The Afghan Tiger

By Nick Taddeo

Tyler may have had it tough during his two tours in Afghanistan, but none of that prepares him for returning to civilian life where he faces deception, fraud, and thievery. He will not come out of the civilian wars unscathed, but when he elects to return to the war zone to make right a terrible wrong, the reader will come away with the sense that the experience has changed Tyler, as well as the reader, for the better.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foremost Press
• Release date: Jul 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781939870018

Nick Taddeo

Nick Taddeo lives in Pasadena, California, and is the author of five novels. I served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War and returned with a strong desire to get back into the flow where I could make my own choices and seek opportunities to live a full life. I believe I've captured a great deal of that struggle in The Afghan Tiger. _______________________ My first experience with making wine came when I was about ten or eleven. I helped my father press what he called Michigan and California grapes in our cellar. Breathing the strong aroma issuing from the fermented must and taking a few sips of the purple juice caused me to stagger around half intoxicated until I could get out for some fresh air. I didn't know at the time I would develop such a strong interest in the process and the people involved. Pouring from any bottle brings an endless variety of tastes depending on the winemaker, the soil, the climate and forever, the grape. So out of this interest I have managed to write two novels, Night Wine and Anna's Passion, and yet I go on studying the subject and tasting the wines. _______________________ My love of animals has been one of life-long interest. When I was a youngster and first saw a caged lion pacing back and forth in a tiny cell at the Detroit Zoo, I knew something was wrong. I couldn't let go of that image. Even today, I run because a sense of unrestricted movement connects me to the freedom which a wild animal needs to survive. For the novel Tinnemaha Creek, I camped, hiked, and studied the Eastern Sierras, consulted with Native Americans, farmers, ranchers, and wildlife specialists to raise my awareness of the dilemma which confronts both humans and wildlife struggling for survival in that beautiful tumultuous slice of the American West.

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THE AFGHAN TIGER

Nick Taddeo

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Nick Taddeo

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To all those, young and old,

who are lost to the spoils of war

CHAPTER 1

Tyler was moving quickly along La Cienega Boulevard heading for he almost forgot what, when he felt he was running, running away from something, running toward what? But he kept striding along until he discovered he was moving away from himself and then his world stumbled inward.

He was still moving in a makeshift ambulance, an army Hummer carrying him away. He had just pulled a child out of a small bombed-out house and became injured when the ceiling collapsed on him. He desperately wanted to go back for the little girl, but the ambulance carrying him was going the wrong way.

Tyler stopped when he reached Gallery Nadine, reluctant about entering this strange new world. After all, this would be his first job since being honorably discharged from an army combat unit in Afghanistan.

He had served his time and opted not to reenlist because of the atrocities he’d seen on the battlefield, and especially the loss of a child he had almost rescued from the remains of a smoldering house. One army doctor told him his flashbacks were bordering on hallucinations. Tyler thought they were more like daytime nightmares and thought he could get along fine without pills or drugs. His equilibrium may have often been set on edge, but now that he was returning to civilian life he was hoping things would go better for him. Except for his severance pay, he had no money. Since he’d been schooled and had always been interested in art, an ad for a gallery assistant would be a good start.

Yet he hesitated before opening the door to what would be a drastically different way of living.

Where did I lose my way? Too bad there is no compass to guide us through the forest we encounter each day.

As he was making up his mind to go in, another man approached the gallery. Tyler wondered if he also wanted the job. Tyler was casually dressed in jeans and a sport shirt. This fellow wore a blue suit, white shirt, tie and all. Not a good sign for him.

The man spoke to Tyler first, Don’t be afraid to go in.

Afraid? Tyler said. I’m not afraid of anything. Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m not frightened about going in here. There are just a whole lot of other thoughts going on inside my head.

As his unit from the 4th Brigade of the 4th Infantry Division was clearing out a pocket of resistance from an Afghan village, an errant missile destroyed a civilian home. He heard the wail of a child coming from the burnt-out skeleton of a house. Only one side of the mud and brick wall remained standing like a sad sentry to the former inhabitants. Tyler entered the still smoking wreckage pulling away shattered fragments of the walls and partial roof. He located a small girl curled under the body of a young woman. As he was trying to extract the girl from the woman and the debris, a loosened section of the roof came crashing down on him, breaking his upper left leg and tearing it open down to the bone.

Struggling with all the weight supported on his right leg, he still managed to free the girl from her inert mother and the charred wreckage. Limping and hopping on the one good leg, he carried her out of the building. He set her down, removed his padded camouflage jacket and put it around the frail body. The girl was trembling from the cold and horrific experience. She looked directly into Tyler’s eyes, and he saw the fear and beauty of a completely bewildered child.

His buddies could not set the bone but wrapped a pressure dressing around his upper leg to control the bleeding and then lifted him and carried him to the Hummer. But they would not take the girl along with them no matter how hard he pleaded. The sergeant in charge said over and over that it was not policy. Tyler struggled and argued, but was too weak to prevent them from driving him away to a field hospital where doctors further controlled the bleeding and set the leg.

When he realized he was daydreaming, he brought his awareness back to the present and asked the man, Are you applying for the job?

Oh no, I couldn’t work here even if I wanted to. The man opened the door and they both walked in.

Nadine Moreau, sixty-one, feisty as a bantam hen, saw the men enter her gallery. She had expected Tyler to be there. He had phoned earlier, but Nathan’s presence irritated her.

Tyler Van Norman, the veteran, tallest and youngest of the two, wishing he could remain as well composed as the Afghan tiger tattooed on his forearm, didn’t know either of these people. He looked skeptically at both Nadine and the other man, feeling her hostility, and wondered what he was letting himself in for. When necessary, Tyler had developed the ability to distance himself from others while keeping a degree of inner calm. This instinct for survival helped get him through some rough times even before and certainly during his two tours of duty in Afghanistan. So, keeping himself under control, he waited to find out why there was so much tension in the room.

The second man, well dressed, about forty-one, slightly overweight, smiled to himself about something. He moved with the cocky assurance that some people substitute for confidence. Though he had not set foot in Gallery Nadine for years, a quick glance around informed him that nothing much had changed. The view through the large windows to La Cienega still gave him the uncomfortable feeling the street was dominating the gallery. Nadine’s desk had been moved toward the back away from the glass front. It was still the large, masculine support she seemed to favor. There was now more sculpture than painting on display. Several glass cases along the inside wall displayed statuettes, both Cambodian and pre-Columbian. An open area in the middle of the room allowed step-back views of the few large canvases and various larger sculptures.

Nadine’s leather-tipped heels clicked on the marble floor as she strode across the open area. She moved around behind the desk and grasped it, with her arms out like wings. She ignored Tyler, who was making a quick mental survey of the art works on display, and glared at the other person. Dark penetrating eyes demanded an explanation for his early morning appearance.

You haven’t changed much, the man said.

Will you tell me why you are here?

Hello to you, too, and it’s nice to see you again.

How can I trust you when I know you can charm the fur off a mink? I see you’re still wearing suits tailored to hide your indulgent body.

Oh, I’d rather be thin as a rail like you, but I might miss something.

Stop the chatter and get to the point. As you might have figured out, I have a meeting with this young man.

The fellow turned to Tyler and extended his hand. She’ll never introduce us. I’m Nathan Moreau, dealer in fine art. He handed Tyler a business card.

I’m Tyler Van Norman—

Before Tyler could continue, Nadine’s husky voice broke in with a summation of Nathan’s credentials: Itinerant art dealer, trustworthy as a snake oil salesman. Look at the card. Post office box for an address, 900 number for a telephone.

Not any more. I’ve settled. Got an office and two telephones. Would you care to explain your acquisitions?

Nadine’s expression said she didn’t need to hear any more.

Nathan had been holding a large, flat, leather satchel under one arm. He set it on the desk and began to slide open the straps.

Another of your schemes? she asked.

No, this is different. You’ll see.

He removed an oil painting from the pouch, holding it up for Nadine to inspect.

So, what do you expect me to do, buy it from you?

No. I’d like you to display it for me, maybe find a buyer.

It’s not the sort of thing I show, and it’s not especially well done. Where do you find such rubbish? she asked without expecting an answer. Why, I couldn’t even tell you the artist.

No, probably not, but I can tell you something of its history. We could set our own price on it.

The scene is maudlin. The style is dated. I don’t care for it. Just take your trash away and leave me alone for another five years.

Nathan was not the least put off by the woman’s manner. It’s a pleasant countryside scene in Europe. What do you think, Tyler?

It reminds me of a place in France where I stayed for a few days. I know it’s not well done, but I like it.

That’s reasonable. Nadine, who is this young man?

If you’ll leave us so I can talk with him, he might become my assistant.

Shall I warn him or let him live dangerously?

Abandon your painting if you must, but please leave us alone.

Nathan moved nimbly for an overweight man. He set the painting on the desk, and then extended a hand pretending to shake hands with Nadine. Before she could stop him, he went around the desk and kissed her on the cheek.

Gross sentimentality! She waved him off.

After Nathan was well out of the gallery, Tyler asked, Who was that?

You’ll meet a lot of strange people if you stay in this business.

Tyler held a steady gaze at her, letting her know he did not accept her evasive answer.

If you haven’t figured it out, he is my son. Now could we get on with this interview?

You want to know about my interest in art I suppose.

That’s why you’re here.

I had to choose between having a military career and making a living in art.

You have a strong lanky body, a good face, nice light-colored hair, maybe the nose is bridged a bit too high, mmm, shifty blue eyes. You think too much. There’s a Viking in your background. Why didn’t you stay in the military? You could have had a steady job with a regular paycheck.

When I saw my buddies get their legs and arms blown off, I decided to serve out my enlistment and not reenlist. I had other plans.

Went to college I suppose, and then what?

"Actually I went to two years of college before military service, took general studies and all the art classes I could get; but I became restless, didn’t think I was learning enough. Somehow I wanted to make a living in the art world. Well, I had read good things about the École des Beaux Arts, thought I would like to attend.

My father bought me a one-way ticket to Paris. Seemed happy to get rid of me for a while. Unfortunately, he passed away while I was over there. That was a bad time for me. I didn’t even know he was sick.

Were you studying, or just bumming around on your father’s money?

I studied at the École des Beaux Arts for a year and then knocked around Europe for a few months, met some people, realized I was adrift without a rudder. I returned home, more restless than ever. My father, the last of our family, was gone. I was alone. Our country had been attacked, and we were at war. Almost on a whim, I joined the army, served two tumultuous tours in Afghanistan. I was injured early in October and spent November and December in rehab, then released in the beginning of the new year with a medical discharge. Now I’m back looking for a job, hopefully somehow connected to the art world.

Many veterans have returned with anxiety or other psychological problems. Anything like that happening with you?

Not that I care to discuss.

Nadine was sensitive enough to know she was poking into extremely personal matters. She decided to try a different approach, Did you learn anything about the culture or history while in Afghanistan?

Of course. Trying to follow the history from 3,000 BC to the present was very difficult. The people were visited by Alexander and his Greeks, sacked by the Scythians, overrun by the Mongols. Tamerlane and Durrani left their imprint. They fought three Anglo-Afghan wars.

Hold on, Nadine intervened. I didn’t want a complete history.

I didn’t even get to the Russian involvement and our own twenty-first century encounters. Mostly fiascos, if you ask me. He paused but wouldn’t elaborate because he didn’t ever like to discuss political matters. He said, What I found most interesting were the art works from early bronze bowls and artifacts, through a variety of necklaces, gold griffins, mosques, minarets, gigantic carved statues in the Bamiyan Valley—endless diversity of art.

I see. While studying all this, did you develop a philosophy of art?

Such as?

Well, for instance, some people believe that art is a window into the artist’s mind.

Tyler pondered that for a while and said, I’d say an artist takes the fragments of chaos which constantly flow into his awareness and forms that into images which make sense to him.

Sounds more complicated than it has to be.

Maybe. Tyler thought a while. I could say it’s like displaying your vision on canvas or stone or whatever medium you choose. But that’s not my primary interest. I’m more concerned about how a work of art moves me, how I react to it or what it makes me feel. I saw a Van Gogh exhibit once and I didn’t want to leave. I could sense the torment, the loneliness in the man’s life. When a person can raise those emotions with paint and a brush, he is an artist.

Interesting, she said without divulging any of her own thoughts on the subject.

Tyler didn’t think he should be the only one laying out his thoughts, so he asked her, What is your philosophy of art? If I’m going to work here, I should have a grasp of what you are all about.

My concern is more about studying art and learning how to evaluate what I’m seeing. So my philosophy is not exactly my own, but it goes like this: ‘You often must have information about a painting or the artist in order to have full awareness of what you are seeing.’ The more I know about an artist and the work in question, the better I’m able to make good decisions about whether to buy or not.

Interesting.

Now, don’t start mocking me, young man. Did you ever do any painting?

Assignments mostly and some sculpture by choice.

Any success?

I thought I was being interviewed to work, not to paint.

Touchy, touchy.

I’ll show you some of my stuff if you like, but it’s just not ready for the public.

No, right now I’m not interested in your talents, only your labor. However, I notice you walk with a slight limp. Will that hinder you?

Not if I can help it. Most of the suffering I endured happened during the ice cold of an Afghan winter. I hope to return when winter sleeps so I can make things right that were so wrong.

I guess that’s answer enough for now. I won’t ask you what happened. But as far as this job is concerned, tell me, do you know how to frame paintings?

Of course.

Good, that will help. If you can talk intelligently about art to my clients when I’m not here, you’ll get your chance. You might start by figuring out what to do with this third-rate painting Nathan left here.

See this frame; the corners of the wood were hand-cut. It’s not recent. Look at the canvas, no one stretches like that anymore.

So you do know a little about the craft. However, the painting is poorly done.

I’d like to have it.

Buy it if you enjoy wasting money. I don’t want it on my wall.

Tyler slipped the painting back in the satchel. I’ll talk with your son about the price.

Call him Nathan or Nate. You must have money to burn if you want that thing.

No, I’m almost broke.

So you need work?

I want to stay involved in the art world as I said. I’m willing to work, to do whatever is necessary.

An honest self-appraisal, Nadine noted. I think I can trust you. I must leave for an appointment this morning. Keep the gallery open for me. When I return, I don’t expect everything missing or in a shambles.

Tyler shook his head and grinned at Nadine’s remark. He liked the exterior toughness she showed. Her voice contained a deep rumble as though she’d been once been a heavy smoker. She seemed to accept him and reject him at the same time. He figured she’d been through something that had jaded her yet left her open to people, probably experienced a lot more of life than he had.

Alone for a while, Tyler walked slowly around scrutinizing more carefully the works in the gallery. Since there was time and he loved art, he figured he might try some sketching. Here he was surrounded by the products of imagination, most of it quite good. Perhaps some of the inspired conceptions in this gallery might help him with a creation of his own.

But first he spoke to himself: In the winter of my mind, the storm never subsides. I was tough enough for Afghanistan, but I don’t know if I can survive the fighting of the civilian wars. Besides, I could have done more over there. I should have done more. That poor girl alone in such a hostile place: it’s not what I did do but what I did not do. I let the army send me home just because I was injured. I can’t accept that.

Though he wasn’t sure what he could do about an abandoned girl eleven thousand miles away, he found some blank backing paper in Nadine’s workroom. He began to rub the tiger on his arm and then thought, maybe this job is only a distraction, but for now why not? He knew why the tiger was important to him, so at first he attempted to sketch one in an attack mode on a large sheet of white paper. Not at all happy with the distorted way it was emerging, within a few minutes, he tore it up and threw the paper away.

I could draw an eagle, he thought. He remembered one of his instructors at the École des Beaux Arts saying, Conjuring an eagle in flight is one thing. Capturing it in a drawing is another matter. Tyler tried an eagle. The poor thing with one wing shorter than the other would have to fly in tight circles. He tried another eagle and then more tigers. Discouraged, he attempted to draw the street scene outside the gallery windows. Every futile effort ended in the wastebasket.

When will you ever learn? he asked himself. To draw or accept that you can’t? came his internal voice.

Just before lunchtime, a tall, thin female wearing a leather miniskirt and tight leather jacket stepped inside the gallery.

May I come in? the young woman asked as she walked quickly by Tyler and stopped behind a life-sized marble statue.

Are you hiding?

Not from you. She tugged at her skirt, but no way could it hide long, slender legs.

Tyler saw three boys, teenagers, who had stopped outside the gallery balking at entering; but they didn’t leave.

Those guys bothering you? Want me to get rid of them?

Maybe if we just wait they’ll go away.

Let me try something. C’mere. He pulled her up close. She didn’t resist, so he gave her an embrace, which she seemed to return.

Umm, Tyler said, that was nice. I’ll go have a talk with those boys.

Standing at the door of the gallery, he yelled, My fiancée says she’s not interested in children.

Children! What the hell you mean? C’mon, let’s get outta here. . . . You can have her. . . . She’s too skinny anyhow. . . . Yeah, the bones would probably cut you.

The three boys stalked off, almost knocking Nadine off the sidewalk before she entered the gallery.

Customers? Nadine asked Tyler as she watched the boys disappearing down the block.

No, more like consumers.

I brought you a pastrami sandwich. Nadine handed Tyler the sandwich. She looked skeptically at the young woman but said nothing to her.

The tall, young female looked around the gallery for a few minutes, showed some interest in two of the paintings and especially the pre-Columbian artifacts, asked no questions, and then started for the door.

Wait, Tyler said. Will you tell me your name?

Not now. She ran her fingers nervously through short, dark hair, giving it loft.

I’m Tyler Van Norman. Remember the name. You will be coming back, won’t you?

That was a nice, gentle hug you gave me. I’ll try to return. The willowy body slipped through the doorway, disappearing before Tyler could protest.

I see you’ve been busy. Nadine raised her eyebrows in mock understanding.

Haven’t sold anything.

People rarely buy the first time they enter a gallery, but I wasn’t speaking about sales. I trust or distrust people on instinct. I would be careful about that one who just left. Come with me, something I want you to do. She led him to the workroom where she had a small stack of prints flattened out on a table. These are our bread and butter. I want you to mat and frame each one differently.

The matting is easy. Any particular color or style frames?

Use your own judgment. I assume you’re endowed with a certain modicum of it. Keep everything simple. Let the frame complement the picture.

She took three small figures from one of the locked glass cases and set them on her desk. Are you familiar with pre-Columbian art?

Not much, he admitted. I do like sculpture, however. I’ll have to tell you about the giant Buddhas that were carved into the side of a cliff in the Bamiyan Valley.

You saw them?

No, the Taliban had destroyed them before I visited the site, but even the setting was spectacular.

I remember reading about that. Now let’s not get off the subject here. These are my most valuable pieces. Study them carefully so you can show them to clients.

He didn’t like the way she cut off a subject he was personally interested in, but he directed his attention to the small figures.

All three pieces were made from dark green jade, none more than a few inches long. One was an Olmec face, deeply carved with heavy eyebrows and a lightly engraved figure—all carved out of one side of a rectangular block of jade. The second figure was a complete carving of a round body with a baby face, much like those on the large stone monuments. The third became Tyler’s favorite. It was a stylized finely sculpted jaguar, showing its canine teeth and stalking on all four paws, with the claws fiercely extended.

What do you think? she asked.

Wonderful work. Museum quality. Where did these come from?

Probably La Venta.

Where?

Mesoamerica. You’d better study art history if you want to survive in this business.

Tyler also wanted to ask how she got them, but felt he’d already been reprimanded enough.

Nadine smiled at his discomfort and said, In the future whenever you leave, lock these in the safe.

Sure, Tyler agreed and then turned his attention to measuring the prints for frames.

Nadine watched him for a while until she was satisfied he knew what he was doing.

After he’d worked for a while and got over her dismissal of a subject he wanted to pursue, he asked Nadine, Where are you from? I hear a little New York in your speech.

A lot of New York, she said. I was born in the Stuyvesant section of the Bronx.

And then?

Then what? She thought the harshness of the returned question would put Tyler off, but it didn’t. You’re not too afraid of me, are you?

Tyler casually shook his head and continued with his work.

Nadine spoke as she moved about the room. After graduating NYU, about a hundred years ago, with a degree in art history, I had to see some of the world. I traveled to Asia, Africa, Europe, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Enjoyed it all, learned a lot, and then to no surprise found I was pregnant. I returned to New York, worked in several places and then settled in an art gallery. Decided I could do better on my own, so I came to Southern Cal with an infant son. You’ve seen the results of that.

Doesn’t seem like such a bad guy.

Hope you’re not as naive as that makes you sound.

Tyler cut a thin, dark natural wood frame to enclose an Atkinson print of a horse and rider crossing a sandy riverbed. He had used a two-inch-wide, desert-tan matting to border the scene.

Nadine silently approved, then went about her work at the large desk.

At five o’clock a red Toyota pickup pulled to a stop in front of Gallery Nadine. A dark-haired young man about Tyler’s age, not quite as tall, got out, evaluated the neighborhood with a quick glance up and down the street, and walked into the building.

Posh surroundings, he said to Tyler.

Nadine looked up from behind her massive desk. A strange smile came to her face when she saw the handsome fellow with a closely-cropped beard and a tight athletic body walking into her gallery.

Tyler noticed her manner.