Fear of Beauty

by Susan Froetschel

  We’re running out of time. Then her words tumbled, aiming to convince him of an idea that I could not hear.

  Have you spoken with him about this? Gul demanded in fury.

  No! Mari exclaimed. I promise! But you could do it tonight.

  Hmm . . . you’d risk marriage to an unknown, so she can stay near home.

  I care for her. I want what’s best. Think of how she’s helped you.

  He cut her off. Because you did not bear sons. Mari sobbed, but Gul rushed, talking over her noise. Speak with her before this evening. Make sure this is what she wants before I move forward with an offer. His voice went into a hush, And pray nothing happens to her while we dawdle.

  The conversation ended with the sound of footsteps. Suddenly Gul called back, almost as if he wanted the rest of us to hear that Leila’s fate would be decided soon. We decide before the next moon.

  I’m not keen on following every rule. But there’s danger in blatantly breaking rules that others must follow. And there’s tragedy in marrying someone for the wrong reasons. I wondered which village man would be approached and how Gul could possibly arrange such a marriage, breaking all traditions and allowing Leila to stay near home. The other families of Laashekoh wouldn’t be happy.

  Joey took yet another route to Laashekoh, indirect and obstructed by brush. Starting out as the sun went down with a quick ruby burst, he stayed just close enough to the river so that the steady, rushing water covered the sound of his footsteps and perhaps distracted anyone waiting for movements near the village.

  Joey was determined not to be surprised by any villagers. Of course, intimate with the terrain, they had an advantage. But Joey was skilled, more than once approaching the compound wall in the middle of the night without incident. The team—Mita, in particular—was anxious for another visit to Laashekoh, and Joey wanted to ensure that the men were there, with no surprises.

  He moved carefully, with the same crouching night walk used by Afghans who occasionally ventured near the outpost. Like the Afghans, Joey left no footprints or other traces. By now, he was confident the one villager had not revealed their chance meeting to others.

  Suddenly a roar sounded from over the ridge. Joey dropped, rolling to the nearest boulder. Headlights soon followed, performing a zigzag dance along the rugged landscape. He looked up only after the headlights passed. Two dirty, dented ATVs ripped through brush along a ridge lining the one side of the river. Crossing the river less than thirty meters away from him, the vehicles aimed directly for the footpath that pointed to Laashekoh.

  He didn’t get a good look at the drivers. But the route they took clearly avoided an easier route past the outpost, not a coincidence. Joey had to assume they couldn’t be helpful to the Americans. The visitors would ask questions about the outpost and how the village planned to deal with the Americans. If the outpost was perceived as interfering with any Taliban operations in the area, questions would quickly turn into intimidation. The only release from the pressure would be for villagers to join in launching attacks on the outpost, intensifying until either the Taliban or the Americans left the region.

  Joey swore and hoped he was wrong.

  Moving cautiously, Joey continued to the village. He had no evidence of danger, and didn’t want to curtail the ag program. He had to hear more before giving Mita his assessment. He enjoyed working with her more than he had anticipated and didn’t want security concerns to cut the program short.

  She didn’t know it, but helping the villagers was secondary. His mission was to keep her safe.

  But during the last few days, she was cool, not chatting much. He wondered how much she trusted him.

  The red sun hovered low in the sky, translucent and brilliant, like the plump flesh covering a pomegranate seed. Red light spilled over the fields, the forest, mountains, giving an illusion of warmth. Typically, the women of our village didn’t work this late at night, but as the day progressed, winds came in from the mountains, bringing a chill.

  We didn’t know what temperatures to expect once the sun disappeared, and our weather had been volatile in recent years. An unexpected frost could put a season of hard work to waste. No family member was too young or too old to help strip the pomegranates from their branches, both the ripe and near ripe. If there was time, we’d gather the late beans. The cabbage and root crops could wait.

  The coral glow of a setting sun did not last long. I kept a steady pace, snatching glances while placing the fruit in my bag. I counted: Nine fast glimpses, and the red vanished. Twilight’s gray blanket smothered the edges of the fields. As darkness fell, some pickers moved quickly, and others slacked.

  Anxious to rescue every pomegranate, I focused on slashing the stems quickly with my knife, before gently placing the fruit in a bag slung across my shoulder. When the bag was full, I carried it to the edge of the orchard, where young boys scurried to retrieve them, walking back and forth to a nearby cave that served as our village’s cold storage. Inside, small children stacked the pomegranates, and the fruit would keep until our men headed to the market.

  Mama, we’re doing well, Saddiq whispered. We’re ahead of everyone.

  And what does that mean? That we are better? Cross and tired, I glared, pointing out that his father would not be pleased to see him puffed with pride. Scolding the children came easily, because I still ached for my oldest son and wanted to protect the others. Getting close with the younger ones was painful. I did not want to replace Ali or contemplate the loss of another child.

  The boy looked hurt, and I checked the others’ positions in the orchard. Keep working, I added kindly. We could lose what’s left of this harvest.

  He nodded and ran off, lugging another bag that was half his weight. Ashamed of my harshness, I wondered if I’d forever think of Saddiq as a second son. Hard work made their mother happy, but scolding didn’t let my children know that.

  Shame and pride were a strange mixture, pushing me to move faster and talk less. Pride couldn’t be so harmful, I hoped, if kept to oneself.

  A growling overcame the sounds of wind shaking the leathery leaves and chatting pickers. A vehicle approached, struggling to climb our hill in fits and starts over the rocks. Others paused to listen, but I didn’t stop.

  The blocked pathway wouldn’t allow even a small off-road vehicle close to our village, and I guessed it had to be a new set of visitors, not the Americans who had already figured out they must stop and walk the rest of the way.

  Tires grinded at the rocks. The visitors would not arrive for at least another forty minutes, but others took the noise as an excuse for ending work.

  My fingers hurt, but I pushed on. The timing was not the best, and I found myself hoping it was the Americans. Our men would chase them away. If the visitors were from nearby villages, the late hour would mean they’d stay the night.

  Women scurried to Mari’s kitchen to heat more nān and āsh soup. Mari had left the fields earlier to cook enough for all, directing children to serve bread and warm water to the crews throughout the afternoon, and preparing a rich stew for the evening. Unlike the others, I refused to take breaks, and instead kept cutting at the pomegranate stems, gathering the globes into my basket for Saddiq to take load after load to the edge of the orchard.

  Though it didn’t seem possible, I moved faster, hoping others might do the same. My back ached, my headscarf fell to my shoulders, and still I didn’t pause.

  Take some breaks, my husband had urged earlier.

  I accepted water to sip, but stayed in the orchard. Not until we’re through with this harvest, I insisted.

  As women drifted inside, the older children ran to the compound wall. My sons didn’t pause, picking furiously and carrying crates to the cave, but remained alert, ready to respond if their father called. I smiled. There was no excuse for any family to stop working as long as fruit waited.

  Filling one basket, I stayed in an area cloaked in darkness. I approached the last tree in that row, and a head popped out a
nd startled me. Leila stretched out her hand, as if to ward off an attack. I had startled her, too. Holding my hand to my chest, laughing, I dropped my basket.

  She smiled. I follow your example, auntie, and don’t stop working.

  I can see, Leila. The words were gentler than those for Saddiq, as I was a parent who readily ignored foibles of others’ children and practiced fierce honesty with my own.

  She stood, empty-handed and ready to walk away. Without thinking, I asked about her basket.

  But I had another errand, she replied smoothly. I know you came to ask about the package. The darkness added to my confusion. Without waiting for an answer, she extracted a gray sack from underneath her garments and placed it on the ground between the two of us, almost as if she challenged me to examine the contents. Leila understood how minds worked in our village.

  I refused to challenge her.

  I must hide it, she explained. She asked to borrow the spade hanging from a rope at my side. I untied it and tossed it to her—and watched as she dropped to her knees and dug a shallow hole at the base of the one tree.

  Not there, I cautioned. It’s not good for the roots. But she was frantic. Leila, are you hiding this from your parents or the visitors? She didn’t look up.

  I’m doing this for my father. She spoke with self-importance and then chastened me indirectly. I don’t ask questions.

  Of course. And I turned to strip fruit away from another tree—even as I heard my shovel clinking against the rocks.

  Darkness disguised our exchange, and the wind eased its pace. My hand reached into dark thick leaves, grasping for heavy globes. The long, hard day was coming to a close, and I was thankful.

  My mind raced. The package could be part of her dowry for marriage, something Gul was keeping from Mari. Or was it something to hide from the visitors?

  I shook my head, thinking it didn’t matter what Gul did. He was the leader of our village, but an insecure man who didn’t understand why Parsaa had no desire for power. It was best not to know. Leila had a right to her secrets and so did Gul.

  Leila came up next to me and slipped the spade into my basket. Then she went to work beside me—her young eyes quickly spotting the pomegranates among the leaves. Once the stems were cut, she placed them in my basket.

  We didn’t speak and finished quickly. No boys were left to retrieve the baskets, and so we each took a handle—carrying our load across the orchard.

  You don’t ask questions, auntie, she teased. We trust you, because you never ask questions.

  The comment was a strange assessment, and I bristled at her teasing tone. The braying donkey doesn’t hear much, I retorted. In the darkness, I couldn’t see her eyes or mouth, but noticed her shoulders twitch and felt a hard stare.

  She didn’t respond and, instead, removed her scarf, tossed her hair back, and secured it again tightly. Then she ran through the orchard toward her parents’ home.

  I was annoyed about her acting as though a grown woman was her equal. My silence drew little information from Leila. I left the orchard, knowing that questions would not reveal what Leila was thinking. Questions were for fools and children.

  Three men stepped into our compound, their dark clothing and black turbans blending with the night. Scarves covered their faces against dust and curious eyes. Their assault rifles were on display, slung casually across their backs. Ahmed greeted them, with a few men standing behind, rifles on display and ready. Parsaa and Gul stood in the background without weapons.

  As darkness cloaked the fields, most villagers had already returned to their homes, and I wanted to be near my fire, too. But I hesitated to walk past these strangers who moved with arrogance, as if they knew more about our compound than any of its inhabitants. And so I squatted and waited at the orchard’s edge.

  The tallest man barked commands, as if the village should have prepared for his arrival and dropped whatever else we had been doing. He introduced himself as Jahangir. We’re here to eliminate the infidels.

  Ahmed stepped forward, and the visitor knew the younger man spoke for leaders who remained in the background. There’s been no contact, Ahmed explained, though the rest of us knew a few Americans had visited and Mari had easily chased them off. He could count on us not to contradict him.

  It’s not what I’ve heard . . .

  Ahmed shrugged. We’ve heard that these Americans don’t seem dangerous.

  Give them time, the man in black said with a flat voice. This is our territory, and that’s problem enough.

  We’ll have no trouble handling the Americans on our territory, Ahmed scoffed. Allah is on our side.

  Jahangir smiled. Not when they meet with your women while the men are away. Ahmed could not help himself, directing a nervous glance toward Gul and Mari. And Mari looked nervous, too.

  We have eyes in many places. If you lie about the Americans in this village, or don’t know about their visits, then how can we believe that you can handle them on your own?

  Gul nodded, and Ahmed replied defensively. The men were not here.

  Jahangir walked over to one of the bins holding pomegranates and selected one to examine. This fruit provides little in the way of sustenance. Do the Americans want your fruit?

  Ahmed did not understand the question and looked puzzled. We have not talked to the Americans.

  Gul intervened. They know nothing about what we grow.

  Jahangir reached out and tipped one large basket and then another. Red balls rolled and bounced down the slope, bruising and cracking.

  Perhaps it’s time you consider growing other crops, ones less pleasing for the Americans, Jahangir said.

  The insult was too much, and from the dark shadows of the house came the sound of a man deliberately snapping the clip into his rifle. Our men stood ready to fire, and Jahangir wrapped his hands around his own weapon.

  Parsaa stepped forward, to express displeasure. Our pomegranates have nothing to do with Americans. We have no need for advice—about working our farms or defending this village.

  All right, Jahangir said after a long pause. Together we’ll plan how to get rid of these Americans who dare set up in our midst.

  The men of our village stared at Jahangir and then at one another. I knew my husband’s thoughts. After years of fighting Russians and then Americans, no one in our village was in the mood for offensive action. Most of our weapons were decades old. Ammunition was hard to come by. Parsaa had pointed out that the American structures could vanish as quickly as they had appeared. As long as the Americans were passing through and did not interfere with village routines, we didn’t anticipate problems.

  Gul spoke up nervously. We’re willing to listen.

  Jahangir nodded and looked around at the villagers finishing with the pomegranates. Why do your women mix with men?

  In our village, women were not compelled to wear the burqa or other clothes that might interfere with chores. During the day we moved about as we pleased, as long as we covered our heads and used the ends of our scarves to cover our mouths around strangers.

  Gul was firm. We’re ending the day’s work in the field, before the first frost arrives.

  You work at night and don’t trust Allah? Jahangir queried.

  Gul was stymied, and Parsaa pointed to the piles of fruit. Delay would waste the crop.

  Only if you defy Allah’s will, Jahangir insisted.

  Wasting the harvest is wrong, Parsaa countered with a tone that was stern, but pleasant. He cocked his head toward the entrance to Gul’s home. Let’s go inside, so you need not look at our wives.

  The man shrugged. You know God’s book, and that is good. These days, we can’t be too good. Allah is watching. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head, his hand still ready on his weapon. Then he added, These are tense times.

  At last, everyone could agree. Gul insisted the men join him, Parsaa, Ahmed, and a few others for a meal. The men would stay the night and devour food prepared for the village. As always, I thanked Allah—a
nd Parsaa—that Gul was leader and hosted such events in his larger home.

  Jahangir looked pleased, looking around, as if trying to determine who wielded the most power in our village. Our men stood in a tight, calm cluster, practiced at showing agreement before any outsiders. The group would eat together, while the rest of us would make do or go to bed hungry.

  As Gul directed the men into his home, other villagers slipped inside their homes, and women nervously adjusted scarves to cover hair, keeping our heads down. The men capitalized on our confusion and shame, and I wanted to scream out to everyone—We have done nothing wrong!

  But instead I hurried home, and was surprised to see Mari near my doorway, frantically searching for Leila. The girl darted out from behind me, offering to assist in serving the meal. Mari shook her head and turned to me. Can she stay in your home for the night?

  I nodded and didn’t ask questions. Leila kept her eyes to the ground, so I couldn’t see her face, and I wondered about the hidden sack. I couldn’t blame her mother for worrying about her beautiful and headstrong daughter. The girl’s loose scarf did not hide the dark, shiny hair, and I said another prayer of thanks for not having the worries that accompany a daughter.

  Older boys, including my own Saddiq, remained outside, standing at the compound walls, letting the men know that this village kept watch over its harvest and people.

  By then, I was sure that the gray clouds were passing by to the north without releasing heavy freezing rain. Weariness mixed with relief, and I entered my home hungry, though I did not mind missing the meal prepared by Mari.

  Without a word, Leila helped me pass out bread and goat’s milk to the boys, then clean and ready the kitchen for the next morning. I arranged some blankets for her not far from the hearth, before slipping outside to ask Saddiq and another boy to help in retrieving the spilled pomegranates. Check them carefully, I warned in a whisper, reminding him to rinse and dry the intact fruit before storing it in the cave. We can squeeze juice from the others.