The soldier stumbled and stopped speaking altogether.
Leila’s head cover was loose, and lovely dark curls swirled from underneath, a smooth frame that contrasted with her face—one side showed raw burns and pus, her left eye and mouth twisted into a gruesome grimace; the other side was flawless and smooth like cream and bore a trace of a smile. The memory of her beauty seared.
What happened? The soldier gasped.
An attack, Mari blurted out. In our home.
Here? He looked around at the group as though expecting to see a monster. He stood alone in a world he didn’t understand. A stranger’s fresh wound distracted him from the hunt for Mita. Who would do such a thing?
We’ll find out, Mari snapped.
The man sighed, staring at Leila with sympathy and guilt. We, we . . . the doctors at our camp could examine your wound. Or we can send the doctor here, though it’s better if you and family members travel to a base with equipment. We can make arrangements.
The offer intrigued Leila, but Mari blasted the soldier.
To fix? Scowling, Mari looked around at the other villagers and spat her words. There would be no scars to fix if the Americans were not here.
Suddenly, Jahangir stormed into the courtyard, followed by a group of our boys, demanding to know why the crowd had gathered. He spotted Mari and Leila with the soldier. Why does my wife-to-be stand before this man?
Leila turned slowly, and Jahangir was visibly startled. Approaching her, he reached for her chin to examine the damage. His puzzlement was genuine. He had not seen the disfigurement before. She bowed her head, and Mari hurried her back to their home. The man turned to Gul and roared. You allow this? You parade your women before a dog? Allah punishes you with a daughter whose face is ruined! Gul was rattled, as though he had been slapped.
The soldier stood and responded in near-perfect Dari. A dog wouldn’t offer medical care.
Jahangir recovered immediately and lowered his voice. Understand, our custom does not allow our women to associate with strange men, foreigners or Afghans. Jahangir’s voice was smooth, but the soldier did not relax. Why are you in Laashekoh?
I’m searching for a woman who went missing near here.
If she was near, we’d know. She must be dead.
There would be a body, the soldier countered. Others are losing patience, the searches will become more intense.
Jahangir laughed. Do not test our patience. Your women would be safe if they stayed at home.
Safe. The frustrated American pointed to the door where Leila had disappeared. Like her?
Jahangir’s eyes flashed. The men of this village don’t do their duty. Women—he waved his hand. They are unpredictable and best kept at home, unless they’re under the close supervision of a husband or father. He looked around, expecting support from the others. But Parsaa and the other men frowned about Jahangir taking over the conversation with the foreigner. Most women slipped away to escape judgment. As the two men argued in Dari, my curiosity melted away and I lost the thread of the conversation—until Jahangir turned to my son Saddiq and asked him to bring drinking water. The boy raced to our home, and my stomach turned. The man knew Parsaa’s weakness.
Shaking, I backed away, joining Mari behind her wall and started to whisper, but she shook her head in a daze.
I must think, she snapped, not bothering to keep her voice down. Leave me alone!
Embarrassed, I took the rear path to my home and realized Mari fretted about Jahangir’s reaction to the scar. The man was ruthless, but he was truly surprised by Leila’s face. He had every reason to back away from the marriage agreement. Yet from all appearances, he did not loathe his bride-to-be. Mari had reasons to worry, but the family might not suffer the embarrassment of a marriage partner changing his mind.
I glanced out on the scene. Our men, especially Gul, were troubled. Scolding the American, Jahangir talked not like a newcomer, but as if he controlled the territory surrounding our village. Our village was helpless.
The humiliation and anxiety of men are dangerous for women. For their own reasons, Jahangir and the Americans would monitor movements near our village. I had to return Mita to her outpost soon.
Usually he sat for these meetings, but this time he remained standing, arms crossed, mouth set. Joey defended the villages at the team meeting, but kept it to himself that he suspected a woman in Laashekoh was hiding Mita and caring for her. He wondered if Mita could walk away and hoped that he wasn’t taking a reckless chance.
He wanted to keep his people away from Laashekoh, and he knew only one way. “We’re postponing the search,” Joey announced. “We’re pulling back on the pressure.”
Except for the members of the elite search unit, the room went into an uproar. “One week,” he added. But no one heard the last part.
Questions came fast. “What reports are you getting from the field?” “Won’t they pull the search unit if you don’t use it?”
“What about Mita?” Dan asked, upset.
Joey held his hands up for silence and referred the questions to the unit leader, another Army Ranger. The man explained that a group of extremists were moving through the area.
“They’re all extremists!” Cameron interrupted.
The unit’s captain kept going as if Cameron had not spoken, explaining that most of the people just wanted to raise their families, grow some crops, not get involved with criminal activities and regional or national politics. He chose his words carefully. “The villages are struggling over whom to trust. If we relieve the pressure, we might get her back.”
“We need to hit them hard!” Cameron exclaimed. “Now, or risk not seeing Mita again.”
“We’re monitoring the movements of the extremists,” Joey reported. The room broke out in nervous chatter and questions, especially among the civilians, as if an electric switch went on. He waited for the room to go silent. “The villages in this area are small,” he continued. “Hitting hard would endanger civilians and Mita. They’re taking advantage of the divisions and actively working against us in these villages. Our surveillance will continue.”
Joey didn’t go into detail, but the team assumed any search parties were at risk for immediate danger.
“How close are they to the outpost?” Barnaby asked.
“They’re near the villages, trying to gather support for an attack. We don’t want to give the villagers any reason to join.”
“Extremists are moving in and we’re letting Mita down,” Cameron said, glancing at the search specialists, who reported daily to commanders in contact with Mita’s father. “That’s how I see it.”
Joey was ready. “This delay’s been approved from above.”
“Doesn’t matter if she’s already dead.” The comment came from the back of the room.
“We didn’t use dogs. We didn’t do a raid.” Cameron’s tone was patronizing. “Joey, these extremists have to be working hand in hand with the villages.”
“Too many raids end up with a dead prisoner,” Joey fired back. “No raid until we have a location. And for now, we know she’s nowhere near Laashekoh.” He crossed the room, lowered his voice, and addressed the rest of the group. “The villages are divided, assessing us and comparing us with the extremists. It’s not the time for a raid.”
“The villages better decide which side they want to be on.” Cameron shook his head. “We’re losing valuable time.”
“The delay is one week,” one of the specialists repeated. “After that we look at other options.”
Chapter 18
Between visits to the fields or cave, while waiting for bread to bake or rice to boil, every free moment, I sat near the fireplace and opened my husband’s Koran to practice reading. Practice daily, Mita had urged, and I followed her advice. Murmuring the words aloud, I didn’t hear the cruel winds whip the trees outside until the door burst open and Saddiq entered, pushing his younger brothers inside.
I closed the book quickly and stood, returning it to i
ts special shelf. The younger boys did not notice, but Saddiq gave me a strange look.
When did you return? He held the door open. Father was looking for you. Outside, the wind was accusing, whipping up whirls of dust that looked copper in the sun’s glare. Stalks of grain were beaten flat. Mita was all right, I thought to myself. She never went far from the cave.
I needed solace. Without another word, I poured the boys warm tea.
The wind kept us inside. The house was well stocked with wood and water, and a stew bubbled on the fire. The children were quiet, waiting for their father to return and sit for the evening meal. I took the youngest into my arms and rocked him, using this as an excuse to relax, to be a mother, to present an image that might counter whatever Saddiq might tell Parsaa.
When my husband entered, my ability to control the children vanished. The four turned full attention and questions on Parsaa. He avoided looking at me or speaking, and without a word, I stood by and piled his outer garments by the doorway, where they would wait until the winds died down and I could shake them outside.
I quietly went about my tasks for preparing dinner, occasionally glancing his way, trying to discern his mood. I added more wood to the fire and flames teased the sides of the large pot of stew. As I stirred rapidly, Parsaa moved close, grasping my elbow and bending his head toward my shoulder.
The time for mourning has ended. The children need you. Parsaa’s voice was so low, I wasn’t sure I heard all his words. His tone was cold, firm, as if he had to deal with a stranger. He quickly turned before I could respond. He knelt on the floor, wrapping his arms around the three younger boys as they demanded a story.
Only Saddiq was quiet, so serious, glancing back and forth between us, studying our reactions. I wondered if he’d mention finding his mother looking through the Koran, if my husband would think of such behavior as strange or evil.
Since Ali’s death, since Mita’s arrival, no one in the house had mentioned my long absences. The work was done, but they couldn’t guess how little I slept, how quickly I moved my legs and hands throughout the day, constantly thinking of ways to add speed to my tasks before slipping away from the compound when my family and others were occupied.
No one dared ask me to account for my time. No one asked about the small bundles tucked behind the folds of my clothing. Over time I had moved containers of food, water, and other items to the hiding place. I had thought about every step and avoided patterns that could be detected by others. The midday meal was my excuse—no one noticed extra portions carried into the field. In the orchard, I sat and waited on the wall, using one hand to sort fruit and the other to slip items intended for Mita into the crevice. The right hand never stopped moving, almost as if it were under its own control. Once the meal or clothes or tools were tucked away in a crevice, wrapped in old gray clothes indistinguishable from the stone wall, I worked awhile.
When ready to meet Mita, I retrieved the items and ran to the cave, careful to repeat the steps on my return.
So much went into rushing through work, hiding and feeding a teacher, and keeping what had to be a thousand new concepts from my family. Yet there was no relief that the lessons with Mita were coming to an end.
No rain had fallen since the last full moon. Mari approached as I used a shovel to shape small ridges around the base of sensitive fruit trees, hoping to guide more rain to their roots. Annoyed, I slowed my jabs into the soil. Of late, Mari had been preoccupied with Leila’s difficulties, and while I was sympathetic, she didn’t want advice. She only wanted to scold, and I did not appreciate conversations that took time away from work with Mita.
Can I help? she asked. Hiding my irritation, I nodded, and she pulled a small shovel from a bag and hacked at the soil.
Don’t make the sides so steep, I suggested. She studied my work before continuing.
After a few minutes of digging furiously, she brought up Leila. Jahangir wants to finalize the contract.
That’s good news . . .
Many men would have rejected her. But he’s a strange one. He laughed and said he likes her better this way! Gul, the stupid man, wants to delay.
She was so moody about Leila, as if every detail of any day could influence the girl’s destiny. I stopped digging. So much agitation in one family could hurt our village, and I had to broach this carefully. Gul wants what’s best for his daughter.
We won’t find anyone else willing to marry her! But Gul’s unhappy and wants to know where she will live.
It was a relief that Gul did not welcome Jahangir to our village. All along I had suspected that without Jahangir the transports wouldn’t happen. But if he moved here, they would continue.
They could stay here until Jahangir is settled! Mari exclaimed. But Gul won’t talk to Parsaa or the others. She stopped working and continued complaining, not realizing that I understood Gul’s unhappiness. His daughter’s loyalty would be divided, and she’d help her husband interfere with village politics. Surely Mari already knew and I did not have to tell her.
She paused and asked, Do you think the Americans can fix the scar?
I told her I didn’t know. It seemed unbelievable.
Jahangir fights with Gul about Leila entering the American outpost.
Gul doesn’t want her to go?
Not with lies.
What kind of lies? I asked.
That people in this village attacked her with acid. That this village is hiding the American woman. Foolish lies.
Stabbing my shovel into the earth, I pulled Mari to sit with me on the nearby wall and spill her anger. Jahangir was obsessed with the Americans. He was trying to provoke them into leaving. One of his men had shot at the Americans as they approached our village. Now he wanted Leila to blame her injury on villagers.
Mari was more upset about Leila’s difficulties, explaining that Jahangir had brought new clothes for Leila to wear. The burqa—and that made Gul angry, too. I fear the marriage won’t take place.
She was angrier with Gul than with Jahangir. I was annoyed she’d put up with such rules from Jahangir, and she failed to realize that he intended to control our village.
Mari enjoyed the superiority lent by rules and order that she could control. She tried to be devout, more than any other woman in our village. Despite a shallow understanding of the Koran, she was constantly on the hunt for those who did not follow its teachings. The Koran made no mention of the burqa, clothing our village couldn’t afford. Women had too much work to do. Besides, such clothing did little to protect women from men intent on detecting every misstep. The burqa hides a woman’s look, but does not disguise what catches a woman’s attention. A woman must remain alert, tilting her head in one direction and shifting eyes in the other to keep prying eyes from knowing what tempts her gaze.
Headstrong Leila would not do well in such a garment.
If Jahangir stayed in our village, Gul had to realize that such demands wouldn’t stop with one woman. Or maybe he suspected that Jahangir had plans to use Leila to attack the outpost. At last, I voiced my speculation.
No! Mari tossed her shovel aside. Leila gives him too many good ideas.
This surprised me. So worried about my own secrets, I forgot that others had them, too. I doubted that Mari knew about her husband helping Jahangir with the children. If Jahangir wants to stay here, he must listen to Gul, I insisted.
But she was bitter and frantic. The delay, the arguing, is Gul’s fault. He resents Jahangir. Parsaa and the others resent him, too. Gul thought her scars would keep Jahangir away.
Thoughts rushed in my mind, ones I could not share. I didn’t want Mita at the outpost if Jahangir planned an attack, yet knew that one of us had to warn the Americans. I took Mari’s hand. If Jahangir attacks the outpost, the Americans will lash out at us.
That’s why our men do not want Jahangir to stay in this village—they fear him, Mari said. Distraught, she dropped her face into her hands. Nothing can stop this marriage.
It’s wrong you
should feel this way. I placed my hand on her shoulder and tried to soothe her.
It’s not! I blame our men. They don’t protect the village. Since the Americans arrived, evil has afflicted this village.
I didn’t dare defend the Americans or call her superstitious. All she cared about was rushing a marriage for her flawed daughter, but for the rest of Laashekoh, the strangers from the north were more alarming than the Americans. Don’t blame our men . . . I said weakly. They do what they think is best.
They’re afraid and useless . . . She checked the perimeter of the orchard to ensure we were alone. We have a plan.
I don’t understand . . . I was nervous and tried to sound agreeable, to learn what Jahangir was up to.
She dropped her voice to a low whisper. We could easily remove the men who mistreat women, like those who hurt Leila. Stunned, I couldn’t speak and she moved closer, peering to read my eyes. You’re troubled.
The other men . . . would never forgive . . . My voice broke. She sensed my fear and that emboldened her.
Then we could take care of them, too.
But you don’t know who attacked Leila . . .
I blame them all, she said bitterly. Life has been terrible since the Americans arrived. Our men do nothing, and Gul is the worst.
The hatred for her husband was chilling. I shook my head, feigning puzzlement. The strangers had arrived soon after the Americans, and I wondered at how two women in our village could disagree so fiercely about the source of our problems. Does Leila know about this plan?
She cocked her head in a strange way, studying me, and I hurried to remind her that the Americans, Jahangir’s men, and others would ask questions.
We won’t be caught, she scoffed. It will be an accident, nothing more. One we can blame on the Americans.
Other villages will ask questions. The Americans, too.
It’s wrong to befriend the unbelievers, she warned me sharply. By talking to them, letting them inside our gates, our men have put us in danger.
Fear of Beauty Page 20
