The Widow's Husband

by Tamim Ansary

  25

  Karim crawled down among the boulders with all the noiseless craft of a master warrior, then inched forward on his belly until he could peep over the edge, right down into the compound the Engrayzees had claimed as their own. It didn’t look like it had a month ago. These strangers had spent lavishly, hiring the villagers of Char Bagh to improve the one-time guest house—fortifying the walls, installing a gate, adding a second story to the building. No one asked what they wanted with such a fort. People were just glad of the chance to suck so much coin out of those bottomless Engrayzee pockets.

  Karim, however, had kept a close watch on the men. No one had asked him to, but he knew his duty. The village would thank him someday. If these Outsider bastards were up to some mischief, he’d be the first to know. Karim almost hoped the Outsiders would try something, so he could tell his father.

  His belly was itching. He wriggled a bit to scratch it against the rough surface of the rock. Then he froze. One of the Engrayzees had come out of the building. He stood in the courtyard, fingering his bare chin. He was the one with the strange tool attached to his face, the tool with stems that curled around his ears and a frame that perched on his nose and held two tiny windows in front of his eyes. Ahmad’s mother sometimes told a story about The Bald Boy who had a magical tool that allowed him to see through walls. The device she described looked very much like this one the Engrayzee had. Or maybe his device allowed him to see the future. Or what was behind his own head. All these devices had appeared in Soraya’s stories.

  But Karim had to chuckle. For all his magic, the man had no idea he was being watched. If Karim had a gun, he could pick the bastard off right now, one shot. From this distance, he couldn’t miss. No one would even know how it happened. They would come out and find the man lying dead in the dust as if by magic. Ha! Unless the other two were in the building. They might come running out at the sound of gunfire and spot Karim up here on the rock. But he would have three guns, all of them loaded and lined up next to him. Bam, the first one went down. In his mind, he snatched up the second gun, smooth as the river over sand. The other two were running out now. They were looking up—bang! The Pushtoon went down. Then it was just Karim against the last remaining Engrayzee, man against man. The Engrayzee had a pistol. He aimed. He shot. He missed! Ha! It was all over now and he knew it. His face gleamed fear. Karim had the third gun in his hands. He was sighting down the barrel. The man was on his knees, pleading for mercy—

  Karim woke suddenly out of his reverie. The courtyard below was empty. What happened to the Engrayzee? Did he go back into the house? Karim turned and stretched, only to experience a second jolt: the Engrayzee was standing right behind him, with a bag in his hand, casting his shadow over the boy’s legs. The sneaking bastard kafir dog!

  Karim shrank back. The Outsider advanced on him, holding out his hand as if in appeal. He said something in gibberish, all the while smiling. Karim studied the man’s hand. He recognized the posture now, the gesture. It was like holding out a piece of meat to coax a wild dog closer. Only, what this man was holding out was a coin. “Bak-sheesh?” he said, in the very voice you use to soothe and attract a dog. “Bak-sheesh?” he crooned.

  Bak-sheesh—what was that supposed to mean? Was that the man’s kafir-bastard-gibberish for “take-the-money?” Money for what? Karim had done the man no service. Maybe he wanted something. Maybe this was payment in advance. Well, why not take the money? Everyone else in the village was getting rich. Why not Karim?

  The boy reached out and took the coin. He had never held money in his hands before, and it felt wonderful, that hard, round shape in his palm. It flooded his mind instantly with images of good things he might buy. A knife with a folding blade. He could carry it in his pocket. If anyone gave him trouble—snap! The blade was open. Not so brave now, are you? Slice! Thrust! Ho ho!

  The man crouched down to Karim, his knees spread apart. Karim found himself staring at the obscene view between the Outsider’s thighs. He could actually see a bulging bumpy place where the man’s cock and balls were tucked. He remembered telling Farid on that first day how these men dressed: “They’re fitted out with big ones, like donkeys,” and Farid responding, “They’ll catch you behind the village one day and ram those clubs up your ass, they will,” and Karim taunting back, “Oh, no—it’s you they’ll be ramming. They try that with me, I’ll split their heads open like melons, just you watch.” Now, in the man’s shadow, he felt how small he really was, and how big the man. A shiver of nervous dread ran through him. But the man sat back and the unnerving view disappeared. He took a sheet of paper out of his bag, stared at it, and said, “Solem.”

  Karim guessed what he was trying to say and replied helpfully, “Salaam aleikum, sahib.”

  “Solem. Ah – lay - kum. Suh-heeb,” the man repeated. He touched his own chest. “Roo Prt,” he uttered. “Okk… slee. Yoo?” He touched Karim’s chest. “Yoo?”

  “Rooh pawrt,” said Karim. Probably the man’s name. “I am Abdul Karim,” he told the man. He clapped both hands to his chest and added, “Abdul Karim, son-of-Ghulam-Dastagir, son-of-Abdul Bari, son-of-Mohammed-Tahir, son-of-Abdul-Haq, son-of-Qudrut-Shah, known as The Lion of the Valley.” It was best to tell the man his entire lineage—let him know he was not dealing with some nobody.

  The Outsider tossed his head back and let out a roaring laugh. He said something in his own tongue, shook his head, and opened his bag. Out of it, he drew what appeared to be the penis of some animal, thick as a donkey-dong and about as long as Karim’s forearm, with a wrinkled, leathery-looking brown skin. The man offered it to him. What was Karim supposed to do with a dried animal dick? Karim shook his head emphatically.

  “Salami,” said the Outsider. Then, to Karim’s horror and disgust, he took out a knife—just the kind Karim coveted—and cut the penis in two. Next he cut the shorter piece into a dozen round slices one of which he began to consume! The cross section of the meat was pink with flakes of white in it. (So that’s what a dick looked like inside!) “Salami,” the man insisted, munching away, still offering one coin-shaped piece to Karim.

  “Salaam aleikum, salaam, but no,” Karim retorted, his gorge rising.

  But then they kept sitting on that rock, side by side, clumsily exchanging half-understood words. Their shadows shrank against their bodies and began to grow again in the other direction. Warming up under the hot mid-day sun, Karim began to feel somewhat at ease with the Outsider, and he wondered at the feeling. How was it possible to feel comfortable with a man who would eat an animal cock? And yet his mind easily quelled the image. Instead, he wondered what he might do to get another coin out of the Engrayzee. Maybe offer to carry something for him, or…his mind quailed at the dangerous thought: offer him one of the family’s sheep? No: a missing sheep would be noticed and the loss would quickly be traced back to Karim. He would take a hell of a beating.

  Then the Outsider himself answered Karim’s question. He leaned over until his head was close to Karim’s. “Keyrim,” he murmured in a tone of hushed conspiracy.

  Karim snickered. The mispronunciation of his name meant “my erect cock.” The word put a picture in Karim’s head, of the man without his pants, his cock erect. His throat thickened with tension. Maybe this was how he could get another coin out of the man. Give him just a glimpse. Like he’d given Farid for free. What harm could it do? But he would insist on seeing the man’s cock in return. The same deal he’d made Farid. Fair is fair. At last he’d know if these Outsiders had donkey-sized dongs, like some of the women were speculating.

  “Keyrim. Duktaar?” said the man. “Char Bag.” He waved in the direction of the village. That’s how he pronounced the name. Char Bag. “Duktaar?”

  Duktaar? What was that? The man said the word as if one should know it. Karim stared at him, trying to plumb his meaning.

  The Engrayzee carved out a flowing shape in the air with his hands. “Duktaar,” he repeated. Then, with a pebble, he scratched out a shape on th
e rock. It looked like a man with thick hips and a waist as thin as a wasp’s. Next, the man paged through his notebook again, with fumbling fingers, and found something he wanted. “Zun,” he said, staring at the page. Oh: woman. He made the flowing shape in the air again.

  Karim got it now. Not duktar but dukhtaar—girl. “Zun!” he exclaimed.

  “Zun!” The man had produced another coin from somewhere. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Baksheesh.” He touched his eyes and made a gesture of peering. He wanted to look. His coin glistened in the sunlight. “Zun. Baksheesh. You. Keyrim. Char Bag.”

  Karim wanted to hit the man. The filthy God-blasted dog didn’t know who he was talking to: the secret guardian of the village’s honor! The protector of the women. Karim wanted to kill the dog. Because he did know of a place he could show the man. Why, he would split the donkey-cunt’s head open like a big fat watermelon. All he needed was a fist-sized rock. One good swing—but if they got to fighting the man would not be the one to die. The cold truth hit Karim and chilled him: this man would not die, he would kill. Suddenly, Karim felt the terrible impotence of being young. He was a breath away from his own death. He had never felt so frightened. Because he did know of a place he could take this donkey-fucking bastard. Frightened but aroused as well, a terrible, potent brew. And there was something else in there, even more toxic and uncontrollable. Desire of another sort. Those coins. The Engrayzee was holding three of them in his palm now. All the things Karim could have with four coins! Sell the man a glimpse. That place above the river, above the spot where the women did laundry, and sometimes washed themselves, believing themselves unseen. No one else knew about that spot. Karim had discovered it a year ago and had never told a single soul except Ahmad, who hadn’t really listened and who was dead now. Karim had only dared to go there a few times himself. Forbidden skin. And now to let this stranger, this Outsider—!

  “Baksheesh,” said the man, jingling a fistful of coins and smiling in a friendly fashion as if they were talking about some game, not the ruination of Karim’s honor, the destruction of his soul, the worst of all possible betrayals. It would not be like giving the man a sheep. This would be incalculably worse. But it would be different in another way too. No one would ever have to know. He’d been to that spot and sneaked away and no one knew about him.

  His fingers found a rock just behind him. His fingers closed around that rock. He eyed the man’s waist, where a gun was holstered to his belt. Karim realized his cock was hard. Transgression was arousing! He shook his head, to let the man know that the answer was no, it was no, a thousand times no, but somehow his shake ended up as a nod. He heard a hoarse voice that could not possibly have been his own voice croaking out softly, “Give me the money. I will show you a place.”

  26

  Shahnaz stuffed the soiled tablecloth into the basket with the other laundry. “All right, all right,” she trilled over her shoulder. “You don’t have to nag.”

  “Did you give the cows their hay?” said her mother.

  “I can’t do everything,” Shahnaz screamed. “What do you want me to do, wash the laundry or feed the cows? Why can’t Ghiyas feed the animals?”

  “He has his own chores!” her mother scolded. “When I was your age, I’d have the laundry done and the animals fed by this time of day, and I’d have said my prayers and swept the yard too, you lazy wench. All right, go! I’ll tell Ghiyas to take care of the cows. Go do the laundry—but don’t go alone. Take Rahila and Mahboobah along. You’re always going to the river by yourself. It’s wrong! And ask next door before you go. See if your aunt has anything to wash. I better not see you back till the clothes are dry. Wai, a mother’s hardships with such girls. We’ll have to give you to a stranger! No one who knows you will ever marry a lazy, bad-tempered wretch like you!”

  “Ha,” Shahnaz snorted under her breath. Her stupid mother thought men wanted girls for their skill at washing clothes. Shahnaz, with her budding body, knew what men wanted. If the elders would only get out of the way, she could have a husband any time. The elders were always fussing about could a girl sew, did she have a sweet temper. As if anyone cared about things like that except the prospective mother-in-laws. But then, the elders only knew the mother-in-laws. The girls were beneath their notice except to order about. The mothers used to be girls themselves but they wanted to deny it or maybe they had forgotten. And the elders set their own standards for the groom too. How much land did he have? How many animals? An iron-tipped plow or just a wooden one? What was his status in the village? All the traits they considered desirable added up to some smelly, doddering old wreck. If only she could be like the girls in the stories, romanced by a warrior passing through. Shahnaz could picture it now! She would be doing laundry by the river, he’d notice her from the rocks above, where he’d tethered his horse and lain down to rest. He would gaze in fascination as she, quite unaware that she was being watched, slipped her dress off her pure milky shoulders…

  Come to think of it, what did she need Mahboobah and Rahila for? Her mother fussed too much. Nervous wreck of a wasted little woman whose time had come and gone! Very soon now, one way or another, Shahnaz would be queening it over a household of her own. Her husband would be absolutely in her thrall, fascinated by her beauty, dumbstruck by her saucy wit, helpless in the grips of her charms, ready to give her anything she desired—yes, anything: embroidered blouses purchased dearly from merchants in Baghlan. Mascara, bought from the nomads. Kohl to rim her lovely eyes. Jewelry. Money for tattoos in secret places. Oh, once she had a husband, she would be expert in the arts of love…once she had a husband to practice on. Rahila and Mahboobah assured her of it: they knew!

  With her basket of laundry on her head, sometimes balanced on its own, sometimes held in place by fingertips touching lightly, Shahnaz made her way down the narrow path to the river. Her calves brushed against the tall weeds lining the snake-like path to the river. Snakes were fascinating creatures. She saw one frequently in the vegetable garden, a green whip-like fellow with a lighter green stripe down his back. She wondered if it was true what Auntie Bilquis said about a man’s equipment being very like a snake. Surely it could not be as long as that—or could it? Donkeys and horses certainly had equipment that grew as long as a snake when they were in the mating mood. Maybe if a girl stayed attentive, she would sometimes see a man’s equipment poking out from below the cuffs of his trousers. Perhaps that was why Prophet Mohammed commanded (as she had heard tell) that men wear their pants no shorter than ankle length. Of course, she had seen men in the river with their pants rolled up high, yet nothing showing, but they were not in the mating mood then. At a time like that, their “thingies” would be curled up inside them, same as a donkey’s.

  Shahnaz came to the edge of the grassy weeds. The path widened here and descended a small hill to the river bank, which was a mixture of gravel and sand. The air smelled wet. She enjoyed the sound of the water here, the ever-changing conversation the river was having with itself: gurgle gurgle, never quitting. What if she possesed a magical head scarf that would turn the language of the river into Farsi? She imagining putting on such a scarf and suddenly hearing words instead of gurgle-gurgle. What would the river be chattering?

  Maybe, “Salaam aleikum, Shahnaz-jan, welcome back, you make me so happy, you are the most beautiful creature in the valley—no, in the entire world—no, the most beautiful woman the world has ever known… it’s good to be alone with you, take off your clothes, Shahnaz-jan, let us be one...”

  Shahnaz hummed as she let the imagined conversation with the river run through her mind. She set the basket down and pulled out the soiled tablecloth. What an ugly stain! Mawmaw’s vomit. Uqh! Why did the old man have to gobble his food so quickly? As if he was competing with everyone else for his dinner. Now Shahnaz was stuck with the results of his horrid greed. She let the cloth float out into the current, holding on to just the tiniest corner till the water had pulled away the chunks of solid vomit. What
a shame that the loveliest woman in the world should be saddled with the chore of cleaning up Mawmaw’s vomit. She pulled the cloth back and held it to her nose. Well, it didn’t smell anymore. She wrung it out, spread it over the rocks, and began rubbing at the stains with a flat stone.

  When she was done, she rinsed her hands and glanced around. How nice to be alone! She was hardly ever alone. Why did she relish solitude so much? Perhaps there was something wrong with her. And yet, in Nana’s stories, Tahmina was alone just like this, washing clothes by a river when the handsome Rustum spied her, just as Tahmina had loosened her blouse and slipped the material off her shoulders… Shahnaz tested how Tahmina might have felt at the moment. She unbuttoned one button of her blouse and tugged the material to one side to expose her shoulder. No harm in this. She was alone.

  Then she heard the man.

  She pulled the blouse shut, not that it was ever really open. He could not have seen much except her face. Oh no, her face! She clutched the wet tablecloth to the front of her face, glancing about wildly, trying to spot him. (Uqh! A faint whiff of Mawmaw’s vomit still infused the cloth.)

  The noise came again. It wasn’t a word, just a sound. She looked up to see where it had come from and saw—w’Allah, one of those Engrayzees everybody was talking about. It had to be. But they were only supposed to roam the mountains up around Red Pass. They had agreed not to come down to the village, people said. She stared at him, stupefied. He was coming down. What could she do? Should she run? She ought to run! But her whole body felt as stiff as bone, so she just stood, while the man picked his way down to the river bank, wearing a wide ingratiating grin. Well, what was the point of running now, the damage had been done, he’d seen her face, there wasn’t much left to hide.

  Anyway, he wasn’t really a man, exactly—was he? Were the Engrayzees men like other men? Or was this more like being seen by a stallion or a bull? As far as she knew, the Quran never said there was any shame in being seen by a male as such; only by a human male. A monkey, for example, would be permissible. Perhaps this Engrayzee was more like a big, hairless, clothes-wearing monkey than an actual man. And he did seem harmless. He was making little clucking noises, as one might to coax a reluctant child closer—which made Shahnaz laugh. She was no child! She felt sudden pride in her swelling, ripening body, her woman’s body. He was holding something out for her to look at. She squinted and saw that it was a bottle.