Read Online News From the Red Desert by Kevin Patterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kevin Patterson
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and ask them not to. Just disappear. No more contact. They’ll probably want to confirm things. If they can’t, they probably won’t use the photos.
The thing is to not lose my shit.
That Asian woman—the masseuse—has been staring at me too long for months now. Settle down. She doesn’t know anything. She stares because she wants you to know she isn’t afraid of you. Which is worth knowing. So thank you, Asian woman. Who gave me a great massage last year when I hurt my back. But likely doesn’t remember. Which is fine by me.
Mohammed Hashto
The Americans don’t look normal. No one else is as big as them. The Dutch are tall, too. All these foreigners are tall. Not the Gurkhas, not the Jordanians, so much. But the Americans’ arms are the size of normal people’s legs and their chests like sacks of grain. They talk big, they stand big. Who would ever want to fight them?
I was afraid of them at first. I thought they would yell at me. Then I realized that that wasn’t going to happen. The soldiers in the Tribal Areas, they notice you. They think about whether you have some moneythey can get out of you, or whether you’re going to shoot them in the back after they walk by you. They look you in the eyes and watch for fear, and if they don’t see it, they pay attention. The big men here don’t care whether you’re afraid of them, and don’t look at you long enough to tell whether or not you are. They just want their coffee. Which is how Fazil prefers it. But someone like Amr is used to being noticed. Me, I don’t care whether I’m noticed or not.
The giant bald man comes in three or four times a day. He drinks triple-shot cappuccinos and is polite. He watches the Thai woman pretty closely. He never lets her notice him. Or she never lets him notice her noticing him. Many of the other soldiers seem to be afraid of him. They get out of his way when they see him coming. Maybe they work for him. They all come out of that long yellow warehouse near the airstrip and return to it when they’re done here. You can see them working, when an airplane or a truck convoy comes in. The bald man walks among those men and watches. But not like he watches the Asian woman.
I did not like Rashid at first. I did not like how he spoke with so many strange words. And that he kept using them after he knew the rest of us could hardly understand him. Maybe even more, then. I understand English. I listen to the radio and read the newspaper. Maybe he spent time in India. They talk like that there, like English is their own language, and that the more of it you know the smarter you are. In Pakistan it is different. We use English too, but Urdu is what we live in and think in. When he tried to talk to us in Urdu and then Pashto I was surprised that Fazil kept changing back into English. But then I understood. It was too soon to show him what we thought.
Rami Issay bought the first chess set when Rashid arrived. It was a strange thing. Rami Issay is normally so bored by his coffee shop. I think meeting Rashid made him more interested. Rashid is smart and suddenly Rami Issay wants the Kandahar Green Beans to be smart too, like cafés in ferenghee cities.
I asked Amr about chess. He told me that chess was invented by Muslims. That it is still a game, but less sinful than the card games the Americans and English are always playing, or dancing, or the musicvideos you see them watching in their compounds. “But is it a sin?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. I am not an educated man.”
“But there are no holy men here to ask.”
“I think that we should remember to pray, and fast on the holy days, and be pure ourselves. We think the ferenghee are sinful and most of them probably are. But the Taliban would think we are sinners, too.”
“But there is only one God.”
“Yes. And he made the world and the people in it.”
“So the others are not blasphemers?”
“No. They are blasphemers. And you are not them.”
“I don’t
The thing is to not lose my shit.
That Asian woman—the masseuse—has been staring at me too long for months now. Settle down. She doesn’t know anything. She stares because she wants you to know she isn’t afraid of you. Which is worth knowing. So thank you, Asian woman. Who gave me a great massage last year when I hurt my back. But likely doesn’t remember. Which is fine by me.
Mohammed Hashto
The Americans don’t look normal. No one else is as big as them. The Dutch are tall, too. All these foreigners are tall. Not the Gurkhas, not the Jordanians, so much. But the Americans’ arms are the size of normal people’s legs and their chests like sacks of grain. They talk big, they stand big. Who would ever want to fight them?
I was afraid of them at first. I thought they would yell at me. Then I realized that that wasn’t going to happen. The soldiers in the Tribal Areas, they notice you. They think about whether you have some moneythey can get out of you, or whether you’re going to shoot them in the back after they walk by you. They look you in the eyes and watch for fear, and if they don’t see it, they pay attention. The big men here don’t care whether you’re afraid of them, and don’t look at you long enough to tell whether or not you are. They just want their coffee. Which is how Fazil prefers it. But someone like Amr is used to being noticed. Me, I don’t care whether I’m noticed or not.
The giant bald man comes in three or four times a day. He drinks triple-shot cappuccinos and is polite. He watches the Thai woman pretty closely. He never lets her notice him. Or she never lets him notice her noticing him. Many of the other soldiers seem to be afraid of him. They get out of his way when they see him coming. Maybe they work for him. They all come out of that long yellow warehouse near the airstrip and return to it when they’re done here. You can see them working, when an airplane or a truck convoy comes in. The bald man walks among those men and watches. But not like he watches the Asian woman.
I did not like Rashid at first. I did not like how he spoke with so many strange words. And that he kept using them after he knew the rest of us could hardly understand him. Maybe even more, then. I understand English. I listen to the radio and read the newspaper. Maybe he spent time in India. They talk like that there, like English is their own language, and that the more of it you know the smarter you are. In Pakistan it is different. We use English too, but Urdu is what we live in and think in. When he tried to talk to us in Urdu and then Pashto I was surprised that Fazil kept changing back into English. But then I understood. It was too soon to show him what we thought.
Rami Issay bought the first chess set when Rashid arrived. It was a strange thing. Rami Issay is normally so bored by his coffee shop. I think meeting Rashid made him more interested. Rashid is smart and suddenly Rami Issay wants the Kandahar Green Beans to be smart too, like cafés in ferenghee cities.
I asked Amr about chess. He told me that chess was invented by Muslims. That it is still a game, but less sinful than the card games the Americans and English are always playing, or dancing, or the musicvideos you see them watching in their compounds. “But is it a sin?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. I am not an educated man.”
“But there are no holy men here to ask.”
“I think that we should remember to pray, and fast on the holy days, and be pure ourselves. We think the ferenghee are sinful and most of them probably are. But the Taliban would think we are sinners, too.”
“But there is only one God.”
“Yes. And he made the world and the people in it.”
“So the others are not blasphemers?”
“No. They are blasphemers. And you are not them.”
“I don’t
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