When the Moon Is Low

by Nadia Hashimi

  As I neared the mulberry tree, the sandaled legs abruptly stopped swinging. I did my best to steal a glance at his face, but the rest of him was hidden, as usual, by the foliage. He could see me from his vantage, which I thought very unfair but dared not protest. I had to consider my modesty.

  “Salaam.” A cautious greeting.

  “Salaam,” I returned. I breathed easier in the silence that followed. I was more comfortable in this unknown, protected by the orchard walls. I waited as my neighbor pondered his next words. There was, today, a tranquil tension between us.

  “You haven’t brought a book today.”

  “I haven’t felt much like reading lately,” I confessed.

  “Something troubles you.”

  How much could I reveal? But I was lonely. Not one person in my family knew how I felt. Not one person knew why. My distress was trapped in my throat like something I could neither choke down nor spit out.

  “I come to the orchard when there’s something I want to avoid. Or when there’s something I want to think about . . . something private.” His voice dropped off at the end. I kept my eyes on the grass. I didn’t want to see his face or any other part of him. In this moment, the unsure rises and falls of his voice were all that I needed.

  “My father loves the orchard enough to do his dawn prayers here. He believes his prayers nourish the trees, but it’s probably the other way around,” I said. “He empties his heart to these trees, to their branches and roots, and in return they sweeten his mouth with their fruits. In the afternoons, the orchard is mine. My siblings are too afraid to come this far out into the trees.”

  “Some people fear what they cannot see.”

  “I have seen and there’s nothing to fear here. It’s beyond this orchard that frightens me.” Again, there was a pause.

  “You were reading Ibrahim Khalil last time.”

  I was surprised. Indeed, I had been. My reading skills had improved tremendously, and I was now studying the writings of contemporary Afghan poets.

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Why?”

  Why? A question that I couldn’t eloquently answer. There was something powerful about the clarity and conciseness of the lyrics. How amazing to condense the profoundest of thoughts into a few lines, to boil them down and mold them into an enchanting rhyming package. I loved picking those packages apart, like unwrapping a gift meant only for me and deciphering the lines.

  “He is a compass,” I explained, finally. “There are days when I sleep and wake with a dilemma. I can think and think on it and not know up from down. But more than once, I’ve read his words and then . . . I don’t know how to say it. It’s almost as if he has written answers to questions I never asked him.”

  “Hmm.”

  Did he think me ridiculous?

  “That’s how I see it,” I added. I felt my face blush.

  “Can I tell you one of my favorites?”

  I nodded. He cleared his throat and began to recite. I recognized the poem as one I’d bookmarked and underlined.

  As you tread to the temple of your supreme pursuit

  A hundred peaks may hinder your route

  With the hatchet of persistence, conquer each

  And bring your aspirations within your reach

  Yes, I thought, looking at the skyline and seeing the hundred mountain peaks that separated Kabul from the rest of the world. There was quiet as the simple words made the distance between us thin and meaningless. The verse he’d chosen made me feel he knew every thought I’d dare not share with others. He had put a gentle arm around me. It was my first experience with intimacy, both rousing and frightening.

  “That is a beautiful poem,” I said finally. “Thank you.” I wished him a good day and slowly returned to the house, feeling my throat thicken and not wanting to cry in his presence. I’d revealed enough today.

  I ran back into the house, passing KokoGul on my way up the stairs. She was hemming a skirt and barely looked up.

  “Fall and break your leg and see who will carry you around. Act your age!”

  A FEW DAYS LATER, KOKOGUL RECEIVED THE CALL SHE’D BEEN awaiting. The Firoozes had made their intentions clear and official. KokoGul was delighted, as if she herself were being courted instead of me.

  “I knew. I knew they would take one look at my daughter’s face and see the loveliest aroos a mother could want for her son! That woman would be lucky to have you as her daughter-in-law and they know it now. You’re far more beautiful than anyone in their family, and our family has a good name. Your padar is as well respected as Boba-jan was, may God give him eternal peace. Agha Firooz will have to show us that they are worthy of our daughter. And we won’t make it easy . . . no, no, no. I’ll make that woman call on our home so many times, she won’t be able to dance at your wedding for the calluses she’ll have on her feet; I don’t care how much money they have.”

  I knew that wasn’t true. She’d estimated, in the days after their first visit, just how much the fabric of their dresses had cost. She’d taken stock of the stitching and the design, commenting that only Kabul’s most capable seamstress could have crafted a dress that made such a stocky figure seem womanly.

  I was relieved to hear KokoGul’s plan for the day of their return. She and I both wanted me out of sight for their second visit.

  “Your sisters will bring the tea and biscuits. They saw you last time—let’s let their mouths water a bit.”

  “Madar-jan, a girl should have multiple khastgaar, shouldn’t she? You’ve said many times that one khastgaar attracts a second suitor and a third. That would look better for us, wouldn’t it? Maybe you should turn this family away.”

  KokoGul balked at my reasoning.

  “A second and a third khastgaar? Look who thinks very highly of herself! Agha Firooz’s son is not good enough? An educated boy from a wealthy, respected family like that is not good enough? Listen, girl, just because one family has come knocking does not mean that anyone else will! Kabul is full of girls.”

  Her demeanor had changed completely.

  “I just thought . . .”

  “You should be thankful that anyone has come knocking on your door at all! A girl raised without her mother is not exactly the kind of wife a family welcomes with open arms.”

  Without a mother. Her words should not have stung as harshly as they did. I’d lived my life as KokoGul’s stepdaughter, aware with each breath that I was not Najiba or the others. I was inherited, an outsider in my father’s home. That I’d laughed at her jokes, that I’d learned to cook the foods she loved, that I’d rubbed her back when it ached, that I’d spent my life calling her “Madar-jan”—I wanted to take it all back. KokoGul’s heart was a fixed space, a container with finite dimensions, and every inch of it had been spoken for by my sisters and my father. I stared at her and through her. Once again and even more unexpectedly this time, I was motherless.

  “Such ridiculous notions. This business is for me to manage. You’re too young to know what is good for you.”

  I watched her lapis ring tap sharply against her teacup. She was a fiery woman, with strong feelings about everything. But in every embrace, every conversation, every glance with me she was lukewarm. I imagined my home without me—my sisters laughing in the hallways, my brother at my father’s side, and KokoGul, hands on her hips, proudly presiding over it all.

  Why did my mother have to die?

  Nothing exceptional happened on this afternoon. It was a few words, not much different from any other day but it was a private, cataclysmic moment when I saw the woman before me through unclouded eyes.

  “They’re coming back sooner than I expected,” KokoGul said, thinking out loud. “But I’ll find a way to keep them baited.”

  KokoGul made her own mouth water.

  I saw the peaks of a hundred mountains rising before me.

  CHAPTER 7

  Fereiba

  AGHA FIROOZ’S FAMILY APPROVED OF ME. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN flattered.


  Instead, I wondered if I could have done something in that first visit to turn their attention away.

  But the mother returned, and this time she brought her son along with her. Forbidden from appearing, I kept hidden. I snuck down once only to catch a glimpse and confirm my suspicions. Sitting next to his mother and appearing as proper as a prince was the boy from the market. I slinked away without anyone noticing.

  Repulsed, I sat on my bed. My head fell against the wall.

  I could hear KokoGul speaking in the singsong voice she used to tell witty stories. She was masterful at telling tales, creating suspense with the cadence of her words. Her eyes would brighten under the attention. She disarmed people in that way, mimicking voices and facial expressions in a way that had listeners doubled over in laughter.

  People loved her. I loved her.

  Since Boba-jan’s passing, my father had grown ever more distant. I’d once placed a bowl of dried apricots and walnuts at his side while he was reading. He’d looked up from his newspaper startled. A quiet mumble and a shake of his head told me it wasn’t me he’d seen when he looked up. He still grieved my mother, as did I. He wouldn’t say a word about her, but his melancholy eyes hid nothing. He barely bothered to ask about my classes. We exchanged but a few words in the course of the day.

  I wanted to ask him to forgo this suitor.

  My father would see things KokoGul’s way. He always did. Not so much because she was looking out for his financial interests, but because it greased the cogs of our home. Life was easier on him when he agreed with KokoGul.

  I spent more and more time in the orchard. Being in a house full of people betrayed the solitude I felt. KokoGul was exceptionally cheerful. She spent mornings in the fabric store and afternoons with the seamstress. Her closet celebrated with new lacy hems, a delicate head scarf, and a white wool shawl brilliantly embroidered in gold and emerald stitching.

  The courtship continued, the ladies now expressing frankly that they were seeking a wife for Agha Firooz’s son. They did not want to be kept waiting. He was an educated young man who was in line to inherit his father’s business. KokoGul was not pleased that they would ask for an answer so quickly. For her, the dance had only begun.

  “Fereiba-jan is a very hardworking girl, you know. My husband has offered time and time again to bring servants to help with the housework, but Fereiba and I, we manage everything together. And I’d rather not have strangers in my home, so I’ve refused.”

  I shook my head. It was hard to keep straight truth from lie with KokoGul. I doubted she knew the difference herself.

  “Good for you that you’ve been able to raise a hardworking daughter. I’ve never had my daughters do any of the chores around the house. I was afraid they would end up as servants in the homes of others if I did. But to have an aroos, a bride, who can run a household—that would be a welcome change!”

  “Yes, indeed. My other daughters are not as involved for the same reason.”

  KokoGul danced on, her lapis-ringed finger twirling in the air as she choreographed their exchange.

  “FEREI, ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO GET MARRIED?” A GIDDY SULTANA whispered as I tried to focus on my literature assignment.

  I ignored the curiosity of my younger sisters. I spoke, ate, and slept very little. Schoolwork was the only effective distraction. When I had time, I returned to the orchard to sulk in privacy.

  KokoGul was quietly gathering what she needed to make my shirnee, a symbolic tray of sweets to be presented to the suitor’s family as formal acceptance of their proposal. A silver-plated serving tray, gold tulle, and a box from Kabul’s confectionery store had been tucked into her dresser drawer. Despite the beguiling dance she did with Agha Firooz’s wife, KokoGul was eager to dress me up with ribbons and send me off to a new home. I stared at the things she’d bought. I put her freshly laundered undergarments in her drawer and fought the urge to rip the tulle to shreds, to smash the sweets and leave KokoGul nothing but a tragic pile of gold foil wrappers.

  “WHY ARE YOU UNHAPPY?”

  Lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed the sound of leaves crunching under my neighbor’s approaching feet. So long as my splotchy face remained hidden, I didn’t mind the anonymous company. I touched the wall. As my fingers traced its roughness, a slip of clay lifted. I rubbed a bit harder and more crumbled to the ground. I turned and leaned against it. The khaki dust lingered on my fingertips.

  “There is a family . . . with a boy.” I tried different combinations of words but choked on a real explanation.

  “Your suitor?”

  Though he could not see me, I nodded.

  “You know?” I asked.

  “My mother and sisters were talking about it. They’ve seen the family come and go, and KokoGul mentioned something when she stopped by this week.”

  “She stopped by your home?” I’d paid no attention to KokoGul’s whereabouts in the last two weeks.

  “Yes.” The voice spoke quietly. “I can’t say I think much of that boy.”

  “You know him?” He confirmed my judgment.

  “Not very well. Here and there and from a distance. But we attended the same high school.”

  “And even from a distance you have this opinion of him.”

  “Some things are clearer from a distance. I don’t know if I should say more.”

  “Whatever it is, you should say it. No one else is saying anything worth hearing.”

  He told me about the boy’s mischief. Teasing girls, fighting with classmates, poor marks in school. Rumors circulated about him, things that my orchard confidante refused to disclose. Since the Firooz boy had graduated from high school, his parents were hoping marriage would mature him in a way age hadn’t.

  I sank to the ground, pulled my knees close to me, and let out a defeated moan.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to scare you, but I thought you should know. Your family should know.”

  How could I tell my family? It wasn’t as though I could repeat things I’d heard from a strange boy I’d been meeting in the orchard.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I whispered. “My mother thinks their family is a good match for us. And my father . . . even when he’s in the room, he’s not around. He’s happy to leave things to my mother. I tried to tell her I didn’t want to be married now, but she’s not interested in what I want. She won’t believe anything I tell her about this boy. She’ll just tell me not to listen to rumors.”

  “I see.”

  My behavior was unforgivable. I’d revealed my private thoughts and our family affairs to our neighbor’s son, a faceless voice behind a wall. Where was my honor? And how could I trust him to keep our conversations to himself? I was suddenly flustered.

  “Please excuse me. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know why I troubled you with this. Please forget everything,” I said, straightening my shoulders and trying to shake the emotion from my voice.

  “You are upset. You haven’t done anything wrong . . .”

  “But I have. Please do not repeat any of this. I wasn’t expecting to . . . to be so . . .”

  “You have my word. I will not say anything to anyone. But I will tell you something as well. I’m as troubled as you are with the news of this suitor.”

  The orchard held its breath. His words hung in the air above the wall between us, lingered there far enough out of reach that he could not pull them back and I could not claim them. I didn’t want his words to float away.

  “Why are you troubled by this suitor?”

  He did not reply. I repeated my question and still heard nothing.

  “Are you there?”

  “I am here.”

  “You did not answer.”

  “No, I did not.”

  The air grew thick with his reticence. I held myself back, not daring to fill the silence with my own inventions. I wanted only his words. In a flash of honesty, I knew why I’d come back to this spot day after day. I touched the wall, my hands trembling.
/>   “I am going back to the house.”

  “Fereiba-jan.”

  He knew my name? I froze in my tracks. My skin tingled with anticipation.

  “For today, just know that the news of your suitor distresses me. Come tomorrow so we can think of how we may be able to change matters. God is merciful.” I heard his footsteps as he walked away, pictured the grass bending under his leather sandals. My eyes stayed fixed on the wall between us, the barrier that kept us apart but not as much as it kept us together, for without it, I would have fled in shame long ago. The wall was my purdah, my cover.

  My father came home that evening and saw me in the kitchen, peeling purple carrots he’d harvested from his garden. I stood up and said hello to him, kissed his cheek. He nodded quietly. He looked conflicted, as if there were much he wanted to say but couldn’t.

  “Where is KokoGul? Has she gone to rest?”

  “She went into the market with Najiba and Sultana. I think they’ll be back soon.”

  He took two steps out of the kitchen, hesitated, and turned back.

  “And you, how are you?” He sounded concerned.

  “Me, Padar-jan? I am well.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes,” I said meekly. From the tone of his voice, I knew there was more he was asking me. I knew he loved me as much as he loved my siblings. Had I not taken my mother from him, he may have loved me more.

  “You know, you are a great help to everyone in this home. You have always worked very hard.”

  I listened, my head bowed respectfully.

  “Allah keep you alive and well, my daughter.”

  “And you too, Padar-jan.”

  “Every day, you have more of her in you. Every day.” Like the words I’d left suspended in the orchard, these words hung in the air. They’d been unsaid in each conversation with my father, implied every time he looked at my face as if it hurt him to do so. These were the kind of tender words KokoGul would scream to hear.

  If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought it would be hard to grieve a stranger. I would never have thought it was something I could do my entire life.

  How I wished I could pull up a chair and beg my father to go on, to tell me every detail of my mother so I could at least know the woman I mourned. I wanted him to tell me about the first time he saw her, the sound of her voice, her favorite foods, and the shape of her fingers. I wanted to close my eyes and have her appear before me, to hear her call my name just once. But trying to conjure my mother was like trying to hum a song I’d never heard.