How It Ended: New and Collected Stories by Jay McInerney Page B

would eat through the condoms, and once that happened it was permanent deep space. But the Australian smiled and rubbed the opal on his chest. “My lucky amulet,” he said. Trey had left him licking chili sauce from his cracked lips and yesterday had seen the opal pendant for sale at a stall in the bazaar. He felt awful then, thinking he might have been more sympathetic, more persistent.
    It was an object lesson, he told himself. The Pathan was reminding him of what could happen.
    “Excuse me,” Trey said. “My humor was crude.”
    The man nodded. “Your wife. She is still sick?”
    Trey nodded back. It was a convention of their transactions that Michelle was sick and that the junk was a temporary analgesic. This was, in fact, how Michelle viewed her habit.
    “There is anything else I can do for you,” the man asked after they'd made the usual exchange.
    “How about a fifth of scotch?”
    “I am sorry. But you know I am a believer.”
    Trey nodded once more.
    “I hope your wife will be well soon,” the Pathan said. “A good woman is a pearl of great price.”
    Trey had met him the day after they'd arrived in Landi Kotal. Rudy intended to leave for Kabul later that afternoon. The three of them spent the morning in the bazaar. It was Michelle's first time here and she wanted to look at everything. The close-packed stalls displayed bolts of Scottish tweed, Swiss watches, Indian ivories, sundries with the initials of Italian and French designers, Levi's jeans, Japanese cameras and radios, Buddhas in bronze and clay, vintage British cavalry swords and U.S. Army-issue Colt .45s. A hand towel embroidered with the legend Grand Hotel, Mackinac Island, Michigan was laid out beside a stack of Tibetan prayer rugs. Smuggling was the region's main industry. Much of the contraband was what it appeared to be, but it was safe to begin with the assumption that the Western-looking goods were Asian counterfeits and that the handcrafts and antiques were mass-produced.
    At one of the stalls, Rudy and Trey examined some pale, crumbly hash. Rudy shook his head sadly. It was water-pressed, he explained, the dregs of last season's pressing. He was confirmed in his decision to cross the border and get the pick of the new crop in the mountain villages outside Kabul.
    A small boy with a large knife sheathed in his belt stepped into their path waving his arms. “I got stone, man,” he announced. “Very hot stuff. Brand-new.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a cassette that he pressed into Trey's hand, the blocky roman letters on the inner lining reading EXCITE ON MAIN ST. BY ROLLING STONE. The boy wiggled his shoulders and hips vigorously, then took Trey's arm and coaxed them over to his rock-and-roll emporium. There were more bootleg cassettes, several Japanese cassette players and a Fender Stratocaster displayed in a gun rack at the back of the stall.
    Michelle wanted to buy a cassette player. Rudy told her that even if it wasn't confiscated at the border when they went back to India, they'd still end up paying more duty than it was worth. Trey reminded her that their money was tight.
    Michelle slammed down the tape she'd been looking at. “Always you and Rudy gang up on me,” she said, then turned and stalked off into the bazaar.
    Rudy went after her while Trey bargained for the cassette player. Michelle had been clean for three weeks and he wanted to keep her happy. When he caught up with them, he saw they'd gathered a crowd. Michelle's red chamois shirt was on the ground and she was trying to tug her T-shirt up over her head, Rudy trying to restrain her as men and boys in turbans were closing around them.
    Earlier in the morning they had counseled Michelle on keeping herself covered no matter how warm it got. She didn't like being told what to do. And she didn't like clothes. In Goa they'd spent the days nude on the beach. But Goa was not Muslim.
    Trey pushed through the onlookers. Rudy had her arms pinned. Michelle had a