by Trent Reedy
“Oh, yes. That wonderful car.” Zeynab pulled hand over hand on the rope to bring another pail of water up to fill my bucket. “It’s great that Baba is doing so well. He was right. These are good times.”
“Even if the car is already broken.”
Zeynab laughed. “Sure,” she said. “But it’s not just the car. That’s exciting, yes, but for the first time in years, Baba doesn’t have to worry so much about keeping his family fed. He’s becoming a respected man. He’ll make lots of money with the new construction job.”
I frowned. “But you said you didn’t like the new school project.”
“It is all so stupid.” Zeynab smacked the pail against the side of the well. “Why does anyone think we need a new school? Just so girls can go? Why don’t they work on rebuilding some of the buildings that were wrecked during the wars?”
“If all Baba says is true, they’re rebuilding everything up in Herat. Even the old university is open again,” I said, wishing I could find a way to tell Meena this news.
My sister took a moment before she shrugged and answered, “This is true.” Then her face lit up with her contagious smile. “But who cares about all that? The more important thing, Zulaikha, the most unbelievable part of all of this …” She looked around to make sure nobody was listening. Then she leaned in close. “I heard Baba-jan talking to Najib. He says now that they’ve got the business with the car taken care of, they can concentrate on arranging the bride-price.”
“Have Malehkah and Baba found Najib a wife?”
Zeynab nodded. “They must have. Why else do we have to get everything ready for guests? Baba says it’s just business, but I bet he’s meeting with someone about a wife for Najib.”
“Good.” I wiped my brow. “Najib is so nice. He deserves a good wife to start a happy family of his own.”
“I just hope she’s nicer than Malehkah.”
“She must be a good woman,” I said. “Baba knows what’s best for all of us.” I hoped so, for all our sakes. I didn’t know what I’d do if another woman like Malehkah came to live with us.
We went to pour water into the cracks in the dirt around the plants.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Zeynab. “Hey.” She touched my arm. “I know what you’re thinking.” She tipped her water out more carefully than me. She was always more graceful in all she did. “I know that with Najib married, it will be my turn next. But I’m only fifteen. Baba won’t be looking to find a match for me for a few years. Look at Najib. He’s nineteen. So cheer up. You and I have years left together.”
For once Zeynab was wrong — that wasn’t what I had been thinking at all — but I thought about it now as we walked back to the well. Unless Najib’s bride liked me, I’d be all alone once Zeynab left. If Najib’s wife made friends with Malehkah, I’d have nobody to talk to, except maybe Habib, who hardly talked at all.
“Zulaikha, you’re my only sister. Even after I marry we’ll visit each other all the time. Then before you know it, you’ll have a husband of your own and —”
I tried to smile, but of course my messed-up mouth wouldn’t let me. “I’m not beautiful like you. What bride-price would Baba get for me? Maybe one Afghani.”
Zeynab let the full pail fall back down into the well, put her arms around me, and squeezed me close. “Zulaikha, that’s not true. You have to believe me. I pray for your happiness every day. One day, you’ll meet the perfect man who will love you and take care of you. You’ll be so happy. Everything will work out.”
The boys had settled their dispute and returned to the garden to resume their war. Zeynab and I worked in silence for a few minutes. Why argue with her? Facing a lifetime under Malehkah’s rule, I figured I might as well get used to at least appearing as though I agreed.
“Zulaikha!” It was Malehkah’s well-practiced shriek.
“What does she want now?” Zeynab looked to the house.
“Zulaikha! Come here, right now!” Malehkah burst out the back door and motioned for me to follow her. Then she darted back inside.
Zeynab looked at me. Khalid and Habib called a cease-fire from the battle they were about to start.
“Zulaikha! Get in here now or I’m going to beat you!” Malehkah shouted. She was always mean, but she hardly ever hit me.
“Zeynab.” My voice and my legs shook.
My sister squeezed my hand. “I’ll go with you.”
“Hurry up!” Malehkah grabbed my shoulders as soon as I was in the house. She pulled me as close as she could with her big belly and scrubbed at my face with a wet rag. “Khalid!” she called to my little brother, who’d followed us inside. “Take Habib and go help Najibullah fix the car out front.”
“Madar, what —”
“Get out there!” Malehkah shouted so loud I jumped. Habib’s lower lip began to tremble as it always did before he cried, but Khalid grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him out the front door.
Malehkah wiped at my face until it hurt. I had to pull my lower lip up to cover my upper teeth so they wouldn’t snag in the cloth.
Zeynab started, “Madar, can you tell us —”
“Brush her hair.” Malehkah thrust a brush into my sister’s hand.
Zeynab didn’t argue, running Malehkah’s hairbrush through my hair. That, at least, was almost comforting. But of course, our father’s wife had to ruin everything. “No, no. Not like that.” Malehkah snapped the brush from Zeynab’s hand. “Go get her Eid dress from her trunk.” To me, she added, “You better hope it still fits.” Then she cranked the brush through my hair in hard, merciless strokes, yanking out the snarls. If the snarls would not come undone, she simply brushed out whole clumps of hair. It hurt so much that my eyes stung and I couldn’t see for the tears.
“Madar, you’re hurting me.”
“Is she ready yet?” Najib spoke quickly from the front doorway.
“No. Get out, so we can change her clothes,” said Malehkah. “And you should wash up after working on the car.”
“No time! I can’t get it started.” Najib wiped his greasy hands on his perahan-tunban. “We have to walk. Hurry!” He ducked out the door.
“Here.” Zeynab held up my pink dress with the lace bottom, which I only wore once a year to celebrate the end of Ramadan.
“Good.” Malehkah tugged down the zipper of my green dress and then struggled to pull it off me. “Zulaikha, pull your arms out!” She yanked it off and threw it into a corner. She took hold of the pink dress. “Zeynab, help me put this on her.”
“I can dress myself!” I said.
Zeynab brought the pink dress down over my head and I pushed my arms into the sleeves. When my head came out the top and I could see again, Malehkah’s face was close to mine, an intense fire in her eyes. “Now you listen to me carefully, Zulaikha. You do exactly as I say.” She had a firm grip on my shoulders as Zeynab zipped me up in back. “Answer any question they ask you, but don’t say anything more. Do whatever they tell you to do. Don’t argue. Can you remember that? Your father and Najibullah will try to help you. Be a good girl. Be careful.” She thrust my clean white chador in my hands. Her eyes weren’t wrinkled into the squint of her usual scowl. Instead of being grumpy, she sounded worried. Somehow Malehkah was more frightening when she was not angry.
The police from the Citadel. They’d found me somehow. “Madar, what’s happening?” I asked.
“Shh,” she said, giving my shoulders a squeeze. “Don’t cry. You’ll make yourself all —”
Najib burst into the room. “Is she ready?” He looked at me, put his arm around my back, and pushed me outside. “Come on. We have to hurry.”
“Why, Najib? Where are we going? Where’s Baba?”
Najib took me out the front door and all the way to the street. I looked back to see Zeynab and Malehkah watching us go for a moment before they went back inside, closing us out of the compound.
“Najib?” I fought to keep control of my voice. He pulled me along with steps so big I almost had to r
un to keep up.
He didn’t answer right away, but just frowned, stepping around a hole in the road. A boy riding a donkey pulling a cart passed by on the cross street.
“Najib —”
“Baba is down at the work site talking to the Americans,” he said quickly. “They’ve come looking for you.”
A crowd had gathered near the construction site on the other side of the river. Two large, tan gun trucks, just like the ones I’d seen that day on the river road, were parked about three car lengths apart with a dusty red pickup between them. American soldiers walked around the trucks wearing helmets and body armor, carrying big rifles. Once again, men stood with their upper bodies out of the top of each truck, manning their guns.
Najib stopped near the worn ruins of a low mudstone wall at the edge of the gathering. He let out a long breath. “Come on.”
I wanted to duck down and hide behind the wall. How had the Citadel guards convinced the Americans to come for me so quickly? “I’m scared, Najibullah.”
He turned his gaze away from the soldiers and the crowd and really looked at me. His hand reached out and took hold of mine. “Just do what they say. You’ll be safe.” But he did not sound sure.
What could I do? Baba, Najib, and Malehkah all wanted me to obey the soldiers. Even if I could run away from the army men, I couldn’t escape my family. Baba was making a lot of money from their construction projects. He might be angry if I offended the Americans by shaking scared in front of them. He would definitely be angry when he found out about the Citadel.
I tightened my legs and clenched my fists to try to get control, but it did no good. How could I not be scared of these big soldiers and their big guns? Their chests and backs were all boxy. Baba said they wore bulletproof plates to protect themselves. Protect themselves from who? The Taliban were mostly gone. Who else would be foolish enough to try to fight these men? I pulled my shawl up to cover my mouth as Najib gently urged me closer, his hand on my back. “I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home,” I whispered.
My feet were not my own, so I did not know how I made my way up into the crowd around the Americans. Anwar and his gang lurked at the other end of the circle of people. When I saw them, I shrank back for a moment, but then I saw they were far more interested in the soldiers, asking them for radios and soccer balls. How could they be so free with these men? How were they not afraid?
Maybe because the soldiers weren’t hunting them. I looked up at Najib, wishing he would take me home, but he was no help. He led me slowly around a dry rut and toward Baba. Next to him was the African soldier who had noticed my ugly face that day on the river road.
“Salaam, rafiq!” the African soldier shouted. He waved at me and turned to some of the other Americans, saying something in English, pointing at me. His right hand was on the handle of the rifle that he kept pointed at the ground. I froze. Najib pushed me forward but my legs were locked.
When the rest of the army men saw me, they smiled and a few rushed toward me. I hid behind my chador. Baba came with them, talking to an Afghan who wore tight, American-style jeans and a gray jacket.
A hand touched my shoulder. I jumped and spun around. Behind me was an American woman wearing the same uniform as the men. She wore the same armor on her chest, the same big helmet, and even the same tan and brown pants, but unlike the other soldiers, her gun was a small pistol at her belt.
I started to step back. Then I remembered what Malehkah had said, and I stayed where I was. I looked to my family for help. Najib had faded back into the crowd, but Baba moved closer to me. I hoped he would explain everything to me, but he was silent in the presence of these soldiers.
“Salaam,” the woman said. She reached up and unsnapped the chin strap of her helmet. When she pulled the helmet off, I could see she had long auburn hair pinned up into a ball on the back of her head with a few long strands loose beside her face. How could she allow herself to be seen completely uncovered in public? What was wrong with her?
She smiled and gently took my hand. Then she said something in English to the man in the gray jacket.
The Afghan looked at me and said in Dari, “This is Captain Edmanton.” The woman heard this, shook her head, and spoke again. The translator continued. “She says her name is Mindy. I am Shiaraqa. We are very happy to meet you. You do not need to be afraid. Nobody will hurt you.” Every time the woman spoke, Shiaraqa listened and then translated. “Captain Mindy wants to be your friend and help you. She is a medical officer and would like to see your mouth.”
What? My mouth? Had these people traveled all this way to look at my mouth? Was I so ugly that they had heard about me even in America? But I relaxed a tiny bit. At least they weren’t here with the Citadel police.
Baba looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and circled his hands in a “hurry and show them your mouth” gesture. I looked over to Anwar and his friends to see if they were ready to scream out donkey sounds, but they were shaking hands with one of the soldiers on the other side of the trucks.
“It’s okay,” said Captain through her interpreter.
I lowered my chador. There, in front of the whole crowd and these soldiers, was my ugly split lip and my twisted teeth. My face felt hot with embarrassment.
The woman looked closely and said something that the interpreter did not translate. Then she turned and shouted to the nearest American. The soldier replied quickly and ran to one of the gun trucks. In a moment he returned and handed her a camera.
Instinctively, I brought my hand up to cover my face.
“Zulaikha, she needs to see your mouth,” said Baba. He sounded very serious.
I willed my hands down to my sides and clenched the front of my dress. The camera flashed. Then again. After it had flashed several times, Captain smiled. “Tashakor.” She moved beside me and put her arm around me, handing her camera to the soldier she had yelled at earlier.
The soldier slung his rifle around to his back as he took the camera, then nodded and said, “One, two, three,” in a rough imitation of Dari before he pushed the button to take another picture.
Captain Mindy took the camera back, turned it around, and showed me the screen on back. There was the picture with her arm around me. I had to let her squeeze me as she laughed, her pistol pressed against me. Then, after she said something in her language, Shiaraqa said, “Thank you for coming out here to meet us.”
The woman spoke to the male soldier, and again he answered quickly and ran to the gun truck. She turned back to me, smiled, and spoke. Shiaraqa said, “We have some toys we would like you to have. If you are too big for them, maybe you know someone who could use them? Do you have any younger brothers or sisters?”
Did she really want me to talk to her? My hand slipped up to cover my mouth. I looked up from the ground to the handgun at the woman’s side.
“Zulaikha.” Baba’s voice was firm. “She asked you a question. Answer her.”
“I have two little brothers,” I said quietly.
Her translator told her what I’d said. She smiled again and took a box from the man whom she’d sent to the truck. I stared at him. Why was he doing everything Captain Mindy told him to do? Wasn’t he angry with her for ordering him around? I certainly didn’t like the way he kept smiling and looking at me.
The box was pretty big, and it was completely filled with brightly colored plastic toys, shiny metal toy cars, and candy in sparkly wrappers.
“Go ahead. Take some toys for you and your brothers. Have some candy too,” said the interpreter.
I looked at Baba, whose mouth barely turned up toward something like a smile. He nodded at me, and so I reached into the box, shuffling the toys around, hardly aware of what I was choosing. I pulled out what looked like a toy soldier, but one that would make Khalid forget about his entire army of little tan army men. The one in my hand was about eight centimeters tall with movable arms and legs. I shuffled back through the box, searching for another army man for Habib. I moved slow
ly and carefully, though. I didn’t want the Americans to think I was greedy, and I didn’t want Baba to have to spend very much money.
Shiaraqa looked at the two plastic soldiers in my hand. “Are you sure that is all you want? She says you should take some more.” He nodded toward Captain.
But I already had so much. I shrugged my shoulders and looked down, forcing myself to remember patience. Maybe if I just waited long enough, everyone would let me go home.
“Baksheesh.” Captain Mindy was telling me the toys were a gift. At least Baba wouldn’t have to pay for them. She placed in my hands five different-colored sparkly hair clips. Then she dug down into the box again and produced a purple hairbrush. I could hardly hold it all. She spoke, but this time Shiaraqa translated very quietly and did not look at me. “She says it is a gift for your beautiful hair.” He handed me a plastic sack for carrying the presents.
Captain reached up toward my hair and I flinched back. She smiled. Did she think it was funny to force a girl like me out of my house so that she could put me on display and dress me up like her doll?
She said something to the soldier who was with her. He pulled a small radio from his pocket and spoke into it. At once the other soldiers began checking over their weapons and equipment, moving closer to their trucks. The way the woman talked to the soldiers sounded just like Malehkah when she was ordering me about. No. She sounded like Baba. Her voice rang with authority. And when she spoke, the other Americans obeyed.
“Khuda hafiz.” She smiled at me and nodded to my father.
Then Captain Mindy and the soldier she’d been ordering around shook hands with all the Afghan men in the crowd. I watched in amazement as this woman reached out and shook Baba’s hand. She must have thought it was perfectly okay to touch men who were not her husband or family. A few people in the crowd whispered to one another as they watched.
Waving with big, dumb smiles, the Americans all kept saying something that sounded like “khuda hafiz” as they climbed into their trucks. Then, with the soldiers behind the top guns still calling out good-bye, and a dozen kids chasing after them, the Americans drove away.
