|
Rubble(continued)
4. For the next three nights, I made sure I was there by 11. I listened
to all the details. The latest statistics. The phone calls. I got to
know about his well-to-do cousins in Karachi. His successful American
cousin in Manhattan working as an investor. His struggling-actress sister
in Los Angeles. His once beautiful, now tired mother. (He only mentioned
his father once; I didn't press.) About the lack of communications in
the earthquake zone. About mountains, cliffs, caves, mudslides, dirt
roads and torn up highways, rotting animals, and collapsed buildings.
About helicopters and relief transports only getting in now, days after
the disaster. And other details: The people of the northwest region
— the Kho — and their language, Khowar. It's hot in the summer,
cold in the winter, spring begins in the valleys in February, and by
now in May, the melting mountain snows can make things muddy. I began
to see through him and news video, even if partially, what he saw and
might be feeling. Perhaps most surprising to me, my attraction — what could I call
it? — began to make the subtlest of shifts. Yes, there was still
that smile — a little more forced these days — and those unimaginable
eyes, the movie star face and athlete's body; but they mattered less
and less. What did matter was Rashid. I wasn't just listening to stories;
I was caring about his life. So on Friday when he said he was going to fly to Karachi on Monday
— he still wanted to submit his last final exam the next day, even
if he did poorly — I said: "How'd you like some company?" Total surprise: "What?" "What the hell do I have to do here? I gave my last test today.
I can enter the grades tomorrow. I've got a valid passport. I can find
out about the vaccinations." "Are you crazy?" He laughed. Dimples. "Yeah, but what the heck? Why not help out? After a hurricane
a couple of years ago, I went to Florida to help out Habitat for Humanity.
Guess I can go to Pakistan to help a friend find his folks." Of all the words, the one that spilled out unexpectedly was "friend."
I was thinking something more neutral like "someone" but heard
myself say "friend," with ease and certainty. And so did Rashid.
Friend. "But it's so far. And you might need some shots before they let
you travel; and a visit to the embassy. I don't know if you could do
all that by Monday." "Is Monday definite?" "I've got my flight booked from JFK." "So we can do this." I heard the "we." Rashid,
too. I was in deeper. "It's a 20 hour flight with layovers in Zurich and Istanbul, not
to mention maybe the cheapest flight at this short notice might be way
over twelve hundred bucks." I was suddenly a man on a mission: "Listen, this can be done.
Write out your flights and I'll see if I can book the same ones."
Did I sound reckless? When I put my mind to a task, nothing gets in
the way. I think we both became aware that Aziz was standing behind the counter
a few feet away, so Rashid moved a little further into the snack aisle
to make the conversation a bit more private. "You're crazy," he nearly whispered. My heart sank a bit: "Unless you don't want me to go?" I was putting him on the spot. "That's not it. It's so much to
do." Then looking deeply, added, "And way too much to ask." "But I'm the one who suggested it." I never saw a more serious face: "You would do this for me?" "Yes." "My aunt from Karachi has a friend at the consulate in New York.
He could help, maybe." Now he was the one taking the plunge, offering
me something. "Thanks." Again the penetrating look: "You would do this for me." This
time it wasn't a question. Over Rashid's shoulder I saw Aziz turn and start unpacking Kaiser rolls
for tomorrow morning's rush. I couldn't make out his expression.
|
