Princess Bari

by Sok-yong Hwang

  “If your destiny is the same as the Bari of legend, then I guess it’s time for you to start looking for the life-giving water.”

  “I don’t know, Grandfather. All my grandmother told me was that the water would find me.”

  The days passed, tranquil and untroubled. Ali worked hard at his taxi job, and I continued giving foot massages at the salon. Five times a day, Grandfather Abdul spread out his prayer rug and bowed in the direction of Mecca, and on Fridays Ali joined him at the mosque. In the privacy of our flat, I learned how to pray by copying Ali.

  One day, I was working at Tongking when my afternoon client arrived.

  “America is at war!” she exclaimed the moment she came in. “I just saw it on TV. The whole world is going mad!”

  There were shocked whispers all over the salon. Uncle Tan brought the television out of the break room and plugged it in. Sure enough, every single channel was broadcasting the news about what had happened in New York. They kept showing the same footage over and over, of a passenger plane flying into a building and exploding, and then another plane following suit. We held our breaths at first, as if we were watching an action movie. But when the building collapsed all at once, we screamed. People running down streets covered in broken glass and dust and smoke; the horrified faces and torn clothes of the wounded, who had barely made it out alive; paper and debris blowing around in the wind.

  By the time I got home that night, it seemed the whole world had lost its mind over the events in New York. I went upstairs to find Grandfather Abdul kneeling on his rug, about to pray. I waited just outside the door for him to finish. He stood, bowed once more and turned around.

  “You saw the news?” he asked. My face fell. I nodded.

  “I called Ali,” he said. “I told him to come home early tonight.”

  I understood what he was implying. Grandfather Abdul kept peering out the window until Ali was back. He did return much earlier than usual, but Grandfather Abdul still looked angry when he came in.

  “What took you so long? I told you to come home early.”

  “Someone called asking me to take them to the airport. I was on my way back.”

  “Stay home in the evening from now on. If you have to work late, only do it on the weekend.”

  Ali glanced at me and then spread his arms wide and asked: “What are you so worried about?”

  “The world is different now! Even before this happened, Muslims were not looked at kindly.”

  “Grandfather, that’s America. We’re British.”

  “Legally, yes. But now they’ll be more open about criticizing our religion, and our way of life.”

  Ali looked frustrated. “The terrorists are extremists!” he shouted. “They have nothing to do with Muslims like us!”

  Grandfather Abdul sighed. “But they’re still Muslim. Terrible things are going to happen. This has given them an excuse.”

  I prepared dinner quietly and didn’t interrupt them. We ate in silence.

  Grandfather Abdul’s predictions weren’t far off: a rock was thrown through the window of the mosque; women wearing hijabs were cursed at; and graffiti was spray-painted on the homes of Muslims.

  More than two months later, it was Ramadan. Ali would awaken at dawn to eat a little soup or rice porridge, then touch nothing else until nightfall except the occasional sip of water. I didn’t feel right enjoying my lunch with the other studio employees, so I just had juice or something else to drink. As my shift didn’t end until after dark, I could go ahead and eat as soon as I got home; but I ate more lightly than usual, and avoided anything too fatty. Mostly it was porridge, vegetables or fruit. By that point, I was halfway to living a Muslim lifestyle and observing the customs.

  One night, Ali received a phone call. From his voice, I figured it was his father. When he hung up, he looked grim.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Usman has disappeared.”

  “Doesn’t he work at a factory?”

  “He does. But he said he was taking time off to travel with friends.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Ali shook his head.

  “They found the receipt for the plane ticket in his room. That idiot has gone to Pakistan.”

  There was a knock at the door. Grandfather Abdul stepped inside.

  “Your father just called. I take it you spoke to him, too, about Usman going to Pakistan?”

  They both fell silent. Grandfather Abdul looked deep in thought.

  “You better go to Leeds yourself to try to find out what happened,” he said to Ali. “Young people mistake friendship for not telling their elders what their friends are doing. Your brother’s friends aren’t going to tell your parents the truth.”

  Ali nodded and said: “I know Usman’s friends. They’ll know what’s going on.”

  I interrupted them: “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. So your brother went back home? I’m sure he’ll be back in a few days, smiling about the nice vacation he had.”

  Grandfather Abdul shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “It’s not like that. The United States and Britain have declared war on Afghanistan, which means that calls for support and solidarity have been going out to young Muslim men in other countries.”

  Ali left for Leeds the next day. Grandfather Abdul and I waited and didn’t eat until he returned, late that night. His long arms looked like they were sagging all the way to his knees, no doubt from worry and fatigue. As soon as Ali collapsed onto Grandfather Abdul’s soft couch, Grandfather Abdul started pressing him for information.

  “What did you find out?”

  “He’s in Pakistan. He’s already been there for over three weeks. He went with four guys from his youth group.”

  “Did you find out where exactly he went?”

  “Peshawar. One of the guys, Saeed, is from there.”

  “Did you get Saeed’s address?”

  “Yes, from Saeed’s mother. She asked me to go find him and bring him back.”

  It was all but certain that they were headed for Afghanistan, as Peshawar was right on the border, a few hours from Kabul.

  Now that Ali knew his younger brother’s whereabouts, there was nothing I could do to stop him; his purpose in going there was to prevent something terrible from happening to his family. I had not yet told Ali, but I was almost three months pregnant at the time. Everyone was anxious to find Usman, so Ali left for Pakistan just a couple of days later. None of us knew it would be a long farewell.

  By the following summer, Ali still had not returned; nor had there been any word from him. I gave birth without him, to a baby girl with dark skin and big eyes just like her father’s. I had just turned nineteen.

  A new government had been installed in Afghanistan since the beginning of the year, but the news continued to broadcast reports stating that military operations to root out insurgents in the mountains were ongoing. Every day, the television showed refugee camps, torn-up streets and starving children.

  I spent two days in the hospital. Grandfather Abdul took Ali’s place and ran around buying baby clothes, baby bottles, diapers and other supplies. He named the baby “Hurriyah”.

  “What does hurriyah mean?” I asked him.

  “It means freedom.”

  I murmured the Korean word for freedom under my breath: jayu. Words need objects to attach to if they’re to be remembered. I thought about the names of the wildflowers that used to brighten the hills at the foot of Mount Baekdu as well as the banks of the Tumen River, where a bleak wind used to blow: purple, yellow and white nancho; childlike dongja; starry-eyed wangbyeol; delicate jebi, named after a bird; eunbangul, which resembled little silver bells; jaunyeong, the tips of their petals dipped in magenta; bristly jilgyeongi, on thick green stems; china-pink paeraengi; dark purple norugwi; babpul, which looked like they held little grains of rice; and the cute yellow buttercups we called minari ajaebi. The list was endless. I pictured myself running through field
s of them with my sisters, and looked down at the baby asleep next to me with her eyes gently closed. To the name Hurriyah, I added the Korean name that signified girl: Suni. I murmured under my breath again: Hurriyah Suni.

  Luna dropped by after work each night to fix me some food and help look after the baby. Ali’s parents also came to visit once, with Ali’s younger sisters. At the same time that they were thrilled the baby looked so much like her father, they couldn’t hide their tears. Before they left, Ali’s father hugged me and whispered in my ear:

  “Ali’s older brother is going to Pakistan to look for him this summer. He’ll send us good news.”

  I just smiled and didn’t say anything; I knew Ali was still alive.

  I didn’t go back to work at the salon until the baby was over a hundred days old, but I continued going to Lady Emily’s once a week. Most of the time she only wanted a massage, but some days she would tell me about her dreams instead, or confide in me about her communication with her deceased nanny, Becky. She had several psychic friends, and they all took turns meeting at each other’s houses. Lady Emily had offered to introduce me to the group, but I always found an excuse to decline. One day I arrived at Lady Emily’s house in Holland Park at our scheduled time, only to find Auntie Sarah looking grim.

  “Madam is out. She’s gone to Brighton,” she said.

  “Did something bad happen?” I asked.

  Auntie Sarah lowered her voice: “Her husband’s dead. Shot.”

  “What? How …?”

  “That little bitch shot him three times.”

  Auntie Sarah stopped there and wouldn’t elaborate. I was so shocked that I forgot all about my own worries, and felt bad for Lady Emily. I’d figured her preoccupation with psychics was because of her separation from her husband.

  Luna, the baby and I were spending the evening together that night when Grandfather Abdul came downstairs. He stroked Hurriyah Suni’s tiny feet and rubbed his beard against her soft-as-water cheek.

  “I need to tell you something,” he began.

  “I’ll give you two some privacy,” Luna said. She got up and started to head for the door, but Grandfather Abdul gestured for her to stay.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You two tell each other everything anyway. Ali’s older brother just got back from Pakistan.”

  Luna and I exchanged a glance, and both looked expectantly at Grandfather Abdul.

  “He confirmed that Ali went from Peshawar to Kabul in search of his brother. Also, Saeed’s uncle, who lives in Peshawar, said that Usman and his friends stayed with him for five days before leaving for Kabul. We know this much because Ali made one phone call from Kabul. But like his younger brother, he hasn’t been heard from since. According to reports, Jalalabad, which is near Kabul, and northern Kunduz were bombed by the Northern Alliance, and a lot of people died or were taken away. I can only hope that they’re still safe somehow.”

  I thought to myself: Ali is alive. I can feel it.

  It had been months since Ali had left for Afghanistan, with no contact and no trace of his whereabouts, so it was only natural that almost everyone assumed he and his brother were dead. Luna and Grandfather Abdul kept their heads down and wouldn’t look at me or say anything. Lately, everyone had been doing the same whenever Ali came up in conversation. They thought it was too late to try to comfort me by telling me not to worry, that he would be back soon. But I had seen Ali in my dreams. I’d seen Usman as well. Maybe because Ali was my husband, he was always talking or laughing or getting angry, just as in real life, but Usman would only stand at a distance and watch me, or would turn and walk away even as I called out to him.

  One day, Auntie Sarah called while I was working at Tongking. It wasn’t Lady Emily’s scheduled day, but she asked me to hurry over. I took a cab. As soon as I walked in, Auntie Sarah gestured for me to follow her upstairs.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She shook her head and sighed.

  “She’s asked me three times whether you’ve arrived yet. She’s a mess. Do whatever you can.”

  When I entered the bedroom, the curtains were drawn and the lights were out. The room was completely dark.

  Auntie Sarah called out timidly: “Madam, Bari is here.”

  “Okay.”

  Lady Emily’s voice was very faint. Auntie Sarah gave me a push and disappeared. I kept going in the direction of the push, and came to a stop at the side of the bed. I couldn’t see a thing, so I had to switch on the bedside lamp. A bottle of cognac sat on the nightstand next to a round snifter. Lady Emily was drunk. I crouched down near her pillow.

  “Shall I prepare a massage?” I asked.

  “That stupid man took three bullets to the back. They told me to ID his body, and then they pulled back the sheet. He’d grown so old in the last few years that I barely recognized him. He had lost so much hair too. And oh, that big belly of his! Hideous.”

  I listened quietly. Outside, fat clouds drifted through a clear blue sky, and the leaves on the trees that lined the road were green and beautiful. But Lady Emily lay half-naked, covered only by an untied bathrobe, her limbs splayed. Her sagging breasts were like half-empty leather flasks.

  “Turns out that whore had a lover back home in Thailand,” Lady Emily said. “She flew back three or four times a year to see him. Probably stole a lot of money, too. I bet she got sick of sleeping with an old man and was out of her mind when she shot him. The police asked if I wanted to see her. Why would I want to see that murdering bitch?”

  Lady Emily covered her face with her hands and began to sob hysterically. She turned on her side and pulled her knees up to her chest. I tried to console her as I straightened her limbs out, covered her with a towel, and began to massage her shoulders.

  “Okay,” I said. “Forget about the awful thing that happened. Just let it go. The memory will fade in time. Don’t let it consume you.”

  Her knotted muscles began to soften as I rubbed and kneaded. I made my way down the backs of her thighs to her calves and down to her feet. As I squeezed and stroked her feet, my eyes closed automatically. I shivered and my shoulders trembled; my body seemed to grow colder and lighter much more quickly than usual.

  *

  Someone is standing in the dark: a figure dressed in a loosely draped, dark brown garment made from a rough fabric. I recognize the apparition as Lady Emily’s nanny, Becky.

  Please help her, I murmur.

  In a hoarse voice, she says: You’re in no position to be worried about others.

  I say that we speak, but in fact we use no words. No sooner do she and I think of the same place than the furniture in the room vanishes and the darkness lifts. We stand in the middle of a parched land rough with rocks and dry grass. Wrinkles crease the corners of Becky’s dark eyes as she gazes out over the windswept expanse.

  Aren’t you looking for your husband? she asks.

  Where are we?

  The middle place, between the world of the living and the world of the dead, where shamans like you and I can come and go. Even after death, we can traverse this place.

  Am I dead, then?

  You die and return to life. There’s something here you want to see.

  In an instant the sky turns black as night, and a loud noise like thunder booms. Lights flash around us. Machine guns rattle, and the sound of cannons threatens to tear my eardrums. I glide over the rugged land. A small village appears. Black smoke rises, and I see houses on fire. People pour out of a narrow alleyway. Bodies lie in the street. Men with missing arms and legs scream. I hear planes and helicopters overhead. Tanks roll into the village on their metal wheels.

  I run like mad until I see a mosque in front of an empty lot, and rush into the corridor. Inside, hundreds of men and women are praying, their bodies prostrate on the stone floor. They keep bowing, standing up and kneeling down in silence, over and over. I ask the women, some in full burqa and others with only hijabs covering their hair: Have you seen Ali?

  Ali? Who�
��s Ali?

  Anyone here seen Ali?

  Their questions fly back and forth through the mosque until the entire place is filled with their voices. I hear someone at the far end call out to me: I saw Usman. He went to Kunduz.

  Murmurs of Usman, Usman and Kunduz, Kunduz spread through the mosque again. I push my way through the crowd in search of the speaker of that voice. But they all turn their backs when I get close. I keep pushing, burrowing further into the mosque. Someone grabs me by the scruff of the neck, and I am propelled between the pillars and back out to the corridor.

  Those are the spirits of the dead, Becky says. They’re all stopped at their memories from when they were alive.

  Is this Hell?

  No, it’s like a way station. There’s no such thing as Heaven or Hell. If they work hard, they’ll be able to move on to a better place, the same way that babies are born and grow up. Souls with many sins take longer and are stuck at a lower spot.

  I think of Kunduz, and immediately a dusty street, a bell tower and low houses appear. I see a plaza in the village where a market is held. There are wooden display stands and awning poles. But the streets are empty, and the houses are all shuttered. I hear a sharp whistling sound followed by an explosion. Dust billows up like a cloud and blocks out the sky. A shell lands in the plaza, and a large crater appears. Another shell lands on the roof of a house. Cement and stone shards fall like hail.

  I picture the outside of the village, and in a flash I see a group of men standing with their arms in the air on the side of a road overgrown with dry weeds. There are several trucks. Soldiers with bare feet and military jackets over their tunics aim guns at the men. An officer shouts, and the soldiers fire. The men collapse; several break away and run. They fall face-first. The image vanishes, and it grows dark as the ground ripples with their crawling bodies. I run over to them.

  Usman! Is there anyone here named Usman?

  I hear a familiar voice behind me.

  Bari? What are you doing here?

  I turn, and Usman is standing there, tall and with big hands just like his older brother. He has a long beard that makes him look ten years older.