Refugees (18 page)

She imagined his soul pictures, like ones from a travel show: China, a village, a house with a friendly porch, and green and blue bicycles resting on its railing. Radio music might be tinkling from the kitchen window. Dawn pictured fields tilled by a wooden plow. She thought of Johar. Their talks had made her feel safer. Warmth flowed into Dawn as the notes of Johar's voice played in her mind:
I see my father in the clouds; I hear my mother's music in dreams.
She finished the last measure and laid the flute down. The old woman took her hand.

“So beautiful,” exclaimed the younger son, his eyes moist. “Thank you.”

His mother whispered something to her son and he spoke again. “My mother says she feels Lin in your music!”

The old woman pressed Dawn's hand tightly for a moment before letting go.

“I'm so glad to help.” Dawn felt herself blush and smiled. She watched the woman and her son walk down Barclay Street. When they disappeared into the throngs near City Hall, Dawn put her flute away and set out for the East Village. It occurred to her that she had some unfinished business.

Her step was purposeful. What would Louise have thought of Dawn's concert today? It was a strange concert— directed outward, for someone else's benefit, not just for Dawn. Louise had always attended school concerts, but Dawn had never acknowledged her presence. Louise had no feel for music, so what could she get out of it? But if her real mother had been there, Dawn had always assumed, she would understand the music. Would Louise have been proud of her today?

Dawn recalled the day the summer before when she'd
stepped on a rusty nail at the beach. Louise's movements had been swift. She'd driven Dawn to the local doctor fast, but not above the speed limit, then sat awkwardly by Dawn's side as the doctor administered a tetanus shot. In the following days Louise had changed Dawn's bandage, her gray hair curtaining forward, eyes keen beneath the owlish glasses. Dawn had let Louise touch her for that. That had been one of the only times. She remembered Louise's cool fingers on her skin as she'd skillfully applied the medicine and pressed firmly on the bandage to make sure it stuck. Louise might be awkward and formal, but Dawn sensed she was a damn good doctor. Had her own mother cared for her as well?

Dawn turned up Third Avenue from Houston and marveled at the chrysanthemums and holly bushes in the Liz Christy garden. Even in these dark days flowers still bloomed. Even in these dark days it was mercifully warm. She opened the gate, wandered in, and picked a few— orange and golden petals past their prime, but still vital. Then she veered up Avenue A, bouncing past Korean greenmarkets, past soap and clothing boutiques, and up to Tenth. She rang the doorbell, her overworked heart pounding hard for the fourth time that day.
Buzzer's still broken,
she thought when she heard feet pounding hard down the stairs.

Sander opened the door. He looked hot in a Weezer T-shirt and ripped jeans. But it wasn't Sander whom Dawn had come to see. She looked at him shyly. “Hi. Is Jude here?”

“You came just in time. He's leaving for the airport in a few minutes.” Sander examined her grubby face and clothes. “Where are you staying, anyway?” he asked.

“C Squat.” Dawn tried not to stare at him on the way upstairs.

Sander turned, catching her looking. She detected a sly grin, but he covered it. “I've heard bad things about that place,” he said, and turned to face her. “You know, you could have just stayed here.”

Dawn was still fumbling for a reply when Jude swung open the door and stared at her with a frown. “Hi,” she muttered.

“Hello,” Jude answered sourly, standing in the doorway to prevent her entrance. Sander nabbed a cold soda from the fridge, padded diplomatically into his room, and closed the door. “What's up?” Jude demanded.

“Um, uh…” This wasn't going to be easy. “I'm really sorry, Jude,” she began. “I was upset the other day, so I wasn't very nice. Forgive me?” Dawn extracted the mums gingerly from her pack and offered them to him.

Jude hesitated, hands stuffed in his pants pocket.

“Oh, come on. I was a beast, OK?” Dawn admitted.

His face melted into a smile. “Sorry, too. I said some shitty things.” He took the bouquet. “Ah, my favorite colors.” Jude leaned over and hugged Dawn.

“It's not your fault. I'm just not good with people leaving.” Her eyes felt prickly, and she rubbed them, then looked up to meet his gaze. “Your parents need you,” she said.

“Yours too,” he replied.

“I'm going to call her, Jude, I am.” Dawn pictured Louise waiting by the phone. She pictured herself talking to her—connecting.

Just then Pax ran into the apartment. “Get a move on, Jude, the cab's waiting.” He noticed Dawn and snickered. “If it's not Miss Snow Queen with her icicle wand.”

Dawn hated to think of the crappy things Jude probably had told Pax about her when he was mad.

“Hey.” Jude held up his hand. “Spare her the humor.”

Pax shrugged, then lifted one of Jude's bags over his gaunt shoulder. “Dude, so fast we change our tune.”

Sander's door opened. He emerged with a business card and pushed it into Dawn's hand. “Call my friend Susie. She'd be happy to have you crash with her. She's always looking for folks to feed her cats. She's a reporter and travels for her job.”

Was Susie another one of Sander's girlfriends? wondered Dawn. How many girls did he have? She shot a look at Jude, and he winked. Sander's hand cupped Dawn's chin and raised it to meet his catlike eyes. “Hey, you'll like her,” Sander said. Dawn's skin tingled where his fingers touched it. “Don't spend another second in that awful squat,” he added, “you're too good for that.”

Too good! No one had ever told her that before.

“I agree,” said Jude.

“And Dawn?” Sander took his hand away to help Jude with yet another bag. He needed an army of doormen, he'd bought so many clothes.

“Yeah?” Dawn twisted her birthstone ring around and around.

“Don't be a stranger.”

“I won't,” she replied. Sander's voice was kind, like Johar's, but different. Sander's was firm and expert, while Johar's was questioning, exploring. Johar was drawing closer inside her head in some puzzling way.

They all clomped downstairs in a big lump. Jude hugged her again, and she and Sander stood on the corner waving like nerdy kids as Jude was driven off. But without Jude there, Dawn suddenly felt exposed. “Bye, Sander,” she said, and jogged down Avenue A as fast as her legs would carry her.

Dawn paid for her coffee and settled into an overstuffed chair at the cybercaf'. She logged in and started to type.

Dawn felt jumbled up but good. E-mail would keep it slow and prevent them from yelling. She downed her caffeine and set out just as the streetlights came to life.

J
ohar's fingers brushed the gun where it rested inside his pack. He took his hand out and nervously brushed it on his vest, then clambered into the tent to confront Romel. “Give me my hats and socks, thief!” he shouted.

“I told you, I know nothing about your stupid hats.” A shock of coarse hair fell over Romel's sneer as he leaned forward to break apart the coals with a stick.

Johar suppressed an urge to push him into the fire—that would spark a memory! “I'll kill you,” he muttered.

Romel rose to his feet and inched toward the tent door. The old man was out. Bija was sleeping at Anqa's. “You're a pathetic coward,” Romel shouted, his nostrils flaring. “You wouldn't have the nerve.”

Johar grabbed one of Romel's arms and was shocked at
its solidity. He forced himself to close his fingers around the handle of the gun inside his pack. Its cold metal was as repellent as the scales of a poisonous lizard. From inside the pack, Johar jabbed the gun into Romel's stomach. Its sharp outline stretched the fabric taut.

Romel's eyes darted between fear and mirth. “Shoot me and you'll regret it.”

Johar's fingers slid from the gun and it dropped inside his pack. He released Romel's arm with his other hand. “Go,” he muttered, “You're not worth the bullets.”

Romel leaped through the tent flaps, then jogged to a safe distance. Only then did he look back. “Can't even squeeze the trigger. Tell your American doctor what a baby you are.” He strode cockily into the warren of tents and disappeared.

Fear, newly freed, swept down Johar's spine. His legs teetered on the path to the clinic, tripping over rough pits he'd avoided before. Why couldn't he finish the matter? Johar tried to shake off the horror of the gun's metallic touch. How could a sane man blast a hole through a belly? The flimsy wooden door clattered on its frame as he entered. He was relieved that Dr. Garland wasn't there yet. She couldn't see him this way—sick with disgrace and seething with rage. If only he could talk to Maryam. She'd always been the person Johar showed his heart to, much more so than to his brother. Then Johar thought of Dawn. She was alone too, and had pleaded to talk with him more. Today he would try.

He hurried to Nils's office, pushed the door shut, and pressed the power button on the laptop. So far Johar had convinced himself there wasn't time to send e-mail; he'd been too busy with patients or on the phone. The data he
needed to send had grown into a massive pile. In truth, he couldn't remember all of Nils's coaching for logging on. Instructions in hand, Johar watched anxiously as bright designs popped on-screen and the laptop went through a series of dings and beeps. He clicked into Write Mail, and in the Send To line he typed
[email protected].

Before he had a chance to calm down, Johar was struck with a new anxiety. It was one thing to have Dawn phone him under the pretext of asking for Dr. Garland. It was another thing to begin a correspondence. The sharia laws that the Taliban had brought back, and which most had followed in the small villages, forbade Johar to associate with a strange woman. According to the sharia, women were to be strictly protected by the men in their family from outside advances. But Aunt Maryam had said it restricted people unduly, keeping women from accomplishing much. Johar tended to agree.
It's not as if I'm talking to a woman on the street,
he reasoned.
She's just a voice, just—dawn music.

Johar remembered when he was thirteen, walking with a girl to school. They walked on either side of the road as it widened in Baghlan to two lanes. A truck driver and some shopkeepers stared, then pointed to them after Johar mouthed a few words to her. All bristled with the knowledge that a boy walked
with
a girl, even though they were held apart by the traffic that rumbled between them.

If the village mullah, much less the Ministry to Prohibit Vice, knew he was communicating with this American woman—of family, of war and the agony it brought—surely he'd be punished. But Johar was far from his village in a world beyond boundaries. Laws about who could talk to whom seemed pointless when people's lives were all
twisted up. There were more important things to worry about.
She'll laugh at my spelling,
he thought. He sighed and began to clack away with one finger.

The words floated on-screen until he referred to Nils's notes, which said to click Send, then they vanished with a ping. The instant he sent the letter he regretted it. Why had he typed the word
coward
? Now she would know of his shame. His brother, Daq, would've been disgusted. Heat spiderwebbed Johar's cheeks. There was another ping and new words replaced the first.
Your mail has been sent.

Johar glanced at the poster above the desk—a satellite photo of the world. Green and brown lands connected to lapis seas. Mountains gave way to deserts. If all tribes came from one cradle, there must be people who agreed with Johar—that humans were put here on earth to talk to each other.

Johar was sure of one thing: he couldn't spend one more night in Romel's dreadful tent!