Refugees (5 page)

“They're determined to erase any hint of a religion before Islam,” said Zul. “And they lop off the hands of schoolboys caught shooting one lousy syringe of heroin,” he added. “How ironic that it's made from the poppies they themselves smuggle, even as they officially ban its production. My cousin Omar has a cursed time eating with his right hand gone.” Naji seemed furious but remained silent.

“Meanwhile they lounge inside their compounds,” Farooq added, “and smoke their hookahs with two able hands.” He took an imaginary puff on a hookah and rolled his eyes as his fleshy cheeks ballooned with air.

Everyone laughed but Naji. “All lies,” Naji mumbled. “Just wait.”

Farooq continued, his tone growing angry, “Our
Hazara sisters are forced to marry Taliban commanders, and our mothers must now beg on the roads. It is shameful.” Forgotten juice dribbled down his chin.

“Women have no business working anyway,” Naji replied. “The Taliban have brought purity back into Islam and men back to the mosque.”

Zul pounded his fist on the floor. “If you think these hypocrites will transform into saints, think again. Impossible, my brothers, not even with magical charms.” Zul was the one who most often stood up to Naji.

Johar was afraid of Naji but could restrain himself no longer. “Zul is right! Underneath their fancy talk and their new army they're still luti. The only difference is that they steal lives, not money.”

Naji chuckled. “Brainboy speaks! But his words are illadvised, my friends. Remember that there is rumor of war against those westerners who swooped in to feed, then swooped out like bats in the night. Any man who is not trained—”

“So what's it like to train in Kandahar?” Daq cut in. He sounded so eager that Johar was alarmed.

Naji straightened his turban, then stroked his scar. “We learned about modern weaponry, how to mix poison chemicals, how to fight the kafirs.”

Johar wanted to yell,
Then I'm an unbeliever, a kafir, because I don't believe in an Islam that would aspire to kill entire tribes.
But he didn't dare, for Naji's mad eyes frightened him. Did these fanatics really believe all outsiders unworthy of life? Johar longed to take his brother out of here. Next thing he knew, Daq would be volunteering to become a soldier. Johar must try to put sense into his head. “The Taliban beat my aunt at the fountain for lifting her veil to drink,” he blurted.

“She deserved it,” Naji replied.

“Hey!” Daq started.

“Maybe she didn't,” Naji added quickly, then rapped Daq on the back. “You would make a fine soldier. What do you say, old friend?” As Daq hesitated, Naji added, “Your brother can play soldier too—bang, bang!” Naji made his fingers into a gun and laughed. “That is, unless he'd rather hide with his aunt and her child.”

“Leave my brother out of this.” Daq warned, raising his voice.

Johar tipped his head toward the door as a signal to go, but Daq ignored him.

“Men, settle down,” Farooq said. “We are old buddies. Let's have another kebab.” He patted his generous belly.

Johar got up to leave. “Daq? Are you coming?”

Daq hesitated, glancing from Naji to Johar. He shook his head. “Go home before curfew, brother. I'll see you later.” Daq leaned toward Johar and in a softer tone he added, “Try not to worry.” He turned back to his friends.

But Johar
was
worried, and rankled by this hateful talk. If America was the new enemy, then what about a free life, what about its many colors of people, what about his uncle Tilo working in Western lands? As Johar left, he thought of the English words his aunt had taught him:
danger, war, traitor.
But other words too
—consider
and
speak.
Johar breathed out the cold that bit his nostrils, wrapped his pattu close, and scurried down the desolate streets to his aunt's house.

D
awn watched the tall guy, Bryce, as he leaned on the battered sedan and arched his fingers until his knuckles cracked. There was an extra-long fingernail on his pinky and tattoos on his fingers. The shorter guy, Kaypo, had a red Afro and multiple earrings. They looked more like drug burnouts than musicians.

Bryce the Burnout snapped the trunk open. “Pack it in.”

The Chevy's fender was crunched in like a soda can, but Dawn noticed the car was equipped with a CD player. She dug out a CD, threw her pack in back, and slid in.

Jude grinned balefully and whispered, “You actually talked me into it!” He must have been leery of Burnout too, because whispering wasn't his style.

“Amazing, huh?” Dawn tried to imagine no school for
the rest of the year. With both uneasiness and elation, she pictured her classmates gossiping about their disappearance.

Kaypo barreled into the passenger seat. Burnout gunned the motor, and Dawn heard a dull scraping as they inched down Market and over the Bay Bridge. She checked her watch. Victor would be in his lab, fiddling with beakers. Louise would be seeing the day's last patient at the ICRC clinic in Peshawar. Dawn would start her life.

“So.” Kaypo peered at Dawn in the rearview mirror. “How old are you, anyway?”

Dawn weighed whether or not it was safe to reveal vital stats. He was gazing at her as if deciding whether or not to put on the moves. Lots of guys ogled her long blond hair and lanky body. But he was nicer than the driver. “I'm sixteen,” she answered.

“That's cool.” The kid lit an overstuffed blunt and dragged deeply, which launched him into a coughing fit. He offered a hit to his cohort, then passed the blunt back to Jude. “What do you think of our ride?” he gasped.

Jude passed the joint to Dawn. “It's fabulous,” he lied. Dawn knew Jude couldn't handle weed, and it made her paranoid. She faked a hit and passed it.

Red Fro lit a cigarette and switched the radio to classic Led Zeppelin. “You must admit,” he said as he exhaled, “this junker has one helluva sound system.”

“Yeah, crank that sucker good and loud,” ordered Burnout, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Dawn noticed his finger tattoos spelled out
N-O-O-S-E.

“Bryce here plays lead,” Kaypo yelled over the din. “I play bass. Our bud in Newark plays percussion.”

“I'm a musician too,” said Dawn. “I play the flute.”

“Flute in a rock band is pansy-ass,” ranted Burnout.

Dawn chose not to comment. Instead she asked, “Do you ever play with Pax?”

The kid's Afro bounced as he nodded. “Jude's brother? Yup. Helluva guitarist.”

“Fair assessment,” Jude said proudly.

“Pax is formulaic,” groused Burnout. “Pat in his delivery.” He extracted a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, waving the thing around in his skeletal fingers like a neon concert wand. “You know—the standard Pearl Jam and Metallica licks.”

“I'll bet you've never gigged with him in a New York club,” Jude snapped.

“Nope, not me,” Burnout answered, as if it were beneath him.

“I did once, and I'd jump at another chance,” answered Red Fro. “It was a helluva concert. Good money compared to the clubs in Newark.”

The Chevy chugged up and around mountain curves, and the scraping sound grew to an insistent rasp. Dawn felt dizzy from the heavy smoke and the general excitement of leaving. Some reassuring music would help. “Hey, guys, ever listen to Rampal?”

“Who's Rampal?” asked Burnout.

Dawn held out her CD. “Someone good. Can we put it on?”

Red Fro shrugged. “Sure.” He slid it into the disc player.

The flute melody reminded Dawn of seaweed-scented waves rolling over sand. She realized how rigid her shoulders had become and took meditative breaths.

“Get this arty-fart junk off,” ordered Burnout. “Is this the schmaltz that you play on the flute? It's worse than hearing flute in a rock band! Classical gives me the hives.”

“Sorry,” Jude mouthed.

“It's not your fault,” Dawn mouthed back to Jude.

Burnout pulled a CD from his overhead visor and switched the music to heavy metal. “You ride with me, you listen to the good stuff, like Noose.” He rapped aggressively on the wheel, finger tattoos seesawing like player-piano keys.

As the air thickened with another round of smoke Dawn turned to Jude, who was scrunched in the corner rubbing his eyes. She knew he was wilting. “We'll be okay, Jude.” Dawn held out her thermos. “Want some water?”

Dawn and Jude made up rules of survival. No more mention of Pax's band because it sparked jealousy. No mention of Dawn's music because that invited scathing putdowns. Earphones were a must. Crack a window at all times to air out noxious weed and nicotine fumes. Joke to break tension. She and Jude did silent imitations of their captors, slouching low so they couldn't be seen in the rearview mirror.

For the next couple of days, whenever the guys slipped into taverns for beer breaks, Dawn and Jude sat outside and took in the air of the dusty plains. Dawn played her flute. Jude danced his spacey jig. Cattle farmers ducking in for a brew would break out in grins. And Dawn developed the minor obsession of glancing at her watch every few hours to calculate the time in Peshawar and then in San Francisco. For instance, at 6:30 p.m. Dawn's time, in Peshawar it would be almost morning and Louise would be sleeping at ICRC headquarters. Back at the house on Santa Marisa, Victor would be shuffling into the kitchen for dinner. He would have discovered her note. What bittersweet relief to
be far from him. Victor wouldn't bother calling her until Dawn was a no-show on Sunday night. She'd cross that bridge later.

The best times were when Burnout finally agreed to let Dawn drive. She'd recently gotten her license, and cruising on a three-lane in the dead of night was cool. While the guys snored in the back, Dawn and Jude sat in front, played the music they wanted, and talked way into the night.

“Why did you decide to finally make the break and run with me?” Dawn asked Jude one night when heavy clouds opened to a downpour.

“Edith came east to make her mark at seventeen. Pax ran to Manhattan at nineteen. You can't start too early these days.”

“I mean besides that.” Dawn's persistence matched the pounding rain.

“Does there necessarily have to be a ‘besides that’

She'd never had the nerve to ask but found it now. “Do you like girls?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

Jude was quiet for a long while. “I guess I'm not interested.”

That answered a question Dawn had wanted to ask for a while. “Ever have a boyfriend?”

“I had a crush on my drama teacher at camp,” Jude muttered, “But that's as far as it went. A teacher dating a camper was a no-no.”

“That must have been frustrating.”

“Very. None of it's easy. My parents don't even know yet.”

Dawn said, “You're a catch no matter what.”

“Thanks.”

Dawn stared at truck taillights. “Jude, is there something wrong with me?”

“Like what?” She felt his eyes on her, curious.

“Remember teasing me when I was the only one not crying during
Cast Away
?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Do I seem cold?
Blank?
” Her cheeks got hot. “Do you feel sorry for me? Is that why you're my friend?”

“You're quiet, observant.” Jude let out a low sigh. “You're a sensitive artiste.”

But she knew that wasn't it. That didn't explain why she felt like a chunk of wood while others got emotional. “People scare me,” she said. “And it's not like I don't have feelings. I just can't get them out.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not sure.” She paused and looked out at the dark landscape racing by. “I guess we both have our challenges cut out for us.”

They were quiet for a while, then Dawn started to hum. She sang Jude the lyrics to some of her earliest flute songs, “Home on the Range” and “Rock Candy Mountain.” They were both sad songs about wandering, dreaming of home. “Everyone's looking for that perfect place,” Dawn said, “which probably doesn't exist.” She sighed, remembering Jude's house: its warmth, the smell of Edith's oil paints, and a bowl of oranges and plums set on the mahogany side table like something out of a Renaissance interior. “You're lucky to have a nice family, Jude.”

“You have a family,” Jude replied. “Just a different kind.”

Memories of almost-strangers overwhelmed Dawn—
Victor's lazy contempt, the DiGiornos' mildewed ranch house, that first foster mother's Hansel and Gretel oven. “It's not the same, Jude.” She gazed into his eyes. “I guess in the early days Epiphany had its moments. I got used to the routine: the watery oatmeal, the boring teachers, the revolving parade of social workers. The
institution
was in my blood. Some of the kids were nice too—Sadie played sax like Coltrane, and Little Mo, from Oakland, kept us laughing.” Dawn shrugged. “That's where I first learned flute. Playing music distracted me from a lot of awful stuff that hit my friends head-on. Hey, I'll bet my real mom's a musician too.”

Jude was watching the wipers swish away the rain. “Wouldn't that be something.”

“Yeah.” Dawn paused. “Later, Epiphany got really bad. We all found families, but they never worked out. I kept hoping that my mother would walk in and take me away.”