Joey wanted nothing more than to hurry from the village and forget the uncomfortable encounter. But delaying contact with the village would complicate future contacts, not a good scenario with an investigative team arriving soon. Besides, he didn’t like arguing with Mita. She was right.
“They’re having a wedding,” he noted. “What can we bring as a gift?”
Every girl in our village had one goal, and that was marriage with children. Mari had worked hard for Leila’s day, years in the making. Jahangir did not have family in the area to throw the wedding party, but Mari took over. Because she had worked so hard at the cooking and preparations for other families’ weddings, all of us stood ready to help.
Of course, this wedding was unusual for our village. Normally we celebrated weddings of our sons and the strangers who were their brides. The women whispered and shook their heads when Mari was not around. As far as anyone could remember, Leila was the first woman to remain in the village and marry.
For the rest of us, including Mari, we had attended our own weddings as timid, lonely, young strangers. Eventually we came to regard this village as our home, but we still could not help but regard Leila with envy. She was the only woman who did not have to find her way in our village.
But then she had to marry abrasive, loud Jahangir. No one looked forward to him making a place in our village.
So a nervous shiver went through Laashekoh about any break in tradition. Some suggested that Leila staying would upend balance; others believed that the wedding would solidify Jahangir’s power and that he might invite others to settle in this area. Others insisted that this wedding would make no difference at all. I fell into the latter group, certain that Leila’s staying in the village would not change much. Our village adapted to women coming and leaving—and if strangers didn’t change the character of the village, then how could one woman remaining behind possibly make a difference?
The threat was Jahangir.
I should have been comforted that Mari was elated. Despite Gul’s recent death, she wanted to do most of the cooking, and the rest of us helped in little ways.
Parsaa returned, and I noticed how that lifted the mood of the village. The boys followed him about, and the women chattered more. Everyone expected him to defend us against unreasonable attacks, and inside, I hoped that he was not like Gul. I didn’t want my husband to fight, but I also didn’t want him to be another willing, complacent partner for Jahangir.
The villagers spread out and worked to hurry the marriage and make it part of the past. Mari talked to Ahmed and other young men to pull Jahangir aside, so he could dress and prepare for the dinner in his honor. He was docile, complying with the minor matters of etiquette urged by Mari, and he didn’t mention the burqa.
I gathered the finest vegetables to go with both a goat and young lamb, which had roasted throughout the day. Karimah had moved a small worktable outdoors and I worked beside her, chopping apricots, berries, apples, and other fruit into tiny jewels, before adding pomegranate seeds and heaping mounds into split melons.
The day was brilliant, allowing us to celebrate outside. Men arranged carpets, cushions, and candles in the village center—one large carpet for the men and the other for the women. Piles of bread and small bowls of sauces were arranged. Some of the women worked on arranging one another’s hair and all wore their finest clothes.
Jahangir requested that there be no gifts or music and announced that he and Leila would stay in Mari’s home for the time being.
The men would eat first and then drink tea, while the women gathered for their part of the meal at their separate area. Jahangir was unhappy about men and women sitting so close, but Parsaa dismissed those complaints, pointing out that the village had made enough changes to accommodate the unusual couple. Leila remained out of sight until the ceremony, and I knew her sisters and friends painted her hands with henna and arranged her hair before adding the shaal. She would be decked in the few old pieces of family jewelry available in our village, shared by women for these special occasions.
There were no guests other than the people of our village and Jahangir, not even the men who traveled with him. As the afternoon unfolded, the women buzzed and laughed with excitement. The change was small, a bride not traveling far away, and yet so easy, exciting—and perhaps not wrong at all. Maybe our ability to adapt to something new made the day happy and relaxed.
Not everyone agreed. Karimah angrily sliced the flat bread into triangles.
Perhaps Jahangir will calm down, I murmured.
She shrugged, refusing to agree or disagree. My younger son is tight with Jahangir. She gave a hard, angry shake of the head. But he doesn’t listen and I dare say no more. . . .
To myself, I wondered how life could go on this way, with so many afraid to voice ideas or concerns because of one man’s temper. I wondered how long any of us could possibly withhold our responses to the dark moods without lashing out?
Karimah went around the corner and returned with a bottle of oil and spices that looked familiar. What is that for? I asked.
For dipping—Mari asked me to cut the bread into strips, drizzling oil over them and dusting them with more spices. She wants this bottle for the men’s meal and this one with less garlic for the women.
One of Karimah’s daughters laughed. She warned it’s so spicy that it will boil the men’s stomachs!
I was ready and glanced at the men. Let me handle this—while you check the children.
Don’t you want to get ready, too? Karimah asked.
I’m fine. No need to bother Mari.
Karimah agreed. You’ll do a better job than I can. She’s so particular for someone whose daughter is not going anywhere!
Smiling, she ran off, and I was sure Karimah had no clue about Mari’s plan.
Later, Karimah returned to help pull the bread from the outdoor oven. It was crispy brown, doused with flavored oil outside and fluffy soft on the inside, to join many other delicacies. She tried to chase me home. Go change! she scolded. But I shook my head and knew I appeared worried and distracted with hair astray and still in work clothes. Yet I refused to walk away from the area of food preparation.
The men were gathering to take their places as the two Americans returned through the gate. Both stood back, like chastened children, punished while others played. Mita caught my eye, and a tiny smile flashed. An urge to call to her, inviting her to join our preparations, swept through me. Instead, I stood still, feeling dishonest and unkind about my inability to greet this woman, my teacher, openly as a friend. That would raise too many questions that neither of us were ready to answer.
Ahmed and two other young men greeted the pair. You’re back, he said flatly.
Parsaa frowned—bothered by Ahmed’s tone or annoyed about not being told about the earlier visit.
I must apologize for leaving so abruptly. Joey’s gaze was direct and warm. I was wrong and must admit that I don’t always understand the ways around here.
Ahmed thanked him, discomforted about being reminded of the earlier slight. He glanced nervously at Parsaa for direction.
And you mentioned the wedding. We wanted to bring a gift for the couple. He reached into his pack and extracted a pen that worked in all weather and a bag of candy—and asked the group to accept the tokens for the couple.
Ahmed examined both and promised to pass the gifts on to the man and woman. Parsaa coughed and gestured toward the carpets, prompting Ahmed to speak up. Perhaps you would join our celebration?
With a smile, Joey glanced at Mita and she nodded. They left their packs by the stone wall, as Ahmed gave rapid orders to others to welcome the newcomers and find them places.
Mari must have heard the noise. Startled, she hurried to Parsaa, whispering. But he shook his head. Mari tried to convince him one more time, but again, Parsaa and Ahmed ignored her. She walked away, muttering about checking Leila.
As I checked the roasts and the vegetables, Jahangir emerged from the build
ing where he had bathed and dressed. Agitated at seeing the American soldier seated on a cushion for a meal, he stopped. What is he doing back?
The crowd went quiet. The Americans looked nervous. After a moment, Ahmed replied. They’re our guests. They returned to apologize.
Jahangir remained standing and glared at Parsaa. I do not feel comfortable.
Parsaa studiously ignored the comment and warmly directed everyone to sit. Yes, sit, sit, and start eating. It’s a happy day, there is plenty, and I feel our friend Gul smiling on us.
The other men of our village cheered the sentiment and took their seats. Ahmed reached for the bread and passed it to Joey, boasting that his wife had baked it.
Everyone sit, please. And Parsaa nodded at the women, too. I guided Mita to a seat close to mine. Still, we could not have spoken freely.
Allah would not approve. Jahangir was stubborn. I won’t sit until they leave and neither will my bride.
Parsaa stroked his beard with his hand and glanced at Ahmed. The groom is nervous. Most of the men chuckled. Then he turned to Jahangir and kept his voice low. If you want respect, don’t ask from others very much.
The feeling in my heart is in Allah’s hands. Jahangir smiled, but his voice was cold. You will see his power, and then you will believe. Taking a quick turn, he hurried back to Mari’s home.
So we may not celebrate the wedding today. Parsaa shrugged and took a slice of bread. Such nerves.
Watching my husband, the American, Ahmed, and the others chew the bread, I felt nauseous to think how close they had come to falling ill. It was enough that I had prevented Mari’s oil from being served during the wedding meal, dumping it into weeds beyond the village wall and replacing it with flavored oil from my home.
The incident was over. There was no good reason to tell anyone about my suspicions. Mari could not ask questions, and if she did guess, I’d suggest that Allah had intervened.
Our village acts on crimes and not intentions. If punishment was doled out on suspicions alone, the women would suffer the most. In our village, it was best to remain vigilant and quiet. Once, I might have told Parsaa about Mari’s plan, but he had made it clear how little he trusted me.
The Americans did not stay long. They ate, they chatted with those sitting nearby, and then they left quietly. The groom was difficult, and the Americans were noticeably embarrassed that they had disrupted a ceremony.
Not long after the Americans departed, we heard shouting from Mari’s home. Then, Mari guided Jahangir outside to his place of honor. She looked around at the group relishing her meal and the near-empty baskets of bread before speaking to my husband.
You are right, Parsaa. They are nervous. Jahangir regrets his temper, and the two are ready for you to bless the marriage.
Jahangir nodded politely at Parsaa, but my husband waved his hand. No need to apologize. Two men who believe can work together. He stood and a group of young women called excitedly for the bride.
Leila emerged from the home, graceful in shimmering rose folds with detailed embroidery, an exquisite wedding outfit that must have cost Gul more than a few weeks of work. A veil hid her scar and her eyes were bright—and villagers could not help but recall her beauty. I wondered if I was alone remembering Gul’s worry about a burqa.
The villagers cheered the couple, and then resumed eating and conversing. Jahangir placed only the goat meat on his plate and glanced at Mari with a smile, as she wept and did not eat. That’s when I knew she never intended to kill all the men of our village, but only the men who threatened Jahangir—starting with Gul and moving on to Parsaa, Ahmed, and others.
The children, including my boys, darted about and crawled into the laps of parents. Parsaa handed over some of the bread to Hassan, and Ahmed shared some with his youngest. Mari never spoke up or tried to stop any of them—and my anger built inside, replacing hunger. Moving slowly, I helped clear away the bowls and make room for more courses, watching the others laugh and chew the oily bread with no thought at all.
I wasn’t sure which disturbed me more—Mari’s callousness or my husband’s graciousness with Jahangir.
No doubt, as the celebration lasted through the evening, Mari was surprised that none of the guests complained about stomach pains. I saw her examine one of the baskets, poking at the few golden scraps with her finger.
The men were convivial, speaking and chuckling well into the dark. From my home, I watched Jahangir with disgust, how he raised tension and then smiled and laughed, letting everyone think that his wrath had faded. The speed of his changing moods was most disturbing. The anxiety of waiting for his next eruption was a dark and all-consuming force.
During the wedding, the man named Parsaa had passed close to Joey and murmured one word. “Tonight.”
So Joey had hurried Mita back to the outpost and warned his best fighters to prepare for a raid. Then they returned to the area near the pass, hiking to a small cave not far from the river and the village of Laashekoh.
Taking an indirect route, they reached the cave by midnight. Parsaa had described the place in their earlier meeting—easy to access, secluded, shielded by brush, with multiple exits. “We can confront the traffickers near the village or wait until they’re farther away.” Joey had explained when they had exchanged ideas during the meeting. “It depends how you want to deal with those from your village.”
“I’d like to see how many men from my village are helping Jahangir,” Parsaa had explained. “If it’s more than one or two . . .”
“Would any of the children help him?”
“Anything’s possible,” Parsaa admitted.
So Joey relayed the plans to his men: They would identify Parsaa as their village partner and wait until he lured Jahangir and other traffickers away from their cargo. “We don’t know how many or whom,” he warned. “We won’t rush in. We want to be sure what we’re dealing with.”
Dan ran a hand over the cave’s smooth and sandy wall. “It looks like a good place for waiting. They won’t see us until the last minute. The informant suggested it?”
Joey nodded. He understood the concern that they could be lulled into an elaborate trap. “I know,” he said. “Multiple exits don’t mean much in the way of safety, and they could have more men out there than we do. But I trust this guy.”
Dan nodded, then sat and opened his pack, ready for final prep. “Then we do, too.”
“The traffickers have been spending time in this area,” Joey warned the others. “They could know this cave or send a scout in advance. We don’t know how careful they’ll be. We don’t move until our man confronts the group, and we know the exact location of the children.”
The younger men understood, after countless warnings that the Taliban loved nothing better than tricking Americans into taking aim at children.
Joey studied the men. “If we don’t get a clear separation between our targets and the kids, we’ll track them all the way to the Pakistan border.”
After the briefing, the soldiers kept talk to a minimum, sleeping while two kept watch outside the entrance. Even in the darkness, they had a good view of the river and the mountain pass through which the caravan—if real—would emerge.
Parsaa had insisted that no more than two villagers besides Jahangir could be helping with the trafficking operation. The Americans had better weaponry and would have no problem handling up to four men. If there were more than four, Joey would postpone the attack, radio for air support and backup. He refused to take chances with the possibility of any kids in the area. More troops would only increase the confusion and chances of an accident.
Surprise was critical, and Joey looked around again, praying the cave wasn’t a trap.
Chapter 26
The night’s layers of clouds veiled the moon, and a cool breeze quieted the rattling of the season’s last insects. My mind could not get past Mari’s and Jahangir’s treachery or the pleasant reactions of other village women to Mita as they pelted her with questions for t
he brief time she joined the wedding celebration. Sleep was impossible.
It was late when my husband slipped out of bed. My stomach tightened, and bile seeped into my mouth. Parsaa had taken Gul’s place in more ways than one. Fear replaced the other thoughts—fear that Parsaa worked with Jahangir, removing young children from their homes and families, profiting from the pain. Love was impossible without trust. Faith that relied on fear was wrong.
I waited until Parsaa left our home and then I leaped out of bed, too. I had no plan, no idea of how to stop the caravans passing by our village. But maybe I could talk sense into my husband. At the very least, I might convince him not to help by supplying Jahangir food and water for the rest of the journey to the Pak border, and maybe that would force the men to return the children to their homes.
After draping my darkest scarf over my head and around my neck, I sat on the bench and pulled on my shoes. As I stood, Saddiq emerged from the shadows and stared at me. There is no need for you to follow, I snapped. I’m going after your father.
Saddiq blinked and tightened his lips, but did not respond and kept his hands in his pockets. My husband had trained this boy well, and my disgust spilled out. Your father’s involved in something foolish, and I’m trying to stop him. If you follow, you’ll only hurt us. You could get us all killed.
Saddiq blinked again, showing a hint of fear. I’m your mother, and I order you to remain here with your brothers.
I slipped outside our door and headed for the wall, as fast as possible without making noise. As I crawled over the wall, I stared back at my home. The door was closed, and all was quiet. Perhaps I had convinced the boy not to follow.
With no clue as to which direction Parsaa took or what I would do if I found him, I headed to the same place where Gul had met with Jahangir in the middle of the night. I moved slowly down the hill, pausing to listen for long periods and using boulders as shields. I dared not risk noise, knocking a rock or branch out of place and getting caught. As I neared the river, the sound of women’s voices surprised me.
Fear of Beauty Page 27
