and set it down in the center of the tray.
"How graceful, Noori,” the proprietor murmured. “You haven't spilled a single drop. Your grandmother will be pleased to hear of this."
She glowed. Curling like a kitten under his arm-stump, she leaned against him and stared curiously at us.
No wife, however young or doted upon, would stare so openly at unrelated males. She had to be his daughter or niece then, or his grandchild. I liked him better.
Whatever the conventional rules for serving tea might be, the primary rule of a guest in any culture is to adapt to the situation and don't embarrass the host. So I took up the pitcher and poured a good taste into each of the three cups Noori had brought.
"Coalition troops inside the shop! Exit and identify yourselves!"
The little girl cringed at the bellow.
Oscar touched his heart to the shopkeeper and murmured a pardon-me equivalent in Dari, correcting himself by adding the Pashtun Abhaka.
The shopkeeper bowed back, then he and I bowed to one another.
By now a large MP filled the doorway of the shop. “Show yourselves!"
Oscar and I rose, hands out. He tossed his ID at the MP's feet. I tossed my wallet with the substitute ID card face up and tried to look harmless.
The MP dropped his sunglasses to hang about his neck and picked up our ID and at the same time thumbed a phone-sized device just forward of his pistol holster. A woman's voice with the soft slur of the south came from the device. “Please excuse me for intruding in your home. Alas, it is my duty. Please put your hands where they can be seen."
The shopkeeper blinked and grinned, then quickly hid the grin. He rose gracefully and shouldered aside a curtain.
Oscar shoved me half across the front room, toward the door. I couldn't comprehend his rudeness and managed one look back over his shoulder. The shopkeeper was folding back down to his timeless squat on the floor, a small chest held between his arm-stumps. He toed the latch.
Oscar tackled me, knocking me through the street door. I landed on the MP.
"What the fuck , Oscar!"
He didn't answer, but after a second he relaxed over me and untangled his legs from mine.
The MP rolled from under me and up to his feet in a single motion. “I guess that wasn't a bomb, or it'd have gone off by now."
A bomb. Yes, that chest could have been one . If it was, and Oscar hadn't thrown me out, I'd have been strawberry jam by now. My ears burned.
The shopkeeper cackled. “Come in, come in! You must have some tea!"
I stood and brushed myself off. “Since it wasn't a bomb, we need to go back in and be real friendly, to make up for our behavior."
The MP mumbled something under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like Play nice . His sunglasses were dusty and lopsided.
He'd probably landed on them. Or maybe I had when I'd landed on him. Hopefully, they weren't expensive.
He led the way back in, but immediately blocked the door by backing right out, slowly, his hand on the butt of his pistol.
I stood aside and let him by. The whites of his eyes showed all around.
"Now what?” I couldn't see around him, and Oscar blocked me when I tried to move around him.
"Now what?” The MP's voice rose an octave or more. “Now? I will never understand these rag-heads! I try to be respectful. I try to be friendly. I am respectful. I am friendly! And they throw this creepy shit at me! Where did that come from, huh? Where?"
Where did what come from?
I squinted to hurry my adjustment to the dimness and the shadows inside the chest. My first thought was gloves. Then I saw hands, a pair of mummified hands.
I met the proprietor's crinkled, sparkling eyes and worked to keep my face deadpan. “Is it possible, Sergeant, that your recording said anything like, ‘Show me your hands'?"
He swore, then checked a readout. In a calmer tone, he said, “It isn't supposed to. It's supposed to be just ‘please excuse us for barging in here.’”
Oscar squatted comfortably beside the
"How graceful, Noori,” the proprietor murmured. “You haven't spilled a single drop. Your grandmother will be pleased to hear of this."
She glowed. Curling like a kitten under his arm-stump, she leaned against him and stared curiously at us.
No wife, however young or doted upon, would stare so openly at unrelated males. She had to be his daughter or niece then, or his grandchild. I liked him better.
Whatever the conventional rules for serving tea might be, the primary rule of a guest in any culture is to adapt to the situation and don't embarrass the host. So I took up the pitcher and poured a good taste into each of the three cups Noori had brought.
"Coalition troops inside the shop! Exit and identify yourselves!"
The little girl cringed at the bellow.
Oscar touched his heart to the shopkeeper and murmured a pardon-me equivalent in Dari, correcting himself by adding the Pashtun Abhaka.
The shopkeeper bowed back, then he and I bowed to one another.
By now a large MP filled the doorway of the shop. “Show yourselves!"
Oscar and I rose, hands out. He tossed his ID at the MP's feet. I tossed my wallet with the substitute ID card face up and tried to look harmless.
The MP dropped his sunglasses to hang about his neck and picked up our ID and at the same time thumbed a phone-sized device just forward of his pistol holster. A woman's voice with the soft slur of the south came from the device. “Please excuse me for intruding in your home. Alas, it is my duty. Please put your hands where they can be seen."
The shopkeeper blinked and grinned, then quickly hid the grin. He rose gracefully and shouldered aside a curtain.
Oscar shoved me half across the front room, toward the door. I couldn't comprehend his rudeness and managed one look back over his shoulder. The shopkeeper was folding back down to his timeless squat on the floor, a small chest held between his arm-stumps. He toed the latch.
Oscar tackled me, knocking me through the street door. I landed on the MP.
"What the fuck , Oscar!"
He didn't answer, but after a second he relaxed over me and untangled his legs from mine.
The MP rolled from under me and up to his feet in a single motion. “I guess that wasn't a bomb, or it'd have gone off by now."
A bomb. Yes, that chest could have been one . If it was, and Oscar hadn't thrown me out, I'd have been strawberry jam by now. My ears burned.
The shopkeeper cackled. “Come in, come in! You must have some tea!"
I stood and brushed myself off. “Since it wasn't a bomb, we need to go back in and be real friendly, to make up for our behavior."
The MP mumbled something under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like Play nice . His sunglasses were dusty and lopsided.
He'd probably landed on them. Or maybe I had when I'd landed on him. Hopefully, they weren't expensive.
He led the way back in, but immediately blocked the door by backing right out, slowly, his hand on the butt of his pistol.
I stood aside and let him by. The whites of his eyes showed all around.
"Now what?” I couldn't see around him, and Oscar blocked me when I tried to move around him.
"Now what?” The MP's voice rose an octave or more. “Now? I will never understand these rag-heads! I try to be respectful. I try to be friendly. I am respectful. I am friendly! And they throw this creepy shit at me! Where did that come from, huh? Where?"
Where did what come from?
I squinted to hurry my adjustment to the dimness and the shadows inside the chest. My first thought was gloves. Then I saw hands, a pair of mummified hands.
I met the proprietor's crinkled, sparkling eyes and worked to keep my face deadpan. “Is it possible, Sergeant, that your recording said anything like, ‘Show me your hands'?"
He swore, then checked a readout. In a calmer tone, he said, “It isn't supposed to. It's supposed to be just ‘please excuse us for barging in here.’”
Oscar squatted comfortably beside the
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