I turned back to the guards and gave them a smile. 'The hospital?' I pointed down the road. 'The war-victims hospital?'
I gave them a peek under the Tubigrip.
They had a quick discussion and a laugh, then showed me.
I ran across the road in the direction they'd pointed.
51
The stone wall directly opposite me was ten feet high, and the sign that ran the whole length of it confirmed in red that I was at the Emergency Surgical Centre for War Victims.
A corrugated-iron canopy shaded two long benches at either side of the entrance. It was guarded by a huddle of grey serge and AKs. Old guys occupied the benches, smoking, waffling, reading the paper. I couldn't tell if they were patients, visitors or just waiting for a bus.
On my side of the junction, a couple of guys sold glasses of tea as black as boot polish. Above their heads, a small blue handpainted sign with an arrow said AM Net was round the corner.
This was the sort of thing I needed to know about – what was happening during working hours when I'd be hanging about and waiting for someone who spelt in American English.
Flower Street was narrow and the sun had stopped shining on it for the day. Every shop sold either flowers or cakes. There were pavements both sides. It was potholed, but there were still traces of tarmac. Large open concrete drains lined one side.
AM Net was exactly where the Yes Man had said, two shops in from the junction. I walked under the rusty corrugated-iron awning and glanced through the grimy window. The room was small and dark. No one was using too much electricity here. I saw two rows of four grey monitors, maybe three or four people hunched over them. An old guy waited at the desk by the window to take their cash.
I kept going without looking back. If I'd missed something, tough shit, I should have done a better job. Enough people were looking at the white face as it was and quite a few didn't like what they saw. I lengthened my stride.
The smell of grilled meat reminded me I hadn't eaten since getting off the plane. I came to a steel trough, maybe three metres long. Lines of kebabs sizzled away over glowing embers in the half nearest me. Two kids up on boxes fanned the charcoal at the other end, keeping it sparked up. At least they gave me a cheery wave.
I kept walking, past yet more flower and cake shops.
My time with the muj had taught me they loved flowers – and not just poppies. Maybe it was something to do with the barren mountains they had to live among. The Taliban were the same, and a lot of the guys we trained and fought alongside were now with them. They liked to put them down the barrels of their AKs as well as in their waistcoats when they had the chance. But the idea of going to San Francisco never crossed their minds – unless it was to bomb the fuck out of the place.
The deep ditch on the right was obviously a great place to park your bike. All I could see were seats and handlebars. The people milling round were doing exactly what anyone else on the planet would be doing right now, just getting on with their lives – picking up a birthday cake or some treats for the family on the way home. It always amazed me how people so fucked-up by war still managed to carry on. Maybe they had no choice.
Word had definitely spread that there was a white guy in town. Kids materialized from doorways and held stuff up. 'Mister! You buy this!'
No, thanks. I didn't need twelve boxes of matches wrapped in cellophane.
'Boots dirty, Mister – I shine!' A ragged little boy thrust his shoe-cleaning kit and black brushes insistently at me. I pointed at my scuffed brown Timberlands and shrugged.
I pushed on and most of them faded away within ten or fifteen paces. A group of pepper-pots headed my way and stepped out on to the road. I was careful to wait until they'd got back on the pavement and walked past.
Flowers and cakes gave way to furs and leather. Skins of all shapes and colours hung from awnings or were stretched on frames. Large hides were being prepared as rugs. A couple of white spotted cats looked mildly surprised, thanks to their new