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Rubble(continued) 10. I drove him the next day to the airport. At first, we talked about
California, about living near an earthquake zone, about school, about
e-mailing and phoning. He held my right hand. If I had to take it back
to switch lanes, he took it again when he could. As we got closer, he said: "There's one last thing." He had
my hand again. "About Pakistan. You need to know something." "What?" "My cousins." "What about them?" "You had to notice the coolness." "Well, actually, I did. I didn't want to ask. I thought maybe
something had come up I didn't know about. I didn't want to make a mess." "You handled it just right." "Well?" "There's a lot going on. They resent my being in America. They
suspected my father had Taliban connections. They really didn't want
to get involved after the earthquake." "Then why did they let us stay?" "Because of my mother. After all, she's my aunt's sister. It was
my father they resented most. They showed us hospitality only because
of her." "OK. So why tell me this now?" "Because I think the government — yours, I mean — might
be checking up on me. Guilt by association, don't you know?" I remembered thinking about this back in May, and feeling ashamed then. "Which is also why I wanted to keep our dealings so public,"
he added. "Funny, I thought that was my doing." "If they are looking, I didn't want to get you in trouble, which
is why I felt so uneasy coming over last night." "But you did. And that's OK." I meant it, too. "Really?" "Really. Like you said last night, what I do in my apartment is
my business, or were those just words?" "No. I really wanted to be with you. I was willing to put aside
my fear, but it wasn't fair of me to maybe put you in trouble. I was
being selfish." "Jesus, you're not selfish, and I doubt I'm in trouble. Hell,
I went to Pakistan with you, and I haven't heard from anybody. Nobody's
called me to ask anything. What could they say? That I went on a humanitarian
trip? To a country that's supposedly our ally? That I come to see you
every night in a parking lot to have a cup of coffee?" He gripped tightly: "That we're lovers." A surge of fear: Not that I might be associated with a supposed criminal.
Not that I might be under surveillance. No. He had used the word of
words. It wasn't even that there might be love between us. It was that
we might be — or become — lovers. I almost laughed: Jesus
H. Christ, I'm more afraid of our being lovers than of some government
gray suit wiretapping my phone. He saw me shake my head. "What? Talk to me." He raised my
hand to his chest and pressed in. "Do you hate me now?" "No. Why?" "Because more than Pakistan, by coming over last night, I maybe
involved you in something?" "And what could they prove? That we slept together?" "Sleeping with the enemy?" "Are you?" "What?" "The enemy." "No." "Then there's no problem, is there?" "In the eyes of some people. I don't know what my father was doing
in Chital. I hadn't seen him in four years. We never got along. He never
told me his business." I took back my hand to avoid steering into some jerk determined to
switch lanes. "Then how do you know?" "I don't. It's just family whispers. But nowadays, even a whisper
is taken as possibility — especially by governments intent on weeding
out the bad guys." The signs announcing terminals started to appear. I had to say something,
didn't I? But what? What the fuck do I say? "Say something, Roy." "I don't know what." "That you want to cool it for a while. No calls. Or that you don't
want to see me. Or something. Just say something." There was genuine
dread in his voice. "But I want to call. I want to see you again." I want to
make love to you again, but I didn't say that. "Even if all my fears are true? I mean the surveillance and stuff." "Yes. Besides, none of this might be true. This is your family
planting seeds. If the government really suspected you, I'm sure they'd
have called you in by now." "Maybe. Maybe not." We were now stopped at a light. This time, I took his hand: "Rashid." "What?" "I'm afraid, yes. But it's got nothing to do with you or your
father. If you say you're not a terrorist or whatever the hell you think
your family or the CIA thinks, then I'll believe you. Start blowing
up airplanes, and I'll reconsider," I joked. The light changed;
we started moving towards his terminal, both hands on the wheel: "No,
I'm afraid because I love you. Because you just used the word lover.
Because I haven't felt so good in years. Because you're leaving for
California, and I want to stay close. Because I want to fly out to see
you from time to time. Because I want to make love to you again. Because
I want you to make love to me. Because..." I exhaled. I could tell he'd turned to look at me: "You're amazing." "Is that what we're calling it now?" I laughed. He laughed, too. "Guess so." We pulled into the queue of cars in front of the terminal, and he jumped
out, pulling his suitcase from the back seat. There was a DROP OFF/PICK
UP ONLY sign, so I had to stay in the car. After letting the sky check
take his bag, he came round to my window. I was conscious of an airport security guard giving me a make-it-quick
look, but I didn't care. He leaned in and kissed me quickly on the lips. "I'll call when
I get there." "Promise?" "Promise." "I'm scared." "Maybe me, too." The car ahead of us pulled away, nearly clipping someone. A few honks.
A few curses. "Bye." Those eyes. I watched him get to the terminal doors; they slid open. He paused,
looked back towards the car, smiled, and disappeared into the lobby.
Before the security guard could say a word, I put the car in drive
and swung into the traffic. That smile. His side of the fence. No rubble.
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