Todd
September 4th
The argument had tumbled forward for almost twenty minutes now and had already begun circling back; Todd was ready for ice cream. To a casual observer, the debate might seem one-sided; after all, Amin did all the talking. But Todd had a knack for disagreeing without speaking. His was the art of those too cautious or too isolated to engage in frank exchanges. He'd refined it over years of working far from home, challenging himself to seek persuasion through patience and through words used like pinches of pepper in a delicate dish.
"This isn't our work," Amin said. "I don't trust Zarlasht; her aim
is to manipulate," and then, with greater heat, "It's dangerous to in
volve yourself in a dispute of this sort, Mr. Todd— I feel a responsi
bility to make sure you understand this," and finally, "It's outside our
sphere of responsibility, anyway. We must concentrate on working
for refugees."
Todd smiled or grimaced now and then, nodded in a way that indicated nothing more than thoughtfulness, and occasionally glanced out the window. Though his vision was curtailed by the ten-foot-high whitewashed security wall that encased the compound, he knew that just beyond it lay the chaotic life of Kabul streets, where women in burqas clutched kohl-eyed babies and begged at stoplights and men pushing wheelbarrows loaded with bruised fruit swayed between cars with audacity, where underfed children scattered and regrouped to sell pieces of rusted metal intended for purposes Todd could never discern, where traffic lights and lane markings were thought to be for sissies and safe travel was achieved only through great boldness and luck. He longed for it. He longed especially now, stuck in a room of intellectual— and ultimately, he feared, irresolvable—discord.
Finally, blessedly, Amin paused for breath.
" Shall I get us some sheer yakh?" Todd asked.
"Why not simply have told her to return on Thursday instead of Wednesday?" Amin said, using what surely had to be the last of his arguing energy. "Then I could have said you were called out of town on an emergency. That might have discouraged her— or at least would have given me time to look into her claims, her family." Todd's travel plans were always secret; Amin, his closest Kabul colleague— no, friend— was the only person here who knew that early Thursday, just before fajr prayers, Todd would depart for Islamabad. By Thursday evening, he would be waist-deep in issues involving refugees in Pakistan, and Zarlasht would have been turned away at the gate. After four weeks in Pakistan, Todd would return for one more month in Kabul, his last. Then back to New York, and to Clarissa, for good, though Amin hadn't yet been told that, and of course that involved challenges of its own. Challenges not to be considered now; Todd always said his doctors insisted that, for his continued good health, he ignore all problems outside his current time zone.
"Because, Amin, we cannot simply dismiss this as beyond our mandate." Todd kept his voice neutral in contrast to Amin's heat. "You tell me the villagers are turning to the Taliban for justice. Well, Zarlasht is turning to us. If we do nothing, we are by default supporting the Taliban."
"How many years do I know you now, Mr. Todd? Long enough for me to say that you are still too trusting, and my words are not a— how do you say?—a compliment. You—"
But Todd held up his hand, cutting Amin off. "Wait, my friend. First . . ." He reached to a tray on a table in the corner, lifted two small glass bowls, and raised his eyebrows in a question.
Amin let out an exasperated breath. "Too late for ice cream," he said.
"Oh, Amin, we haven't reached the end of the world yet. And even then—"
"Your cook told me to strictly forbid you from eating ice cream after 3 p.m. because otherwise, you won't eat her dinners."
"Yes," Todd agreed. "Shogofa will not be happy with me. But there's nothing for it; sheer yakh it must be. It will clear our brains. Remember, we have the late meeting with the American nurse, Mandy Wilkens."
"I didn't forget," Amin said. "But Mr. Todd, do you really want ice cream, or just to escape my reasonable words?"
"The ice cream. Okay, mostly the ice cream." Todd, mock-somber, laid his palm on his chest. "I swear."
Amin shook his head in resignation. "One scoop," he said. "Only one."
Todd grinned as he headed out the office door and down the steps to the main entrance, where he slipped his shoes on. He nodded to his driver, Farzad, smoking by the car. "Salaam alekum," he said to Mustafa, the building guard, who emerged from a small room next to the metal gates. Todd raised the ice-cream cups as if they were admission tickets, which, in a way, they were.
Todd was required to travel everywhere by reinforced car with tinted windows: to refugee camps, government offices, the UN compound, the rare meal out, even the five blocks to the guesthouse where he slept. He sat in the back, with Farzad driving and Jawwid in the front passenger seat toting an AK-
47. Those who came to Todd's office were not allowed through the gate unless they'd made a prior appointment and even then were thoroughly checked by his guards. "Your safety is a matter of our honor," Amin had explained. Todd understood, but this meant that everything in his Kabul environment was tightly controlled, which was not the way he functioned best. To do his job well, he needed to walk down narrow, dusty roads as they descended into yet unknown villages and to visit the overfilled refugee camps. In fact, he came to life visiting homes fashioned of war rubble and roofed with UN-provided tarps, eating unimaginable food he hoped would not make him ill, witnessing the tremendous grace and imagination of the vulnerable. He loved the unexpected adventure of every day spent in the field. He got to do little enough of it as regional director, given all the desk work combined with safety concerns. And he'd soon be giving up even that.
But today he still had the ice-cream run.
Over the five and a half years that he'd been coming to this office, Todd had posited and reposited compromises to ease the restraints he faced in the name of security. At last his grumblings had evolved into a discussion: Todd, Amin, Farzad and Jawwid sitting on floor mats, drinking chai, Todd offering that both his job and his personal needs required more relaxed access to Kabul, at least occasionally, and the Afghan men talking among themselves at a speed that defied his limited Pashto. Finally, a little over a year ago, they had reluctantly agreed to let him walk the block and a half from the office to the ice-cream stand, no Jawwid at his side, no Farzad following in the car. But, equally firmly, nowhere else. So this had become his nearly daily outing, the only moments when he could imagine himself free in this teeming ancient city of conflict and joy and loss that enchanted him.
"How are you, Mr. Todd Barbery?" Mustafa asked in English as he opened the gate, making the second word sound elongated. Mustafa was the only Afghan who insisted on calling Todd by first and last name.
"Teh kha, manana," Todd responded, as was their practice. One in English, the other in Pashto, and sometimes they expanded their respective vocabularies in a fleeting language lesson. At the moment, though, Todd desired no further words. He kept moving, waved good-bye, and heard the gate clang shut behind him. The sound of freedom.
The air was golden, which really meant full of dust, but Todd chose to see it in more romantic terms. He walked slowly, lingering, stretching his leash to its ends. He admired the energy of this mountain-ringed city— founded, it was said, by Cain and Abel, visited by Genghis Khan, loved by Babur, beaten down over and over, but with a core of perseverance and unlikely optimism. He found the faces of its people beautiful, a human mosaic of endurance creased with dark but resilient humor. These were qualities he valued; Afghanistan had found its way into his blood. The ice-cream run was the most dependably enjoyable part of his Kabul day. He was grateful for the break from those who both helped him in uncountable ways and made him feel chained. And Afghan ice cream, seasoned with rosewater and cardamom and topped with