Part 11 (1/2)

He directed her a few streets away and then told her to pull over. She followed him on foot halfway up the block. On a second-story wall set back from the street, she saw it. A soldier”s face, about five feet wide, his head tilted to one side and his eyes closed, sleeping or meditating or dead. His skin seemed almost to glow. IMOP, it said in a corner, along with Afgh.

”How do you do it?”

”Different ways.” He snapped a few pictures as he spoke. ”Sometimes I use photos, or compilations of photos. Sometimes I draw it. Then I use an old overhead projector to make it larger. I trace it and cut it out of a piece of paper or, when I can afford it, plastic acetate. After that, it”s all the power of a can, or two or three, of spray paint. When I”m finished, I hand it over to the wind, the rain, people on the street.”

”And this one?”

”My brother”s face,” he said, and turned back toward the car, severing the conversation. She took one last look before following.

They had to park a couple of blocks from the next stencil. Standing six feet tall on a corner near the metal backdoor of a Mexican food restaurant, it showed a uniformed American soldier striding forward, trying to unfasten his fire-engulfed helmet. Flames also surged from his shoulders.

Danil took photos silently and they headed back to the car. She felt oddly gratified to see he was talented. She studied him a moment, imagining him working in front of this door in the middle of some night.

”Urban history,” she said in the car. ”This is part of it and it”s the only history that still feels alive to me. I love it. When I started college, I thought I wanted to be an urban activist.”

”A what?”

”Yeah.” She laughed. ”They didn”t offer that major. But what I wanted was to bring communities together within the urban environment in unexpected ways. In the 1970s in Austria, people strapped on wood frames that took up the same amount of s.p.a.ce as a car and then took to the streets. It was a protest against the alienation that cars encourage, and at the same time, it created new conversations, new alliances. Anyway, maybe that”s kind of what street art is now.”

”Urban activist.”

”No money in it, of course.” She laughed again.

”Never is, is there, in what we want to do most?”

”Sometimes there is,” she said. ”When we”re very lucky. When things align perfectly.” She felt him looking at her and turned toward him. ”What?” she said.

He hesitated a moment. ”Turn left up here,” he said. And then after a minute: ”two more blocks. Right-hand side. Over there.”

The next piece, on a whitewashed wall, showed a soldier lying in a splotch of red, and another soldier walking away, through a door. It was dramatic, but hard. She found herself thinking of rescue attempts.

”Left, then right. One more block and on the left-hand side.”

This one showed an Islamic woman wearing a headscarf and kneeling, an expression of anguish on her face, her arms spread open, one hand colored red. Someone had painted a tag, the letters KBZ, on her knee. She wanted to ask him about it, but he turned away before she could.

”Four blocks and then a right. Okay, left there. Park anywhere.”

This one: a woman cradling a limp child, her mouth opened.

”Two blocks and then a right and then a left for three blocks.”

She followed him to a brick wall covered with graffiti. In one corner stood a piece she, by now, recognized immediately as his. It showed a shadow of a male form, and where the figure casting the shadow would be standing, Danil had painted flames. The same insignia: IMOP and Afgh.

This one, against her will, brought tears. It was, she knew, the c.u.mulative impact of the images, her fears for Todd and the lack of sleep. Not wanting Danil to see, she turned away, but too late; he”d already noticed. He stepped closer. ”You okay?”

She managed to smile. ”You must think I”m completely unbalanced.”

He shook his head. ”Tired. And stressed. And afraid.”

”This isn”t me at my best.”

”You seem to be doing fine, given the circ.u.mstances. But maybe that”s enough for now.”

She did, suddenly, feel exhausted. She glanced at her watch and inhaled sharply. ”Oh G.o.d. I”m supposed to be on a speakerphone with the FBI in twenty minutes. I”m going to drive right back to my place, okay? Let you out there.”

”Sure.”

They both got in the car quickly. ”I want to thank you for this.” She glanced at him.

He didn”t meet her gaze; he was looking down at his camera. ”Sure,” he said.

She started the car and pulled into the street. ”You know where I live. Come by anytime for worry food.”

He looked up then and smiled. ”I will.”

And with those words she felt a sudden, unexpected longing that surprised her-a longing for forbidden conversation of the sort that she might have had before with Todd, this time about Afghanistan, about her husband, about loss and fear and endless nights.

Jirga Amin, September 13th Everything was mostly in place by the time he arrived. The plentiful food his uncle”s family had provided for the partic.i.p.ants was displayed beneath the shade of a tarp. Nearby, a deep red carpet suffocated the bald earth and many already sat at its border. Several glanced his direction; none smiled. Amin lingered outside the circle, waiting for his uncle Mahyar to emerge from a group of half a dozen men who stood off to one side. Mahyar effusively kissed Amin”s cheeks, took his hand, sent greetings to his mother. Only when he pulled Amin to the side did his expression turn dark.

”You have put us both in jeopardy, Amin,” he said, speaking quietly, quickly.

”I”m sorry for that.”

Mahyar waved his hand dismissively. ”Listen. I haven”t much time. Be careful what you press for. The elders must be sure the other side will accept any decision they reach. Otherwise they risk dishonor. This is their limitation. So look for a compromise.”

”Compromise, uncle?”

”I”ve done everything I can to lay the ground for you. But it”s a complicated game you are here to play, my son. For my sake and yours, be skilled. If you have a way out for all sides, offer it.”

”He must be freed. What compromise is possible? He”s not-”

His uncle shook his head, cutting Amin off. ”We speak now of strategy. I live among these men. So hear me. If you have no planned compromise, listen for theirs. It will not come directly from an elder himself. When it comes, however, do not reject it, Amin.”

At that, he abruptly moved away, smiling in a way that felt artificial and pointless and necessary all at once. Amin understood further discussion would arouse unwelcome attention. ”Thank you, uncle,” Amin called after him. ”I will carry your greetings to our family.” Then he paused, nodding to a few of the elders before approaching the circle, finding an opening and dropping himself to a seating position. He knew he was being stared at, but as a guest and an outsider, it was improper for him to stare back. Still he tried to surrept.i.tiously evaluate the attendees. Beyond the inner circle, which he had joined, was a second loop of those who by tradition would not speak but were there to observe.

He felt sure the kidnappers had someone representing them here, or were here themselves, and that the elders, and perhaps even his uncle, knew who they were; he wondered if they were in the inner ring or the secondary one, and if he would hear from them directly or through a proxy, and if he would be able to discern the difference. He was certain that many men who would never carry out a kidnapping nevertheless thought poorly of him for his presence here and the nature of his appeal, and might well want to express their disdain.

The session was called to order with a brief prayer. Then Amin was introduced to the a.s.sembled by the name of his father to stress to everyone here that he, too, was Pashtun. The meeting, he knew, would not be run by any one man; instead it would operate on the basis of perceived equality. Two of the elders had small piles of stones in front of them that they would use in judging the arguments. One of these two nodded at him, a signal that he was to present his case, though of course everyone present already knew why he was here.

Amin began by describing Todd”s work over the several years he”d been coming to Afghanistan. While he spoke, each of the two elders moved their rocks around as if taking notes. ”This man was in this country to help, and as a guest.” Amin paused. ”I know I need not tell you this action of forcibly holding him violates the rules by which we honorably treat guests. You know-”

”But he is not only a guest, is he?” one of the men in the circle interrupted. He looked about 40 years old, with a white turban and dark eyes that seemed at once unfocused and angry.

Amin ignored the interruption. ”I come to you for help because from Kabul, where he was taken, he was driven to this province on the first day.”

”You don”t know that he”s still here,” said one of the stone-moving elders.