What shall I tell him? she thought.
She considered a straightforward appeaclass="underline" Do this for me, because I ask it. It would have worked on any Western man who had fallen in love with her, but Muslim men did not seem to have a romantic idea of love—what Mohammed felt for her was more like a rather tender kind of lust.
It certainly did not put him at her disposal. And she wasn't sure he still felt it anyway. What, then? He did not owe her anything. She had never treated him or his wife. But she had treated Mousa—she had saved the boy's life. Mohammed owed her a debt of honor.
Do this for me, because I saved your son. It might work.
But Mohammed would ask why.
More women were appearing, fetching water and sweeping out their caves, tending to animals and preparing food. Jane knew she would see Mohammed shortly.
What shall I say to him?
The Russians know the route of the convoy.
How did they find out?
I don't know, Mohammed.
Then what makes you so sure?
I can't tell you. I overheard a conversation. I got a message from the British Secret Service. I have a hunch. I saw it in the cards. I had a dream.
That was it: a dream.
She saw him. He stepped from his cave, tall and handsome, wearing traveling clothes: the round Chitrali cap, like Masud's, the type most of the guerrillas sported; the mud-colored pattu which served as cloak, towel, blanket and camouflage; and the calf-length leather boots he had taken from the corpse of a Russian soldier. He walked across the clearing with the stride of one who has a long way to go before sundown. He took the footpath down the mountainside, toward the deserted village.
Jane watched his tall figure disappear. It's now or never, she thought; and she followed him. At first she walked slowly and casually, so that it would not be obvious she was going after Mohammed; then, when she was out of sight of the caves, she broke into a run. She slithered and stumbled down the dusty trail, thinking: I wonder what all this running is doing to my insides. When she saw Mohammed ahead of her she called out to him. He stopped, turned and waited for her.
"God be with you, Mohammed Khan," she said when she caught up with him.
"And with you, Jane Debout," he said politely.
She paused, catching her breath. He watched her, wearing an expression of amused tolerance. "How is Mousa?" she said.
"He is well and happy, and learning to use his left hand. He will kill Russians with it one day."
This was a little joke: the left hand was traditionally used for "dirty" jobs, the right for eating. Jane smiled in acknowledgment of his wit, then said: "I'm so glad we were able to save his life."
If he thought her ungracious he did not show it. "I am forever in your debt," he said.
That was what she had been angling for. "There is something you could do for me," she said.
His expression was unreadable. "If it is within my power ..."
She looked around for somewhere to sit. They were standing near a bombed house. Stones and earth from the front wall had spilled across the pathway, and they could see inside the building, where the only furnishings left were a cracked pot and, absurdly, a color picture of a Cadillac pinned to a wall. Jane sat on the rubble and, after a moment's hesitation, Mohammed sat beside her.
"It is within your power," she said. "But it will cause you some small trouble."
"What is it?"
"You may think it the whim of a foolish woman."
"Perhaps." ~
"You'll be tempted to deceive me, by agreeing to my request and then 'forgetting' to carry it out."
"No."
"I ask you to deal truthfully with me, whether you refuse or not."
"I shall."
Enough of that, she thought. "I want you to send a runner to the convoy and order them to change their homeward route."
He was quite taken aback—he had probably been expecting some trivial, domestic request. "But why?" he said.
"Do you believe in dreams, Mohammed Khan?"
He shrugged. "Dreams are dreams," he said evasively.
Perhaps that was the wrong approach, she thought; a vision might be better. "While I lay alone in my cave, in the heat of the day, I thought I saw a white pigeon."
He was suddenly attentive, and she knew she had said the right thing: Afghans believed that white pigeons were sometimes inhabited by spirits.
Jane went on: "But I must have been dreaming, for the bird tried to speak to me."
"Ah!"
He took that as a sign that she had had a vision, not a dream, Jane thought. She went on: "I couldn't understand what it was saying, although I listened as hard as I could. I think it was speaking Pashto."
Mohammed was wide-eyed. "A messenger from Pushtun territory ..."
"Then I saw Ismael Gui, the son of Rabia, the father of Fara, standing behind the pigeon." She put her hand on Mohammed's arm and looked into his eyes, thinking: I could turn you on like an electric light, you vain, foolish man. "There was a knife in his heart, and he was weeping tears of blood. He pointed to the handle of the knife, as if he wanted me to pull it out of his chest. The handle was encrusted with jewels." Somewhere in the back of her mind she was thinking: Where did I get this stuff? "I got up from my bed and walked to him. I was afraid, but I had to save his life. Then, as I reached out to grasp the knife ..."
"What?"
"He vanished. I think I woke up."
Mohammed closed his wide-open mouth, recovered his poise and frowned importantly, as if carefully considering the interpretation of the dream. Now. Jane thought, it is time to pander to him a little bit.
"It may be all foolishness," she said, arranging her face
into a little-girl expression, all ready to defer to his superior masculine judgment. "That's why I ask you to do this for me, for the person who saved your son's life; to give me peace of mind."
He immediately looked a little haughty. "There is no need to invoke a debt of honor."
"Does that mean you'll do it?"
He answered with a question. "What kind of jewels were in the handle of the knife?"
Oh, God, she thought, what is the correct answer supposed to be? She thought to say "Emeralds," but they were associated with the Five Lions Valley, so it might imply that Ismael had been killed by a traitor in the Valley. "Rubies," she said.
He nodded slowly. "Did Ismael not speak to you?"
"He seemed to be trying to speak, but unable to."
He nodded again, and Jane thought: Come on, make up your bloody mind. At last he said: "The omen is clear. The convoy must be diverted.''
Thank God for that, thought Jane. "I'm so relieved," she said truthfully. "I didn't know what to do. Now I can be sure Ahmed will be saved." She wondered what she could do to nail Mohammed down and make it impossible for him to change his mind. She could not make him swear an oath. She wondered whether to shake his hand. Finally she decided to seal his promise with an even older gesture: she leaned forward and kissed his mouth, quickly but softly, not giving him a chance either to refuse or to respond. "Thank you!" she said. "I know you are a man of your word." She stood up. Leaving him seated, looking a little dazed, she turned and ran up the path toward the caves.
At the top of the rise she stopped and looked back. Mohammed was striding down the hill, already some distance from the bombed cottage, his head high and his arms swinging. He got a big charge from that kiss, Jane thought. I should be ashamed. I played on his superstition, his vanity and his sexuality. As a feminist I ought not to exploit his preconceptions—psychic woman, submissive woman, coquettish woman—to manipulate him. But it worked. It worked!