—You must see it.
—It’s safer now, I think. My friend tells me it’s safer. The warlords have all been pushed back to the north.
The man made a gesture she couldn’t interpret.
—Isn’t that true?
—The animals of the north have been given a kick, he said, repeating the same cutting movement.
—Yes.
—By other animals. By other beasts.
—By students, she said. —By the devout. By a learned coalition.
—Young man, he said slowly. —Where have you heard of this?
She held her breath and counted down from ten. It was hard to speak calmly. —My friend told me about it. He gave me a book.
—A book? said the man. —Not the Qur’an, I think.
—They’re talibs, sir. Students. They’re fighting to bring faith back to the country. They’re fighting against the godless, like the mujahideen did against the Russians. Am I wrong about that?
—I will ask you a question.
—Please.
—Why do you care to pass over the border?
—I told you already, sir. I— She hesitated. —I just want to see it. A place ruled by believers. A country full of people living by the word of God.
—Your friend fancies himself an adventurer, does he? A bearer of arms? He glanced past her. —He has this ambition? To join in the fight?
Reflexively she turned to look at Decker. His mouth was working quietly as he slept.
—He told me he doesn’t, she answered. —He promised me that.
—I see.
It struck her now that the man’s manner had changed. Though he remained civil he no longer looked at her. —No such ambition, he said, letting his eyes rest on Decker. —I am satisfied to hear it.
—Why is that?
—Because he is still very young.
He opened his Qur’an and did not speak again. For the rest of the flight he remained as he was, sitting straight-backed and serene with the Book in his lap. Each time Aden awoke she looked shyly at him in his warm pool of light and found him exactly as he’d been before. When they arrived in Dubai he asked her help in bringing down his rolling suitcase and thanked her and wished her good fortune with her study of the Recitation. She never saw him again.
—Who were you talking to? said Decker as they came out of the gate.
—A Pashtun from Nangarhar. Can you believe it?
He let out a yawn. —That explains that.
—Meaning what?
—He had that sort of tribal shuffle. Like this. Decker took a few waddling steps. —It comes from walking barefoot over rocks.
—You’ve never seen an Afghan in your life. You’re just being ignorant.
—There’s an Afghan kebab place in Santa Rosa, Sawyer. You’ve been there yourself. What the hell kind of mood are you in?
She’d wanted so badly for things to be different. The place and the people. She’d hoped for grace and dignity and unity of purpose. Instead she felt the same disgust she’d felt at SFO, the same dismay, the same remove from everything she saw. Certain details had changed but the place was no different. The same shadowlessness, the same array of gaudy shops, the same sterility. She’d been a fool to think her country had released her.
They were sitting at their connecting gate before she spoke again. —I hate it here. We might as well still be in California.
—It’s an airport, Sawyer. Decker yawned into his sleeve. —What did you expect?
—I don’t know. She pressed a thumb to her teeth and bit down on the cuticle. —I don’t know, she repeated. —Not this place.
A group of Saudis passed them on their way to a neighboring gate, the men in tunics and keffiyeh and open-toed expensive-looking shoes. The wives walked a few steps behind their husbands, chattering and ignoring their overfed children, encumbered with bright bags of luxury goods. She felt sick to her stomach. The children clutched their own bags to their chests or dragged them indifferently across the polished floor. The smallest boy carried a bottle of cologne in a starfish-shaped box.
Decker sighed and cracked his knuckles as he watched the Saudis pass. —Are we just going to sit here for the next six million hours?
—I don’t like it any better than you do.
He gave her statement due consideration. —All right then, he said. —Let’s get up to no good.
They spent the next hour in a shop called Golden Ali Baba Duty Free. The prices were displayed on sliding vinyl tabs beneath each item and while Decker engaged the saleswoman in conversation Aden went stealthily to work in Scotch & Bourbon. The twelve-year Macallan that had been on sale at €59.99 was now offered at €99.95 and the eighteen-year at €00.99. The Glenlivet was €6,779.02 and the Jameson cost nothing at all. On the highest shelf, in a velvet-lined case previously occupied by Laphroaig Original Cask Strength, she set a starfish-shaped bottle of cologne. Then she noticed the saleswoman standing behind her.
—You are helping with my work? That is generous. But first to learn the difference between whiskey and perfume.
—Where we come from they’re the same, she heard Decker answer. —They’re both made from the devil’s urine. The dreaded Al-Kool.
—And where is this place? said the woman, beckoning to security.
—Nangarhar, said Aden.
—Don’t judge us, miss, said Decker. —We’re mujahideen. We were born in a cave.
To their amazement they were ushered out of the shop without further questioning and left to disappear into the crowd. Decker whispered that they should take this as a blessing, maybe even an omen, which did not sound like Decker at all. She spun slowly in place in the bustling concourse and everything she saw and heard surprised her. The distance she’d felt earlier had passed without her noticing and now she fought the urge to laugh or to dance or to shout at the top of her lungs. She saw women in niqab and men in keffiyeh and blinding white vestments and began at last to understand how far she was from home. It made her feel as weightless as a bird.
Sometime later they found themselves in a magazine shop and her sight fell on a row of books in Arabic and Persian. She saw no English names or words at all. To have traveled so far. To have crossed half the world. She ran a thumb across the richly colored spines.
—We made it, she heard Decker say. —We finally made it, Sawyer.
She chose a book at random and studied its cover. The word embossed there in silver foil was one she did not know. It lay dead on her tongue when she tried to pronounce it. She grew aware of Decker close behind her.
—Not yet, she said.
He hooked a finger through her belt and turned her toward him.
—The hell with that. We made it, girl. We’re gone.
—That old man, she said quietly. —The one on the plane.
—What? He drew her closer. —Don’t talk to me about some fat old man right now.
—He asked if you were an adventurer. That’s what he called it. If you planned to go and fight.
—Of course not.
—That’s what I told him.
—Admit it though, Sawyer. It would be—
—It would be stupid.
—For