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Guest
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This article made me laugh and feel good is all. Perdita
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SF Chron - 2.13.2004 - Jon Carroll
Next door to my home in Oakland is a building that serves, more or less, as a halfway house for Afghan refugees. A family moves in, fresh from two years or so in a camp in Pakistan. The children enroll in school; the young adults look for jobs; the older folks stay home.
Then, at about the time at least some of them have learned English and we can begin to communicate, the family moves out and is replaced by another, cousins or nieces or even more distant relations. They are always exemplary neighbors -- hospitable, friendly, considerate -- but the language barrier does inhibit in-depth interactions.
A few days ago, late in the afternoon, one of the daughters from the current family appeared at my front door.
"Carpenter," she said. "Gone."
"Your carpenter is gone?" I asked.
"In back. Watching TV." Her eyes looked worried.
"Your carpenter is in back watching TV?" I clearly wasn't getting the drift.
She looked exasperated. "Come," she said. We went out onto the front lawn. The entire family was standing outside. Their faces were drawn; their brows were knitted.
"Carpenter gone," said the girl again. Everyone else nodded. The matriarch began pounding her fist on her collarbone. The whole incident was taking on a distinctly funereal cast. Surely the mere decamping of a tradesman was not worth all this evident anguish.
I had a sudden vision of a carpenter, overalls bloodstained, work-belt loosened, his body surrounded by 10-penny nails, lying dead in the television room.
We entered the house; we walked down the long dark hall to the den in back. There was discordant harpsichord music playing in my head. Had I stumbled onto a blood feud with its roots high in the Hindu Kush? I entered the television room cautiously. No bodies.
I looked at the daughter. "Your carpenter was here?" I asked, gesturing vaguely around the room.
"No, no. I here." Her tone indicated more than a little impatience.
"Then where was the carpenter?"
"Carpenter gone," she said. Silly question.
We moved back to the living room. "Carpenter here," she said. She marked the place on the floor with her foot. Her grandmother indicated another place about 8 feet away.
"Carpenter," she said.
Another image swam into my brain: a gigantic carpenter, a behemoth of an artisan, crawling on his belly like a reptile across the living room floor; a carpenter on a bad acid trip, thrashing about like a beached porpoise.
But why were they all so sad to be rid of this alarming spectacle? And, in any event, what was I supposed to do about it?
"We are not communicating," I said, moving my thumb and fingers in opposition, as though imitating the quacking of a duck. They looked at me as though I were mad.
"Kabul," said the grandmother, adding a new and bewildering element. The carpenter from Kabul is gone. It sounded like some sort of spy code.
The daughter got down on the floor and stretched her arms out.
"Carpenter here," she said. "Now gone." Somehow, that finally did it.
"Ohhhhhh," I said. "Your carpet is gone."
I was then able to piece the story together: They'd all been in the back watching TV and some bold thief with impeccable taste had walked in and stolen a large rug hand-woven in Kabul. Not good at all.
A few hours later, the daughter appeared at my door with a fuller explanation. An uncle, she said, had come in and borrowed the carpet, an uncle unfamiliar with the custom of his adopted nation. She would not meet my eyes when she told me this.
I definitely haven't ruled out the Hindu Kush blood feud theory.
url
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SF Chron - 2.13.2004 - Jon Carroll
Next door to my home in Oakland is a building that serves, more or less, as a halfway house for Afghan refugees. A family moves in, fresh from two years or so in a camp in Pakistan. The children enroll in school; the young adults look for jobs; the older folks stay home.
Then, at about the time at least some of them have learned English and we can begin to communicate, the family moves out and is replaced by another, cousins or nieces or even more distant relations. They are always exemplary neighbors -- hospitable, friendly, considerate -- but the language barrier does inhibit in-depth interactions.
A few days ago, late in the afternoon, one of the daughters from the current family appeared at my front door.
"Carpenter," she said. "Gone."
"Your carpenter is gone?" I asked.
"In back. Watching TV." Her eyes looked worried.
"Your carpenter is in back watching TV?" I clearly wasn't getting the drift.
She looked exasperated. "Come," she said. We went out onto the front lawn. The entire family was standing outside. Their faces were drawn; their brows were knitted.
"Carpenter gone," said the girl again. Everyone else nodded. The matriarch began pounding her fist on her collarbone. The whole incident was taking on a distinctly funereal cast. Surely the mere decamping of a tradesman was not worth all this evident anguish.
I had a sudden vision of a carpenter, overalls bloodstained, work-belt loosened, his body surrounded by 10-penny nails, lying dead in the television room.
We entered the house; we walked down the long dark hall to the den in back. There was discordant harpsichord music playing in my head. Had I stumbled onto a blood feud with its roots high in the Hindu Kush? I entered the television room cautiously. No bodies.
I looked at the daughter. "Your carpenter was here?" I asked, gesturing vaguely around the room.
"No, no. I here." Her tone indicated more than a little impatience.
"Then where was the carpenter?"
"Carpenter gone," she said. Silly question.
We moved back to the living room. "Carpenter here," she said. She marked the place on the floor with her foot. Her grandmother indicated another place about 8 feet away.
"Carpenter," she said.
Another image swam into my brain: a gigantic carpenter, a behemoth of an artisan, crawling on his belly like a reptile across the living room floor; a carpenter on a bad acid trip, thrashing about like a beached porpoise.
But why were they all so sad to be rid of this alarming spectacle? And, in any event, what was I supposed to do about it?
"We are not communicating," I said, moving my thumb and fingers in opposition, as though imitating the quacking of a duck. They looked at me as though I were mad.
"Kabul," said the grandmother, adding a new and bewildering element. The carpenter from Kabul is gone. It sounded like some sort of spy code.
The daughter got down on the floor and stretched her arms out.
"Carpenter here," she said. "Now gone." Somehow, that finally did it.
"Ohhhhhh," I said. "Your carpet is gone."
I was then able to piece the story together: They'd all been in the back watching TV and some bold thief with impeccable taste had walked in and stolen a large rug hand-woven in Kabul. Not good at all.
A few hours later, the daughter appeared at my door with a fuller explanation. An uncle, she said, had come in and borrowed the carpet, an uncle unfamiliar with the custom of his adopted nation. She would not meet my eyes when she told me this.
I definitely haven't ruled out the Hindu Kush blood feud theory.
url
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