by N G Osborne
“Water, miss,” a boy, standing next to a melting block of ice, calls out.
He thrusts a metal cup in her direction.
“Most refreshing, one rupee only.”
Noor puts her head down. She passes the kebab cooks twirling their skewers in the air like swashbuckling swordsmen, and the barbers shaving their early morning customers on the sidewalk, and joins the throng of refugees at the bus stop. She is the only woman. A Pakistani policeman lounges against the side of his rusted pick-up, smoking a cigarette. She catches his gaze and turns away.
“Hey. You,” she hears him say.
She squeezes past a one-legged man and strains up onto her toes. The next bus is a hundred yards away.
“Woman, I’m talking to you.”
A hand tugs on Noor’s sleeve. Noor swings around to find the policeman staring at her like a lascivious uncle.
“You traveling alone?” he says.
“I’m with my husband.”
“Where is he?”
Noor looks around as though he might be in the crowd.
“He was here a minute ago,” she says.
“You can wait with me.”
The bus pulls up, and the crowd begins to surge.
“There he is,” she says pointing behind the policeman.
The policeman turns, and she rips her arm away. She uses her slender frame to squeeze through the throng and onto the bus. She hears the policeman blow his whistle, but it’s to little effect. The bus pulls away, and Noor looks for an open seat. There are none to be had, and all she gets for her efforts are a couple of goons wiggling their tongues at her. She fixes them with a cold stare, and they turn away. She pulls her headscarf tighter and looks out of the window at a sparkling Land Cruiser ferrying a Western aid worker across town.
What I’d give to experience air-conditioning. Just once.
The bus arrives at her stop, and she wriggles her way off. The school is no more than a two hundred yard walk. In the courtyard the janitors are assembling the stage for the day’s performance. She slips into the kitchen and searches for some naan: she finds none. The janitors must have eaten it all. She closes her eyes.
“O Allah,” she says, “You have power, and I have none. You know all, and I know not. On this day I ask that you give me strength and kindly look upon me so that I may finally escape my present circumstances. Ameen.”
Noor opens her eyes. A janitor stands in the doorway ogling her. She gathers her books and pushes past him. She looks up at the heavens.
Surely, Allah has to be listening to me.
***
THE CLASSROOM DOOR creaks open, and Miss Suha’s wrinkled face cranes around it.
“The headmistress and the administrator want to see you.”
Noor looks at Miss Suha, not sure if she heard her right.
“Well hurry up girl, they haven’t got all day.”
Noor puts her chalk down and turns to her students. All thirty girls are staring at her.
“Please continue with the exercise we were working on yesterday,” Noor says.
Kamila, a bright-eyed student with a dime-sized birthmark on her forehead sticks her hand in the air.
“Is anything wrong, Miss Noor?”
“Kamila, when teachers go and see the headmistress it’s not because we’ve misbehaved, it’s because we have important things to discuss. Now I want you all to have finished the exercise by the time I get back.”
“I finished it earlier,” Kamila says.
“Do the next one then.”
“I’ve—”
“Enough,” Miss Suha says.
Kamila clamps her mouth shut. The girls all believe Miss Suha to be a witch and the last thing any of them want is to be the subject of one of her spells.
Miss Suha leads Noor out of the classroom and hobbles down the corridor at her usual tortoise pace. All Noor wants to do is run ahead and leave her behind, but she is no more inclined to get on Miss Suha’s bad side than the girls.
“So what is she like?” Noor says.
“A whore,” Miss Suha says.
Noor doesn’t take the bait. Miss Suha holds that opinion of all Western women.
“They’re a promiscuous race those Dutch. She even brought a man with her. A reporter; probably someone she’s—well I’ll stop there, don’t want to offend your innocent ears.”
A reporter. The administrator asking to see me personally.
Noor’s heart beats ever faster.
Why else would he be here other than to record the first time a Dutch Aid teacher received a foreign scholarship?
They pass Miss Layla’s class. One of her students is attempting to recite an Arabic verse while holding a couple of dictionaries above her head. The student gives Noor an imploring look. Noor looks away.
Not now. Not when I’m so close.
They arrive at the headmistress’s anteroom.
“Wait here,” Miss Suha says.
She shambles into the headmistress’s office. Noor stares at a poster of the Kaaba on the wall and closes her eyes.
Our Lord! Bestow on us mercy from Your presence and dispose of our affairs for us in the right way.
She opens her eyes and gasps. Miss Suha is standing in front of her.
“In you go,” she says.
Noor enters the office to find the headmistress behind her desk. The pretty, blonde administrator perches on the couch, while the balding reporter sits on a chair off to the side. The administrator bounces to her feet.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Noor. I’m Elma.”
Noor is drawn in by Elma’s shining eyes and unwavering gaze. Elma takes Noor’s right hand in hers.
“Come, sit with me.”
Noor allows herself to be led to the couch. She comes out of her daze just enough to remember her Dutch phrases.
“Goedemorgen,” Noor says. “Angenaam kennis te maken.”
Elma’s face lights up.
“You speak Dutch?”
“I learnt a few phrases.”
“Oh, how wonderful. Really, I’m very honored.”
Noor looks over at the reporter. He smiles at her. Noor reddens.
“Now I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m taking the time to meet with you personally,” Elma says.
Noor can do no more than nod.
“First and foremost, I want to thank you for the job you’re doing. I’m so proud of this school, how it’s blossomed in the two years I’ve been in Pakistan. When I was last in Holland, I had the opportunity to talk with Ruud Lubbers—”
“The Dutch Prime Minister,” the headmistress interjects.
“That’s right, and he was so proud of how we’ve been able to give hope and opportunity to so many Afghan girls.”
Noor holds her breath.
Here it comes. Finally, after all this time.
“That’s why this is so difficult for me, why I insisted I be the one to tell you. Now, as you may be aware, there’s a recession in Europe and every department’s being asked to make sacrifices.”
Noor glances at the headmistress who averts her gaze. Noor notices a box of tissues sitting next to Elma.
Oh God, she’s here to sack me.
“I want you to know I fought, harder than at any time in my life. I mean the last thing I want is to destroy what we’ve all worked so hard to build, but I was told if I don’t find the savings, the Hague will impose cuts unilaterally.”
Noor’s throat constricts.
“I’m sorry to inform you that we’re cutting the salaries of the married teachers by twenty percent and the unmarried ones by a third.”
Elma pushes the box of tissues towards Noor. Noor doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her job is safe, but in one fell swoop her weekly paycheck has been cut to six-hundred-and-sixty-six rupees. If she goes to the moneychangers’ bazaar she’ll be lucky to get fourteen dollars in return.
“It was agreed,” Elma says, “that the unmarried women have fewer dependents and thus r
equire less to live on.”
“I understand,” Noor finds herself saying.
Elma exhales as if relieved to have come through the ordeal unscathed. She smiles at Noor.
“So, I’m interested to know more about you—you teach the twelve-year-olds, correct?”
Noor doesn’t answer; she’s too busy trying to work out how she, Baba and Bushra will live off her reduced wage.
We can no longer have meat once a week.
“That is correct,” the headmistress says, “she teaches form eight”
“And where do you live?” Elma says.
And we’ll have to cut back on the gas lamp at night, just when the nights are getting longer, and we’ll need it more.
“She lives in Kacha Gari,” the headmistress says, “the refugee camp.”
“Have you been there, Rod?” Elma asks the reporter.
“Never been,” the reporter says.
“I’ll take you around, we have a couple of amazing projects there.”
“Perhaps Noor could be your guide,” the headmistress says.
“I may take you up on that,” Elma says.
Oh no, the British Council library fee is due this week. I’ll have to dip into the emergency fund. I can’t deprive Baba of his books.
“So, Noor, is there any reason why you’re not married?” Elma says.
The mention of marriage jars Noor out of her thoughts.
“Excuse me?” she says.
“You’re not engaged are you?”
“No, I live with my father and sister.”
“Salman, my driver, isn’t married either.”
Noor is speechless.
Can this woman really be trying to marry me off?
“He’s looking for a wife,” Elma says.
“As is every other unmarried man in Peshawar.”
Out the corner of her eye, Noor catches the headmistress eyeballing her.
“He has many admirable qualities,” Elma says, “he’s ambitious, handsome. I think he has a great future ahead of him.”
“Then maybe you should marry him,” Noor says.
Elma lets go of Noor’s hand as if jolted by an electric shock. She busies herself with the stack of papers beside her.
“You can go now, Noor,” the headmistress says.
Noor remains in her seat.
“You wouldn’t have any information about the Netherlands Fellowship Programme, would you?”
Elma looks up.
“The Netherlands Fellowship Programme,” Noor repeats. “I applied for a scholarship six months ago.”
“NFP’s for mid-career professionals,” Elma says. “It’s not right for you.”
“Of course. I told my father that when we applied.”
Elma returns to her paperwork. Noor stands.
“Tot ziens,” Noor says.
Elma doesn’t reply. Noor catches the eye of the reporter. He is staring at her with a look of amazement.
Amazed that I’d so humiliate the head of the agency that employs me. Oh Lord, what have I done?
Noor feels nauseous yet she straightens her shoulders as her mother taught her and walks to the door. On the other side she finds Miss Raza waiting there, wiping away tears. It’s clear the news has begun to spread throughout the school.
“Compose yourself, woman, and get in there,” Miss Suha says. “And you, get back to class.”
Noor heads down the corridor and remembers the performance they have to give at lunch. Her stomach turns.
It’s too late to change it but under these circumstances…
Outside Miss Layla’s classroom she sees a student squatting against the wall with her head in her hands. Noor crouches down beside her.
“It’s Haifa, right?”
Haifa nods. Noor lifts her chin up. Haifa’s cheeks are wet with tears, her right marked with a fresh crimson welt.
“It’s my fault,” Haifa says, “I couldn’t remember the surah.”
Noor knows there’s no point in confronting Miss Layla. It’d only make Haifa’s life more miserable.
“Has she asked you to learn another?” Noor says.
“Two by tomorrow. There’s no way I can do it.”
“Come and see me after class, and we’ll practice them. You’ll memorize them in no time, I promise.”
Haifa smiles.
“Thank you, Miss Noor.”
“It’s what I’m here for.”
Noor carries on to her classroom. Kamila is the first to see her and sticks up her hand.
“Yes, Kamila.”
“I heard that woman’s here to close the school?”
The girls look nervously at Noor.
“Let me be the first to reassure you all that rumor’s not true,” Noor says. “None of us are going anywhere.”
***
ELMA SITS ON the dais and broods. When they’d arrived this morning it had seemed a perfect opportunity to show Rod her human side; how as a dedicated, fast-rising agency head, she dealt hands-on with ruthless diktats from back home with grace and compassion. Now that was all lost because of one comment.
‘Maybe you should marry him then.’
Elma can just imagine the opening paragraph of the New Yorker article; the whole episode described in excruciating detail. A single, career-driven Dutch woman asking a beautiful, young Afghan teacher about her marriage prospects. The irony.
How could you be such an idiot?
The seven-year-old girl at the lectern finishes reading her poem, and Elma applauds along with everyone else. The headmistress stands up and takes the girl’s place.
“Now form eight will sing Watan Rana Kawoo,” the headmistress says.
Elma does her best not to grimace. She’s lost count of how many times she’s been forced to listen to this turgid song. Three rows of twelve-year-old girls stand up, and along with Noor make their way up onto the stage. Noor catches Elma’s gaze and turns her eyes away.
God, she’s stunning.
In fact Elma can’t think of another Afghan woman she’s met who’s better looking, and that’s saying something considering how attractive Afghan women are. That is before the toils of the camps transform them at warp speed into wizened, dull-eyed automatons.
The girls line up in three rows behind a pretty girl with an unfortunate birthmark on her forehead. Noor nods at the girl. The girl starts singing. Her rendition, while in Pashtu, is more in keeping with a 1950s Broadway musical. Elma senses the headmistress bristle beside her.
“Isn’t that from The King and I?” Rod says.
“The words are from a popular Afghan song,” Elma says.
“Yeah but that tune’s ‘Getting To Know You’. I’m sure of it.”
The other girls join in and sing the chorus. Their tone is pitch perfect. Elma remembers the film now. Deborah Kerr in her billowing grey dress introducing herself to each of the Thai King’s children. She never cared for it; she always felt it had a patronizing, Western-centric air.
And yet here you are guilty of a similar sensibility.
Elma can’t help but shudder. She glances at Rod. He is staring entranced at Noor and the girls. The Sun Tzu quote ‘keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’ pops into her mind. This impoverished refugee could hardly be considered an enemy, but somehow the quote makes sense. She leans in as if bringing Rod into her confidence.
“We’re trying everything we can to get her a scholarship,” Elma says.
Rod gives her a quizzical look.
“NFP is the last thing she needs, stuck in some dreary college in the sticks with a bunch of jaded thirty and forty some things.”
“So what’s the plan?” Rod says.
“An undergraduate program, something which will allow her to blossom among students her own age. We’re thinking the University of Amsterdam, maybe Maastricht or Leiden.”
“Did you notice she was the only teacher that didn’t cry when you broke the news?”
Elma hadn’t. Her mind had been
too preoccupied at the time, but now thinking back, she realizes Rod’s right.
“She’s everything we hope these girls can be,” Elma says. “Strong, independent leaders in a free and prosperous Afghanistan.”
“Well I have to say, you’re doing a fantastic job.”
Elma feels the day’s equilibrium shift back in her direction. The song finishes, and the headmistress stands, ready to hustle Noor and her class off the stage. Elma jumps up and starts applauding wildly. Rod joins her. Both the headmistress and Noor turn and stare at them in shock. Elma flashes Noor a glowing smile.
Keep her close. Yes, keep this one as close as you can.
FOUR
“LOOK, THERE’S A spot on it, you idiot,” Tariq says, pointing to a faint dot on his kameez’s cuff. “Quick go fetch me another.”
His wife scurries from the room, and he breathes a little easier. Using his one arm, he struggles out of his kameez. He stares at the mottled stump of his right arm.
I look like one of those wretched beggars on Jamrud Road.
He curses his father-in-law again for sending him on that ill-fated mission. As far as he’s concerned it achieved nothing. The Prince didn’t even visit him in the hospital.
Well, you have another opportunity to make an impression tonight. The question is, how? The most words the Prince has ever spoken to you were when he asked you to fetch a glass of water.
His wife waddles into the room with a fresh kameez.
“Help me into it,” he says.
His wife pulls the kameez over his head and lifts his stump into its right sleeve.
“Careful,” he winces.
She uses a pin to secure his right cuff. He tries his best not to stare at the pelt of fur above her lip and the folds of skin beneath her chin.
“Did you talk to Nawaz’s wife?” he says.
“She said there were bruises all over the Princess’s body and both her wrists were bandaged.”
So the Princess committed suicide. It makes sense considering the Prince treated her like his personal punching bag.
There’s a knock. He takes one last look at himself in the mirror and opens the door to find his father-in-law snorting up a glob of phlegm. It takes all the self-control he’s mustered over the years not to cringe.
