SUKKUR, PAKISTAN
It figured.
Of course.
Sukkur, the Pakistani city in which Reed Bishop found himself, was one of the region’s largest centers for the production of tobacco. He had smiled as the “big green cow with wheels for feet”-as the nickname for the bus was loosely translated-entered the town and he saw the proud billboard of a farmer harvesting plants.
You’re testing me, aren’t you, honey? He laughed. That’s all right. He had stopped smoking, at first, when he was around her. He was around her now, always. He would never smoke again.
Bishop emerged from the rusting, lopsided conveyance that had brought him from Islamabad. He had a bet with another American that the circa 1950 vehicle-with a hole in the floor that allowed them to watch the dirt roads crunch by-the bus would never finish the journey.
Bishop was wrong. They didn’t even get a flat. And they arrived on time.
“There’s a point at which components become so mutually dependent, they become a sort of closed system,” the other American passenger said, collecting Bishop’s five dollars.
The man was a mid-level diplomat. Bishop guessed that if anyone knew how tough it was to stop any force that had been in motion for so long, it was him.
The provincial attache had also given him a tip on how to get what he wanted here.
“Dollars or technology,” he’d said. “Those are your best currency.”
What he wanted was to take the information Cluzot had obtained for him and put a face on it. The driver gave Bishop his two bags off the top of the bus-he was surprised to find them there-after which the American stopped in a local teahouse to clear the dust of travel from his throat, get directions, and steel his resolve. There was danger in what he was planning: personal, psychological, and even political. But it needed to be done.
Happy that the Gold Flake tobacco everyone seemed to be smoking here had an aroma and smoothness that were foreign to him-downright foul if you were too close to it-Bishop walked down the paved main street, past open stalls selling foods and fabrics, to a two-story brick structure adjoining a hospital. He did not read or speak more than phrase-book Urdu, but he recognized the writing on the sign.
SUKKUR SENIOR SCHOOLHOUSE.
He had an appointment with the headmaster-a pleasant fellow in his sixties, who appreciated very much the iPod Bishop had brought him as a gift, loaded with the Sami Yusuf tunes he said he enjoyed. Bishop wondered if he would have to listen to that music.
Of course you will, he thought. Just as he had to listen to Miley Cyrus and Shane Harper for a year or so.
Together, he and the headmaster went to get Kamilah Fazari from her biology class. They stood outside the building, in the shade, waiting for the class to end. The teacher-a woman in a head scarf-brought the thin, tall girl over.
The twelve-year-old was well dressed, well mannered, and looked like her mother. Her expression wasn’t neutral, as it was the first day Bishop had seen her, but she had the same poise, the same strong mouth, the same intense eyes, which were studying Bishop with a blend of interest and suspicion.
She had been crying fairly recently. Bishop recognized the look from his own reflection in the mirror. He knew that she had been informed by Akila Fazari that Yasmin Rassin was killed in an accident, but that was all she knew.
The headmaster explained-pausing to translate for Bishop-that this man was an acquaintance of her mother and wanted to take her to America to live and to study.
“Why would he do this?” she asked through the headmaster.
“Because your mother wanted you to have opportunities she never did,” Bishop explained. When that had been translated, he added, “And because you might fulfill the promise and potential of one who was taken from me, just as your mother was taken from you,” he said.
“A daughter?” she asked through the headmaster.
Bishop nodded.
“That is a big responsibility for a young girl,” the headmaster told him, a trace of concern in his eyes.
Bishop nodded again. “Please tell her that I have no expectations and make no demands. All I have is the hope and a belief that we can set some kind of example for people who want to tear nations apart. But I want you to know-as a surrogate father to so many-that while I am prepared to give a great deal, I will never ask anything she is not prepared to give.”
The headmaster smiled approvingly and explained to Kamilah. It was the first time that Bishop saw her smile. It was a radiant smile, untainted by the world outside. He imagined that once, long ago, her mother had smiled like that. He hoped so. He knew now that he was doing the right thing.
“As you can understand, Mr. Bishop, she is scared but appreciative. She would like to talk to her godmother about it,” the headmaster said.
“I’ll find lodgings in town and await her answer,” Bishop said. “Please tell her that I would be honored if she and her godmother would join me for dinner.” The headmaster hesitated. Bishop grinned. “And you, too, of course.”
The headmaster translated.
Kamilah thanked him and told the headmaster to give him Akila’s address. She asked him to come by at five. Bishop said he would be there.
When she left, the headmaster studied the American. “I think she will go with you,” he said. “That girl has a very adventurous spirit.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bishop said.
“I know Akila wants the best for her, as well. You say you knew her mother?”
“I did, briefly.”
“I only saw her once, for less time than I’ve seen you. I have often wondered, what was she like?”
“Complicated,” Bishop said.
“She was successful in her work, I am told.”
“She was,” Bishop agreed, “but she kept all that to herself.”
“Why?”
Bishop looked out at the sunbaked street, at the old cars and the occasional cow and sheep. “She had her reasons,” he said. “But I can tell you she loved her daughter more than anything. And I think, in the end, that’s a fitting epitaph for anyone.”
The headmaster considered that as Bishop thanked him, shook his hand, and went off to find a place to spend the night.
And to buy two bus tickets to Islamabad.