all the time.Here, what you Americans consider family… It is not enough.We don’t just miss our home.We misshome.”
A noise comes from behind Nageenah, the clatter of toys, a childish squeal of indignation.It’s her cue to return to her other childcare duties, which apparently now include Zahra.
I give Nageenah my number, asking her to call if she thinks of or sees anything else.
Then she slips away while I return to my chauffeured sedan.
Daryl glances up as I clamber into the back seat.His gaze is questioning, but he doesn’t speak.I recognize the strategy, utilizing the silence to trigger a confession.
I sigh, look out the window where the sun is finally starting to descend.On cue, my stomach growls.
“Does Petunia have a set dinner time?”I ask.
“Seven.Genni serves dinner.Bart gives Petunia her salad.”
“How cozy.Well then, guess I gotta pay for these wheels with some quality pet care.All right.Home, James.”
Daryl doesn’t seem amused by the reference.But then, as he puts the car in reverse, I meet his gaze in the mirror.“So, Daryl, would you like to know what I’m up to?Because, boy, do I have a story for you.”
CHAPTER 8
YOU ARE PLAYING WITH THOSErocks as if you’ve discovered a great treasure,” I tease him.
“Of course.I’m a geologist.Rocks are always a great treasure.”
I roll my eyes, mostly because I know he’s telling the truth.The sun is shining brightly overhead, the sky a deep shade of blue, and the warm temperature perfect for a day at the lake.Around us are the excited cheers of kids playing football on the shoreline, while the air is heavy with the scent of grilled meat from dozens of barbecues.Most of our classmates are already splashing through the water, laughing at various antics.
But we have wandered away to carve out a sliver of privacy, respectfully close enough for public scrutiny, while being just enough alone.
“Did you know,” he says now, gazing at me with dark eyes that send a shiver down my spine, “that Afghanistan has mineral deposits estimated to be worth nearly a trillion dollars?It’s one of the reasons so many foreign powers fight over us.Theymight make a good speech about freedom and liberty, but mostly, money is money, and the new global currency is rare earth elements.Everyone needs them.And we have them in abundance.
“Except of course, we don’t have.”His tone turns to one of disgust.“Because that would require long-term investment in infrastructure and political security, and what government minister wants that when he can line his pockets instead?”
