Part 10 (1/2)
”That Rumi, he”s something,” Hammon said. ”How”s the work been going?” he asked after a moment.
Mandy nodded. ”Good. Fine.” Then she shrugged. ”Actually, I don”t know. They”re happy to have the supplies I bring, and they listen in a friendly way while I explain ways to improve patient care. But I don”t have the sense that they”ll follow through at all. I leave ill.u.s.trated instructions, and I think they throw the sheets away the minute I”m out the door.”
Hammon laughed. ”Well, there”s probably some of that, but you may be having a bigger impact than you realize.”
”I”m not sure. Yesterday at the center for addicts, the director pulled me aside and told me not to be so public with the fact that I”m American.”
Hammon”s face grew more serious. ”What was her tone?”
”I don”t know. One of her a.s.sistants translated.”
”What did you say?”
”I asked why. The a.s.sistant didn”t even repeat that question to the director. She told me the director”s husband was visiting family up north when he and his fatherin-law were killed during an American night raid. Collateral damage, she called it. Her English was good enough for that phrase.”
Hammon sighed.
”I told the director I was sorry, and I hugged her. She hugged me back and the a.s.sistant hugged me too, but then she repeated again-don”t tell anyone I”m American. Better to say I”m German.”
Hammon”s face softened into a smile. ”German, huh? So what are you going to do?”
”Sauerkraut. That”s the single word I can say in German. I”m only going to get caught lying, if I try that.”
He nodded. ”It would be better just to go unnoticed. On the streets, keep your head down and don”t talk. You should be fine inside the hospitals, but for the refugee camps, a couple of my guys are going with you.”
Mandy took a sip of the lemonade. ”I have to tell you,” she said, ”even with the director”s warning, I really don”t feel in danger.”
”No one ever does. It”s Kabul, not the front line: that”s what everyone thinks when they first get here. After a while, they realize the front line is fluid. It”s everywhere.”
”How long have you been in this work, Hammon?”
”Long time,” he said.
”Being vague about your personal details again?”
He smiled. ”A professional habit, I guess. You get used to revealing nothing.” He rolled his shoulders. ”Truth is, I was a big disappointment to my mom.”
”You? How so?”
”She wanted me to be a chess player.”
”What?” Mandy smiled.
”I was really good at chess, back in school. She couldn”t understand when I began working out, and then joined the army and then Green Berets. And now, of course, this.”
”Well, from chess player to this: that”s a journey.”
”I don”t know. I often think I play a form of chess as part of my job, actually.” Hammon rubbed his stubble-covered chin. ”Still, my mom was disappointed. It wasn”t how she”d imagined the future.”
Mandy studied Hammon”s face. When he spoke, it was with purpose. ”Did she get over it?” she asked after a moment.
Hammon rose to his feet. ”She did. But not without effort. She said it required that she take all her clothes to the charity shop.”
”What do you mean?”
Hammon laughed at Mandy”s puzzled face. ”She had this saying. When she had to rethink things, she called it taking everything to the charity shop. So that she had a clean closet and could be ready for new outfits, symbolically speaking.” He paused. ”You see?”
Mandy leaned back in her chair. ”Yes,” she said. ”I think I do.”
Hammon gave her a short wave. ”See you at dinner.” And then he backed out as silently as he”d entered, leaving Mandy to her thoughts.
Danil, September 12th Danil followed the woman Clarissa into her home. She didn”t pause to unlock her door; she”d clearly left it unbolted when she”d gone out in the dark. He found that he liked this act of trust, even if it was actually inattention or eccentricity. Most people protected what didn”t need protecting, he”d come to believe, and were too casual with what was important. He”d been that way too once.
She led him into the kitchen. ”Sit down,” she said, and he did, stretching his legs out beneath the table; he was accustomed to making himself at home in unfamiliar places. He thought of it as one of his gifts: this ability to fit in, to one degree or another.
”What can I get you? We have lots of pasta salad, and there is a chicken ca.s.serole, and something with broccoli and cauliflower, and fresh bread.”
”Any of it sounds good,” he said, taking in the kitchen, which was large-as big as the combined s.p.a.ce of his own kitchen, living room and dining room. It was neater, too, and the honey-colored wood made it feel warm.
”How about a little of everything?” she said as she reached into the pantry and pulled out a plate. She went to the refrigerator and began removing containers. The fridge was full; he could see she hadn”t been kidding about that.
”So,” Clarissa said as she put a plate in front of him with chicken and a serving of pasta, basil and zucchini. ”How long have you been doing street art?”
”About four years,” he said.
She ground some coffee beans and spooned them into a filter. ”Are a lot of them about Afghanistan?”
”In one way or another, yeah. I only started-I started after.” He paused. ”Pasta salad is great. Your daughter”s a good cook.”
”Step-daughter. Yes, isn”t she?” Clarissa sat across from Danil and watched him eat. ”Do you live in the neighborhood?” she asked him.
”Over on Bergen,” he said.
”And what do you do? I mean, besides the street art?”
He laughed slightly. ”Hardly seems enough, does it?”
”I didn”t mean it that way,” she said. ”How do you take your coffee?”
”Black,” he said, and watched as she rose and poured him a cup. ”I got a BA from Ohio University. Then I moved to New York. I went to Pratt for a year. Wasn”t for me. Now, I paint the interiors of people”s homes, or the interiors of apartments or offices between occupants.”
”Pays the rent, I”d imagine.”
He shrugged. ”I suppose it does.”
”Not easy making it as an artist.”
Danil made a scoffing sound. ”I hate that word.”
”Why?”