Selling Kabul

Rasul took another sip of tea, looking at the picture the tall American had slid across the table.

There were two of them sitting across from Rasul in the lobby of the Islamabad Serena.

Not that they’d asked, but Rasul liked the Kabul Serena better.

It had been almost a year since he’d last been there.

Avoiding the Taliban and their guests, he told himself.

Nothing to do with being a real estate agent in a city turned ghost town, haunted by dead dreams and fading memories.

Not much call for his services these days.

His wife, their sons, infant daughter were staying here in Islamabad now.

He was on his way back to the Afghan capital to finish closing their house, sell what he could, before coming back here.

And now these Americans were showing him pictures.

They’d introduced themselves as journalists, in Islamabad doing a story on Afghans leaving the country through Pakistan.

Either they were that delusional, or thought Rasul was that stupid.

Probably a little of both.

Journalists/CIA/whoever they were, they knew who he was.

One of them “remembered” his catchphrase.

“Buying Kabul? Call Rasul!”

The Americans’ favorite real estate agent.

They’d loved that phrase.

He’d made business cards with it, in English and in Dari.

Now they were sliding pictures across the table, asking him if they knew any of the men in them.

He asked if they were people trying to leave Kabul.

“Something like that,” Short American said.

Rasul knew who those men were.

Especially the middle one.

The Tenant.

The only tenant Rasul still had in Kabul.

He’d moved into the villa in Sherpur a few weeks before.

The others he knew from years of seeing them all on television somewhere, or online.

He’d only met the one.

He asked them what paper they were with again?

They just smiled, looked at each other.

Tall nodded at Short and he pulled out another picture.

That was more recent, also of The Tenant.

And Rasul.

Standing on the villa’s balcony.

Looking out over the city.

The Tenant had told him he loved the view.

He’d asked Rasul if the Americans liked it, too?

Said that he had heard they’d lived here before he did, years before.

“I suppose they did,” Rasul said.

“Did you make a lot of money from them?”

Rasul shrugged, saying nothing, and The Tenant nodded.

“I suppose you all did. We did, too. Money, training, weapons. They really hated the Russians.”

The Tall American was tapping that photo now.

“Rasul, that’s enough for a stay in one of the ISI’s less comfortable accommodations.

“You and the al-Qaeda CEO sipping tea on his balcony?

“I’m sure the Pakistani secret police would love to know why that is.”

Rasul put his teacup down on the table between himself and the Americans, folding his hands in his lap.

“What do you need me to do?”

Both the Americans slid their chairs closer to the table.

“Just what you always do these days, Rasul.

“Go to your office, waiting for someone to call or come in.

“We know that no one does, not now, but we need to get inside that house.

“You’re smart, you’ll think of something. And you’ll call us when you do.”

Rasul didn’t ask why that was, just nodded.

The short one said that someone would be in touch soon, a man named Obaid, and they would leave it up to Rasul how he got Obaid a look inside the villa.

They left soon after that.

Rasul went back to Kabul.

The Tenant had been his only client for months.

When they took Kabul, the Taliban had been disinclined to pay rent, occupying building as they saw fit.

They were polite enough, but short on cash.

Rasul hoped that might be different, considering who The Tenant was, but that seemed less likely with each passing day.

Rasul had called the number the tall American had given him, that if they sent anyone, that they needed to at least know their way around tools.

Obaid showed up at his office that afternoon, and Rasul called The Tenant to tell him that they would be coming over to take a look at it the next morning.

Rasul had called to tell The Tenant they needed to look at the water heater, that he knew how old the house was, and it was time for its regular maintenance.

The Tenant had said that would be fine, that he’d have tea ready for them on the balcony.

It was a nice balcony.

Obaid hadn’t explained what he was going to do at the villa, and Rasul hadn’t asked.

The Tenant greeted them at the villa’s gate.

Rasul was still surprised at that, kept looking for an entourage, but it seemed to just be the old man and his family.

They went inside, The Tenant taking the stairs slowly, and told Rasul there was tea on the balcony.

Rasul made sure Obaid found the water heater, then joined The Tenant on the balcony.

It was a clear morning, something more common in Kabul lately.

The Tenant asked if it had always been like this.

Rasul said it was a recent thing.

Not as many drivers on the road.

Fewer cars meant cleaner skies, The Tenant said, and Rasul nodded.

Obaid reappeared, telling them he was done, and The Tenant didn’t get up, saying he hoped Rasul would come by again sometime.

He waved to them as they went out into the courtyard, Taliban guards escorting them out of the villa to their car.

As they pulled away, Obaid made a call.

He told someone that he’d been inside.

That the house was nearly empty.

Yes, there would be some breakage, but not enough that they should call this off.

He hung up, and looked out the window as they drove in silence for a while.

There was a muffled thump from somewhere behind them, and Obaid looked out the back window.

He said he hoped Rasul got his security deposit.

Rasul thought he’d miss that balcony.