proprietor, closed the chest, and lifted it back to its nook. Dust swirled in the lamplight. “You asked to see his hands. We learned that line first week in-country."
"No shit."
"No shit,” I agreed, letting my disgust show. “Now you have to bow to the ‘rag-head’ and sit down for a cup of his tea—if he invites you again."
"But Doc, he keeps dead pieces of his body in a box in his house!"
" But Sergeant , you wear dead pieces of a cow on your feet. He prolly just wants to be sure all his parts are buried in the same grave. You know, so he can be whole on Resurrection Day."
He frowned. “Islam has Resurrection Day?"
Of course: Qimaya . But I wasn't supposed to know too much, was I? I shrugged. “Come in and play nice."
He stiffened his back, bowed in the doorway, and asked in polite Dari if he could come in.
Where did all these people get off thinking Dari was the language this far north and east? Or had they all been trained down south?
The shopkeeper welcomed him effusively, of course, and us even more so, and called for the little girl to come back and pour the tea.
I eyed the MP. His body armor smelled dank and undersanitized. If he were a sailor, I'd outrank him. We were a long way from any ocean here, but it wouldn't hurt to take some control of the situation. “What's the problem as you see it, Sergeant?"
"Someone saw you two come in and suggested I bust up your drug deal."
"I don't smoke,” I said loftily. “It's against my religion."
"You, Gunny?"
Oscar shook his head.
I blinked. Oscar was a gunnery sergeant? He did outrank me, then. He'd made the leap to chief that I hadn't managed.
Terrific. Absofuckinglutely terrific.
"So what you two doing in here? No show, no food, no booze, no smoke. The only girls in this block are jailbait."
Oscar looked over the rim of his teacup. “We don't do kids."
"And...so? Spit it out, so I don't have to write the long-form report on you."
Oscar held his gaze.
I sighed. This was so not the time for a testosterone duel. “I went through the bazaar and then some of these shops looking for seeds for my grandmother's garden. This shop has nothing of the sort, but the proprietor is friendly, and his shopboy speaks enough English to run around finding what I want instead of giving me the inshallah, bukhra brush-off."
"'Fraid I'll have to look over whatever he brings you, Doc. Best for all of us if I sort of spill out anything that looks like wild mountain herb."
"Fine with me.” What wasn't fine was that I'd just invited him to sit in another man's home, drinking another man's tea. Which might be more than the shopkeeper could afford. “The dude's got to serve us tea, though, and it doesn't look like he lives too high on the hog. So find something to buy, if you can."
He glanced around, and his face lit up. “Oh, look! That stuff that isn't thyme! My cook was asking for some of this.” He bought a handful of za'atar, which was carefully wrapped in a newspaper packet, then followed the shopkeeper into the back.
Sitting around the fire with the tea was going to be awkward. I doubted the MP had much training in small talk, Oscar seemed to have taken lessons in being taciturn, and I wasn't supposed to know any reasonable amount of the lingo. So what's next?
Oscar held his hands around his teacup and recited softly, in Pashto, a poem about a falcon.
I looked at the mystified MP, and the dawning delight in the shopkeeper's face, and remembered to look puzzled. I wasn't supposed to have a clue what he was saying. The recitation wasn't all that long, and his enunciation sucked, but it was definitely a poem, probably a famous one.
My father was a scholar. I should know things like this. I'd heard of the Prophet and his cronies passing time by reciting long poems, so why didn't I know any? My ears burned again. I sipped my tea in silence. When it was over, I congratulated Oscar stiffly, without the open admiration of the MP.
The MP shuffled through his
"No shit."
"No shit,” I agreed, letting my disgust show. “Now you have to bow to the ‘rag-head’ and sit down for a cup of his tea—if he invites you again."
"But Doc, he keeps dead pieces of his body in a box in his house!"
" But Sergeant , you wear dead pieces of a cow on your feet. He prolly just wants to be sure all his parts are buried in the same grave. You know, so he can be whole on Resurrection Day."
He frowned. “Islam has Resurrection Day?"
Of course: Qimaya . But I wasn't supposed to know too much, was I? I shrugged. “Come in and play nice."
He stiffened his back, bowed in the doorway, and asked in polite Dari if he could come in.
Where did all these people get off thinking Dari was the language this far north and east? Or had they all been trained down south?
The shopkeeper welcomed him effusively, of course, and us even more so, and called for the little girl to come back and pour the tea.
I eyed the MP. His body armor smelled dank and undersanitized. If he were a sailor, I'd outrank him. We were a long way from any ocean here, but it wouldn't hurt to take some control of the situation. “What's the problem as you see it, Sergeant?"
"Someone saw you two come in and suggested I bust up your drug deal."
"I don't smoke,” I said loftily. “It's against my religion."
"You, Gunny?"
Oscar shook his head.
I blinked. Oscar was a gunnery sergeant? He did outrank me, then. He'd made the leap to chief that I hadn't managed.
Terrific. Absofuckinglutely terrific.
"So what you two doing in here? No show, no food, no booze, no smoke. The only girls in this block are jailbait."
Oscar looked over the rim of his teacup. “We don't do kids."
"And...so? Spit it out, so I don't have to write the long-form report on you."
Oscar held his gaze.
I sighed. This was so not the time for a testosterone duel. “I went through the bazaar and then some of these shops looking for seeds for my grandmother's garden. This shop has nothing of the sort, but the proprietor is friendly, and his shopboy speaks enough English to run around finding what I want instead of giving me the inshallah, bukhra brush-off."
"'Fraid I'll have to look over whatever he brings you, Doc. Best for all of us if I sort of spill out anything that looks like wild mountain herb."
"Fine with me.” What wasn't fine was that I'd just invited him to sit in another man's home, drinking another man's tea. Which might be more than the shopkeeper could afford. “The dude's got to serve us tea, though, and it doesn't look like he lives too high on the hog. So find something to buy, if you can."
He glanced around, and his face lit up. “Oh, look! That stuff that isn't thyme! My cook was asking for some of this.” He bought a handful of za'atar, which was carefully wrapped in a newspaper packet, then followed the shopkeeper into the back.
Sitting around the fire with the tea was going to be awkward. I doubted the MP had much training in small talk, Oscar seemed to have taken lessons in being taciturn, and I wasn't supposed to know any reasonable amount of the lingo. So what's next?
Oscar held his hands around his teacup and recited softly, in Pashto, a poem about a falcon.
I looked at the mystified MP, and the dawning delight in the shopkeeper's face, and remembered to look puzzled. I wasn't supposed to have a clue what he was saying. The recitation wasn't all that long, and his enunciation sucked, but it was definitely a poem, probably a famous one.
My father was a scholar. I should know things like this. I'd heard of the Prophet and his cronies passing time by reciting long poems, so why didn't I know any? My ears burned again. I sipped my tea in silence. When it was over, I congratulated Oscar stiffly, without the open admiration of the MP.
The MP shuffled through his
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