Men don’t say what they mean, Mari noted. We can’t miss an opportunity . . .
He should be grateful, not telling us, her parents, what to do! And how do we convince the rest of our village that it’s a good idea? His voice dropped low and I could not hear their murmurs. I hope you know what you’re doing, Gul warned. He means it when he says he doesn’t want American eyes on her.
She has no objections. Mari was frantic for Leila’s marriage, and I wondered if the girl knew about her mother’s promises. She can handle Jahangir.
I regret doing business with the man. He’s not the best husband for my daughter.
Hush, Mari interrupted. The children will hear. Not so long ago, you were worried about her not finding a husband . . .
I’m less certain that a terrible husband is better than no husband at all.
You’re not a woman. Mari spoke so softly, I had to press my ear to the wall.
You mistake his volatility for strength.
Leila is clever . . .
She may be able to manipulate me or other village men. She doesn’t know about men like Jahangir.
Be jahanam! Mari retorted.
I heard running and a slamming sound.
Left alone, Gul sighed and spoke to himself. It’s why women should not be included in these negotiations.
A piercing shriek broke the night, and my youngest boy clutched me tight. I stroked his hair and pressed close against my husband’s side. No! came shrieks of one or more women. No, no, no.
I sat up and heard scuffling noises, followed by sounds of sobbing, splashing water, and running footsteps. Parsaa was awake, but still. Do something, I urged. Without a word, he stumbled from our bed and went to the doorway to peer into the darkness.
Stay here, I ordered the youngest and joined Parsaa. The moon was not out, silence mixed with complete darkness, as if the screams had never happened. Not even the light from a tiny candle pierced the night. Still, Parsaa waited.
Other men must have done the same throughout the village, and maybe some other women, too. It was close, I whispered.
Leila and Mari, Parsaa replied, his voice flat.
I urged him to check on them, but he did not respond.
And apparently no one else responded, as silence took over the village, replacing the screams. In our village, it’s rude to interfere with, let alone witness, the problems of other families.
The youngest whimpered, and I returned to the bed, pulling a cover over our heads, a poor attempt to chase away worries. The silence remained unbroken, yet Parsaa waited by the window. My thoughts refused to give way to sleep.
No one talked about the burst of screams that erupted in the middle of the night. Living in a small village, we knew that we’d learn the reasons soon enough. Often, only parts of the story made it through the village. Complete stories were disturbing.
Later that morning, I saw Leila. Once the most beautiful in our village, she was burned, the right side of her face raw and red. Her chaadar was draped loosely, defiantly, as she made no attempt to cover the horrible mark. Mari’s eyes seethed, watching the other women gather to walk to the river for washing clothes.
More than one woman touched their forehead, lips, and heart, with quick prayers asking for Allah’s mercy. Many looked away and then returned their stares. The wounds, horrible to our eyes, had to be painful.
She didn’t deserve this, Mari hissed. None of us deserve this.
Standing under the trees, most of us stood frozen, mouths gaping. It was impossible to proceed with daily affairs. I panicked, my insides churning, selfishly wondering how to escape for my next meeting with Mita.
Only a few dared talk about the travesty. Auntie, what happened? asked one woman.
Mari explained that a masked man entered the home in the middle of the night, as the family slept, and tossed acid onto the girl’s bed. She did not turn away suitors, she didn’t insult any men. Mari started to sob and reached out, tugging at her daughter’s scarf. Leila tossed her head and slapped her mother’s hand away.
I wasn’t alone wondering if Jahangir was insulted by Gul’s hesitation in accepting the marriage proposal. Or was someone else upset that Jahangir had asked? One of Jahangir’s men?
One cannot invite Shaitan and not expect attack.
As was her way, Mari blamed the Americans. Sobbing, she shoved to escape the crowd, pulling her daughter back inside their home. We stood in silence, listening to Mari’s cries.
Many wanted to think of the culprit as a stranger to our village. But how would a stranger know the exact location of the girl’s home and bed, without alerting the mother, father, or others in the village?
Our village was new to such an attack, and the women were terrified. Carrying rugs to beat, an excuse to talk, we moved quickly to the water, an open area with no walls or trees to hide curious ears waiting for our reactions. The youngest girls, terrified, huddled close to their mothers or sisters.
Our group diverged along two lines—one set wanting retribution, and the other hoping to forget the night and shove it into the past.
Will the men do something? One woman asked, not addressing any of us in particular.
What can they do?
Mari doesn’t know the attacker, retorted another woman.
Besides, the girl is still alive, said Karimah.
The injury could have been worse, said Talibah, whose younger sister had suffered a similar attack long ago in another village. They put cold water on it quickly and stopped the damage. Praise Allah.
The rest of us automatically repeated praise for Allah, while privately wondering why a powerful being could allow such attacks to happen.
It’s odd how a stranger could quickly make his way through the house and find his target, offered Hafa.
He may have had help, said another.
Who in our village would help with such a vicious attack? Talibah exclaimed.
Hafa stared at the group of women, and even Karimah, pounding a small rug against a large smooth rock, lifted her head. Perhaps someone in her family did not want her to marry, Hafa murmured.
Nervous about the direction of the conversation, we moved our hands quickly, tightening our grips on the rugs, beating away dust, anger, and fear.
A father would attack his own daughter? Talibah countered, after a few moments of vicious pounding on one large rug.
Hafa shrugged. How else to prevent a marriage to someone he despises? To someone in need of a home. She looked around at the circle of women, challenging us to contradict her.
I thought about Mari and Gul arguing in the night. Jahangir had no reason to be angry with Gul just yet. The family had not refused him. But Gul had every reason to prevent his daughter from marrying an angry nomad who brought criminal activity close to the village late at night.
Of course, all of us expected Jahangir to withdraw his marriage request. She’ll find someone else, Talibah said. Some men don’t mind scars.
It’s better for a woman to find a man who doesn’t mind a scar than live with a man who despises her beauty, Hafa conceded.
Quietly, we pondered these thoughts. Villages and parents struggled to protect their children from evil. Women were covered, separated, guarded, and reprimanded for protection. Some may scorn Leila and Mari, blaming them, casting the scars as punishment from Allah. Evil was random. All parents could do was embrace a child after the harm was done.
The conversation drifted away from Leila, about other villages and attacks on women, the reactions from fathers. . . . Someone called out my name, asking about my father. The question stabbed me and I shook my head, pounding at the rugs with all my strength.
My father had delivered me to Laashekoh years ago. I lost exact count. My mother and the other women in the family dressed me in colorful clothes and arranged my hair with a pretty veil saved for my special day. The family laughed and cheered, praising my strength, disposition, and good fortune.
I was the oldest of my siblings, and th
e memories feel odd with every passing year as my parents remain young and healthy. During that happy celebration, it had never occurred to me that it would be my last memory of them.
With tears in her eyes, my mother embraced me and my father lifted me gently to our donkey. The younger children danced and waved, and I waved in return as my father and I set off on a grand adventure.
At some point during the trip, my father assured me that I was one of the lucky ones, moving on to a village with good farmland. My male cousin was only six years older and his family promised that they would wait at least a few months before we began our life together or thought about having children. And I smiled with joy because time with my father was all that mattered to me.
The trip took more than two full days, with only a few stops. The last stop was not far from the tight trio of mountains my father had pointed to as our destination. Always thoughtful, he chose the beautiful scene as a place to sit, drink water, and have one last talk alone.
I have something to give you, and you must tuck it away until you can find the right place for planting. He pulled a package from his pocket and slowly unwrapped it. These are yours, to remind you of home.
Inside were tiny corms that burst into the flowers and cloaked a nearby hill in purple every autumn. With every year, the cloak expanded, as my parents dug up the green strands and separated the corms, spreading them into other nooks. In the fall, the children helped my mother pluck the golden threads from delicate blossoms that emerged only for a day. I accepted the packet and should have been delighted. But I sensed a serious break in the life I had always known. There was no talk of my returning home, and I dreaded not seeing the cloak of purple near my home again.
My father put his hand to my chin and gave directions: They’re not many, and they are our secret. Tuck them in your bundle. That’s a good girl. Keep them until you find a good place away from other people. Plant them wisely, and remember how we took care of them together as a family.
Dread of the future filled me, and I could not speak.
The family we are meeting. They are kind people. In a few years the threads will help your family.
Then he followed my mother’s directions, smoothing my hair, brushing dust away from the shalwar, adjusting my chaadar. My happiness returned, and I smiled at him, because fathers did not typically bother with such details. As he returned me to the donkey, tears showed in his eyes. At that moment, I hoped he might change his mind and decide to take me home. But with nothing more to say, we continued on our way.
As we rode into the village, the donkey was weary, and my father was quiet. We stopped at a large house, and women immediately pulled me inside and covered me in new clothes that were big, soft, and warm. Someone showed me the kitchen where I would work and the bed that I’d share with my cousin’s sisters.
Shhh, one of the younger girls whispered and pulled me close to the window where we could watch my father talking with her father and Parsaa’s, too. My father handed over some bills and a bundle of embroidered sashes, in the fiery colors of gold, orange, red. The two men held each other’s shoulders and kissed.
She’s a good girl, my father said, the most intelligent of my children, and you know me well enough that this praise is not false. I had never heard my father express such an opinion before and dipped my head to hide my pride.
Parsaa’s father offered mutual assurances. She’ll be a great help. The other women in the village will help her get settled.
I must leave before sunrise. Should I say farewell to her tonight?
Let us explain, the older man said. She is with the other girls, so why upset her? She fits in well already and will forget her old life soon enough. Upset, my father looked toward the house, but did not see us peering into the dark. You’re young. Parsaa’s father laughed and put a hand to my father’s shoulder. This is your first daughter. The other men in your village should have warned you.
Pressing my hands against the mud and rock walls, I yearned for my father to change his mind, furious he didn’t retort that his daughter would never forget. But he nodded slowly and walked away, the sweet donkey nudging at his shoulder. To think I’d never pat that animal’s head again or chase our chickens or sit at my mother’s feet stung at me. I wondered if the donkey would forget about me, too. Would my father ride home, and forget, enjoying life with my mother and younger brothers and sisters?
I could not help feeling resentment, but turned to my new friend, pretending not to care. Girls had always left our village, and the boys stayed. That was the village’s custom, and I knew that I would not have this friend for long.
At that moment, I realized that the men had no more control than the women do.
Chapter 17
Joey climbed the hill to the village directly up the mountain, through the forest, avoiding the footpath. As he approached the compound walls, he waited among the trees and listened. The place was quiet, no sounds of animals or children pestering for attention and food. Mita was resourceful—she’d find a way to make noise if she were awaiting rescue somewhere inside the walls.
He wondered how a group of people lived with such quiet. Perhaps they knew that he was approaching and waited for him.
He couldn’t rest since Mita’s disappearance and couldn’t bear the growing despondence among the team’s members. So he conducted his own searches, checking on Laashekoh and other villages. He heard plenty of conversations, none about the missing American woman.
Joey doubted that, since going missing, Mita had passed through this village. If she had, she’d been moved long ago. Air patrols hunted for signs of movement in the region every day that weather allowed—and patrols stopped every truck and caravan. None included the woman.
He crept toward the stone wall and dislodged a rock to observe the goings-on and listen to voices before entering the village gate. He had nothing better to do.
A woman suddenly emerged from the woods on the far side of the orchard. Nervous, she looked around, not wanting to be seen. Then she slipped through some brush near the stone wall. She tossed her basket over the wall, and then hoisted herself. She pulled what looked like a pile of clothing from the basket and hid it in the tall grass, before reaching for a rake.
Standing on her tiptoes, she aimed high, combing the branches of a stone pine, bringing cones to the ground. She worked at a furious pace, and it wasn’t long before she returned the clothes to the basket and covered them with cones. Another woman approached the stand of trees. “There you are,” the older woman called out. “Your sons are waiting for you.”
“Ahh,” the other woman responded, as she tossed more cones into the basket. “Saddiq was supposed to watch his younger brothers.”
“Hah!” exclaimed the other woman. “He said he talked with you. Jahangir is returning today with horses, and he promised to teach the boys to ride. The older ones went to the river to meet him. The younger ones are at my house.” She shook her head, critical of a mother who did not know the location of her children.
The younger woman looked startled, but she moved swiftly without break. “If you’d like pine nuts, bring another basket. The boys will strip the cones.” Not one mention of the woman returning from a walk in the woods, with a bundle of clothes—the older woman either hadn’t seen or didn’t care.
A thrill went through Joey. He slowly backed away and headed downhill for the regular path, so that he could enter the village properly.
The American soldier came alone to our village. Once again, he sat for tea and put his gun aside, and again he waited politely, not pressing with demands. Speaking Dari, he listened more than he talked. Parsaa, Ahmed, Gul, and the other men appreciated that he was patient despite his obvious desperation and fatigue.
Eventually they asked the purpose of his visit. He asked if they had heard reports on Mita’s whereabouts.
Nothing, Ahmed said with a frown. He glanced at Gul and Parsaa, who signaled for the younger man to explain. Ahmed lowered his voice,
Some in this area are annoyed about the search. They assume we helped her move. Ahmed, sincere, held out his hands helplessly. But that’s not true. I wish we could help.
You can help. The soldier looked distraught for a moment and closed his eyes, before repeating, You can help. He surprised our men by asking them to gather as many villagers as possible to discuss the disappearance of the American woman. Some Americans are getting angry and want a search that will disturb your village. I need to find her soon.
Men and women? Gul questioned. The man nodded. As many as possible, the American replied earnestly.
Gul nodded, and the boys called all the villagers they could find to the courtyard, to gather around the American.
Nearly eighty people gathered. The soldier’s message would travel quickly. I stood back, but sensed the man’s eyes bouncing about, and his gaze landed on me more than I liked. The soldier was sure that one of us knew Mita’s whereabouts. He wanted to find her, and I was determined not to feel sorry for him. I moved closer to Mari, using her as a shield, as the soldier spoke of concern for the missing woman and a need to protect the village from false accusations from the Americans or others.
She may have formed a friendship with one of you, the man said.
I avoided looking at him and instead glanced at Parsaa. His suspicious stare, already directed my way, was enough to twist my stomach. Keeping my face blank, I looked downward. When I checked again, Parsaa had returned his attention back to the soldier, who spoke about Mita’s generosity, tireless work in agriculture, and other qualities that I had discovered firsthand.
Standing next to me, Mari was agitated, shaking, as Leila slowly approached the gathering, and this attracted the soldier’s attention. Since the accident, Mari had been seething, ready to explode—storming away from any conversation that focused on concerns other than her daughter’s mistreatment. Gul tried to convince her to forget the attack, but nothing else mattered for her. Mari was furious with all men.
Fear of Beauty Page 19
