Gravedigger Read Free Page B

it knows we’re here.”
    They didn’t have long to wait. After about two minutes a burly bearded man in salwar kameez and turban strode toward them, an AK47 slung over his shoulder. The three of them piled out of the truck. The man squinted, studying them. Finally he said something in Urdu. Noa responded. They spoke for a few minutes. Finally she turned and said, “This is Abasin Yusufzai. He is, I guess you would call him the mayor, of Garha. Mayor isn’t exactly the right word, but he’s in charge. He wants to know why we are here. I told him we were passing through and that we were looking for a place to spend the night.”
    Derek reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of dried meat. “Tell him I have a gift for him.”
    She and Derek stared at each other, then she turned and spoke to Abasin Yusufzai. After a moment he nodded and accepted the food. He spoke. Noa translated.
    “He thanks you for the gift and invites us to have dinner and stay the night with his family.”
    “Tell him we happily accept,” Johnston said.
    Minutes later they found themselves in Abasin’s house, which was made of stone and mud walls. It was small, with basically three rooms. It was one of maybe fifty houses, more or less set inside a walled compound and surrounded by farmland.
    Abasin’s wife wore traditional Pakistan clothing with her dark hair covered by a purple scarf, and busied herself around a fireplace. A pot hung over it into which she tossed chunks of meat and vegetables. Three small children, two boys and a girl, probably ages two through six, watched them curiously but shyly. Abasin shooed them into a different part of the house.
    He brought up a kettle that was by the fire and began to prepare tea. Noa translated.
    “Are you Americans?”
    “We are,” Derek said, gesturing to himself and Jim Johnston. “Our translator is Pakistani.”
    “With the government?”
    “International Health Alliance,” Derek said, launching into their cover stories. “We’re an NGO, a non-governmental agency. We are surveying villages, trying to figure out what people need. Then we’ll prepare reports for IHA and the World Health Organization.”
    Abasin spat into the fire, an apparent sign of disgust. “They never came here.”
    “You never saw Russians?”
    “I did. But not here. I fought them.”
    “You’re a mujahideen?” It was a loaded question and Derek wasn’t sure if it was a safe question to ask.
    Abasin’s expression was not friendly. He spoke for a long time, Noa listening carefully. Finally she turned to Derek. “He says he is a Muslim and that he is a Pakistani. But he had a cousin who fought against the Russians, so he went to fight alongside him. He says that the mujahideen were fighting for freedom, protecting Afghanistan, fighting the Russians, defending their homes. But some of these mujahideen, they were fighting a holy war, a jihad. But he says that these men, they will call everything they do a jihad to justify themselves. So he does not think of himself as a mujahideen. Now he is just a farmer.”
    “What does he farm?”
    “Cucumbers, barley, and corn. He has goats and sheep.”
    Derek wanted to ask if they grew poppies, but held his tongue. That wasn’t why he was here. He said, “How is everyone in the village? Is everyone healthy?”
    Abasin’s wife, who had remained silent, jumped slightly as Noa translated the question. Noa noticed as well.
    “Some children have been sick,” Abasin said. “Yes.”
    Derek stroked his cheek with his fingers. The beard was at the scratchy stage. Another week, though, and it would fill in. “I’m not a doctor, but I have medical experience. I would like to see the children.”
    Abasin nodded. “But first we will eat.”
    The food was good. They started with something called bolaanee , which resembled triangular pierogies, filled with potatoes and deep-fried. A salaata , which was a salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes and onion. And the main meal