Refuge by N G Osborne Page A

I will bring her by next Friday at noon when your servants are at prayers.”
    “How do you know I have servants?”
    “Oh come, Mr. Matthews, all aid workers have servants.”
    Charlie smiles.
    “Okay, noon it is.”
    Aamir Khan stands.
    “I thank you for you time,” he says.
    “Wait, one last thing,” Charlie says. “What’s in your jacket pocket?”
    Aamir Khan pulls out a faded paperback.
    “ Arabian Sands ,” Aamir Khan says. “Have you read it?”
    Charlie laughs.
    “It’s one of my favorite books.”
    “Then may I recommend A Short Walk In The Hindu Kush . It is a similar tale but more lighthearted. I will see you next Friday, Mr. Matthews. I am a certain it will be a most delightful occasion.”

EIGHT
    NOOR CHEWS ON a stale piece of naan and stares out at the graveyard; the harsh sun is encrusting its soil in what seems like a permanent glaze. Aamir Khan sits next to her reading. She sees the rabbit pop its head out of a hole and clicks her tongue. The rabbit’s ears prick up, and it swivels its head in her direction. She holds out the naan. The rabbit hops over a burial mound and makes its way towards her. Noor holds her breath.
    Come on, you’re nearly there.
    Her father snaps his book closed, and the rabbit takes off.
    Not again.
    “Well that was a most wonderful read,” Aamir Khan says. “When Naipaul writes that men who allow themselves to become nothing have no place in this world, I think it’s his way of saying that we must always strive to be something. It is why God put us here. We must never give up hope.”
    Noor lets the comment pass. For a month now her father has been doing this, making what he considers to be subtle asides in an attempt to keep her spirits up. If she were crueler she would tell him it isn’t working.
    No, better to let his exhortations just evaporate alongside everything else in this intolerable heat.
    “Do you want to go to the British Council?” she says.
    “I wish we could, but we have another engagement. A certain young man whom you met on the bus has invited us for lunch.”
    Noor sits there speechless. She jumps up and starts towards the hut.
    “Noor,” her father says.
    Noor twists around.
    “When did you start rummaging through my things?” she says.
    “When did you start lying to me?”
    “I didn’t lie to you.”
    “You withheld the truth.”
    “It was an unpleasant incident, no more than that. Do you inform me every time you stub your toe?”
    “I would suggest, my dear, that this incident was a little more exceptional than stubbing one’s toe.”
    Noor stares off into the distance as if that might put an end to the discussion.
    “I met this Charlie Matthews in your stead and made a proposal; that henceforth you and I will go over to his house every Friday at noon.”
    “No.”
    “He is expecting us.”
    “He’s an odious, obnoxious fool.”
    “And how have you ascertained that? From what he relayed to me the two of you hardly spoke.”
    “I refuse to go.”
    “And as your father I request you do.”
    “So what, you’re procuring me out now?”
    Aamir Khan’s face reddens.
    “Stop this petulant indignation right now,” he says. “Are you really accusing me of losing all moral fiber?”
    Noor shakes her head and sits back down.
    “Forgive me,” she says.
    Aamir Khan looks out over the graveyard. Noor inspects her father’s worn, wrinkled face. He’s forty-eight, but he looks closer to sixty; his eyes glassy, his cheeks hollow, his thin hair gone grey years ago.
    “Tell me, how many Westerners do we have the opportunity of interacting with?” he says.
    “Baba, these aid workers, they all say they want to help but none of them ever do.”
    “How would we know? We are not friends with any.”
    “So that’s the plan? We become his friends?”
    “You know better than I how many scholarship committees have rejected you, even though there isn’t a soul on this planet who is more deserving.”
    “You think they care about