What Changes Everything (10 page)

       He didn‟t glance at the insect. Instead he looked at her, full in the face.

       "Oh God, Mikey. I killed it last night," she confessed. "I didn‟t intend to. It was buzzing around near my neck, and I sort of reflexively flicked it away and then it was half dead, so I took a magazine and kind of gently squished the middle and then…" With Mikey, she always talked more than she‟d planned. But she didn‟t want to share everything that the dragonfly had touched off in her.

       He sipped his coffee and didn‟t say anything for a minute. "You know, Todd is still alive," he said.

       "Of course."

       "This isn‟t Mom and Dad."

       "Jesus, Mikey." She waved her hand, brushing his words away, but also surprised, once again, by how quickly he was able to identify her fears.

       "I mean it. You need to trust a little more. They would know if anything… We would all know. So he‟s alive. And he‟s probably mainly worried about you."

       "And Ruby," she said.

       "It‟s always been hard for you to think of the future, Clari. I‟ve watched that immobilize you for a long time. In some ways, I think you were frozen right up until the moment you met Todd. I don‟t want to see you go back there."

       "I am back there," she said, and then she stopped, knowing if she tried to go on, what would come out would be her anger. She was mad at Todd—for putting everything at risk, insisting on continuing his distant, dangerous work, not letting the two of them together be enough, and now, for rewriting her own life so drastically.

       These weren‟t the only things she felt, of course. She felt the weight of responsibility, and she felt frightened for him, and heartbroken for what must be his own fear and sense of fragility. The anger was the selfish feeling, the inappropriate one, so naturally it was also the one that forced its way closest to the surface.

       Mikey stood watching her. "You have to be careful, Clari, pushing everyone away at moments like this. We‟re no good isolated, none of us. It‟s not useful and we aren‟t built for it. We have to let light in little by little."

       "You‟re talking about my sending everyone home yesterday?"

       "Well, it was awkward, yes." A smile hinted at his lips for a second. "Look, you can treat people any way you want to right now, you‟ve got lots of latitude. But this isn‟t Lone Ranger time. It‟s going to go on for a while, and you need support to face it and figure out how to handle it. There‟s probably going to be a ransom demand. Then what do you do? Do you want to negotiate yourself or leave it in the hands of their so-called professionals? And then this rescue

attempt thing." He paused. "Maybe we should go to Kabul."

       She stood. "How do you expect me to figure out how to deal with kidnappers in Afghanistan, Mike? It‟s so beyond…anything I know. And the stakes are so…."

       "We need to figure out a regular time to talk with the FBI. We don‟t know how long this is going to last; we have to have a system in place," he said. "We need to ask more questions. You, Ruby, Todd‟s boss, and me too because you‟ll need support."

       "Okay."

       "We need to confer with them every day."

       She nodded.

       "We‟re going to feel better once we‟re being proactive. Not so unmoored."

       "Okay. Okay."

       "So you‟ll call? And let me know? Let us all know?"

       Suddenly unable to speak, both grateful for and resentful of Mikey‟s presence, Clarissa stood and, once standing, didn‟t know what to do with herself. Impulsively, she lifted the napkin and held the insect up to the window.

       He joined her. "Looks like a flying red ant to me," he said.

       "I‟m thinking some kind of tiny dragonfly," she said. "I didn‟t know we even had

dragonflies in Brooklyn."

       He heaved an audible breath. "It‟s a bug, Clari. Throw it out."

       She smiled at his vehemence. "Don‟t worry. I‟m not going to give it a funeral," she said.

       "So you‟ll talk to the FBI and give me a call this afternoon?" he asked. She nodded. "All right then. My work here is done. Now my actual job beckons. And urgently."

       "Thanks, Mikey. Really. You‟ve been there for every rough edge I‟ve ever faced."

       "And you for me. But…" He made a growling sound. "Next time, Clari, open the door? I was ringing that bell for 10 minutes."

       He leaned toward her and hugged her a little tighter and a little longer than had been their habit in adulthood. Even that gesture, as warm as it was, felt like admonishment, an urging to pay close attention to every one of these critical days.

At least, it is green here,

—James Wright

Reality is a very effective teacher.

—Former U.S. Defense Secretary Robert Gates

O
ne final roadblock, one ragtag roadblock more.

       
The four years, five months and three weeks that have passed since then have not dulled
the memories of that barricade and that night and the near-miss of my efforts, dear daughters, to
reach you and your wonderful mother.

       
The weather was clear, leaving stars visible. It was nearly 2 a.m. I sat in the middle of a
three-ve
hicle convoy. We‟d passed safely through four previous checkpoints with the use of a
UN
devised code phrase. (My sense of humor still intact, I suggested "Release the Bull," but the
sober UN representatives rejected that.) We were down to a few hundred yards and one last
scraggly bunch of fighters separating me from my family, and then I would be in the air, long
before dawn left its first morning kiss on Kabul soil.

       
I‟d chosen a pinstriped suit for the journey, a seri
ous tie, carefully polished shoes, black
socks. I wanted to look like what I felt myself to be: the head of a modern state, still proud,
thoroughly disdainful of the quarreling mujahideen who knew nothing about how to rule a nation
as complicated as ours, and the fundamentalists who would drag Afghanistan back a century or
more.

       
Most of all, I wanted to look magnificent for my family when I walked in the door of our
new home in Delhi. I‟d been exiled before; I knew it would not be forever. I believed we wo
uld
all return, and in under five years. But I wanted to reassure my three daughters, and especially
your mother-flower. I knew she felt as sad and angry as I did to leave Afghanistan. I wanted to
drop to my knees and apologize to her for my failure to hold on longer; I wanted to comfort her,
and to embrace her and you, my daughters. The image of our imminent reunion brought me
solace as we drove away from Kabul in the dark.

       
I had to leave behind much, but I carried in my briefcase a few presents for you. The
stuffed bear wearing a hat with a red star that Muski once liked to sleep with; it was among the
gifts President Gorbachev had given me for my daughters when we met in the Kremlin. I know
you are not a baby anymore, my green-eyed Muski, but you are still my youngest. Also a large
jar of dirt scooped from the Kabul ground, smelling of lemon and a lick of Afghan wind. A few
photographs of you girls and your mother standing in the Hindu Kush range. I am glad I brought
them because I was never able to return to our home, so now, sequestered as I am, I can look
each day on your sweet faces. I can look, too, at the mountains of Afghanistan that I fear I may
never see again outside a photograph.

       
But of course, I will see them. My spirits flag a little when I hear the progress the
fundamentalists have made in the countryside. Nonetheless, I will not give up. Shoes are tested
on the feet, dear daughters; a man is tested in the fight.

       
On that night, just beyond that final checkpoint, Benon Sevan sat waiting for me on the
airfield, his plane having touched down from Pakistan, full of fuel and ready for departure. At
first, the delay at the roadblock seemed nothing more than a momentary snag, a piece of
disorganization. But when I realized that the round-faced devil Dostum was trying to block my
safe passage, I became furious. I climbed from the car and yelled. There was a time when I
would not have been affronted in this way, but on this night, I could not change their minds. A
mere suggestion of a lieutenant cowered before my voice until he found the courage to speak; he
insisted that even if he allowed us to pass, we would all be slaughtered at the airport. Begging
my forgiveness, he urged me to return to the official residence. Did Dostum truly think I would
simply, stupidly acquiesce to such a proposal? The goat, fleeing from the wolf, may spend the
night in the butcher‟s house, but not me, dear daughters. I have grown to manhood in
Afghanistan; I have survived. I am not a fool.

       
When it became clear that the airport was unreachable that night, I insisted that I was
the UN‟s responsibility, and must be taken to their compound and protected by them. They, after
all, had written my resignation letter and made my exit part of the peace process. They had
promised me safe passage to Delhi. As your mother knows, the decision to resign had been a
hard one; I‟ve always preferred even the swift blow to the swift flight. But I
had met their wishes;
now they were responsible for me.

       
They didn‟t want me, a weight around their necks,
but what could they do? After some
hesitation, they agreed, and we made the drive back into the capital far sooner than I had
anticipated. Arriving at the UN mission, I wanted to contact your dear mother first; I knew she
would be worried. But as always, the responsibilities of state demanded attention. I telephoned
my generals, insisting they take action to allow Benon off the airplane, and I called Yaqoubi,
demanding an explanation for what had happened at the airport. He promised to investigate and
get back to me within 24 hours.

       
I remained optimistic, but I could not sleep. As morning dawned, I listened to the music
of Ahma
d Zahir. Though he failed to find the wisdom to navigate Afghanistan‟s politics, Zahir
was our nightingale, a mixture of Rumi and Elvis. He was of my generation, one year older than
I, and so I always felt as if he were mine. I had little time, even as a youth, for matters of play,
but I remember attending one of his concerts in Kabul. And I remember the day he died, the
schools clos
ing, his songs on the radio: "My grave is lying unknown along the way." However,
that night I didn‟t want to think of another victim of Afghan politics; I played his love songs, like
Sultan Qalbah.

       
The next morning, I gathered myself. I requested a cup of chai; I washed, and I prayed—
yes, one can reach Allah without being an Islamist. But by the time I opened the door to my
room, the setbacks had already begun. They had murdered Yaqoubi immediately, and named it a
suicide. Anyone who knew Yaqoubi knew he would never kill himself. He was a brilliant head of
the secret police; he beat back my opponents in 1990 when they attempted a coup, and he would
have beaten them back again before he took his own life. Then Wakil, my closest aide, crumbled
as easily as a k
hatai cookie, going on television to call me a "hated leader." If he thought this
would save him, he was wrong. I spoke to him only once after that. "Though you swoop down on
chickens, O Kite," I told him, "you have not thereby become a hawk." We never sp
oke again.

       
Still I was hopeful. How long could this go on? Days? Weeks? Perhaps a month or two at
the outside. That was my thinking before Rabbani delivered the final blow. Rabbani, the same
donkey but with a new saddle, informed the UN that, as interim president, he would not allow me
to leave the country, nor would he allow me to leave the UN compound. Not ever. Those were his
words. To arrest me would cause an international outcry, but he knew himself to be so weak that
he thought to allow me freedom meant his own power would not be secure. A man is only gone
when he‟s under the sod; since Rabbani couldn‟t get me there, he locked me up in the UN
compound instead. T
he empty vessel makes much noise; better for both him and us if he‟d stayed
a harmless theology teacher.

       
Expediency. Those who betrayed me believed it suited their interests. But they failed to
comprehend the future. This has always been one of my gifts, dear daughters. I have a long
range view. I even called Bush after the Wall fell to warn him that now that the Reds were
finished, the problems would be with the Greens. By this, I explained, I meant those who fight
under the green flag of the Islamists. I offered my partnership; together we could suppress the
fundamentalists before they became too strong. I could strive for greater national unity, not
divisions based on ethnicity or extremism. I thought a world leader such as he would understand,
but Bush failed to act.

       
So here I sit. What is the pattern of my days? Too unchanging for my curious mind.
Sometimes I feel like a caged lion with little to do except eat, sleep, welcome visitors and try, as
always, to behave in a way that would make you proud. At least they supply me with treats and
keep my cage gilded. My sleeping quarters are simple but
my bed is softer than many I‟ve
known. I have a room for greeting visitors, a couch, a few chairs, a television set and a radio.
The two UN policemen who "guard" me are pleasant enough. Young Amin takes care of my
meager needs, bringing me tea and food, showing in my guests. At first I feared he was sent by
one of those camel-dung spiders to kill me or at least spy on me, but no, he seems to truly believe
I should still be president. "You are a large leader pinned in a small region," he tells me. By this
time, I speak to him as though he were a son.