14
The afternoon sunlight bounced off the windows of the low cinderblock building, giving the school an eerie, fiery glow. Zara shifted impatiently from foot to foot on the gravel below, anxious for the silence inside to burst into the clamor of giggles and screams that meant class was dismissed, and her sister Mariam ready to be escorted home. Her stomach growled loudly, like a tiger. The knowledge that the news of a wedding could be handed to her at any time was making her ill. She had not eaten in days.
Her stomach turned again as she thought about the conversation that had occurred with her father when he told her he’d been discussing a proposal for her. At first, after she’d gotten up the courage to tell him she still did not wish to marry, she thought everything might be okay. Her father had laughed, throwing his head back in that way she had seen so many times before when she and her sister were very little and did something to amuse him. At the time she had laughed a bit herself, more out of relief than anything else.
But with his next words she felt her heart sink down to her shoes.
“Of course, my daughter. I understand. Of course you are reluctant to leave the comfort of your family, the home you have known since you were born. But you are grown now, and this is a man of my tribe, our tribe. A man of means, with a house, a car; a man who has made a fine offer for you. You will overcome your girlish jitters. You will see. Even your mother was at first nervous and afraid to marry, and see now how ridiculous that was. It will all be fine.”
“But please, baba, I want to continue with my studies,” she protested, knowing that her love for Omar must remain a secret, that her father would consider love a silly reason, one that had no bearing when it came to making a match.
“You have done well with your studies, daughter, and I am proud of you. But you must marry someday. It will be a good marriage. And perhaps it will be possible for you to continue at the university even after you are wed.”
Zara could tell by the look on his face that her father did not fully believe the words that were coming from his own mouth. And when he added the thought that they should not insult a man like this man, the whispers she had heard around the house and the stories she had heard about others all came together, and she began to picture just how things had occurred.
After the man’s mother had paid that first call on her mother, no doubt unannounced yet welcomed in for tea, as any caller would be, after she had peppered Zara’s mother with questions about Zara, and impressed her with whose daughter, whose wife, whose mother she herself, was, after she assured Zara’s mother that their families were of the same tribe—third cousins in fact—only then would the two women become open with each other about the purpose of the visit. Next would have come a visit to both her parents from the man himself, accompanied by his mother, and perhaps an aunt. At the end of the conversation, if her parents were satisfied with the proposal being made for their daughter, they would have expressed their willingness to accept by bringing out the khuncha, the silver tray decorated with flowers and ribbons, to offer the traditional shirini, sweets, to the man’s family. If they had done that, it would mean the bond had been made.
“You gave them the sweets.”
Her father did not reply right away.
“You did, didn’t you? You passed the khuncha.”
Again her father did not answer.
“Please, baba. Do not make me marry this man.”
Zara held her father’s gaze firm with her own pleading eyes. For a moment he seemed to soften a bit, his brows and shoulders heavy with the weight of the situation. But she feared things had already gone too far, and had doubts that he would ever change his mind.
Not a word more about the proposal had been said since that day. She had still not seen Omar in class, and she was too worried to send him a message with her phone, fearing her parents might see. Now she pulled her head scarf tighter around her neck. As she looked down to check the time she saw a shadow pass over her phone’s glass surface. She raised her eyes to see a looming figure dressed all in black, with a pair of thick, wire-framed glasses resting on the tip of her nose, standing before her.
“The principal wishes to speak with you,” the woman said with an expressionless face.
Zara’s heart filled with dread. This principal, Faheem, was a man who ran the school with an iron fist, a fist that was said to turn quickly into a groping paw once watchful eyes were diverted. Her friend Shafia was not the only one who told tales like this. So far Zara had managed to keep her distance.
“My mother is not here with me. Is my sister all right?”
The woman simply turned and headed inside, expecting Zara to follow. Had Mariam misbehaved in class? She was usually such an obedient girl. But whatever this man had to say, Zara knew better than to take it too seriously. His professional reputation was that of an incompetent man, one who greedily considered position and favors as his right, like so many others in Kabul these days. It was clear to everyone that he benefited from a source of money over what his job allowed.
Faheem’s coal-black eyes, and the tight little smile he wore as he stood behind his immense desk, told her more than she wanted to know. To Zara’s dismay, he ordered the woman to go bring her little sister from her classroom once the lessons were over, leaving the two of them alone together in the room. Zara wondered how much this woman was paid to allow something so improper to take place. “Please, sit.” He pointed Zara to a wooden chair positioned across from his desk, but she remained standing, the smell of cigarettes and musk clogging her throat with a stale sweetness. Faheem slicked a wisp of unnaturally dark hair across his forehead and asked, “May I offer you some chai?”, his voice like honey.
Zara shook her head, her eyes pointed out the window toward the empty schoolyard. “Just some water, please,” she croaked, her throat suddenly as dry as the desert floor.
Faheem clapped his hands twice, summoning a skinny young man who seemed to appear out of thin air. “Water for my guest!” he barked at the quivering boy, who quickly ran out through the open door to do as he was told. Faheem turned back to Zara. “So,” he folded his hands in front of his chest, “how is your family?”
“My family is well.”
“Your father, he is fine?” he asked with a smile that revealed a mouthful of yellowed teeth.
Zara nodded, puzzled by the politeness of this man who was usually so stern.
“He is in good health, then?”
“My father is in fine health,” she answered, squirming a little at his probing.
“That is good to hear.” He nodded slowly up and down. “So there is no reason he cannot leave the house?”
“No,” Zara answered, confused.
“You see, he and I have some important things to talk about.”
“Is my sister in some sort of trouble?”
Faheem laughed, causing a drop of spittle to escape down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “No, no trouble. It is not your sister I am waiting to discuss.”
“If you have dealings with my father then you must speak with him and not me.” Zara lowered her eyes to the floor, where the man’s shiny black shoes glistened from their spot under the desk, despite the dullness of the bulb flickering above.
“You know, my little bird, you should let me see that pretty face of yours, and not turn it away from mine.”
Zara flinched at the sound of his words. She felt as though his eyes were boring a hole right through her clothes. Faheem started toward her from around the desk, his steps slow and deliberate. The hair on the back of her neck rose like that of a cat. Just then the boy returned with her water.
“And where is my Coke?” Faheem roared. “Can you not do one job right, you stupid donkey?” Faheem dug deep into his pocket and flung a handful of coins toward the boy, who scrambled to gather them up. “And while you are at it, bring me back some cigarettes, and not those cheap Chinese pine ones they sell around the corner.” Zara wanted to yell out to the boy,
to beg him to stay, but when Faheem deftly pushed the door closed behind him with his foot, she steeled herself for the ordeal ahead. But nothing could have prepared her for what came next.
Faheem now stood facing the window, one arm bent at the elbow as he stroked his beard, a patch of hair as black as that on his head, a shade that matched nothing in nature. “I hear that you are a serious girl, one who likes to study.” He turned back toward her.
“That is true,” Zara answered in a small voice, for one second thinking that maybe she’d been mistaken, that this man, a school principal, might be preparing to commend her for her diligence. She reached for a sip of her water.
“But you know,” he continued as he paced the room, “it is the role of a wife that is an honored one.” He stopped before her, so close now that she could smell the sour breath escaping from his mouth. “A girl like you,” he said, “would be lucky to have a man as handsome and rich as me to take care of all her needs.”
Zara placed the glass back down on the edge of the desk, her hand trembling.
Now Faheem ran his manicured hands slowly down the sides of his shiny Western suit, as if he were a prince preparing to address his kingdom. “And a family like yours, a family of no consequence, would earn great respect through your marriage to a man of my stature. It is a mystery to me why your father hesitates to give me his answer.”
She grabbed the edge of the desk as the strength left her legs. An avalanche of despair descended on her. This could not be true, what he was saying. But why would he lie? A million thoughts flooded Zara’s brain. Not once had she heard this man’s name mentioned in her household, unless it was talk about his school. She knew nothing of any other connection of his family to hers.
“And you, what do you have to say, my bride? I’m sure they’ve taught you to speak your opinions at the university. Have you no answer for that?” He reached for the glass and turned it to plant his mouth for a sip from the exact spot where hers had touched, then licked his thick lips as though tasting her for the first time.
She had no words. How she wanted to yell and turn and run, as loud and as fast and as far as her feet would take her. But instead she heard a small, shaky voice coming from her. “I don’t want to be a wife. I just want to continue my studies.”
Faheem laughed again, louder and longer this time. “Do not be foolish, little one. I can give you more than a college degree will ever bring.” He reached out toward her, his soft doughy hand slowly brushing the hollow of her cheek, sliding down along the side of her neck, coming to rest at the top of her collarbone.
Zara froze at the sting of his touch, her face burning with shame. Never in her life had she been treated in this manner by any man. She pushed his hand away.
Faheem reddened with anger. “You are a feisty little one, aren’t you?” he hissed as he grabbed her wrist. “No matter. I will see to that, once we are wed.”
“I will never marry you!” she heard herself say before she had the chance to think, as she struggled to break free of his grasp.
Faheem held tight to her wrist. “No matter what you say, you are already mine. The deal is as good as done. Your father would not dare to say no. Not to someone like me.”
It was then that she felt the tears dropping off of her cheeks and onto the floor.
“And be aware that I always take great care to keep track of what is mine.” Faheem pointed the first two fingers of his free hand at his own eyes. “My eyes are everywhere.” He dropped her wrist as if he were discarding a morsel of meat not to his liking, and returned to his chair behind the desk. “The way you let your head scarf fall back while you are at the university,” he hissed, “and the clothes that you wear there. Why do you dress like a whore? Is there someone you are perhaps trying to impress? Is that what all this nonsense is about?” He leaned back in the chair and drummed his fingers together.
Zara stood shaking, silent, refusing to answer.
Suddenly the front feet of Faheem’s chair hit the ground with a thud. In an instant he was back at her side, ripping the purse from her shoulder. He thrust his hand inside and pulled out her phone, holding it high above her head, out of her reach. “I am watching you, my child. I know where you go, what you do. I know who your friends are. And if there is someone else, I will find out who.” He threw the phone into a drawer and slammed it shut. “Patience is bitter,” he laughed, “but its fruit is sweet. And I am sure, my child, that yours will be sweet fruit indeed.”
15
The dark water churned in the wake of a giant container ship heading north to Alaska, a flock of gulls keeping pace above. Sunny stood outside the back door of the house and watched until long after it disappeared from view, then checked her watch. She was trying to make herself scarce during Layla’s session with Kat, knowing that her inability to keep her own mouth shut while the two of them were conversing tended to make Layla’s progress a slow go.
The idea to bring Kat—whose real name she now knew was Katayon—over to the island to help Layla with her English a few times a week had come to her in a cartoon light bulb moment. Where else would she ever find a Dari-speaking person in a place whose only diversity seemed to come from the variety of trees or brews of coffee? Kat had been a bit of a tough negotiator, but in the end Sunny’s promises of sun-filled afternoons on the island had won out over the tedium of the job in the dentist’s office. Now she felt just a little bit guilty, as the breeze off the water made bumps rise on the skin on her arms, making her look like a naked chicken. She pulled down her sleeves and headed across the lawn to the barn.
The two girls seemed to be hitting it off okay so far, but it was difficult to tell by just a couple of weeks. The exuberance she had once so admired in Layla seemed subdued by the stress of life in a strange country, or perhaps simply by the stress of being a teenager. The girl was way quieter and more withdrawn than Sunny had remembered. And Kat? She couldn’t quite figure that one out. On the outside, she appeared all tough and feisty, yet Sunny could tell there was more going on behind that defiant exterior. And, for two girls born in the same country, could they be any more different? The look on Layla’s face when she first saw Kat’s black-and-white hair was priceless. And she supposed that Kat must be equally perplexed by a girl who insisted on keeping her head covered at all times, even inside the house. But for Sunny, hearing the two of them chatting at the kitchen table made it feel like home, especially when Layla started rattling off questions in Dari. But Kat would have none of that. English only in this house, she insisted over and over.
Sunny dug into her jeans pocket for the key Sky had given her so many weeks ago and forced it into the heavy brass padlock that hung from the barn door. She struggled to make the key turn, jamming it left and right over and over without success. Then she picked up a rock and banged at the lock with all her strength. No dice. It would be easier to just huff and puff and blow this place down like the big bad wolf than to get this door open, she thought as she stood back and eyed the weather-beaten structure. She cupped her hands around her eyes and leaned forward to peer between the shrunken wooden slats, but was unable to make out much in the dark. She jiggled the key in the lock again, now more gently. This time it opened.
The outside light streamed in through the door behind her as Sunny stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the scene. The barn was a hell of a lot bigger than it looked from the outside, and was jam-packed with equipment from front to back and side to side. The wall to her right was completely obscured by what she assumed to be winemaking apparatus—vats and barrels and bins—and the left looked like a cemetery for dead gardening tools. But it was the back of the barn, where heavy beige tarps had been neatly and carefully draped over a huge mountain of something, that intrigued her most.
For a moment Sunny fought her natural urge to snoop. But then again, for now all this stuff—well, at least half of it—was still hers, wasn’t it? Despite Rick’s badgering, and both of them offering to drop their respective selling pri
ces even more, they still hadn’t reached an agreement about what to do with the place. And she was the one living there, after all. Maybe she’d only look at half the stuff. And now Rick was suggesting that she pay him “a little good-faith money” just for her and Layla to continue living in the place, as to him, he said, it looked as if she was really planning on staying. Fuck him, she thought as she headed to the back of the barn. She’d uncover it all.
She pulled her brown curls into a knot on top of her head and pushed up her sleeves. The first tarp slid off in a cloud of dust that danced across the slivers of sunlight piercing through the gaps in the roof above. But all that appeared was an old TV set with a cracked screen. Her shoulders slumped with disappointment. Under the next tarp she found an empty birdcage that had some potential, for something, someday. She dragged it away from the pile and put it aside. But the next item she bent to uncover caused Sunny to let out a little gasp, for peeking out from under this tarp were the heavy carved wooden legs of what could only be that furniture from Nuristan that she had always loved so much, and that Jack had always referred to as termite bait. And indeed it was a gorgeous table, and one that she recognized as her own from where it once stood in the front corner of the coffeehouse. A wave of homesickness washed over her as she ran her palm lovingly over the smooth walnut surface and breathed in its rich, dark smell. But what the hell was Jack doing with her table? As she whipped off the coverings of more items in the pile she began to get the picture.
At first she couldn’t contain her excitement. Sunny squealed out loud at the sight of the bowls and cups from the potters in Istalif, so blue they seemed to glow even in the darkness of the barn, the lustrous suzani bedcovers, hand stitched for generations by Uzbek women in Afghanistan, the silk embroidered pillows that had brightened her outlook even on the darkest of nights. And there was the rug, one of many she had purchased at “the carpet mall of death”, as Jack had called it due to the fact that the Russian-built cinderblock building was five stories high with all four walls facing an interior parking lot—a lot with only one narrow passageway for both entering and exiting. A security nightmare. He had, in a moment of weakness, given in to her begging one Sunday afternoon, and had accompanied her there for a spree. He ended up sitting there patiently for hours, gentleman that he was, as she sipped tea with the merchants and spent half his paycheck.
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