Farishta (10 page)

“Bloody hell, do they actually believe that? ” snorted Jenkins.

“Many people do,” I replied. “Just like lots of people believe Moses spoke to God hiding inside a burning bush.”

“Point taken,” said Jenkins.

“The name
Mazār-i-Sharīf
means ‘tomb of the saint.’ The first shrine to Ali was built in 1136, right where the Blue Mosque is today, but Genghis Khan’s army destroyed it looking for buried treasure. Three hundred years later, one of the Timurid sultans rebuilt the shrine, and it has survived until today through all the fighting and occupations of the past five centuries. Quite remarkable,” I said to my captive audience, “don’t you think?”

“Yes, Angela, it really is remarkable,” said Fuzzy, momentarily breaking his silence, but keeping his eyes on the pedestrians swirling around the Beast.

“Do you think I’ll be able to visit the mosque?” I asked. “Has anyone from the PRT been allowed to go inside?”

“We always have to stay outside guarding the vehicles, but I’m sure you’ll be going in for some of the ceremonies with the governor. He’s a piece of work, if I ever saw one,” Jenkins added without further elaboration.

We turned off the main highway, bounced down a deeply rutted dirt road, and entered the mud-walled PRT compound through a pair of corrugated metal gates. Two bearded Afghan guards with AK-47s slung over their shoulders dragged them open for us.

The Beast rattled to a stop next to a collection of weathered yellow buildings, each with a metal staircase leading to sandbagged guard towers. Jenkins explained that this crowded compound had housed the family of a local warlord before the U.S. and then the British Army moved in.

Fuzzy and Jenkins jumped out of the Beast, pointed the barrels of their rifles into a large bin of sand, and removed their ammunition clips.

While Jenkins parked the Beast, Fuzzy escorted me in silence to the small office—it was more like a closet—of the PRT’s Sergeant Major, who greeted me with a brusque nod. He was on the phone and engaged in a heated argument with someone at the airport in Kabul. Although officially outranked by even the youngest commissioned officer, Sergeant Major, I would soon learn, was not a man to be trifled with. Aside from the colonel, who outranked everyone else in camp, he was the most feared and respected enforcer of standards, discipline, and order at the PRT.

I turned to thank Fuzzy, but saw only his broad back as he headed out the door. A rotund supply clerk motioned brusquely for me to follow him out of Sergeant Major’s office.

“Pity there’s no welcoming party for you, ma’am,” announced the unsmiling clerk, as I followed him up the stairs to the floor where the officers’ sleeping quarters were located. He hadn’t bothered to introduce himself.

“The colonel’s out at the safe house in Sar-e Pol for a few days, and the chief of staff has been behind closed doors since morning with some visiting German Army officers over from Kunduz. The rest of the men are out on patrol or in training. Frankly, ma’am, we were all bloody gobsmacked when they told us the Yanks were sending a female up here to live for a year.”

I wasn’t sure if “gobsmacked” meant they were surprised or angry, and decided not to ask.

“This will be your personal space, ma’am,” he said, opening the door to a small room with a thin layer of dust on every surface and a view of the Hindu Kush obscured by a forest of communication antennas. A smaller window behind the bed faced a mud wall and a metal staircase. There were no curtains.

“It’s not posh, but at least you’ll have it all to yourself. Only you and the colonel have private rooms,” he added, looking down at me with his head cocked to the side and one eyebrow raised. “Mr. Brooks, the American who was here before you, had this room, but he’s been gone for a while and we’ve been using it for storage—all nicely cleared out for you now, as you can see.”

He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the desk. “Ma’am, I’ll need for you to sign this inventory after we identify all the items in your space.” Tapping the paper with his pen, he rattled off in his most official voice: “One metal bed stand, one plastic-covered mattress, one standing locker, one dresser, one desk, one lamp, one pillow, two sheets, one pillowcase, one towel. Your Yank friend left the blankets, so we won’t count them. You also have a wall heater, though that may need fixing. Please sign here, ma’am.” He pushed the paper over to me, clearing a path through the dust, and handed me his pen.

“Please call me Angela, and would you mind telling me your name?”

“Right, ma’am—I mean, Angela,” he replied, pursing his lips. “It’s Wickersham, Corporal James Wickersham. Wick will do,” he said, extending his hand briefly to shake mine.

“One more thing, Angela.” He opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a battered cell phone attached to its charging cord. “This is also yours. The other Yank left it here.

“The loo’s right outside your room,” he added, pointing to an unmarked door that led to a communal toilet in the hallway. “You’ll be sharing it and the showers on this floor with the officers and noncoms. There are curtains in the shower room, so you’ll have some privacy. Ship showers only, of course.”

I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he wasn’t finished.

“The men all know you arrived today, and everyone’s under strict orders from the colonel to keep a towel over their—private parts,” he elevated his left eyebrow again, “when they leave their rooms. No worries there.”

“What’s a ship shower, Wick? ”

“Right. A ship shower, Angela,” he said, carefully pronouncing each syllable of my name, “means you do like the sailors do on a ship. You turn on the water and get wet. You turn off the water and soap up. You turn on the water again and rinse yourself and then you turn the water off. There are more than a hundred of us living in this camp right now, and when the Swedes start showing up in a few months, we’ll be almost a hundred and fifty. When the Americans set this place up in 2003, there were only seventy of them. Our self-contained water and power systems are now stretched to the bloody limit.”

Wickersham led me through a maze of passageways and up a flight of cement stairs to my “office,” a long, narrow room that I would share with military liaison personnel from France, Finland, Romania, Norway, and Estonia. They, like me, had been sent to PRT Mazār by their governments with loosely defined roles and responsibilities. Only the two young Estonians had real jobs at the PRT. They were explosive ordnance demolition technicians, EODs, who spent their days defusing the occasional IED and blowing up the tons of ammunition and explosives that were being uncovered in caves all over northern Afghanistan.

My new colleagues looked up from their computer screens when we entered the crowded room, which they referred to as the bullpen. They rose to their feet in unison and greeted me with handshakes and broad smiles.

“Here’s your spot, Angela,” announced Wickersham, pointing his stubby finger at a battered typing table barely large enough to hold a computer monitor, a keyboard, and a satellite phone. It had been shoved against the wall just outside the PRT commander’s office door. My foreign military colleagues sitting behind their large desks smiled wanly and shrugged their shoulders in mute apology at the newest member of the bullpen who had drawn the short straw in the desk lottery.

“Last stop before I let you unpack and wash up for supper will be the interpreters’ room,” said Wickersham, trotting down the stairs as fast as his bulky frame would allow. I followed him along a narrow sidewalk bordering an overgrown patch of rosebushes in serious need of pruning. A few shriveled flowers still clung to their thorn-covered stems.

“Here we are,” he said, rapping his knuckles against an unlocked door and pushing it open without waiting for a response.

“Hello, boys. Here’s the lady we’ve all been waiting for. Rahim, I believe you’ve been assigned as Miss Morgan’s interpreter.” A broad-shouldered, square-jawed young man in his early twenties, with close-cropped black hair, sideburns, and a five o’clock shadow stood up to greet us. He wore a white T-shirt, pressed blue jeans, and held what appeared to be a large textbook in his left hand. His dark eyes met mine briefly, then shifted to Wickersham.

“Rahim, this is Miss Morgan. She’s replacing Mr. Brooks as the U.S. government representative in these parts. We haven’t had any females at this PRT permanent-like, as you know, but I’m sure you and your mates will treat Miss Morgan with all proper respect.” He seemed to say the last bit more as a warning.

The interpreters’ room was sparsely furnished with threadbare red cushions around the walls, a prayer rug in one corner, a glowing electric space heater in the center of the room, and an ancient black-and-white TV set, which one of the interpreters had switched off as soon as we entered.

Rahim remained standing, his empty right hand tightly clenched, as his fellow interpreters began to discuss me and tease him. Their comments tumbled out in rapid fire. They had no idea I could understand every word they said.

“So this woman will be your master, eh, Rahim?”

“She’s not bad looking. Could pass for a Tajik.”

“No, her hair’s too short! ”

“I like those big green eyes, don’t you, Rahim?”

Rahim had not moved. His cheeks were burning with humiliation.

“I wonder how old she is. Thirty-five maybe? Not quite old enough to be your mother, Rahim, but old enough to . . .” The others began to laugh. I forced myself not to smile at this flattering but bawdy comment.

“Maybe you can teach her something about Afghan architecture on your long trips,” another added, pointing toward the book in Rahim’s hand, which he immediately released. It hit the floor with a thud and a rustle of pages. Both his hands were now balled into tight fists as though he were preparing for a fight.

“Rahim
,
you’d better not try any funny business when you’re out on patrol with your American woman.”

I understood that the very presence of an unaccompanied female was making the interpreters nervous and that they were diffusing their tension by teasing poor Rahim, but there was nothing I could do or say without revealing my knowledge of their language.

Rahim glared at his companions, then stepped forward and said to me in English, “It is an honor to meet you, Miss Morgan. It will be an honor to work as your
tarjoman,
your interpreter.” He did not extend his hand, but as was the custom in Afghanistan, waited for me to extend mine. When we shook hands, the whispered comments of his colleagues began again.

“At least she’s not taller than you, Rahim, but she’s dressed like a man.”

“Maybe people won’t know she’s a woman. They’ll think she’s a shaggy-haired American boy whose beard hasn’t grown in.”

“Look at her. No one will mistake that one for a boy.”

They all laughed again except for Rahim, whose eyes remained fixed on the floor. I felt an overwhelming desire to defend my new interpreter and had to fight the urge not to lash out at his companions. Although he was obviously less than thrilled about being assigned to work for a woman, his refusal to join in his comrades’ jeers had earned my immediate respect.

“Rahim,” I said, addressing him in English, “It is an honor to meet you. I look forward to working with you this year. Please call me Angela.”

“Yes, Angela
,
” he replied as our eyes met briefly. My new interpreter—whom I didn’t actually need—and I—whom he was ashamed to be working for—were off to a terrific start.

“Right,” interrupted Wickersham. “Let’s get you back to your room, Angela. Carry on, boys.” He held the door open for me and we left the interpreters still teasing Rahim about his new assignment.

I followed Wickersham past the sad little rose garden and through another low archway festooned with multiple strands of razor wire. He stopped in front of a small patch of ground, surrounded by a low white picket fence and filled with an assortment of round and rectangular metal objects half buried in mud.

“This is our very own land mine garden,” he announced with a flourish. “The Estonian EODs give briefings here every few days for the new arrivals, just so you’ll know what to look out for. Don’t want you tripping over one of these bastards when you’re out on patrol,” he added with a wide grin. “I’ll let you know when they have the next session.”

When I edged cautiously back from the display of land mines, Wickersham laughed again. “They’re all duds, ma’am. No worries.”

“Right,” I muttered between clenched teeth, as I wiped away the beads of perspiration that had appeared on my forehead despite the frigid temperature.

“It’s getting late and you must be tired. I’ll take you back to your room. The PRT compound is, as you can see, ma’am—sorry, ‘Angela’—not too large. I’m sure you’ll be able to find your way around the rest of the camp tomorrow. There are a few exercise machines and treadmills in the hallway next to the laundry, which you are welcome to use any time of the day or night. No jogging outside the wire, of course. To get to the machines, you’ll have to walk through our little pub. It’s open every night for the officers and men—and for you, of course—from eight until ten. Beer and cider—but you should know that a two-can limit is strictly enforced. One more thing,” he added with a look of concern, “don’t forget your morphine pen. The doc will be here next week. You can stop by his office to pick one up.”

“My what? ” I asked.

“It’s a little spring-loaded injector the lads carry on patrol. Looks like a regular writing pen,” he explained. “Just jab it hard against your leg, and it will shoot enough morphine in to keep a smile on your face until someone can get you to a hospital. You know, just in case. When you’re up in the mountains, you’ll be a long way from any serious medical care. If you’re badly injured, that little pen makes the trip back to camp so much more pleasant.”