“Pashto. It is how I speak with my family.”
“Do you know other languages?”
“Dari. Enough Arabic to understand the phrasing in the Quran.”
“Wow. I only know English—barely, sometimes.”
“Well, your actions speak loudly. You’ve pulled me out of surging water, made me warm with your smile, and left me sitting alone. Even when you’re quiet, you say plenty.”
And now I’m the one scuffing my shoe. “That looked bad the other day, I know it did. I had—” I pause, blink away the threat of tears, and try again. “I had a lot of feelings. I was kind of a mess, actually. But I shouldn’t have walked away.”
“It was your right.”
“And it’s your right to call me a blazing racist.”
“Is that what you are?”
I consider his question seriously. I don’t categorize or put down or judge many based on the actions of few. I don’t believe myself better than anyone else. And I don’t hate. Except… yes, I do. Idespisethe people who killed my brother, who fight and oppress, who punish with fists and stones, who launch rocket-propelled grenades at American military vehicles. But I also understand that the men who took Nicky aren’t representative of all Afghans, or all Muslims.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
“What is it about me?” he asks, more curious than combative.
I wrap both hands around my dog’s leash; they’re shaky thanks to this deserved interrogation. “It’s nothing aboutyou.”
“It must be. My language? My religion? My home?”
“I…”
“Or maybe it’s something else. Something off-putting I have yet to think of.”
“No,” I say in a small voice, wishing I’d disintegrate, disappear into the dust beneath my feet. I am so out of my league. So void of the intelligence, the directness, thecompassionnecessary for this conversation. Nick’s death stripped me of those things, at least in the way of Afghanistan and its people, which is ironic. He’d hate the way I treated Mati, no matter the reason. But I can do better—I know I can.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Mati, my voice barely a whisper. “For walking away, and for how that must’ve made you feel.”
He nods, his expression more understanding than I probably deserve.
I want to know if I’m forgiven, if we’re okay, but I won’t ask; forgiveness is his to grant when he’s ready. Still, even though he’s humored me, heard me out and accepted my apology—even though we’re clearly done here—I can’t bring myself to tell him goodbye, to continue my walk, to leave him behind again.
Bambi nudges my leg with her wet nose,Are you all right?combined withCan we get going?I reach down to stroke her head and she pops up out of her sit to pick up her tennis ball.
“She is ready to walk,” Mati says.
“Always.”
“Then you should go. We can talk another day, if you’d like.”
“Or… you could walk with us.” I second-guess the invitation as soon as it’s free of my mouth. I mean, I want him to come along, but mixed signals much? The next message he leaves me will be about the wicked case of whiplash I’ve given him.
But he smiles. “I think I will.”
We spend a long time on the beach, trekking to the end of the sand and most of the way back. There isn’t a lot of talking involved. Mati seems comfortable with a morning set to mute, and I don’t mind the quiet, either; it’s companionable. Every once in a while, though, I’ll lower my camera to glance toward him and find his lips subtly moving, like he’s silently reciting, or trying to learn something by rote, or committing the beach to memory so he can write about it later. I’m charmed.
There’s a fallen log, near the stairs that’ll take us back to town. It’s wind-ravaged, its bark worn away by ages in the elements. Mati points at it. “Should we sit?”
The wood is smooth and cool. I perch with my knees inclined toward him, and he mirrors my posture. Bambi drops onto my feet, drenching them with her sea-soaked hair. She spits her tennis ball onto her paws, sighs, and closes her eyes.
“We wore her out,” Mati says.
