The Watch (14 page)

A shadow falls across the ground in front of me.

I look up. It’s my guard. He stands there with a watchful eye on the slopes, his hands cradling his gun. Recognize anyone? he asks.

No, they are not familiar to me—the ones that still have faces, that is.

He glances at the bodies without interest. They all look the same to me.

They are not the same, I reply with feeling. Each one has a different history of sin, of pillage and murder.

Figures, he says indifferently. Time to head back, then.

It’s strange, I say quietly. I’d expected it to be different. The Taliban killed my family, so I was trying to find some satisfaction.

He’s already begun to walk away when he stops abruptly and turns to stare at me. I see, he says. He walks back to the bodies and aims his gun at them.

You want them to be warm and alive so you can hear them scream, he says.

You have had this experience?

Yup, he says.

Was it satisfying?

Absolutely.

Feeling peculiarly breathless, I rise to my feet and straighten my shirt.

His eyes follow me. Have you eaten today?

No, as a matter of fact …

Come on then. Let’s go get some chow. It’s the end of my shift.

We cross the field and walk past the men on guard duty. The lieutenant eyes me quizzically. Well? he says. Recognize any of the fuckers?

No, Sir, I did not.

He turns to Simonis. See any movement on the slopes?

No, Sir. It’s dead as a doorknob.

You must mean doornail …

Simonis shrugs. I guess I do, he says.

The lieutenant gazes at him with a trace of condescension before dismissing us.

We walk away from the ECP, and when we’re at a safe distance, Simonis says quietly: Fucking asshole.

We pick up MRE pouches from the mess tent, and he asks me where I’d like to eat. I explain the situation in my quarters, and he grimaces and suggests going to his B-hut instead. On our way there, he holds up his MRE with a sardonic half-smile. Do you know what we call these things? he asks.

I stare at him. Meals ready to eat? I answer hesitantly.

Nope. Meals rejected by Ethiopians.

His hut is adjacent to a badly damaged guard tower. It’s very small, and when we enter I express my surprise at finding only two bunks inside.

I’m a sniper, he says in a flat, decisive tone of voice, as if that explains everything. That’s my bunk over there, and the one opposite it used to be Konwicki’s—he was Second Platoon’s other sharpshooter—but he took a hit yesterday, so the place is mine until his replacement shows up.

That’s bad news about your friend …

It happens, he says with a shrug, before adding: Ted was married. I got tired of listenin’ to him bitch. He used to go on and on. I’ve no use for talkers.

We sit down across from each other and eat our meals in silence.

When I’ve finished, he asks me if I would like some tea.

Yes, please, I answer. Thank you for offering!

His mouth twitches. Don’t get your hopes up. It tastes like dishwater.

Yes, but still. You must know that it’s our custom to offer tea to a guest. It’s part of our code of hospitality.

He doesn’t reply, but as he boils water over a portable stove, he begins to take off his clothes until he has stripped down to his shorts. He does it casually, without looking at me, and almost as if I am not there, while I sit frozen on my cot. I would like to look away, but I can’t. I’m scandalized, but also fascinated.

He hands me my tea and settles down across from me on his cot. Almost in a daze, I notice that he has beautifully formed hands and feet, just like a woman’s.

I raise my cup to my mouth and drink the wrong way, spilling it all out.

Is something the matter? he asks when I’ve recovered.

You are almost naked, I say nervously. We are not used to it in our culture.

He simply sits there, sipping his tea, gazing at me steadily.

The silence grows uncomfortable, and I wonder if I’ve insulted him.

I didn’t want to offend you, I blurt out. I’m simply not used to it, that’s all.

Relax, he says. It’s no big deal. It’s warm in here.

I could open the door …

Nope. I like it closed.

Then, quietly, he says: You’re not so bad yourself, berâdar.

What did you call me?

Berâdar.

I feel a rush of warmth flood through me as my heart rejoices. I nod my head several times. I’m almost giddy with the feelings of affirmation that race through me. It makes me want to reach out and hug him.

I say: I knew from the moment I set my eyes on you that we’d be brothers. Now I feel satisfied. I am your brother and your friend, am I not?

We’ll see, he says. What’s the rush?

We are young, I reply fervently. We are supposed to be in a rush.

How old are you?

I’m eighteen, I answer, then correct myself: I’ll be nineteen in less than a month’s time. In twenty-eight days.

You’re just a kid, he scoffs.

Why, how old are you?

Twenty-one.

Then you are young as well. You will be my first and best friend here. We’ll walk around as friends do in Afghanistan: hand in hand.

You crazy? he says with a laugh.

Why am I crazy?

Because we’d be lynched, that’s why.

Lynched?

Yup. Hung from the rafters. No questions asked.

But why? Is it banned for Americans and Afghans to be friends? You’re in my country, and we have an old saying: When in Balkh, do as the Balkhis are prone to do. Balkh was the mother of all cities, and the inhabitants were famous for their friendships. And so over the years we have inherited their ways. It’s in our nature.

This isn’t Balkh.

Still, it is the same country, is it not?

It ain’t that, dude, he says quietly; and then, with an undertone of bitterness, he says: It’s because some people don’t care for others who may be different from them. They like their own kind.

I hesitate before speaking, trying to decipher his meaning. Finally, I ask him if he is not of their kind.

Nope, he says decisively. I’m not.

What about me? Am I your kind?

He scratches his chest. We’ll see, he says.

I feel hurt, but try to cloak it.

If you feel you don’t belong with your people, I tell him, then perhaps you can settle in Afghanistan. I’d find you a good woman to be your wife.

My wife?

To have children with.

His mouth twitches again, but he remains silent.

Will you think about it? I prompt.

Sure, I’ll think about it.

Then while you think, I continue, feeling elated, I would like to thank you, on behalf of all my countrymen, for coming here and fighting for us. I would like to tell all Americans—and I’m starting with you—that we need you to remain here until there is peace in our lands. Don’t abandon us prematurely. You hold the responsibility for an entire people in your hands. You represent democracy, freedom, and the rule of law; your task is truly noble, and the only mistake you’ve made so far is your support for our present government, which is completely self-serving and corrupt. You must believe me when I say this. When I was in Kabul, I saw with my own eyes how much they stole, and how often. Moreover, they are Pashtun and will make peace with the Taliban the moment you leave, and we all dread to think of what will happen after that. So you need to support someone else—someone like the hero Ahmed Shah Massoud, the commander of the Mujaheddin, who was Tajik, like me, by the way, and whom the Arabs murdered—someone who will be a real leader and not a scoundrel.

I pause and ask: Am I not right?

He shrugs, looking bored.

I don’t know, man, he drawls. I don’t do politics.

I lean back in confusion and stare at him: his eyes are indifferent.

Then why are you here? I ask.

Before he can answer, I point to the 9/11 tattoo on his arm. Is that why?

This? Nope, he says carelessly. I got that because everyone else did.

Then why?

Maybe because I like being a soldier. It isn’t that complicated.

That’s it? You like being a soldier?

And seein’ the fuckin’ hellholes of the world on Uncle Sam’s money, he adds with a twisted grin.

I ignore the jibe. So you are a tourist in my country?

A tourist with a gun, sure. They pay me to shoot up the sights. Pow! There goes the pride of Ghazni. Or wherever.

I think you’re joking. You are here to protect us from the kind of damage the Talib did to places like Bamiyan.

He grins again. All right, you got a point there. Then how about I’m a big-game hunter? I drill people instead of animals and get a bounty. More fun to shoot people anyways compared to some damn statue or pile o’ bricks.

If you are after that kind of bounty, then you would make more money as a private contractor. Trust me, I add bitterly, I know about these things.

Instead of answering, he lights a cigarette and draws on it deeply. When he exhales, the smoke makes rings around his head. He follows them with his eyes as he blows more rings.

I have to point out to him that it’s against the rules to smoke inside B-huts.

Oh yeah? he says, but makes no move to stub out his cigarette.

At least that was the way in the other bases I was in …

You wanna hang here with me?

Yes, of course, but what if an officer comes in?

Fuck that, okay? If someone comes in, I’ll deal with the consequences.

I refrain from pointing out that I’d be in trouble as well, and lapse into silence.

Abruptly, he says: I’m from Sparta, New York …

From New York City?

Nope, farther north. Small town in the Catskills. One dead-end main street, eleven broken-down houses. Dirt poor; way ignorant.
That’s where I grew up with my stepdaddy. He was really fucked up, and he fucked me over, so now I fight to get my own back.

Even though I don’t fully understand his meaning, he seems to be looking for something from me, so at length I say: I see. I’m sorry.

No need to be sorry. I can take care of myself now.

He throws me his lighter and cigarette pack.

I hesitate momentarily, then light a cigarette and lean back on the cot.

When you grew up in Sparta, did you ever think you’d be here one day, in Kandahar province? I ask.

His mouth gives its now-familiar twitch. What do you think?

I feel my throat knotting with emotion.

I think our meeting was fated. It was written.

Oh yeah? he says without conviction, and stretches out on his cot. There’s a languor to his movements that reminds me of a leopard.

I have known poverty, I continue quietly, and I am still poor. But I feel a closeness to you that is worth more than all the wealth in the world.

You’ve got quite the gift of the gab, he says.

You still don’t believe me? Then listen to this. When I first saw you, I was reminded of a stone statue that I’d glimpsed in a refugee camp in Quetta. It was a very old statue, very beautiful. It was made when our people were all followers of the Buddha. A thief had smuggled it out of Bamiyan and was trying to sell it.

Oh yeah? And what does that have to do with me?

I will tell you. Have you heard of the Bamiyan Buddhas? The ones that the Talib blew up? Yes? They had some of the same features as this statue, only they were much bigger, of course. Well, I was a boy in Mazar-i-Sharif when I heard about their destruction. At the time, I was working as a porter in a bazaar. It was a hard life, but everywhere I went I took along the only book that I had with me at the time. It used to belong to my mother and was a volume by the famous English
poet, Mr. Shelley. And in it there was a poem that reminded me in a strange way of the disaster that had overtaken Bamiyan. Have you heard of Ozymandias, the king of kings?

Nope, he says and yawns, I can’t say I have. The only Ozzy I know of is Ozzy Osbourne.

I pause, losing the thread of my story. Ozzy Osbourne?

I guess you haven’t watched the TV show.

No.

He thinks, then sits up and reaches for a small plastic case the size of a matchbox.

D’you know what this is?

Yes, of course, it’s an iPod.

Then I’ll play you something.

He moves over to my cot and sits down next to me. I smell his overwhelming masculinity and feel faint. The backs of his hands are covered with a fine gold down. Small beads of sweat fringe his lips. He moves closer to me and taps repeatedly on the machine. Finally, he says: Here, listen to this.

I put on the headphones and yank them off immediately with a start.

I think there is something wrong with your machine, I tell him.

A thin line creases his forehead. He listens for a moment. Then: Nope. That’s the way it’s supposed to sound. That’s Ozzy singing “War Pigs.” Try again.

No thank you. That was terrible! He sounds like the devil himself.

Really? he says sardonically. This song always reminds me of lying on a sunny beach listening to the waves roll in. I’ll never get sick of that smooth, sexy voice and the romantic lyrics. It’s a wonderful song to relax to with—oh, I don’t know—maybe your lover or your family. Real nice ’n’ easy, like.

You’re not serious, surely? To me it sounds like the sort of noise that might be used to extract information from terrorists. If we played that here, it would attract all the jackals from miles around.

He laughs softly, before tapping me on the chest.

You’re a skinny little thing, aren’t you? It wouldn’t take much to break you.

I’m almost the same height as you are, I point out.

Yes, whatever. Do you wrestle?

I have never wrestled, I confess.

I might take you to the gym sometime. Give you a workout. Toughen you up.

That would be nice, I say, trying not to let my voice quaver. This is what friends do—they find things to do together. I think we will be true friends.

You’ve told me that already.

Then may I also tell you that I am very unhappy with where they’ve put me up. There are too many people inside, and also a dog, which is too much.