observatory. ‘I’m a pretty good climber; we talked about it. Why don’t you want to give it a shot?’
Runner hesitates. ‘The walls are too smooth; no hand- or footholds.’
‘I see one here and there. I think I’ll manage. Only problem is…’
‘What?’
‘Can’t do it at night. I need to see where to put my hands and feet. The night-vision goggles are too clunky; I can’t press my face to the wall, or see anything that’s less than ten centimetres from my eyes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, dude. Listen to your apprentice.’ Does he think I’m an imbecile?
‘Okay. Retreat now. We’ll discuss this back at our camp.’
Well past midnight, after we’ve gone through our plans for the following morning, we are huddled up in our hammocks and I find myself exhausted, but unable to sleep. The night is not as black as the previous one. The foliage gently sways back and forth over the clear and starry sky. My mind races around the briefing, the texture and surface of the building’s walls I’ll be scaling in a few hours, the vines that really are traps, and the possibility of blowing up both of us. My first mission and I tremble like a poplar leaf.
Experience tells me that it’s not always a good idea to start a conversation with Runner when my nerves need calming. But lying here silently, listening to my own fidgeting, the tapping of his fingertips against his thigh is unbearable. ‘Do you miss your daughter, Ezra?’ I ask cautiously.
The tapping ceases. ‘Yes,’ he answers and begins to hum a lullaby. I watch the leaves play with the wind and listen to Runner until my heartbeat grows calm.
‘She was eleven months old when I saw her for the first time — a chubby and happy child just learning to walk and talk and grasp what it means to be one’s own person. When Kaissa sang her to sleep that night, I wondered… I wondered what sense my life makes, being so far away from her.’
‘You love her,’ I whisper, surprised.
‘I do. She’s my daughter.’
‘I meant Kaissa.’
‘When I was young, I thought I loved her. But I soon learned it wasn’t love, but something more akin to teenager hormone derangement. She and I like each other; we are friends, most of the time.’
‘Why don’t you stay with her? With your daughter?’
‘Because she’s happy with what she has. She doesn’t need me. I would make her life complicated and not one bit better.’
‘I cannot picture you as a father,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’m sorry. That came out all wrong. What I mean is—’
‘I can’t, either. I am…very much attracted to violence.’
His voice chills me, and I decide to shut up and never again poke around in his private life. Runner is silent for a long moment and I’m about to pull the blanket over my face and try to sleep, when he says, ‘I grew up in Ghazni province, a plateau in Afghanistan.’
I hear him take a deep breath, and another one. Then, he continues. ‘We were a small group of people, no more than fifty. We herded cattle and hunted small game, constantly on the move from one dirty water hole to the next. We evaded the BSA for years and it was only the elders who remembered ever seeing a trace of war. It must have been the desert that protected us. Until this one morning when our camp was hit by two mortars. It was cruel. Three of the tents burst apart.’
He clears his throat and I close my eyes and shake my head, because the images I see are not pretty. Flying bodies. Blood.
‘They were upon us only a moment later. My two brothers and my father were killed on the spot. My sister and my mother were taken away. They took the girls and women, while I… The shells had torn open one of our cows. I hid in it.’
Aching, I bury my face in the bend of my elbow.
‘When night fell, I dared to move. The cow was stiff and cold by then and I couldn’t get out. I believed that I would die trapped inside that cow’s stomach, stuck in blood and guts. The stench
Runner hesitates. ‘The walls are too smooth; no hand- or footholds.’
‘I see one here and there. I think I’ll manage. Only problem is…’
‘What?’
‘Can’t do it at night. I need to see where to put my hands and feet. The night-vision goggles are too clunky; I can’t press my face to the wall, or see anything that’s less than ten centimetres from my eyes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, dude. Listen to your apprentice.’ Does he think I’m an imbecile?
‘Okay. Retreat now. We’ll discuss this back at our camp.’
Well past midnight, after we’ve gone through our plans for the following morning, we are huddled up in our hammocks and I find myself exhausted, but unable to sleep. The night is not as black as the previous one. The foliage gently sways back and forth over the clear and starry sky. My mind races around the briefing, the texture and surface of the building’s walls I’ll be scaling in a few hours, the vines that really are traps, and the possibility of blowing up both of us. My first mission and I tremble like a poplar leaf.
Experience tells me that it’s not always a good idea to start a conversation with Runner when my nerves need calming. But lying here silently, listening to my own fidgeting, the tapping of his fingertips against his thigh is unbearable. ‘Do you miss your daughter, Ezra?’ I ask cautiously.
The tapping ceases. ‘Yes,’ he answers and begins to hum a lullaby. I watch the leaves play with the wind and listen to Runner until my heartbeat grows calm.
‘She was eleven months old when I saw her for the first time — a chubby and happy child just learning to walk and talk and grasp what it means to be one’s own person. When Kaissa sang her to sleep that night, I wondered… I wondered what sense my life makes, being so far away from her.’
‘You love her,’ I whisper, surprised.
‘I do. She’s my daughter.’
‘I meant Kaissa.’
‘When I was young, I thought I loved her. But I soon learned it wasn’t love, but something more akin to teenager hormone derangement. She and I like each other; we are friends, most of the time.’
‘Why don’t you stay with her? With your daughter?’
‘Because she’s happy with what she has. She doesn’t need me. I would make her life complicated and not one bit better.’
‘I cannot picture you as a father,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’m sorry. That came out all wrong. What I mean is—’
‘I can’t, either. I am…very much attracted to violence.’
His voice chills me, and I decide to shut up and never again poke around in his private life. Runner is silent for a long moment and I’m about to pull the blanket over my face and try to sleep, when he says, ‘I grew up in Ghazni province, a plateau in Afghanistan.’
I hear him take a deep breath, and another one. Then, he continues. ‘We were a small group of people, no more than fifty. We herded cattle and hunted small game, constantly on the move from one dirty water hole to the next. We evaded the BSA for years and it was only the elders who remembered ever seeing a trace of war. It must have been the desert that protected us. Until this one morning when our camp was hit by two mortars. It was cruel. Three of the tents burst apart.’
He clears his throat and I close my eyes and shake my head, because the images I see are not pretty. Flying bodies. Blood.
‘They were upon us only a moment later. My two brothers and my father were killed on the spot. My sister and my mother were taken away. They took the girls and women, while I… The shells had torn open one of our cows. I hid in it.’
Aching, I bury my face in the bend of my elbow.
‘When night fell, I dared to move. The cow was stiff and cold by then and I couldn’t get out. I believed that I would die trapped inside that cow’s stomach, stuck in blood and guts. The stench
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