Chapter 3
The thirty minute ride in the lumbering military vehicle from camp to Chaldhar was so uneventful as to make the armor covering it unnecessary (this time.) Mugsy called on the supply sergeant, Angie Porter, to drop him off at the village's only motel. She had given him a friendly greeting and remained silent for the ride, thankfully giving Christopher the space he so desperately needed after all these months in the crowded camp.
After checking in to his room, well, a water closet with a bed in it really, he peels down to his fatigue trousers and a tee shirt in order to check out the local color, and colorful it is. The motel itself is a single story sandstone building that stretches out in two wings from a square center. The woman working behind the desk is swathed head to toe in red silk from what he can see, save for her face and hands; her fingers are virtually covered in dainty gold filigree jewelry. As she types his name into her computer, the slanted morning light catches on a gem or three and the stones glitter pleasingly. Somewhere behind her, an air conditioner is running at full capacity, and it is not even noon yet. She was nice enough to him, but he was thankful for her distinct lack of small talk.
Christopher has not been here long enough to feel comfortable with the locals, but he is not completely suspicious of everyone, either. He winds his way through the crowd, enjoying the sights and smells: fried bread dough cooked with garlic and onions; mean and women clothed traditionally in bright colors, other soldiers like himself, and even a few locals dressed more in the western style: jeans, tee-shirts and sandals.
For a few moments, he lets himself consider purchasing a pair of soft brown leather sandals that are sitting on a shelf outside a leather-worker's stall. The soles are as pliable as the straps and he is reaching for his wallet when something shiny catches his eye in the stall next door. Christopher gently puts the sandals back and the vendor gives him a nod. Sandals in London would be ridiculous anyway, and besides, he needs something to take home to Valentine. He moves around a couple of tourists haggling with an elderly man in a blue turban to see what it was that caught his attention.
It turns out to be several rows of shiny silver and jade necklaces and bracelets; the jade apparently comes in green, amber, and sky blue. He holds up a choker with light green and blue stones, envisioning it on Valentine's neck. She could wear it in the summer where the colors would reflect her eyes and her favorite shirt, along with that long, flowing skirt she favors for warm evenings. Yes. This would do nicely; he nods to himself and searches for a matching bracelet and a pair of neat, heart-shaped earrings to complement the set. The vendor knows an instant sale when he sees one, but he haggles a little anyway, just so he can tell Valentine that he got the best deal.
Valentine will smile and tell him that she loves his present to her, and that she loves him.
Or, and this is almost unthinkable, perhaps she will not.
Maybe she doesn't like silver? For an instant, he is almost struck down with a wave of insecurity. She is polite; of course, she would never tell him outright if she doesn't like it...well, that is a lot worse, in his opinion.
The middle aged jeweler hands him the box he has placed the gift into with a blinding smile. Christopher tries to return it, but now he is worried and it has just occurred to him that he left his tent without emailing her. Right there in the center of the busy market, Christopher Tietjens closes his eyes and turns his face towards the sun that is slowly creeping towards its midday resting place. He takes several steady breaths and the river of people surrounding him recedes into background noise. Everything remains bright and colorful, his senses remain sharp, but he is able to let go his concentration so much on them and remind himself that no matter the gift, Valentine will simply be happy to have him home for good.
Christopher's heart and his wallet are a little lighter. His inner pep squad has been keeping up a mantra of six more months since he woke up this morning, and he is starting to believe it. That idea bolsters him considerably as he moves toward the tiny, run-down café next door to the motel. Mugsy told him that occasionally these little places have landlines. He flips his wrist in order to look at his watch and does a quick calculation in his head. Valentine should be home, or at least have her mobile on her.
Christopher's combat boots thump heavily against the cracked linoleum floor of the café and the little bell on the door jingles a soft, tinny welcome over his head as he bends his neck when he steps through the door. According to Mugsy, the name of the man who owns the place is called Sam. Christopher goes straight to the counter.
For the most part, everything in and outside of the village is constantly caked with dust or sand: the small, squat homes and business, the few automobiles and even the people. The children on the street often have their identities fully hidden by the gritty stuff. Christopher feels it collecting on his scalp again, and surely the back of his neck is covered with it. An occasional sand storm through the area brings with it even more, covering the ground with a fine coating of reddish, brownish, and sometimes even golden particles.
The café, however, for as run down as the place is—some of the windows are even cracked—it is spotlessly clean. The old cash register is as clean as the top of the grill Christopher can see behind the partial wall. Long counters and small tables have been painted and repainted several times, currently they are a deep russet brown and someone has taken the time to paint delicate designs along the sides and top in copper. Overall, the effect reminds him of henna painting he saw when he was younger; the air smells of cinnamon and bread dough. He takes a look around; the place is deserted except for him.
On the brown walls hangs several paintings and baskets that Christopher is sure are hand woven. Oddly, brass electric sconces have been added above each of the four tables lining the walls. Christopher wonders what the place looks like in the dark desert nights. The bench is lined with four large gleaming silver coffee pots and three tea kettles, only one of which is electric. Beside the machines that are so obviously a point of pride with the owner are mugs and tea cups stacked by twos and threes.
Finally, a large, dark-skinned and well-dressed man steps up behind the counter from the kitchen. He is wearing an eclectic mix of styles: an obviously American tee-shirt in bright blue paired with the wide trousers preferred by the locals. A wide gold band stretches around his left ring finger on a hand roughly the size of a Christmas ham.
"What can I do for you, sir?" The man asks. His brown eyes are kind and he has the beginning of deep crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. His salt and pepper hair is cropped short to his skull and the goatee on his chin is neatly trimmed. Christopher cannot decide if the man would look as good in a suit or a uniform. After a few seconds, he realizes the man is staring at him with an odd expression on his face.
Christopher clears his throat, hoping that it only looks as if he is trying to decide the type of tea he would like to drink from the ten or so tins stacked on the counter. Knowing that he has failed miserably, he finds himself looking directly into the man's eyes, a rare occurrence for him and even rarer out here.
"You must be Sam." He says, finally and holds his hand above the counter. The other man takes it, his broad paw actually threatening to engulf Christopher's.
"Yes, I would be him. You must be one of Mugsy's boys." Sam lets go of Christopher's hand and turns towards the bench without waiting for an answer. He pours some hot water into one of the mugs and sets it on the counter between them. "I am assuming tea? Which flavor?"
Christopher nods and points towards a box of what looks to be plain black tea bags. Sam pops the box open and drops the bag into the mug.
"Sugar?" Sam asks.
"Please." Christopher answers as Sam stirs in two cubes with a flourish. He puts the spoon in a rest on the bench and gestures Christopher towards one of the tables.
"How much do I owe you…?" Christopher begins.
"Nothing. I owe Mugsy a great deal, the least I can do is offer some hospitality out here." Sam watches Christopher sip his tea with the long practice born of a lifetime of taking care of customers. "What's your name?"
"Christopher."
"It is good to meet you, Christopher. Are they taking care of you out there at the camp?" Sam narrows his eyes.
"Yes, sir." Christopher says. "Mugsy did say you have a landline here, could I be a bother and use it to call home? I'll happily pay any charges."
Sam is silent for a few seconds then he nods. "Aye, I do and you are more than welcome. Judging by the way you clip your letters, you aren't Canadian or American. I'm guessing London?"
"Yes, sir." Christopher says again. Sam smiles and stands up. He disappears behind the counter again and returns to the table with a very old fashioned black plastic telephone.
"It is all yours, all I ask is that you keep it to five minutes please." Sam points at the telephone and walks away, presumably back towards the kitchen.
Christopher notes the time on his watch and dials Valentine's mobile number. It rings several times and finally goes right through to her message center but he doesn't bother to leave anything since his plan is now to try again tomorrow. He sighs and finishes the cup of tea in a single drink then fumbles about his pocket for a handful of coins. Dropping the coins on the table, he grabs Valentine's gift. For a moment he stands outside, debating whether to walk around the market square a little longer or head back to the motel.
In the end, the motel wins simply because he saw a tiny air conditioning unit in his room. He allows his thoughts to swirl about as he crosses the lobby and turns left down the corridor. The keycard is in his pocket so he juggles the bag he is carrying to his left hand and swipes the keycard with his right. A little green light on the pad blinks on and he opens the door. The room is small but relatively maintained and the air inside it is not too horribly stale. At some point it looks like another lodger had the window open. He checks to be sure it is closed and flips on the a/c then pulls his traveling kit, a large black duffle bag, onto the narrow bed. Christopher stuffs Valentine's jewelry beneath his clothes and takes out his netbook. He wiggles out of his shirt, looks at the window again then drops the netbook in order to pull the reddish-brown drape over the window to block out the worst of the midday sun.
Satisfied that he can luxuriate in the cool air for a bit, he turns on the netbook and checks the power. It looks like there is enough battery power left to at least check his mail and see if he's gotten anything new from Valentine since yesterday. Of course, with the room steadily cooling and the motel relatively quiet around him, an icon in the top corner of the screen warns him that the battery has less than five percent power left.
"Damn." Christopher mutters under his breath. He goes back to his kit and digs around, finally having to admit that he left the charging cord back in the tent. Frowning in irritation, he stows the little machine away again and grabs the television remote from the table next to the bed. He flips the thing on and cruises through channels for several minutes, secretly impressed at what the motel has to offer. If they regularly serve military personnel, there is no doubt that the owner's have learned what is important.
Several news channels offer world coverage in an astonishing variety of languages. Christopher settles on an English channel and the female anchor runs through some highlights. He listens for a moment before his stomach protests its lack of sustenance; sighing he puts the remote back, checks his back pocket for his key and pulls his tee shirt back on.
As he exits the room, before the door closes completely, the news anchor mentions something about Chaldhar, and Christopher thinks it is possible he heard the word 'insurgents' but the door closes and he is thinking about food. He takes some solace in the idea that if he was needed at the camp, Mugsy would have already sent someone to fetch him.