I gently stroked her back. You’re tired. There’s much to prepare for Leila.
How do you know what I feel? she asked warily.
Your eyes, your voice. Her question was strange, and the desperation of my old friend scared me.
Will you tell Parsaa?
The plan was impossible. How could I tell anyone? No one would believe it. Of course, I shook my head and frowned. Promise to wait and think this through. How will you . . . ?
She put her hand to my lips. I’m not ready to let anyone know.
What about the children? Of course, I thought of my sons.
She was gruff. It’s not good for boys to grow up this way. Older men criticize them into taking actions they do not want. Men who treat women with respect are scorned by others. We won’t hurt them, and perhaps it’s not too late. We’ll mourn their fathers, and they’ll forget.
Mari, we could help Leila in other ways.
This is not about Leila! They don’t listen to us, Sofi.
I chewed my finger, trying to talk her out of such foolishness. Mari, how do you know other men won’t come and take over our village?
She shrugged. If they do, we’ll take care of them. Aren’t you tired of being blamed for problems caused by men?
I only nodded, trying to calm her, hoping that she’d be embarrassed about the conversation after a night of sleep. Leila did nothing wrong.
Women set themselves on fire, take poison, anything to escape this life. Her eyes gleamed.
Yes, ideas about how to kill travel far. I closed my eyes. Not Parsaa though? I asked. Or Gul?
She smiled. Some say Gul arranged the attack on his own daughter.
Nervous, I glanced away, confirmation that I had heard the same. The conversation was bizarre, though the two of us had every reason to trust the other. Mari had arrived at the village before me. She had befriended me and assisted in the birth of my sons, holding my hand, alternating orders with words of comfort. And I had assisted her during childbirth, for all her children except Leila, her oldest. Our bond was strong, and I had no choice but to keep the secret and protect Mari from herself.
Gul loves her, I insisted, then whispered. If only there was another way . . .
She smiled. If you find one, let me know. I’m not afraid to die.
I sighed because she was right. Death was the only way for women to convince men of their wrongdoing.
Mari had thought she was safe telling me about her plan. She sensed my resentment about men refusing to work hard in the fields, while taking credit for the best harvests. She may have noticed the distance between me and Parsaa, but Mari didn’t know about Mita.
Waiting for the men to leave for market, Mita and I knew our time was dwindling. Rather than focus on our lesson, we talked about our lives and hopes. At one point, she urged me to think about writing an article for others about replenishing sandy soil. I laughed. Others would have no interest in my words. But she insisted they would.
She asked me to plan a study of my system, planting crops with varying mixes of compost and sand. You must give the crops the same care and water. Keep notes on exactly what you do and how the plants respond.
But why try a way that I know doesn’t work? I protested. The one set won’t grow as well as the other set!
You want a sample for comparison. She explained the scientific method and control samples—keeping all other factors equal provided proof that adding my mixture to sand was the reason for better growth. Then you write the article.
I laughed again. I don’t know anyone who would care.
She shook her head. People who care about farming. Putting words to paper teaches other people, she explained. She repeated her warning about treating the crops alike, except for the one condition—the soil mixture. I promised to comply.
We also talked about Jahangir’s threats against the base. I have heard about his plan to attack, and you can warn the others.
The outpost security would check any visitors closely. Mita was trying to convince herself.
One of your soldiers already invited a woman. Her face was scarred with acid. They’re making arrangements for her to meet with a doctor.
How horrible. Upset, Mita paced in a tight circle and then pointed to the sky. The search has stopped.
They have given up? I asked.
She shook her head with a confident smile. They may have ideas about where I am. Have you seen American soldiers—especially the man who can speak Dari?
He came to our village yesterday. I recalled the discomfort at his many glances directed my way.
Joey. . . . She smiled and sat cross-legged in front of me. He must be so worried. But he’ll help your village. She paused and reached for my hands. I wasn’t in real danger from anyone in your village, was I?
I owed her the truth, but that was so uncertain. Everyone’s in danger here. The dangers change every day. But you can’t tell your American friends that you were with me. No one from my village can know that I spent this time with you.
She nodded. If that’s what you prefer. But they spent a long time searching, and I must give some reason. I’m afraid what they’ll do if they think I was held prisoner. She looked down at her clothes. And they’ll know someone helped with clothing and food—that we didn’t try to signal the searchers. She swallowed nervously. Why didn’t we?
I thought you were in danger. The shooting. You fell from the cliff, and I didn’t know who was shooting. I dipped my head. Later, I was selfish. I wanted to learn from you.
Have there been other attacks? I shook my head. Mita nodded again slowly. You don’t want your village to know about us, and I face serious trouble for disappearing for no good reason. They’ll have questions. And Sofi, how do I know about plans for an attack on the outpost?
I had not anticipated so many questions, and assumed that the men at the outpost would simply be grateful for her return. I’m not sure . . .
Seeing my fear, she gave me a hug. I must tell Joey the truth. I was unconscious. Someone helped me to a cave. I wasn’t sure how far. There was a gun. I wasn’t sure how many people were around. Someone told me there would be an attack. She paused and thought. And I’ll ask that he keep the details from others.
Thank you. I closed my eyes. Our village has so much turmoil. I hesitated to give Mita too much information from Laashekoh that could get us both in trouble. But she was so helpful with advice. So I told her about the uncertain marriage for Leila, Mari’s anger, and the plan.
She’s angry and wants to kill the men in our village. Aloud, the words sounded strange. She doesn’t believe that Jahangir might use Leila in an attack.
Why now?
She says it’s the only way life can change for women in our village.
There are other ways . . .
Sighing, I explained how women had little choice but to hide feelings and wait for men to control their lives. She wants my help.
Mita had many questions, if Mari had trouble sleeping, or if she was depressed or manic, but I didn’t know the answers. She won’t do it, not unless she is ill. Mita’s voice lacked confidence.
Mari is sure that Allah agrees with whatever she decides. It may be why she told me.
Can she carry out the plan?
I thought a moment. She’s capable. Leila’s accident has changed her. And she talks about finding a way to blame the deaths on the Americans.
Mita was distraught and bit her lip. I remained quiet, waiting for her, though I had already asked too much of her. I cannot withhold information about a plan to kill so many people, Mita said. I have to warn the outpost.
There was no going back. Unlike the women of Laashekoh, Mita was not keen on keeping secrets. She saw my despair and tried to assure me. I’ll be careful. It will be difficult because I can’t explain to others how much you helped me.
We went over specific details about her return, and she was thoughtful. We agreed it was best that she return to the outpost and not the village, which didn’t need such attenti
on.
The area surrounding the village is not safe with Jahangir. We must move with care. We decided that I would accompany her most of the way. She would wear old clothes of mine that blended with the arid landscape. Once we parted, she’d change into her own clothes.
We went over her story once again—that she had fallen downhill during the firefight and went unconscious. She awoke inside a cave. She was lost, and did not understand the rescuer’s language. The rescuer was terrified of being blamed. Her recovery and determining her location took time. When ready, she hiked alone to the outpost.
It was the best we could do.
A strong whiff of spices and garlic simmering in oil drifted into the orchard, making me hungry. Someone cooked over a fire, not far from the path I traveled after meetings with Mita. Curious, I followed the smell, acrid smoke mixed with sizzling oil, mint, garlic, and cilantro—and could imagine biting into grilled lamb, moist and tender with a spicy crust. One of the women must have planned a special dinner, wanting to keep the concoction a surprise.
The pungent smell came from the far end of the orchard, beyond the wall. Hidden among the trees, Mari was on her knees, slowly stirring herbs into a pan of hot oil. When flames leaped against the pan, she used a rag to grasp the handle, tilting the pot and letting the oil smoke. Old corks and empty jugs waited nearby.
Overhead the tallest branches of the needle trees swayed in the wind and she didn’t hear my approach. Mari, it smells so wonderful!
She jerked around, startled, and oil sloshed onto her foot. Crying out in pain, she returned the pan to the stones. You should not have crept up on me!
Her fierce anger startled me and I apologized, explaining how the smell had taken over the orchard. She waved her hand at the smoke and complained about the messy work. Will you use it tonight?
No, it needs time to sit. She watched the flames. It’s the oil from the Americans. Try some if you like.
She dipped a cup into the oil and filtered it into one of the containers. Be sure to use it right away, no later than tonight, and let me know how it tastes. She turned back to the fire. Now let me finish . . .
Without another word, I hurried away, carrying the jug with two hands. Up close, the odor was choking, no longer tempting. The bottle was dirty, with remnants of old, unrecognizable foods inside. Disgusted, I walked faster, wondering if she had even washed the containers. Mari was typically so meticulous.
After crossing the orchard, I took another sniff and looked around. Leaning over the wall, I drained the jug’s contents into the tall grass, watching the oil glisten and mix with the soil.
The men departed for the market before dawn. I was ready before them, but waited until their voices faded. I shook my sons awake and whispered about an urge to go alone and pray. I made Saddiq sit up. “You must watch your brothers,” I ordered. He was not to abandon his brothers or leave them with Mari. There is no need to bother her today. I made the sleepy child repeat my directions.
For the last time, I hurried to meet Mita at the cave. She had brushed away our footprints with a branch thick with needles. I had already carried home most containers, articles of clothing and papers, and we stashed the few remaining items in hiding places far from the cave so I could retrieve them later.
The team could still search for evidence of abduction, she warned. We checked inside the cave and the surrounding area, careful to remove any trace of her presence.
Once satisfied, we set off for the outpost, taking an indirect route, approaching a way that was opposite from Laashekoh. That meant moving extra miles along the foothills, more than four hours of steady hiking, more than twice as long as the direct route. Traveling as two lone women added complications. We stayed off-trail and listened for sounds of other passersby.
Our clothes were worn, blending with the bleak landscape away from the river.
If all went well, I’d return to the village before our men. I had left plenty of food for my boys. I had worked tirelessly in the field the day before, missing a lesson with Mita, so there could be no complaints about work that needed to be done. The boys would be irritated, but I was prepared to be moody, too, and refuse to answer their questions. It was unbearable to think of no more lessons with Mita.
No lesson lasts forever, Mita gently told me.
That does not stop a student’s ache about the end, I cried. She just smiled.
Once the sun threw out its early sheer veil in pink and lavender over the sky, we kept to the edge of forests and fields, pausing before every rise. We were intent on avoiding the men of my village, the American soldiers, and especially Jahangir and his likes. Men had many advantages—vehicles, binoculars, and the ability to move freely without question.
We didn’t have a plan if we got caught, other than trying to attract the attention of Americans still searching for Mita.
But the helicopters no longer patrolled low overhead.
I tried not to worry. To enjoy the outdoors as much as I did, I had long practiced blending with the landscape, moving cautiously, constantly scanning my surroundings for any sign of movement. We rubbed dirt on our faces, and I trained Mita to look ahead, constantly selecting a rock or stand of brush for her next shield. More than once, I warned her to step on bare soil, to avoid snapping leaves and twigs that could leave a trail.
By midday, the sun was hot and we were far from my village. The outpost was a small smudge in the distance. Breathing hard, Mita and I stopped, sitting side by side on a fallen tree. We shared bread and water, and spoke in whispers. And when the bread was gone, still we talked.
You must be the best teacher in the world, I said.
She laughed softly. You can teach, too, she reminded me. One person’s pursuit of education improves life for many. And a parent’s education helps her children more than herself.
I thought about this. How would I start?
Sadness crept into her eyes. We’re trying to get books and teachers here.
It would frighten the other villagers. Education is admitting what we don’t know.
It takes courage to admit that you don’t know, Mita said. Too many people equate education with others controlling us rather than controlling ourselves. Adults in my country have the same problem.
I laughed. My secret is blending in, attracting no attention at all.
That makes it difficult to share what you know, she noted. Keep thinking. You might find a way to show children and adults how education can help a community. Especially if we can send books.
I could not admit to the other villagers that I knew how to read. I didn’t want Mita to leave, thinking that her time spent on lessons was useless. Many people here don’t want life to change. They fear new ideas.
It’s not only Laashekoh—many fear change. Work with your children.
Maybe. . . . I nodded, upset to admit that I could not even teach my sons. It’s a struggle to argue with those who are sure. Like convincing Mari not to try her plan.
The woman who wants to kill the men? Her mouth tightened with worry, and I nodded. She hasn’t changed her mind?
She hasn’t talked about it since . . . but I see the determination in her eyes. I explained how Mari took charge of cooking during the busiest times of year. She used the oil your men brought—cooked it with garlic and herbs and . . . Mita looked puzzled, and so I told her, It could be poisoned.
Our oil? Mita cried out.
She could blame the Americans.
If you told your husband or others, what would happen?
I will tell him not to eat her food, but she will be impossible. I keep hoping she changes her mind. I stared at ants moving away from some tunnel underneath our log. Contemplating such an act is a crime, and the men will consider all the women guilty.
It doesn’t make sense. Mita was morose, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. Arguing about Mari and Leila was not how I wanted to spend our last hour together.
I’m sorry, it’s best to wait for events to unfold. I wil
l find a way to stop it, Allah willing.
Mita twisted her head to study my face. Resisting change leads to extreme acts—and that will destroy the village. She reached for my hand and stared. You must stop her. Talk to her, steal the containers, but don’t let anyone use that oil.
I’m ashamed, I said, covering my eyes. I give you only problems.
I’m glad you told me, she said firmly.
No one else can know, I pleaded. If you talk about the plan, Mari will know it was me.
Are you sure others are not pushing her?
I had not thought of that. Jahangir. I promise I’ll watch closely.
If you need help, come to the outpost. Or, do you remember where you found me, along the path? Just before the cliff with the ledges, there’s a flat rock that overlooks the valley. I knew the rock and nodded.
We can leave notes for each other there. Place them under a small rock next to the flat one, on the side closest to Laashekoh. And if you hear something and need to let me know right away, you could send a signal. I can leave a note for you. The largest hill that stands behind your village—do you go there often?
Gul and his wife use those pastures. We sometimes help tend their sheep.
So you could climb the side looking out over the outpost, just at the tree line. If Mari is ready to act on her plan—or you need us—attach a white cloth to a tree there. We could try and help.
I hesitated. If Mari notices, she’ll never stop asking questions.
The cloth does not have to be there long. Tie it loosely, and you can say it was tossed in the wind.
So many were angry in our village—Leila, Jahangir, Mari, and probably others. But I smiled. Anything could happen in the next few days, and it was comforting not to feel alone.
There was a long pause. I didn’t want to admit it, but we had to leave if I wanted to return before our men. We checked the desolate horizon and saw no sign of patrols or caravans. Other than the outpost, there was no sign of humans. I pointed to a nearby stand of trees and a rock. Wait until their shadows touch the rock. That will give me time. Make sure no other travelers are in sight and then hurry. Someone from the outpost will spot you.
Fear of Beauty Page 21
