“Elise,” he says in greeting, straightening to his full height. “Going for a walk?”
I nod because my throat is suddenly too dry for conversation.
“I thought I might see you yesterday.” He watches the toe of his shoe scuff the dirt, like he’s worried about how his admission will be received. “Or the day before.”
I swallow, mustering some poise. “I found the note you left.”
“Ah. Is that why you’re looking at me like I’m dangerous?”
I smile. “Not dangerous. Unpredictable. That was ballsy, the way you left it sitting out. What if the wind had taken it?”
He gives me a long, charged look, then says, “The wind has taken me.”
I stand, rootless, staring at him with a feeling not unlike reverence.
“Do you know how we say wind at home?”
I shake my head.
“Baad.” His voice is low and airy, like his very breath is a breeze.
“Baad,” I repeat. “What language is that?”
“Pashto. It is how I speak with my family.”
“Do you know other languages?”
“Dari. Enough Arabic to understand the phrasing in the Quran.”
“Wow. I only know English—barely, sometimes.”
“Well, your actions speak loudly. You’ve pulled me out of surging water, made me warm with your smile, and left me sitting alone. Even when you’re quiet, you say plenty.”
And now I’m the one scuffing my shoe. “That looked bad the other day, I know it did. I had—” I pause, blink away the threat of tears, and try again. “I had a lot of feelings. I was kind of a mess, actually. But I shouldn’t have walked away.”
“It was your right.”
“And it’s your right to call me a blazing racist.”
“Is that what you are?”
I consider his question seriously. I don’t categorize or put down or judge many based on the actions of few. I don’t believe myself better than anyone else. And I don’t hate. Except … yes, I do. I despise the people who killed my brother, who fight and oppress, who punish with fists and stones, who launch rocket-propelled grenades at American military vehicles. But I also understand that the men who took Nicky aren’t representative of all Afghans, or all Muslims.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
“What is it about me?” he asks, more curious than combative.
I wrap both hands around my dog’s leash; they’re shaky thanks to this deserved interrogation. “It’s nothing about you.”
“It must be. My language? My religion? My home?”
“I…”
“Or maybe it’s something else. Something off-putting I have yet to think of.”
“No,” I say in a small voice, wishing I’d disintegrate, disappear into the dust beneath my feet. I am so out of my league. So void of the intelligence, the directness, the compassion necessary for this conversation. Nick’s death stripped me of those things, at least in the way of Afghanistan and its people, which is ironic. He’d hate the way I treated Mati, no matter the reason. But I can do better—I know I can.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Mati, my voice barely a whisper. “For walking away, and for how that must’ve made you feel.”
He nods, his expression more understanding than I probably deserve.
I want to know if I’m forgiven, if we’re okay, but I won’t ask; forgiveness is his to grant when he’s ready. Still, even though he’s humored me, heard me out and accepted my apology—even though we’re clearly done here—I can’t bring myself to tell him goodbye, to continue my walk, to leave him behind again.
Bambi nudges my leg with her wet nose, Are you all right? combined with Can we get going? I reach down to stroke her head and she pops up out of her sit to pick up her tennis ball.
“She is ready to walk,” Mati says.
“Always.”
“Then you should go. We can talk another day, if you’d like.”
“Or … you could walk with us.” I second-guess the invitation as soon as it’s free of my mouth. I mean, I want him to come along, but mixed signals much? The next message he leaves me will be about the wicked case of whiplash I’ve given him.
But he smiles. “I think I will.”
We spend a long time on the beach, trekking to the end of the sand and most of the way back. There isn’t a lot of talking involved. Mati seems comfortable with a morning set to mute, and I don’t mind the quiet, either; it’s companionable. Every once in a while, though, I’ll lower my camera to glance toward him and find his lips subtly moving, like he’s silently reciting, or trying to learn something by rote, or committing the beach to memory so he can write about it later. I’m charmed.
There’s a fallen log, near the stairs that’ll take us back to town. It’s wind-ravaged, its bark worn away by ages in the elements. Mati points at it. “Should we sit?”
The wood is smooth and cool. I perch with my knees inclined toward him, and he mirrors my posture. Bambi drops onto my feet, drenching them with her sea-soaked hair. She spits her tennis ball onto her paws, sighs, and closes her eyes.
“We wore her out,” Mati says.
“She likes to nap midmorning, and again after lunch. She also likes a good brushing every few days, and a full bowl of fresh water available to her at all times. She’s kind of high maintenance—the opposite of me.”
He scans my yoga pants, cuffs frosted with sand, my too-big sweatshirt, and the messy knot of my hair. He sounds appreciative when he says, “I think you’re too focused on your camera to be high maintenance.”
I am; I care more about perfecting my photographs than perfecting the way I look, and I like that about myself. I think Mati might, too, because he’s still gazing into my eyes, like he can see my dreams playing out on an invisible film reel. Somehow, I’m not uncomfortable.
He says softly, “Kaishta.”
I recognize the word, the perfect intonation of his accent. “You said that the other day. What does it mean?”
He smiles, guilty, like he’s been caught with a fistful of candy, then translates: “Beautiful.”
Okay, now I’m uncomfortable.
But, like, wonderfully, gloriously, amazingly uncomfortable.
MATI
She looks out over the water, face flushed.
I have flattered her,
and I will never be sorry.
She is beautiful, an impossible sort of beautiful— a mirror-still lake,
a soaring hawk,
a meadow of wildflowers.
She is fragile,
and she is valorous,
and for me, she is fleeting.
“Afghans are not evil,” I tell her, circling back to our earlier conversation.
She turns her face to mine; I can see that she wants to hear more, that she is open to correcting misconception.
“We live our lives charitably,” I say.
“We try to be humble and kind.”
I lean forward to gather a great scoop of sand.
“Hold out your hands.”
She complies, dubious,
mapping me with her stare.
I pour the cool grains from my hands to hers.
I wave an open palm over the sand she holds and say, “The people of my country.”
She nods, bright-eyed.
I brace her cupped hands with one of mine.
I only mean to hold them steady, but her soft skin makes my breath falter.
I rob a few grains from the wealth she holds.
They nest among the whorls of my fingertip.
I show them to her.
“These are Afghans who are bad,” I say.
“They twist Allah’s words,
and use the Quran to justify violence.”
I blow the sand from my finger; it finds the wind and sails away.
“The Taliban, al-Qaeda,
others who harbor extreme beliefs …
they are not true Afghans,
or faithful Muslims—
not in my eyes.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, reflecting.
Then, in her sweet voice she says, “Thank you for showing me.”
And I know … she is genuine.
elise
A new day.
Mati can’t come to the beach this morning; his father has a medical appointment in San Jose, an hour north. His doctors have scans to run and progress to share, and Mati’s mother wants to be there, so Mati will go, too. He told me all this yesterday, after he filled my hands with sand, restructuring the framework I’ve regarded as truth since Nick died. We’ve made plans to meet later, though, at Van Dough’s.