Fear of Beauty

by Susan Froetschel

  There’s no harm, Ahmed responded. We need to know their plans.

  What did you give to them? Jahangir questioned.

  We gave them nothing, Ahmed said. They paid for fruit and vegetables.

  Supplying them aids their cause. Jahangir directed his comments at Gul. My eyes stayed on Parsaa who stared hard at the man. Do you think the Americans want to help you? Jahangir spoke as if puzzled or disappointed with a child. Is that how Allah expects you to meet the infidels?

  Gul did not answer. To his credit, he did not divert his gaze from the inquisitor. We can use payments from the Americans to banish them from our land, Jahangir said. You will help.

  We decide how to protect Laashekoh, Gul insisted.

  Jahangir jerked his head, shifting the target of his ire to the gawking crowd, and snapped, Why are these women listening to us? Did the Americans see them? The man’s bullying fury made us behave like slithering insects. Most backed away, including me. Are they foolish enough to get ideas from the American woman?

  His shift in mood was frightening, and I felt an urge to escape the fury. Mari’s doorway was the closest, and pulling my youngest son, I joined her. She draped her arm around the boy as we listened from around the corner. I told my husband not to have anything to do with the Americans, she whispered. I chased them away, and he should have done the same.

  I wondered how she could be more alarmed about the Americans than Jahangir and his men. But it wasn’t the time to argue.

  Outside, Jahangir’s voice softened again. What bribe did they bring you?

  No bribes, Gul protested. A small token—a torch. Jahangir held his hand out, and Ahmed reluctantly turned it over. The man twisted the tube in his hands, switching the light on and off.

  Allah does not provide enough light? Such gadgets don’t feed your families . . .

  The Americans will get suspicious if we evade them.

  So you take their toys?

  This catches the power of the sun and gives us more time to read the Koran. Gul aimed for the logical tone employed by Parsaa.

  You know what Allah wants? Jahangir screamed. Gripping the light, he swung quickly, knocking it against the older man’s head. Gul staggered, dropping to his knees.

  It doesn’t provide enough light for you to see the sins of invaders. Jahangir addressed the others. No light can match the power of Allah. You have no use for these tools. He smashed the tube against the nearest rock.

  Saddiq and two other boys, loyal to their uncle, lifted their rifles. But they were trained to wait for a signal from the older men. Their eyes shifted between Jahangir and Parsaa.

  Jahangir’s men aimed their weapons at Gul.

  Shrieking and rushing to her father’s side, Leila broke the standoff. Glaring at Jahangir, she wrapped her arms around her father and struggled to help him stand. Only then did Mari break away from our shelter to assist. Before reaching for Gul, she tugged at Leila’s scarf, which had slid away from her long hair.

  Stepping forward, Parsaa shook his head at our young shooters. We have more reason to be upset about the Americans than you do.

  Jahangir ignored him, turning on Mari and Leila. I pity the man who relies on the protection of women, he scoffed. Do not touch him.

  My husband is a good man, Mari protested.

  You cannot know what good means, woman! Jahangir laughed and looked out over our men, who watched helplessly. After putting weapons aside earlier, the men were forced to rely on our youngest shooters. Except for Leila and Mari, the women had all but disappeared.

  These arguments weaken us, Parsaa interjected.

  Jahangir accepted the comment as a peace offering and stepped away from Gul. The infidels bring out hard feelings, he muttered. He turned to Leila. And why does this one care so much?

  This is my father, Leila retorted. By talking with the Americans, he learns their plans.

  Jahangir laughed, and then taunted her. So much for the strategy of women. You still live with your father, as old as you are? Not married? Jahangir spoke to his men. There are reasons men keep daughters around. You’ll be lucky to be a fourth wife.

  Jahangir’s men laughed, while Mari gasped, her eyes dark and calculating. Gul’s eyes were dazed, distraught about being shamed before the entire village.

  The rest of us hesitated to step forward and defend them. Not even Parsaa, who looked stunned. I wanted to vanish. At last my husband moved, grabbing Mari and Leila and roughly pulling them to the doorway where I waited.

  Keep them inside, he ordered me. We’ll take care of this, Mari.

  I reached for each woman’s hand, as my husband returned to stand next to Gul. We cannot interfere, I whispered. Our husbands are doing what they can to keep this village safe from fighting.

  Jahangir continued with his sly comments, something about Leila and the Americans. Mari seethed as his men railed with laughter and snapped, My husband is a fool.

  There is no reasoning with that type of man, I protested.

  Gul tries to act too much like Parsaa. She pulled her hand away angrily.

  I tried to soothe her, but wondered why she was angrier with Gul and Parsaa than Jahangir. She scolded me to be quiet, so that she could overhear the conversation outside. Not that women could act. More often than not, we stood back and watched as fellow villagers were bullied, hoping to avoid such encounters. Ashamed, I didn’t blame Mari and Leila for resenting the rest of us.

  Jahangir continued to interrogate our men, asking what the Americans said.

  You heard! Gul protested. They talked about farming, and we promised them nothing.

  Have you told them about us? Jahangir pressed.

  My husband laughed. My hand reached for Mari’s and squeezed. I couldn’t bear it if the man lashed out at Parsaa. But the laughter broke the tension. As if that mattered. Parsaa put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. The Americans are not a problem, and Gul handles our affairs well.

  Some better than others, muttered Jahangir.

  Mari tightened her grip on my hand, and Parsaa frowned. You make a mistake not trusting Laashekoh. You misunderstood.

  The sound of a bullet in the distance interrupted the confrontation before our eyes. Heads turned, staring toward the path leading away from our village. Surprise and worry crossed most of the men’s faces. But Jahangir and his men smiled. The Americans either shot or were shot, and we knew they would blame our village.

  We waited for more gunfire. But none came.

  Did your men shoot at the Americans? My husband was incredulous. You’d bring their wrath on us?

  This is a small village. You have no idea how complex these matters can be. Jahangir glanced around at those who stared at him, hiding fear or fury. You will need our help in the days ahead.

  Throughout the night, Joey reviewed the topography of the area surrounding Laashekoh and other reports. There was no logical reason for anyone in the village to antagonize his team. The single shot was a test, gauging intimidation levels and whether the team would avoid Laashekoh.

  Joey’s announcement the following morning that the visits to villages would continue set off a buzz.

  “Laashekoh included?” Cameron asked.

  “The shot was far from the village. No one was hit.”

  Cameron shook his head warily.

  “One shot, from a sniper close enough for a hit,” Joey said. “This village doesn’t want a battle. It was a warning.”

  “A warning?” Cameron questioned. “So what happens next? There might not be a next time.”

  Mita shook her head hard. “The village welcomed us,” Mita added. “That bullet was a stray. The precautions may have made the incident seem worse than it really was.”

  “We need more security,” Cameron said stubbornly.

  Mita shook her head. “It’s a mistake going in with too many guards or guns. That overshadows the ag mission.”

  “You’re both right,” Joey said, shutting down the argument. He then announced a mandatory we
apons review that afternoon. Directing trained soldiers through any hostile territory was hard enough without unpredictable civilians. “We’ll go in with the same numbers, but more of us will be armed.”

  “Did you run the shooting incident by analysts in Kabul?” Cameron questioned.

  Joey crossed his arms and stared at Cameron. The question was a challenge. “The command unit is aware,” Joey said. “Mita remains in charge of scheduling.”

  “There will be no delays in these projects,” she said. “Both military and civilian specialists—this is what we signed up for. And Cameron, you don’t need to worry about Laashekoh, I’ll take the next visit.”

  At last, Cameron stopped asking questions, but a new round of nervous looks went around the room.

  The team headed to a canyon with a dry river bed and plenty of cover and also used suppressors so as not to alarm local Afghans. The security side of the team observed the ag side taking practice shots throughout the afternoon. Most of the ag specialists, even the civilians, had handled weapons before—but this wasn’t simply target practice, and Joey wasn’t taking chances. He personally checked each team member for follow-through—steady position, aim, trigger touch, fire. They practiced team coverage and shot from crouching, standing, sitting; long range and short range. He even improvised a moving target, a life-sized paper man pulled back and forth with a rope. He wanted every team member to walk away from the practice session with more confidence.

  Mita was the worst shot of the group, and Joey spent extra time on her flinch that produced wild shots. He removed the magazine from her M9 and sat cross-legged next to her.

  “You need to practice breathing.” He advised her against holding her breath. “Close your eyes and work on slowing your breathing down.” As she closed her eyes and took long, slow breaths, he gently placed his hand on her back, to guide her rhythm. “Slower,” he murmured. “Slower.”

  He urged her to relax her eyes, neck, arms, every part of her, practicing another twenty minutes before he was satisfied, and then he wrapped her hand around his, as if it were a gun. “My finger is your trigger. Keep breathing, but get ready to press.” He timed her breaths, and told her when to fire. “Gentle,” he advised. “Fire . . . fire . . . fire.” She squeezed his finger more than a hundred times before he was satisfied. “Doesn’t take a lot of pressure to release the trigger,” he noted, before handing over her M9 to practice dry firing.

  He pointed to the target and told her to use both hands. Again, he directed her breathing and a light touch on the trigger, all the while watching her eyes, muscles, and hands.

  She looked almost disappointed when he stood and told her to keep dry firing. “No ammunition?” she asked, surprised.

  He smiled. “You’re going to be fine if you stay calm, keep your breathing steady, and stay ahead of the target.”

  She looked down at the M9, oversized in her hands. “I couldn’t shoot a person anyway,” she admitted. Patting her shoulder, he understood.

  The session went well and the group returned for dinner, pleased with their results. Fortunately, no one asked why they had practiced shooting at such short ranges.

  Even after sundown, the teams drifted off to finish tasks and prepare for the next day. After checking the preparations, Joey walked the perimeter of the outpost. Just beyond the barriers protecting the outpost, Cameron fiercely tackled the beginnings of his experimental wheat plot, plowing furrows and arranging plastic tubes for drip irrigation.

  Cameron worked tirelessly, intent on proving his point. The flurry of field activity so late in the day attracted attention. Joey was on his way to check the nightly reports waiting in the admin office when he spotted Mita on a slope, screened by low branches of a pine tree. She was watching Cameron, Barnaby, and others move a boulder from the field. He circled around the building’s rear to walk her way. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Too soon to tell,” she said. “We’re not going to be here long enough for wheat, but it gives Cameron something to do.” She stood and brushed off her pants. “Mind if I join you?”

  He nodded and they walked away from the trees. “He’s working hard. You’ve got to give him that.”

  Mita raised her eyebrows. “And making the rest of us feel guilty for not helping him.”

  “He’s chafing under our leadership and out to prove something. But it’s not just me or you. He’d butt heads with anyone.”

  “I noticed,” Mita said wryly. “I wish I could get him to understand that we’re here for Afghans. Not our careers.”

  “He wants to be right.” Joey looked back out over the field at Cameron, using a shovel to loosen another boulder. The man was sweaty. “His plot’s not a problem, is it?”

  “No,” she admitted. Colors of the land darkened with the dropping sun, and Joey relaxed as she continued. “He’s going to plant a special variety that develops rapidly and resists drought. Its genetic structure includes biopesticides. But there are other problems here, fungus and Sunn pests—that’s a relative to the stink bugs we have back at home. It’s risky to specialize too quickly on any one crop.”

  “So it’s only a problem if the Afghans follow his lead?” She nodded in response. “I don’t see that happening,” Joey said. “So let him go. The field keeps him out of trouble. All of us avoid going stir crazy by him stepping out, even if it’s only a few yards away.”

  She laughed, and he slowed his pace, happy to walk with her and eliminate reasons for worry. “We may disagree,” she said. “But at least he cares.”

  “And who knows what will break the ice with these villagers?” he said. “Maybe they’ll take pity on us.” Mita sighed, looking out over the distant mountains. “Something is bothering you,” Joey observed.

  “I’m frustrated,” she admitted. “I hate to waste the time. Cameron doesn’t know it and the villagers probably don’t either, but Asians started growing wheat thousands of years before it was cultivated in America. It’s an insult to hand over hybrid seeds or tell them what to do. But it’s hard to wait, too.”

  “It’s a good idea to keep him busy and away from the villagers,” Joey said.

  “But what if the villages don’t want anything we offer? Are we any better than Cameron?”

  “We work with what we have,” Joey said. “Get rest—something will break our way. I feel it.”

  Chapter 10

  Our compound was quiet at night. Most villagers went to sleep soon after sundown.

  After Ali’s death, I didn’t sleep well. With every passing night, my worries for the boy, alone in the afterlife, intensified. Parsaa often slipped away from our bed at night, and I assumed that he had trouble sleeping and escaped our village walls to think about Ali, too. I understood. The dead keep their distance, until we’re alone with our thoughts.

  I crept away from the covers where our family slept and draped a blanket around my shoulders. Outside, I stared upward, feeling one with the night sky. A cool breeze kissed my hair, and in the distance, tiny stars sparkled with greetings. Tears came to my eyes as I wondered if Ali could see them.

  A sound of footsteps startled me, until I realized they came from behind Gul’s home. Moving slowly, I went to the wall to check and held my breath, wanting to avoid explanations about why I stood outside in night clothes, with no headscarf and a blanket for my cloak. Inching close to the crack, I peered, but saw only darkness. Suddenly, a shape emerged, and I recognized Gul filling a pack in his courtyard. Fortunately, his attention was focused on his doorway and not my direction at all. Adjusting the pack on his back, he turned and disappeared.

  I backed away and sat on a bench, mulling the nighttime habits of men. Did Parsaa and Gul meet or go their separate ways?

  And then it hit me. On Ali’s last night, he might have left our home in darkness, too. Maybe he wasn’t restless, thinking about the upcoming journey to the maktab. Instead, he may have helped Parsaa or Gul in some way or followed them.

  If the two men knew more, the
y wouldn’t tell me or the other women. Not knowing became a fire in my chest.

  I sat alone in the chilly night, wrapping my blanket tight around me, trying to think of how to learn more about Ali’s last night. But my mind was too angry and afraid. Shaking my head, I hurried back to a warm bed with four sleeping sons, but no husband.

  The next morning, I tried to learn more, asking Parsaa in a roundabout way about Gul. Mari’s husband is too easy with the visitors.

  He wants to get along. Parsaa did not look up from his meal. It won’t be for long.

  They want more from us than simply chasing the Americans away, I said. He didn’t respond and he stared at our two youngest tumbling about on the floor. How do you know what they want? My voice dropped to the softest whisper, trying to show more concern for Parsaa than curiosity. Are Gul and Jahangir involved in something that we do not know about?

  That is Gul’s affair, Sofi, Parsaa admonished. Do not question him, and he won’t question you.

  I frowned. But he doesn’t stop the questions from Jahangir.

  Parsaa knew I was right, but he walked away. That infuriated me, though there was no use letting him know how I felt. It bothered me that my husband might work with Gul and Jahangir in the night. I wondered how much Mari or Leila knew. Maybe everyone knew but me.

  Leaning against the wall, I watched the children play and quarrel among themselves, and thought about Ali. I missed his questions and intelligent ideas about village life and how to get along. If he had thought the men were doing wrong, he might have followed.

  His death lurked in the back of my mind, troubling me more and more, as I tugged at weeds, washed clothes at the river, or prepared our meals. Horrible thoughts tainted every routine as I imagined his fall from every possible angle, his flailing hands, the open mouth and eyes, the long scream. I resented that I could not talk about these thoughts with my husband. I despised that he didn’t question the notion that a strong boy, one who had long chased the goats on the hills, had taken an accidental fall.