Daniel returned alone to Kabul in early January, along with thirty passengers on a plane made for many more. He would rejoin Rebecca in California at the end of April, a few weeks before the baby was due. She’d wanted to stay, and he was grateful for it. He had never thought of his homeland as a dangerous place before. Not even the coup of 1973 had brought fear to ordinary people. Something was changing. If he was meant to play a role in it, so be it. But he couldn’t bear bringing Rebecca and their unborn child to a place where no one knew who was in power from day to day.
In the arrival hall, President Daoud’s portrait loomed larger than ever. Footsteps echoed. Armed personnel vehicles monopolized the space reserved for cars at the curb, the sour smell of urban slush and snow in the air. Shivering in his jacket, Daniel looked for his driver. Instead he found Ian, who wore a heavy coat and a scowl.
“Ian? Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I ain’t interested in staying, either. Let’s go.”
As the Citroën sputtered away from Arrivals, the Departures hall came into view. It was full. Downtown, the bustle of ordinary life went on. The army was more visible than ever, its presence twisting through the city like a vine.
“There’s been talk at the Corps,” Ian said. “I heard some stuff. Thought I should tell you so you don’t get a shock on Monday, in case you don’t already know.”
Daniel said he’d spoken to Smythe two days after the horsemen attack, and USADE was going to stay open, at least for the time being. Washington had already sent private security to bolster the soldiers guarding USADE’s staff.
“It’s not that. There’s some rumors about Greenwood. Not to speak ill of the dead, but that guy was a sick son of a bitch.”
It was inevitable that the Corps should hear about Greenwood’s predilections after his very public death. Every American in the city must know. According to Ian, Greenwood’s files were sent back to Dannaco-Hastings a week after the murder. Among them were notes found in his home, scribbled sheets of personal brainstorming sessions.
“I never bought Greenwood’s Casanova act. Shouldn’t be a surprise he was a closet disco queen, and I got no problem with that. Ain’t my business. But this shit he was into? Kids? Fucked up.”
A stone moved through Daniel’s heart. There was no use dancing around the question. “What was in Greenwood’s notes?”
“That’s the thing. He thought the Gulzar field was no good. He wrote a bunch of stuff about the soil, info he got from your staff and some locals. He was dead-set against the change. Couldn’t make sense of it.”
Daniel agreed that it was strange and changed the topic. “What are people saying about the horsemen and everything else?”
“I never thought of the religious guys as violent. Commies are like that everywhere, but if this is the opposition, what side are people supposed to pick? Anywho, I guess most people don’t care enough to bother with sides.”
“These aren’t the religious guys,” Daniel said. “It’s a lunatic fringe.”
“Yeah. Maybe there’s no real difference between radical Communist and radical religious. Fanatics are fanatics, kind of like M&M’s. Red or green, they’re the same inside.”
As Daniel reflected on this, Ian added, “Pammy thought about buying a chaderi. Said it could be interesting and a good story someday. But they’re saying it might be banned soon.” When he asked Daniel about Christmas, they fell easily into talk of California, which Ian found endless ways to make fun of. He and Pamela had gone home to New York for two weeks, and Pamela had stayed. The men talked superficially about their wives, Christmas gifts, and the weather, and more fervently about what might happen in baseball when spring training started. Dollar Djinn Lane drew near. The broken traffic light flashed. Ian downshifted, the car protesting.
“So it looks like it’s just you and me now. A couple of bachelors with jobs that don’t make sense no more, if they ever did.” Ian laughed. “The Peace Corps can’t bring peace to a place that won’t admit it’s at war.”
At home, Daniel brought his suitcase in, and Firooz greeted him and told him Laila had called and invited him to come for dinner and a game of cards with friends the next evening. He had no desire to go. Within minutes, there was a knock on the front door. Keshmesh was there, shivering in short sleeves and faded jeans, a dusting of snow on his hair. He said he’d been waiting for Daniel’s return. In his arms was a shoebox full of cassettes that he wanted to listen to together.
“I have a better idea,” Daniel said. “Let’s go sledding.”
Keshmesh widened his eyes. “You mean like in movies? I’ve never been on a sled.”
“Then it’s time.”
Daniel asked Firooz to fetch the sled from the attic, and soon he was pulling the boy up a hill near the house. He placed Keshmesh in the front, then wedged himself behind him, wrapping a protective arm around his waist before pushing off. Keshmesh laughed every kind of laugh: nervous, happy, grateful, alive. The sled spun, gaining speed. Daniel laughed, too.
“One more time!”
Daniel obliged. They rode for an hour or more, watching the day end in a silvery haze as they pulled the sled back to the house. Their fingers were wrinkled, their hair and clothes wet.
“Thanks, saheb,” said Keshmesh. Daniel sent the boy home with a thermos of cocoa Firooz prepared. Sledding had been exhilarating. One day, maybe he would share evenings like this with his own son, and he would never grow tired of listening to his cassettes or his laughter while sliding down a snowy hill.
What will you do if you have a girl? Telaya asked, angrier than he’d ever heard her. Would she count?
At work, things were worse than Ian had inferred. Elias’s newspaper detailed the Gulzar fiasco, excoriating Greenwood for his weaknesses, including his surrender to Daniel’s bad judgment and his much worse surrender to urges that should have led him to die by his own hand. But most of the reporter’s ire was reserved for Daniel, whom he attacked in paragraph after paragraph. Telex messages were piled high in Daniel’s mail tray, where the whole sorry affair was cataloged in a series of notes from Smythe.
January 1. Dannaco furious. Ruby wasted on Gulzar. Talked to Sherzai, says he warned you, agrees with Dannaco you need a different position in project. Most important thing is Reform. Will discuss with Sec. Vance, committees, etc. L.S.
January 3. Followed up with various. Consensus: USADE needs new leadership. Vance and Carter say massacre in Kabul potential game-changer. L.S.
January 6. Happy New Year. Sherzai wants you off desk and off Reform. Seth reinstated, probation finished. Dannaco likes him. Seth been working over Christmas. Available because he’s Jewish. Has smart plans for 1978. We’ll discuss when you’re back. L.S.
The fourth note was dated January 8, just two days ago. It said: Sherzai requested that State Dept. replace you. Sec. Vance says you can stay for now, but on basic admin duty. Has some desk jobs in DC that may work for you later.
Seth was standing outside Daniel’s office, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a stapler in the other. “Hello,” he said. He ambled away, calling over his shoulder, “I’m glad you’re back. I’ll help you move your stuff.” His gait was different. His shoulders were straighter, his stride longer. Soon he was back with a few aides in tow and a box in his arms.
Daniel found the alcohol cart in the supply closet, took a bottle of whiskey, and locked himself in the bathroom with it. He left the building moments later, and for the first time he felt complete ownership of it. It was his building, his name on the facade. His project. His goddamn Reform. They had achieved almost nothing before him. And if it weren’t for Taj—he cut short the thought. Laila called the office and told him again to come by. “Elias and Peter are coming. And Sherzai. We haven’t seen you in ages,” she said softly. He thanked her but said he had too much to catch up on.
He didn’t return to the office that day, wondering if he ever would. He went inside a hotel that catered to foreigners and ordered a drink, then another. He wandered on foot until the city was dark. A pair of soldiers told him to go home and sober up. What did they know? What did it mean anyway, to be sober, and why was it better? Where was home? It was where you were needed. Rebecca needed him. He should be in LA with her. No. He should be here, as he was, making a dent, no matter how small, in the scourge of the opium trade. He should be stopping people like Taj, and making up for his own cowardice in the face of blackmail. Why had he given in? The man had probably been bluffing. Daniel dismissed the idiocy that kept asserting itself: that maybe he’d capitulated because he’d wanted to save not only the people but the poppies. No. Daniel had wanted to save lives, and he’d done the only thing he could. He had lied and become a blackmailer, too. A criminal. And yet.
Laila’s apartment was close. The world was gently spinning, and he decided he’d go after all. Maybe seeing friends would do him good. When he appeared on her steps, Peter opened the door and embraced him without a word, pulling him inside with urgency. The apartment smelled of onions and freshly baked naan. A card game was in progress. Reams of paper were scattered across the coffee table, a typewriter on the sofa.
The floral curtains seemed oddly out of place. They clashed not with the other decor but with Laila herself. She was all business in her trousers and high-collar blouse, her sensible watch and small gold studs. She held her cards with unvarnished fingers, nails trimmed all the way to the fingertips. To her left sat Elias, to her right, Sherzai, both with cards in their hands. Sherzai rose when Daniel walked in. Peter apologized for the mess and began tidying up, shoving papers into a satchel and lugging the Smith Corona to the bedroom. “We thought you weren’t coming,” he said.
“Agha, how’s the sandali?” Daniel asked Sherzai. He’d given him the table for Christmas, and Sherzai had been moved nearly to tears. “Is it keeping you warm?”
“What’s the matter with you, batche’m,” Sherzai whispered. “I’ve told you so many times. Only medicinal, and never more than one.”
“Is everybody having a good time?” Daniel asked. The floor undulated, rising and falling like the road after the crash. He had longed for the company of friends, but they felt like strangers to him. Elias watched him, unflinching.
“Sit down and have some soup,” Laila replied. “You’re going to catch a cold.” She spoke rigidly as she buttered a wedge of naan.
He shut his eyes and steadied himself with a hand against the wall, which was bare except for a framed image of Marie Curie and her husband standing side by side in a lab. Laila brought him a tray and led him to the coffee table, where he ate slowly. He drank the hot cider that Peter had made, while Laila returned to her cards with Elias and Sherzai. Peter veered from one mundane subject to another. He was glad for his new post at the university, though he launched into detailed descriptions of his students’ mediocrity, as he always had done. The faculty were worse, of course. Daniel saw Laila raise her eyes to the ceiling and shake her head, but she was smiling. He asked Peter about his book.
“It’s coming along. Sherzai is very helpful.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
The five of them fell silent, the only sound that of cards being plucked and moved between fingers. Then Daniel said, “Sherzai is always helpful.” He heard the liquor-flavored chill in his own voice and felt agha’s gaze, and couldn’t bring himself to look back at him. Instead, he aimed his next words at Elias. “And you. You’re so helpful, so principled. Always doing the right thing.”
Elias dropped his hand. “I gave you a thousand chances to talk. You could have given me your side of the story.”
Sherzai got to his feet. His cane clattered to the floor as he laid a gentle palm on Daniel’s cheek. “Sometimes other people know better, bache’m.” He bore a hardened expression belying his sorrow, the same look he had worn the day Dorothy left. And the day the royal police took Sayed away.
“How can you still call me that? Like I’m a son to you?” Daniel was surprised by the emotion in his own voice. “My father would never have tried to get me fired.”
“You can’t know what your father would have done.”
“He’s right,” Laila said.
“I don’t understand,” Daniel said. The room swayed as he stumbled to the couch and lay down.
When did you ever? said Telaya, and he could swear he felt her patting his hand.