Mark Taylor: Genesis (Prequel in the Mark Taylor Series) Page 3

  “No. What little I know of Marco Polo comes from a Gary Jennings novel.” He laughed.

  As he and Mo descended the hill, kicking up plumes of dust with every step, he tried not to be disappointed with the ugliness of the town.

  The main road was paved, but the side street they took was just dirt and they had to skirt several broken down vehicles abandoned on the road. If Jennings had described Kunduz anywhere in his book, it must have been described much differently. Of course, he would have tried to depict the town as it might have been five hundred years ago. As they passed a square mud brick house, he somehow had the feeling it probably hadn’t changed all that much.

  The heat pressed down on them, and Mark guessed the temperature had to be close to a hundred. He thought by now he would be used to it, but he wasn’t. Sure, Chicago had its share of hot days in the summer and the humidity could make it stifling, but there was always an air conditioned restaurant, home or even a store close at hand where someone walking could go to get out of the heat. Here, it was just hot all the time. Mo told him the winters were cold, but that was hard to believe.

  Thankfully, their visit to the town would be short, only a day, but that made Mark wonder why they had bothered. They stayed with Mo’s uncle on his father’s side, and he supposed that was why they had come this way instead of going directly to Kabul.

  If Mo’s uncle had a wife, Mark never saw her in the day they spent in Kunduz. They ate a meager meal and Mark felt guilty for eating any of it and possibly taking food out of the mouths of the few children he spotted. Mo’s uncle spoke English and asked Mark about Chicago while they ate.

  “Mohommad tells me that Chicago is beautiful. Someday, maybe I will go there.”

  Mark finished chewing and nodded. “It is beautiful. The lake and the skyline are amazing.”

  “Do you live in a skyscraper? Sears Tower, maybe?”

  Grinning, Mark shook his head. “No. I have just an apartment above my studio. I like it though. It’s an older building converted to lofts.”

  The uncle’s eyebrows knit in confusion and Mark realized he had used terms probably unfamiliar to someone in Afghanistan. “It’s nice. A few miles from the Sears Tower, but I’ve been up in it before. The view from the observation deck is incredible.”

  “Maybe someday you can send me a picture of it, no? My nephew says you are a great photographer.”

  Mark shrugged. “Your nephew exaggerates, but sure, I could send you a photo.”

  After the meal, Mo excused himself to go visit with some of his uncle’s friends. “I hope you don’t mind, Mark. I know you came all the way here and I feel like I am abandoning you. I can stay if you want.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m exhausted. I think I might hit the sack early.” He had no desire to explore Kunduz.

  The next morning, they left for Kabul. In the car, Mo seemed preoccupied and spoke only a little on the long drive. Mark tried to start a few conversations only to receive one word answers. Finally, he turned away and stared out the window as the mountains slid away in the distance beyond the dry steppes and wondered if he had done something to offend his friend. Had he said something inappropriate to Mo’s uncle?

  In Kabul, Mo seemed to come out of his funk. While they walked, Mark became aware that he finally had a chance to take photos without the watchful eyes of the cousins, who had remained in Kunduz. He pulled his camera out of the case and unzipped the top of the bag that held his three hundred millimeter lens so it would be handy if he found he needed it.

  Blue burqas accompanied by men that Mark knew must be a male relative, dotted the long stretch of road, but all seemed to be on missions from one place to another.

  Mark jumped when a truck roared down the street, the bed full of men carrying guns. “What the hell?”

  The truck swerved to the side of the road near a lone woman. Mark was sure a man had been with the woman a few seconds ago, but now he was nowhere to be seen.

  Mo pulled Mark into an alley. “Better not to catch their attention.”

  Mark nodded, but peered around the corner, feeling in the bag for the lens. He screwed it on and began snapping photos as two of the men shouted at the woman. She cowered, but didn’t attempt to flee. Hampered by the burqa; she had no chance against them.

  He flinched in shock when one of the men lifted a club and brought it down across the woman’s back. The thud of wood against flesh wasn’t loud, but in his mind, the sound was amplified until it resonated like a gunshot. He lowered the camera and took two steps around the corner. He had no plan of action in mind but he couldn’t just stand here and watch a woman being beaten by two men.

  Mo grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”

  Yanking his arm out of Mo’s grasp, Mark glared at him. “What does it look like? We have to go help her.”

  Moving close, Mo put an arm out, blocking Mark’s way. “No, we don’t. Think of yourself as a reporter—you can’t be part of the news, you just have to record it.”

  Frustration, anger and helplessness battled inside of him. Part of him realized Mo was right. They were here to record this exact kind of treatment. Knowing Mo was correct was one thing—accepting it was a different matter. Even as he watched, people on the street walked past the commotion. Men would stop to look for a few seconds, but the women would pass without faltering. Were they so used to these scenes that they were no longer affected? Mark didn’t see how that was possible and guessed they were terrified of being the next victim, and that ignoring it was their best defense.

  “You can’t help, Mark. You are a foreigner and your ‘help’ could end up getting her killed and you arrested.”

  For a split second, he didn’t care about getting arrested. It was gut response, but common sense finally slapped him upside the head. If he were arrested, it would defeat their purpose. Resolutely, Mark nodded, but the muscles in his jaw tightened as he lifted the camera and caught the end of the conflict.

  The woman tumbled to the ground.

  Click.

  Another blow with the club.

  Click.

  The men shouted at her, prodding her with their feet.

  Click.

  Shakily, she stumbled to her feet, and made her way to the truck, where she was loaded in the back. She huddled in a shapeless blue heap in a corner of the bed as the men jumped on the running boards. The vehicle sped away. Click. Click. Click.

  Mark lowered the camera, shaking with anger as he stared after the truck. He recapped his lens and dropped it back in the case, jerking the zipper closed. Ignoring his natural instinct to intervene had been like trying to ignore the instinct to breathe. An empty bottle caught his eye and with a muttered curse, he kicked it into the side of the building. The explosion of glass against the bricks didn’t satisfy his anger, but the shards scattered on the ground added to his guilt. He had seen dozens of kids running around the town, rooting around in the garbage and now one might cut their foot because of him. He bent, sliding his arm into the camera strap so that it draped diagonally across his chest, and picked up the pieces.

  “Leave it, Mark. It’s not going to matter.”

  He would have argued, but a glance around him showed no trash receptacles anywhere around and Mo was right. It wouldn’t matter. His wasn’t the only glass around. He dropped the shards, disgusted with himself, the men who had beaten the woman, and the country in general.

  He tried to reason in his mind that at least he had captured the beating on film. When people saw the photographs, maybe he would help shed some light on the atrocities committed. Change seemed like it was an unreachable goal and impossible for him to achieve. Tradition and culture was ingrained over hundreds, if not thousands of years, and he was just a guy who took pictures. It wasn’t like he had any real power to make things better.

  He straightened, brushing his hands together and slanted a glance at Mo. “So now what’s going to happen to her?” he asked, inclining his head in the direction of where the beating had t
aken place.

  Mo regarded him for a long moment and then his eyes slid away. “I’m not sure.”

  His friend’s evasive action hinted at the truth. “Bullshit.”

  Kabul was large and busy, but showed signs of the war that had torn the country apart. It wasn’t as scarred as Kandahar, but it was not untouched. Mo showed little interest in taking photos, so Mark stole away whenever he could and wondered where the material for a book would come from. His friend didn’t seem to be taking notes either.

  The lack of effort drove Mark to seek even more snapshots as he felt the more he took of this way of life, the better his chance of making a difference, with or without Mo. He learned to be stealthy, and pretended to photograph other objects, but shifted the focus at the last moment. None of the photographs were as brutal as the beating, but as the town was larger than the villages they had passed through so he was able to get more glimpses of women venturing to the market. What frustrated him was his inability to capture on film the sense that the women were basically invisible in their burqas.

  A few men glared at him, and once when he tried to take a photo of a woman, an apparent beggar with two small children, the mother covered the children’s’ faces with her own burqa. He tried to apologize to her, but she gathered her children and left the area. He cursed his stupidity as she hurried away. Of course she couldn’t acknowledge his apology. Not only had she probably not understood it, she wasn’t allowed to speak to strange men.

  The inequality struck him like a clenched fist and once he knew it was there, it was all he could see. Vendors would ignore a woman and take care of a male customer even if the woman was there first. Other little things stuck with him, like how the schools in the town were full of little boys. Groups of boys from very young to teenagers would trek alongside the roads, to the madrassa, but little girls were absent. He had known these things before arriving in Afghanistan, but it had been an abstract knowledge. Seeing it firsthand made it real, but also incomprehensible.

  Faisal and Sayeed seemed to have other duties in their hometown. In the evenings, they left the home. Mo said they were visiting other relatives. Mark didn’t really care, he was just glad they were gone.

  On the night before they left Kabul, Mo informed him that he had to go to a village far from town with the cousins. It was a family thing. Mo suggested that Mark ride back to Kandahar with a friend of the family and wait for Mo there. Mark got the hint. He wasn’t welcome, but he didn’t care. He finally felt he had some decent photos and their flight home couldn’t come quickly enough. He had experienced his fill of violence, heat, and dust. Chicago traffic and humidity would seem insignificant after this trip.

  The almost twenty-four hour long trip back to Kandahar had been uncomfortable. Physically, the nearly five hundred miles had seemed endless. There were no roadside oasis stops like in the United States. No McDonalds’ or Burger Kings and not even any truck stops. The roads took them through desert and mountains. They brought their own food and water and made only a few stops to refuel and take a quick leak.

  When he arrived back in Kandahar, the relative arranged for Mark to stay at the hotel he and Mo had stayed at the first night. That was no small feat, as most of the hotels had been destroyed in the years of war, so Mark tried to convey his appreciation. As much as he hated the treatment of the women here, he couldn’t fault the hospitality he had received. These people didn’t even know him, and yet he had been fed and driven around the country. Mark wanted to pay the man, but he insisted Mo had taken care of everything already, so Mark smiled and thanked the man one more time before he headed into his room and flopped on the bed with a weary sigh. Just a few more days, and then he’d be home.

  He slept late the next day, glad that he had nothing on his agenda. It was his plan to get an early start to the day and take more photographs, but the last few weeks finally caught up with him and it was almost eleven when he woke up. After washing and dressing, he took his camera, making sure his batteries were still good and he had plenty of film. Today he planned to just be a sightseer—a tourist of sorts, although the country probably hadn’t seen many tourists in the last twenty years or so. While he had visited many places, he hadn’t had a chance to really go out and explore on his own and he relished the opportunity.

  By now, his beard was full, and he had acquired probably the darkest tan of his life, allowing him to blend with the populace as long as he didn’t have to speak to anyone. As he wandered about Kabul, his camera at his side, he noticed the women beggars along the side of the road. Mo had mentioned that the women who had no husband or male relatives had a hard life, but he hadn’t expected that so many had to rely on begging. He took a few photos of them, and then dropped some coins in their cups.

  Growing up, the women’s lib movement had been a big political hot button topic, but Mark had been just a kid and it was irrelevant to his life. He played baseball, rode bikes and teased girls in his neighborhood by chasing them with worms or nasty bugs he found in the corn. When he was old enough to ditch the worms and just chase them figuratively, equal rights for women meant he didn’t have to open doors for them—except his parents had drilled the courtesy into him practically from the crib—so he was left confused as to what he was supposed to do. Hold doors? Pay for dates? He usually went with his instincts, which meant following his father’s example.

  Even when he went to college, women’s lib for him was more about liberating a girl from her clothes than in any political movement.

  Mark discovered even if Mo didn’t follow up finishing the book, he knew this trip would change the way he thought of women for the rest of his life. At least it wouldn’t be a waste in that regard. Instead of erasing his frustration, the prospect of not being able to show the world what was going on set off a slow, simmering anger.

  Mid-afternoon the city slowed down as people retreated from the heat and Mark did the same, sitting in the shade of a building as he bit into a plum he had bought from a vendor. The juice squirted in his mouth, and he had to admit that the fruit in this country tasted better than any he could remember. It could have been because he hadn’t eaten any junk food for several weeks and his tastes were changing, or maybe because the fruit assuaged his thirst as well. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stopping when a small boy approached him. The boy’s clothes hung in tatters and his feet were bare. The child sank onto his haunches and smiled at him, showing a gap-toothed grin. Mark returned the smile, pegging his age at about seven given the lack of teeth. Taking a last bite of the plum, Mark set it beside him, noticing the boy’s eyes glued to the pit. He reached into his pocket and produced the other two plums and bag of almonds he had purchased.

  He offered them to the boy. “Are you hungry?”

  The boy’s dark eyes shot to Mark’s at the words and Mark knew he’d given away his foreigner status. Would that scare the boy away? Apparently it didn’t, because it didn’t take much prodding before the boy accepted the gifts. He sat beside Mark and dug into the food, which surprised Mark until he noticed the boy’s anxious glances down the street. A group of ragged boys were coming their way. The group shouted something at the boy, who shouted back and took another huge bite of the plum, making Mark worry that he’d choke on the fruit.

  Although he couldn’t understand what the boys were saying to each other, he understood the tone and body language. The biggest boy in the group was demanding the food and the little one beside Mark was trying to consume as much of it as he could before having to give up his prize. Always one to root for the underdog, Mark stood and glared at the boys. He felt like a big bully as he towered over them, but on the other hand, they would certainly understand the concept, as they bullied the younger boy. They backed off, turning to head back the way they had come, but not before shouting something at the little boy. Mark hoped he hadn’t made anything worse for the kid, but a glance down showed the boy had already dismissed the group from his mind while he fished in the bag of almonds.
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  With nothing else pressing to do, Mark decided to stick around and guard the boy until he was done eating, but when the child finished, he stood and tugged on Mark’s sleeve and pointed down the opposite direction from where the other boys had gone.

  “What? You want me to go that way?” Mark asked, pointing down the road.

  The boy smiled and yanked on Mark’s arm again, until laughing, Mark went along with him. “Fine. I’ve got nothing to do today. Show me your city.”

  Their first stop was the market and Mark bought some more fruit and nuts for the boy, along with a kabob of lamb and vegetables for each of them. They ate as they walked, with the boy keeping up a running commentary that Mark didn’t understand.

  Before he knew it, he was on the outskirts of the city and the ruins of a citadel stood before them. Mark uncapped his camera and took photos of it. The sun was on its downward trek in the western sky and lit the citadel with a soft light. Snapping away, Mark stopped to thank the boy but he was gone. He missed the chatter, but was glad he’d been able to at least give the kid a decent meal.

  After taking a dozen photographs from several different angles, Mark decided to head back to his hotel. He didn’t want to be caught outside its safety after dark. He’d learned that much while he was here. Mo had warned him that the Taliban ruled most of the country and people out after dark were at risk. It still puzzled Mark that Mo appeared to have accomplished very little in regards to the book, and his sudden detour to a village with his cousins confused him. Why did they need his presence now? Mo had lived in the States most of his life and his cousins had managed without him all that time, but Mark guessed it wasn’t any of his business. The whole trip had turned out much differently that he had expected. Why hadn’t Mo spoken to anyone who wasn’t a relative? At least, it seemed that way to Mark. Everyone they had met had been a cousin or an uncle or a close neighbor of one of them. Maybe Mo had spoken to them in Pashto and Mark just hadn’t been aware, or when he hadn’t been around, but if so, it seemed like Mo was relying on his memory as Mark hadn’t seen any sign of a tape recorder. He was no expert writing a book, but he thought that it involved copious note-taking.