Termination Orders(12)

“Insha’Allah”—if God wills it—Zalmay muttered. At that moment, he noticed that Faqeer was looking intently into the rearview mirror. The truck slowed and veered to the side of the road, as two American army vehicles—what they called Humvees—sped past them, leaving a trail of dust. It didn’t take him long to notice where they were headed; they were following a pillar of smoke rising in the distance, where the terrain rose into jagged hills.

As they drew closer, they came upon a long row of stopped vehicles, most pulled over to the shoulder of the road randomly and askew, as if they didn’t expect to go anywhere anytime soon. The smoke seemed to be coming from the bridge over a shallow ravine a couple of hundred feet ahead, where the two American vehicles had carelessly parked.

Faqeer pulled the hand brake and opened the door. “Stay here; I will see what’s going on.” The driver climbed down from the truck and walked toward the gathering of vehicles. Zalmay watched uneasily as his companion talked to other drivers who were hiding from the punishing sun under the shade of a short cliff. Faqeer came back about fifteen minutes later.

“The bridge is out,” he said, sitting back in the driver’s seat, against the colorful seat cover. “Taliban sabotage. An entire segment crumbled, and there is no way to get across. It will be many weeks before it is fixed. But do not worry. The Americans will not allow the road to be impassable for long. They will bring a temporary bridge, and we will be on our way soon. There are some who are waiting here, but I do not believe that it will be done tonight.” He started up the engine, and the truck rumbled under Zalmay’s seat.

“What happens to us in the meantime?”

“There is a small village, not far, where we can get lodging and food,” said Faqeer, as he maneuvered the truck into a three-point turn. “I have stopped there before. It is a simple place, but it will allow us to resume our journey tomorrow.”

It was only some twenty minutes until they reached their destination, a collection of a couple dozen houses just off the main road. There were two trucks and three cars there already, no doubt for the same reason they were. Faqeer brought his truck to a stop near the other vehicles, and two men in rustic dress came to meet them.

“Are there beds for two more?” Faqeer asked as the two clambered down from the truck.

“All are welcome,” one of them said warmly, and he waved them toward the village. Zalmay followed him, his sandals dragging across dusty terrain to a collection of about a dozen single-story adobe huts arranged haphazardly on a shrub-speckled hill. It was a peasant village, though there was no sign of electricity, and village water came from a hand pump, attached, presumably, to a well. On drawing closer, Zalmay noticed that the sides of some of the houses had rows of bullet holes—not befitting a war zone, but the place had obviously not been untouched by violence.

As they arrived within the limits of the village, Zalmay and Faqeer were introduced to their hosts, two brothers named Gorbat and Mirzal. They were both short, with sun-browned, prematurely wrinkled skin but also with broad smiles that lit up their faces. The brothers showed them the house and room where they would sleep, with two straw mattresses laid out on the floor. Two small children, a boy and a girl, looked on curiously. Zalmay noticed that there were no other mattresses in the house; their hosts had given up the only beds they had.

Gorbat and Mirzal made no mention of charging for their hospitality; the Pashtunwali, the code of honor that the rural Pashtun people of Afghanistan still lived by, forbade it. These customs were all but forgotten in the city, and Zalmay was amazed that, even this close to the great highway, people still kept to it.

They left their things in the room and went outside. The village seemed to be abuzz with activity as pots, sacks of grain, logs and slabs of meat were carried to and fro. The coming of visitors seemed to be shaping up to be a celebration—more of a pretext than a real reason, Zalmay thought.

As Zalmay’s spirits began to rise from the festive mood, he saw an old man with a wild, bushy beard walk out into the square. Mirzal said to Zalmay and Faqeer jovially, “That’s Malang, our muezzin. He does the daily calls to prayer.” He said the word muezzin mockingly, as if Malang had as much claim to the title as he had to call himself President of the United States. In a harsh, croaky voice, Malang began to chant the evening adhan, the Islamic prayer called out five times a day for all within earshot: “There is no deity but Allah, and Muhammad is the Messenger of God.” The inhabitants stopped what they were doing and shuffled slowly to get their prayer mats.