Words in the Dust

by Trent Reedy

  But instead of firing the gun, the man sticking out the top of the big car smiled and waved. “Salaam, rafiq!” he shouted in a strange-sounding Dari as the car, or maybe it was really a truck, drove slowly by us. Another truck rounded the corner, but the man sticking out of the top of that one was facing backward, with a gun that had a much longer, narrower barrel. When that man passed, he tilted back his tan helmet and shouted something in a language I didn’t understand. His teeth flashed very white in the darkest face I’d ever seen.

  “An African!” Omar pointed at the dark man.

  All three boys were watching the soldiers go by, completely ignoring me. If the big trucks hadn’t been coming from the direction I had to go, I would have escaped the moment the boys turned away. My legs shook, almost twitching with my eagerness to run.

  The dark-skinned man had been smiling, but when he saw me, he frowned. Of course, most people who saw me frowned, but when such a look came from an armed soldier, it was even worse. I covered up my face with my chador.

  The soldier shouted something down into his truck as he ducked under a tree branch. The big vehicles continued on down the road.

  “It’s the Americans!” Anwar clapped as he started to follow the gun trucks. “Give me radios! Soccer balls! Ball, ball, ball!” He turned to Salman and Omar. “Come on, they’ve got everything in those trucks!”

  I pulled the naan up close to my chest and ran toward home, hardly even dodging the big sharp pebbles. Just before I reached the next bend in the road, I risked a look back. Thank Allah, the boys were running off after the trucks, clapping their hands and calling out. The American African soldier threw out a handful of something sparkling, and Anwar and his cousins scrambled in the dirt to pick it up. I watched until the vehicles passed another bend. When I couldn’t see the soldiers riding above the tops of the walls, I ran.

  Back in our compound, I closed the street door and leaned against the warm mud-brick wall. Home. Neither Anwar nor big scary soldiers would bother me here. Wiping the saliva that always came from my split upper lip whenever I ran, I tried to catch my breath enough to call for Zeynab. For Baba. Anyone. I had to tell everyone what I had just seen. They probably wouldn’t believe me. Everyone had been saying that An Daral wasn’t an important enough village. But they were wrong. The Americans had come to town!

  “Baba-jan, Baba-jan!” I rushed into the house, barely closing the door behind me. Everyone was sitting on the floor ready to eat, the dishes laid out on the big cloth dastarkhan in the middle.

  Malehkah had jumped at my shout as she poured my baba’s tea. “Be quiet! Look what you made me do!” She grabbed a small towel and mopped up the spill.

  “But I have to tell you —”

  “I said quiet. Your father has a headache. And what took you so long getting back?”

  Baba rubbed the bridge of his nose. My older brother, Najib, sitting next to him, looked like he would fall asleep any moment. They were always tired after welding most of the night. Zeynab looked up from peeling an orange for Khalid and Habib and offered me a piece. I shook my head and set down the naan, keeping the torn piece on the bottom.

  “The Americans. They’re here. In An Daral. They drove right past me on the river road. They have these big trucks with guns and —”

  “This is true?” Baba looked at me, instantly awake, his cup held halfway to his mouth.

  “Bale, Baba.”

  Baba set his cup down and elbowed Najib. “What do you think, Najibullah?” My brother shrugged and looked like he was about to speak, but Baba continued. “It’s worth a look maybe.”

  Malehkah sat down between her boys and put her arm around Habib. She smiled down at him when he leaned against her, chomping his piece of orange. Then she turned to me and all the joy fell from her face. “You stay away from those men, Zulaikha. I’ve heard terrible things about what those infidel soldiers do to Afghan girls, even to girls like you.”

  “They just drove past. I didn’t —”

  Baba held up his hand. “She’s right. You need to stay away from those men.” He tore off a piece of naan. “Hajji Abdullah was telling the truth. The Americans don’t waste any time. They’re here exactly when they told the hajji they’d be here.”

  “You knew they were coming, Baba-jan?” Zeynab asked.

  “Hajji Abdullah came by the shop a few days ago. He says the infidels have some crazy idea about building a new school. Want these buildings done in the modern style. He says those rich Americans will pay hundreds of thousands of Afghani for good welders.”

  “We already have a school,” said Khalid.

  Baba shrugged. “They say it’s not big enough. Doesn’t allow girls.”

  Girls? I stared at Baba. Zeynab spoke up. “But Baba-jan, girls don’t even go to school. What good are all those books to a woman with a good husband?”

  Malehkah smiled, but shook her head and looked down.

  Baba waved us all silent. “Well, I agreed to hear them out. Let’s just hope that everything the hajji says about American contracts is true. School for boys. School for girls. School for goats. Who cares as long as they pay?” Baba finished eating before he led Najib out of the house and the compound.

  A school for girls? There’d never been such a thing in An Daral. What would it be like to go to school?

  Malehkah discovered the piece of naan that Anwar had torn. She held it up. “Here.” She peered at me over the gaping hole. “Zulaikha couldn’t wait until she came home to start eating. You boys better get something while you still can.” She struggled to stand up. “Make sure the boys eat. When you’re done, Zulaikha, give them a bath. Then you have clothes to wash. Zeynab, the cow’s stall needs to be cleaned out and that crack in the back section of the wall should be patched.”

  “Bale, Madar,” Zeynab and I said together as Malehkah went back to the kitchen to start washing dishes.

  “Hold still, Habib.” Trying to wash my little brother was nearly as difficult for me as pronouncing his name. Sometimes I thought Malehkah gave him that name with all the tricky b sounds just to mock me. He wiggled around in our metal washtub out back by the well, always bending down to put his hands in the water or to play with soap bubbles. I twisted the rag to let the water pour onto the top of his head. How he made himself so dirty I didn’t know, but the water ran off his head as if it hadn’t even touched his thick, black mop of hair.

  “Cold.” Habib wiped his little hands over his face.

  “I know, bacha. But can you be a big boy for your sister?”

  Khalid went past us, dragging a piece of scrap metal toward the back wall.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  “Madar won’t let me go outside.” Khalid propped the metal against the fuel barrel in the back corner of the compound. “She says the soldiers are dangerous.”

  The fuel drum stood next to a crack in the wall. It would boost Khalid up to the crack, which he evidently meant to climb to get to the roof of the stable.

  “Just stay down. Your mother is right. Those men are dangerous. And you’re going to get hurt trying to climb up there.”

  “But I want to see!”

  “Try the roof of the house,” I said.

  “I did.” Khalid repositioned the metal.

  Habib splashed his feet in the water, stepping up and down. He blew out a frustrated huff and shook his head.

  “Okay, Habib. I’m sorry. Let’s get you washed up.” I dabbed the wet rag on his tiny button nose.

  A shadow stretched across the concrete near the well. I straightened up and turned around to see Malehkah drop a bundle of clothes in a pile. Khalid conveniently turned into the perfect son for his mother, pulling a few weeds from the ground near the pomegranate bush.

  “Hurry up with Habib. It shouldn’t take that long to wash a two-year-old. Then wash these,” she said. “And make sure you actually clean Khalid’s and Habib’s clothes this time.”

  “But I always —”

  “Last
time you only scrubbed your father’s and Najibullah’s clothes. My boys need clean clothes too.”

  “They’re my brothers, Madar. I would never —”

  “Just do it!” Malehkah turned back toward the house. “You must learn to stop arguing if we’re ever going to find you a husband. And hurry! I want it done before your father gets home.” She looked over at Khalid. “Watch him too. Make sure he stays inside while those soldiers are on the loose.”

  “Bale, Madar.” I looked at the dirty clothes next to our old washboard and stone. It would take forever to finish. After the long days in Baba’s small welding shop, my father’s and Najib’s clothes always ended up with yellowish white sweat stains and black marks from burns or ash.

  Zeynab came out of the cramped room that served as a little stable. “At least you don’t have to milk and clean up after Torran. I swear that cow hates me. Or she’s just mad that Khalid gave her a boy’s name.” She slung a fresh load of dung from her red plastic bucket onto the wall to fill the crack. Seeing me struggling with Habib, she smiled. “Though I think now maybe you have the more difficult job.” She went back into the stable.

  Habib bent down out of my reach. “Come on, Habib. I have too much work to do for you to be naughty.” He giggled when I straightened him upright and scrubbed his belly, so of course I scrubbed more. “What’s so funny, Habib? Is that a camel licking your tummy?”

  Habib laughed and blew out, buzzing his lips. Steel clattered behind me, and I turned to see Khalid on his bottom next to the piece of metal.

  “See?” I shrugged. “I told you not to climb that thing.”

  “I want to see the Americans!” Khalid got up and dusted himself off. “It’s not fair. You got to see them. I want to see them!”

  “Khalid, they’re soldiers. You don’t want anything to do with them. You could get hurt.” I picked up Habib and dried him off.

  “Then why did Baba and Najib go out to see them?”

  “Because they are a lot bigger than you.”

  “Zu-lay-kah …” Khalid drew out my name in a long whine.

  “No, Khalid,” I said. When Habib was dry, I slipped a big clean shirt on him and let him pull up his pants, helping him tie the drawstring. “You’re next in the bath. And get out of those clothes. I need to wash them too.”

  Khalid clenched his fists tightly at his sides, his lips pursed in a little o. “You always tell me what to do.”

  “Khalid, you must understand —”

  “You think you’re so special just because you’re older, but you’re not. You’re just a stupid donkey-faced girl.” He spun and darted off around the side of our house toward the front courtyard. I took a step back, gripping my mouth tight with my hand so that my teeth dug into my fingers.

  “Khalid,” I whispered.

  Habib turned toward me with a sad look on his face. I forced myself to smile at him. Then he was off to play, leaving me as quickly as Khalid had.

  The sun hung straight above us now and the heat filled the air, blasting my wet face like a fire. Always before, the ugly words had been outside the walls. Now if they were inside too, inside my family’s private world …

  Before, Khalid had always spoken with a small, sweet voice, but now he sounded as angry and hurtful as Anwar.

  Hours later, my hands, especially my knuckles, were raw from scrubbing. My neck ached between my shoulders, and my back hurt when I bowed for the midday prayer. I wrung out another of Najib’s threadbare shirts and hung it on the line. During the rainless summer, the clothes would dry very quickly. In fact, the first clothes I’d hung up were already dry and crisp, ready to be taken down. But just as I reached for the last shirt, I heard the clang of the metal door slamming in the front courtyard.

  “Allahu Akbar!” Baba shouted almost as loud as the morning call to prayer.

  I forgot about the clothes and ran into the house through the back door. Zeynab put down the embroidery she was doing on her wedding dress, which she and I always worked on for whenever she would get married. Habib tottered into the room, running as fast as his short stubby legs could carry him. I swept him up. “Ah! Got you, bacha!” He giggled and kicked his feet until I gently put him down.

  Baba and Najib burst into the main room of the house.

  “What is it, Baba-jan?” Zeynab asked.

  “Everyone! I have good news. Najibullah and I are going to make a lot of money! Hajji Abdullah has just won the bid on another contract right here in An Daral, and he wants Najibullah and me — No. Wait.” He looked at Najib. “He wants Frouton Welding Company of An Daral to do all the metalwork. The Americans ordered a school built for Afghan children, and Hajji Abdullah needs us to supervise the project while he is away in Farah.”

  “Baba!” Zeynab jumped up from the floor. He rushed to her, wrapping his big arm around her. “Baba, I’m all stinky from Torran!” She giggled.

  It looked like Baba had his hands full with Zeynab, so I stayed back, but he laughed and held his other arm out to me. “Come here, my beautiful girl.” I went to him and smiled, leaning my head against him when he pulled us closer. He kissed both of us on our heads in turn. Despite my mouth, he always made sure that he showed how much he loved all of us. I loved him even more for that. “Here, girls.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out shiny new hair clips, two for each of us. I slipped mine in my pocket, but Zeynab put hers in right away.

  “Tashakor, Baba-jan.” Zeynab leaned forward and kissed our father’s cheek. I wished I could have kissed him, but my lips weren’t made for it.

  Najib took a few steps back to the corner. “Good for you, Najib,” I said to him as Baba let Zeynab and me go. Najib only shrugged with a little smile. Habib ran straight to Baba and threw his arms around Baba’s leg.

  “Where —” Malehkah started.

  “But that’s not all!” Baba’s voice roared like a deep cannon. He held his hands up, spread wide as if his news were so big he could hardly support it all. “With the money from the school project here in An Daral, Najibullah and I will be able to buy a car.” His eyes were alive with an excitement I had not seen in him since before Madar-jan died.

  “Not a new car,” Najib explained.

  “No.” Baba shrugged. “Not a new car from the factory. But a good steady one.” He punched his fist forward at the word steady. “And we’ll need it too, to get back and forth from Farah.”

  “Farah?” Malehkah was sitting, cleaning a chicken on a board on the floor. “Where is —”

  “This is the best part! Our good friend Hajji Abdullah was the one in charge of building the base for the American soldiers in Farah. He did a fine job too. I’ve seen his photographs. But those rich Americans, they say the buildings are too small! They need more housing for the soldiers to sleep in. They need a new building for their television. Hajji says it’s as big as a movie screen!”

  “A movie screen,” said Zeynab. “I’ve never seen a movie screen.”

  Malehkah frowned at her and shook her head.

  “I have,” Baba replied. “Once when I was a young boy. Back home in Kabul. But that was a different time.” He looked down to the floor, then out the front window into the courtyard. “A different Afghanistan. Before the Russians and the wars and then the Taliban.”

  I wished Zeynab hadn’t said anything. Somehow it had made Baba-jan sad. The only noise was the squishing of the chicken as Malehkah prepared it. Habib wandered over toward Malehkah, reaching for some of the chicken parts. I picked him up and bounced him on my hip.

  “Hajji Abdullah says the Americans make him hire local men to work on projects,” said Najib. “But his welder in Farah is no good. All his welds are coming apart.”

  “That’s because that welder in Farah is a no-good jackal from Pakistan.” Baba waved his hand as if to brush away the idea of the Pakistani. “So this is really the best part. In a few months, we’ll be making a lot of money working in Farah as well!”

  Najib spoke up. “The Americans need the best
welders for their big base!”

  “Wah wah, Najib!” Zeynab squealed.

  Baba slapped Najib on the back. He had to reach up now that Najib had grown taller. “Who knows, but I may even take another wife! I’m not young. This is true. But today I feel as though I am only nineteen, like Najibullah.”

  Another wife? I shifted my weight onto my other foot. Was he serious? I looked to Zeynab, who stared back and wrinkled her nose at me. Malehkah just chopped at the chicken, saying nothing. But when she looked up, her wide eyes met mine for an instant before she quickly turned away.

  “Maybe we’ll even make enough money to buy a big truck, a welding truck with all our gear on the back.” Baba-jan made a frame with his fingers. “And ‘Frouton Welding Company’ written on the side in Dari and English!”

  Malehkah slapped her knife down on the cutting board. “Where’s Khalid?”

  “What?” Baba’s face took on the faint hint of a scowl. He hadn’t been listening, so lost was he in his happy dream.

  “Where is Khalid?” Malehkah stared at me.

  “Not in the back courtyard,” I said. My whole body began to slump with the bad feeling I was getting. Why hadn’t I been watching him more closely?

  Zeynab looked at Malehkah and then at me. “I haven’t seen him in the house, but maybe —”

  “That’s why the street door was unlocked. He must have gone out to see the soldiers,” said Baba.

  “Zulaikha, I told you to watch the boys,” Malehkah said.

  “I told him he couldn’t go.”

  “Bah. Let him play.” Baba backhanded our concerns out of his way with the same movement he used to shoo flies from his rice. He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a shiny caramel, unwrapping it for Habib. “Here, bacha. You eat this. I’ll give Khalid his when he gets home.”

  “But Sadiq, Khalid is just —”

  “I said let him play!” Baba shouted. He slapped the wall, then paced to the front window in the silence. When he turned around, he spoke very quietly. “I’ll not be contradicted in my own house.” He glared at Malehkah. “Khalid is a growing boy. He is getting too old to listen to women.”