The Night Letter

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

They decided to leave for KAF in the evening, stay the night, and return in the morning. They could also pick up the analyst Soni Kuchar while they were there. They exited the back gate of the FOB while it was still light. It was safer that way and sunrise and sunset shed a beatific glow on the city. The earthen sides of dwellings worn smooth with the stubborn persistence of the lives of inhabitants lent an added softness to the naturally porous material, kneaded and shaped by human sweat and muscle and humble hands so that the walls both absorbed and reflected light in shades of yellow and orange and gold and, just before the sun slipped under the horizon, deep red. The light also smoothed over the countless cracks and chips in the crust and veneer of the walls, coating them as it did almost as completely as paint or plaster. What the light could not reach rested in heathen shadows that more darkly concealed the many flaws of the structures. The seams of the light and the dark gave the impression of sharp angles and straight lines although, at other times of day, the city appeared to be melting under the brutal sun or slouching in its tired misery and self dread. Even the dust and smog seemed to settle as if from the weight of a rain, like a mother's hand on the cheek of a baby tuckered out from too much play. Above it all was the blue dome of the mosque like a promising sky even when the sky above was burned out by a brilliant sunrise or softened to a warm glow as the fire settled.

This was Afghanistan: men holding hands, children chasing metal hoops with a stick, traffic cops with hand paddles, crudely cut trenches in the middle of side streets and the whole thing stinking of gutter. Ward was staring dazed at the dome that rose like a mushroom cloud above the city. From a distance the dome looked solid blue but as they drew near they could see now the geometric designs in varying shades of gold and white. The now revealed secret patterns reminded Ward of when he was a child and got eyeglasses for the first time and he was surprised to see that trees were made up of individual leaves instead of just blurred masses of green. Ever since, it made him distrust his senses a little and the sly ways things could present themselves in different ways. It also made him a bit dizzy looking up for so long. When he leveled his gaze again there was a young man riding a bike close to their truck and he noticed the bike had no rubber tires, just the bare aluminum rims. He was trying to keep pace with the convoy and having little success but would look over at them infrequently as proudly as a raja riding his elephant.

Many of the kids were girls and they played with the boys as equals but there was only one woman Ward could see. It was a young woman holding her baby in a sling suspended from her shoulder. In her free hand she held a fruit. She was trying to wean her baby and she would take a bite from the fruit, chew it and then spit it into her baby's mouth. Ward had heard of female suicide bombers, mostly widows whose lives were scarcely better than the grave, anyway. They had several advantages, such as the ability to hide a suicide vest under their burqas and they usually did not get searched at checkpoints. They had heard rumors of a cell of women and children suicide bombers called Birds of Paradise. For some reason Ted had become obsessed with proving the reality of the Birds of Paradise but so far there was nothing reliable.

Convoys like to move fast to present a less inviting target but that didn't stop these children from lining the roads and throwing rocks at them. Most of the children had shaved heads and looked like little malnourished prisoners. Safe in their armored vehicles – even the exposed turret gunners were little bothered - they didn't mind the rocks but the drivers were afraid of hitting a child.

Even twilight could not soften the brutal image of poverty so closely pictured. Many of the huts and dwellings looked barely habitable like caves heaved or coaxed out of the earth by feeble human effort in a sort of grudging compromise with nature rather than actually built with skill or planning. Signs of life was often little more than clothes hanging nearby, absorbing dust into their dark folds. But they were surprised by the number of children, who easily outnumbered the adults, spilling out of the huts like termites out of their mounds.