The Warlord's Son

by Dan Fesperman

  A date was set. They would marry in the fall, and sometime soon the betrothed would be allowed to meet again—with chaperones, of course, although Daliya knew there were ways around this restriction with the help of friends and confederates—secret trysts where they might even touch, hold hands, exchange a caress or two, laying the groundwork for the further excitement of matrimony. Might they even kiss? Perhaps. Goose bumps rose on her arms. She hoped he was as gentle as he’d seemed.

  Yet, as those first days passed, the match somehow failed to take root in her mind. One problem was the thought of having to quit the university with only a year remaining before she earned a degree. She began regarding her classes with nostalgia, especially those moments when she had made her points forcefully, imposing the will of her opinion on her classmates, the boys included.

  There was also the matter of Pervez’s mother. The married couple would of course be expected to move in with his parents. And while their house was said to have ample space, Daliya knew it would be dominated by the birdlike mother, whose position would be high above her own.

  So, one morning over breakfast a mere week after the betrothal, Daliya, certain that she would be understood, calmly announced to her parents that the marriage must be postponed, at least until the end of the academic year. The extra time for adjustment would serve the marriage well, she explained, not yet noticing their looks of horror. And it made no sense to waste her first three years of schooling. If the boy and his mother couldn’t adjust, she continued, then this probably wasn’t the right match, and there would undoubtedly be other suitors who were more flexible. She was sorry, of course, for any inconvenience or social awkwardness, but she was sure it was all for the best, which is why her decision was final.

  It was exactly the sort of logical presentation that had always won the day in the classroom.

  And that is how she ended up in Peshawar, summarily withdrawn from the university by her enraged and mortified parents. They farmed her out to an uncle’s computer business, where it was hoped that a year of hard and menial work would teach her not only humility but the way her life would be forever if she continued to disregard her parents’ wishes and decisions. It was a punishment detail, in other words, a one-year sentence to be served among sniping nephews and leering delivery boys in a low-ceilinged basement office with pallid fluorescent lighting, deep in the worst of the hurly-burly of Saddar Bazaar. Her living arrangements were only slightly more appealing. She had her own small room, but as a guest in her aunt’s household nearly every waking moment was observed by her kin.

  Yet so far the exile had produced the opposite effect of the one intended. Her resolve to finish her schooling and pick her own husband was now greater than ever, even if it meant she had to apply for a scholarship abroad, although that of course would mean she would also have to secure a visa.

  She had taken her first step toward freedom in only her third day on the job, meeting a like-minded and equally restless young woman named Rukhsana, who worked next door as an accountant for her father. Rukhsana’s own marriage was six months away, and her new alliance with Daliya gave both young women a pretext for leaving the house on their own, even if Daliya’s frowning aunt tutted that she had never taken such liberties at that age.

  But even with that escape hatch at her disposal, Daliya soon began to wonder if she might go crazy here in Peshawar. Her uncle’s family was a cold and humorless bunch, speaking only of rules, and she dearly missed her own family’s daily gatherings at the dinner table, where they had always chatted amiably of the events of the day. She missed even more her daily strolls with her friends, with their gossip and their exchange of ideas. Her father phoned once a week, but mostly just to check on her “progress”—his way of coaxing her toward reform.

  It was in this state of solitary besiegement that she met Najeeb. He came by the office shopping for software, arriving just after Daliya’s uncle and cousins had left for lunch. They’d ordered her to hold the fort, just as they did for an hour every afternoon, knowing there was scant likelihood of business at that lazy time of day. Most of their clients were small businesses that ordered by fax or e-mail, and their lack of a storefront meant a minimum of walk-in trade. But Najeeb had spotted their small sign down the alley as he emerged from a barber-shop nearby, so on he came, the buzzing door making Daliya look up suddenly from her terminal in the back.

  If Najeeb hadn’t spent four years in America he never would have been open to the possibilities of their first brief encounter, would never have been able to read that look in Daliya’s eyes that spoke so eloquently of loneliness and need. Such signals never appeared on the male-female radar screens of the Tribal Areas, where a virtual communications blackout was imposed once girls reached ten and the confinements of purdah. Young men of Najeeb’s clan spoke only with their mothers, sisters and aunts, and even that occurred mostly within the high walls of the family compound, a claustrophobic realm where the rules of engagement were basic and blunt. He had been taught that the female tongue was a weapon, wielded without mercy, and that males who strayed within range of its fury were either torn to pieces or fought back with their fists. Those with no taste for combat, like Najeeb, could simply retreat out the door into the world at large, knowing the women couldn’t follow, and thus transforming defeat into a sort of automatic victory.

  In America he had employed this strategy only once, walking out on an argument with a girlfriend his sophomore year, thinking that would put an end to it. Instead she had followed him three blocks across campus in her determination to have the last word, and their running battle on the sidewalk past hundreds of students mortified Najeeb enough to recalibrate everything he’d ever learned about how to deal with women. But, of course, there was a pleasurable upside to his reeducation, and he had returned home keenly attuned to the cues, signals and sweet possibilities of flirtation.

  So, when the shy smiles and small talk commenced beneath the low ceiling of that dreary basement office in Peshawar, Najeeb knew right away what Daliya was up to, even before she did. And by the time her uncle and cousins returned through the buzzing door, when he deftly shifted the conversation back to invoices and diskettes, Najeeb was already composing a follow-up note in his head and contriving a means of slipping it to her along with one of his business cards, printed with his cell phone number and e-mail address. She responded in kind, all of this transpiring without a hint of suspicion among the grumbling cousins, drowsy from their heavy meal.

  But the cell phone was the true hero early in their saga, a tool of subversion that had broken the iron grip of elders all across Pakistan. Daliya set hers to buzz, not ring, and found she could even speak to Najeeb from her aunt’s house, provided she first slipped into a closet or bathroom. So this was how they began, chatting back and forth in a demure but very Western telephonic seduction, each as hungry as the other to finally share hopes and grievances with someone who understood.

  For two weeks all they did was talk. Then Daliya boldly proposed using her girlfriend Rukhsana as an intermediary to help arrange a meeting. In defiance of every local custom they met in a local park, posing as brother and sister.

  Up to then, Daliya’s experience with Pashtun men had been limited to the few she’d met at the university, stern and brooding boys who were quick to anger even if loathe to express it. They were boys who kept to themselves in smoldering little knots of disapproval and exclusion. They’d had their own dormitory, their own student association, their own table in the dining hall, and the frictions between them and the Punjabis, the Sindhis and the rest had been palpable.

  Clearly, this one named Najeeb was different, stretched by his travels, more open to possibility. And even in their stilted first meetings he displayed a gentle wit and a lovely if subdued laugh, although at times she thought she detected a certain coolness in his eyes, an implicit warning that he might withdraw at any moment if necessary, to someplace so deeply chill and remote that he might never return.

&n
bsp; By their third meeting they’d conquered most of their inhibitions, agreeing that further trysts were worth further trouble. After the fourth, with a growing sense that if they were going to break the rules they might as well break them all, they decided to meet at the one place promising true privacy. So, arriving after dark and feeling more scandalized with every quick, quiet step up the stairway, Daliya visited Najeeb’s apartment, virtually holding her breath until she reached his door.

  It would be difficult to overemphasize the seriousness of the risk Daliya took by carrying out this tryst. While most Westerners might wonder at all the fuss over a mere date, just about anyone from Peshawar would have considered her visit, to put it bluntly, a whore’s errand, an assignation for the damned.

  They both knew this, yet both also had agreed without even putting it into words that henceforth they would be operating by their own rules, and that in doing so they would walk their brave new path in tandem. The word “commitment” never once came up, as it inevitably would have in America, yet Najeeb knew as well as Daliya that each further step took them closer to something that was beginning to look a lot like Destiny.

  They said a tremulous hello, then she removed her chador—a symbolic flourish that briefly took his breath away. At first their words were just as halting as on the park bench. Najeeb made tea, and conversation came easier. After a while, so did the little touches, and for all of Najeeb’s experience abroad he knew to move slowly, letting the newness thrill without overwhelming. Their slow, gradual progress only seemed to heighten the sense of seduction. Fingertips brushing forearms. The light pause of her hand upon his knee. Then their hands clasping, squeezing, one pulse answering another. A stroke of his palm across her cheek and a slow movement forward, the rustle of garments in the stillness, the smell of his hair. And, finally, a kiss, lips softer than Daliya had imagined.

  Events proceeded from there through three more such meetings until they reached the inevitable, both of them surprised at how easily and naturally they disrobed when the moment of truth arrived. Neither felt shamed or embarrassed afterward, and that, too, was a kind of victory, even if it took Daliya a full week to absorb the momentousness of what she had done. She had stepped past the point of no return.

  Now, three months later, here was Daliya once again, seated on the cushions in Najeeb’s living room. But instead of their usual oasis of solace and comfort, everything had changed, and for the moment there seemed to be nothing to do but huddle together and wait for the worst to pass. Without either saying a word, they also knew it was time to cross another frontier. This time, she would stay until morning, no matter how many lies and cover stories were necessary.

  Lately they had tended to rush their passions, partly because she could stay for only a few hours. But in the wake of a knife attack and a detainment by the ISI, what could possibly feel dangerous about making love, about sleeping together? So they moved slowly, much as they had the first time, with open eyes and lingering touches. Najeeb skimmed his fingertips down her long, slender legs—a glide across velvet, the phrase lodging pleasurably in his mind as the bubble of anticipation expanded. Later, still trying to keep his mind off the evening’s earlier events, he looked into her eyes, which stared back as steadily as ever.

  “Another blow against the extremists,” she said, smiling. “Doing our part for a more secular tomorrow.”

  Najeeb smiled.

  “You think that’s what this is? A political act?”

  “I think it has been all along,” she said, taking the idea to heart. “At some level, anyway. We’re spitting in the face of everything we grew up with. Do you know what my mother did when I started growing breasts?”

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He was still on uncertain footing in this new territory. New in Peshawar, anyway. But he shook his head and waited for the answer.

  “She used to make me stoop. After a lifetime of lectures about bad posture, she wanted me to stoop, so my breasts wouldn’t show. Then she started dressing me in the baggiest clothes she could find. And she bound me up. Wrapped me around the top until it hurt. I tried to help her, of course, until I realized how stupid it all was. So, sure, part of this has to be political.”

  Najeeb wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted or exalted. He wanted to believe that it was his rare appeal that had lured her across the threshold of taboo. Yet why not be part of something bigger, as long as it was this deeply pleasing. He felt the sweat drying on his back in a prickly band of salt. Daliya’s eyes shone like those of a small nocturnal animal, flushed from its burrow into moonlight, and a wave of tenderness overcame him, this time cleansed of desire. He pulled her closer, cradling her face at his chest, and for several moments neither said a word. They listened to the night sounds of traffic, the sighs of their breathing.

  Then he climbed from bed and stepped barefoot to the window, looking across the rooftops toward the few stars visible through the haze. Daliya soundlessly joined him, slipping a hand into his.

  “Do you think they’re out there now?” she asked calmly.

  “The ISI? Or our friend with the knife?”

  “Both.”

  “If they are, they’re getting an eyeful.” He recalled the text of the first note, about women and their adornments. He knew the ISI had special equipment, night vision surveillance and all sorts of tricks.

  “Maybe you should put something on,” he said, knowing the instant the words left his mouth that he’d ruined the moment. Daliya cocked her head, scrutinizing his face as if noticing certain traits for the first time.

  “You’re still one of them, aren’t you? In some ways, at least.”

  “Them?”

  “The Afridi. Your tribe and your clan. All those people up in the Khyber.” Her tone was level, no hint of anger, but she hadn’t budged from the window. “And in a few months, when you’re tired of me and all the Americans and gentleman scribblers have gone home, you’ll end it. You’ll go crawling back to your father to beg forgiveness and claim your rightful place. Then he’ll find you a nice Pashtun girl from some Afridi family he wants to connect with, and that will seal it. You and some dynasty for the ages, with me nowhere in it.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you know how I’d be treating you if I was still really ‘one of them’?”

  She shook her head. “But I can guess. And I’m sure it wouldn’t be pretty.”

  “Besides, even crawling back wouldn’t be enough for my father. There are things I’ve done that will never be forgiven. Not even if I begged. I know. I’ve tried.”

  She waited for more—she had always waited for more on this topic—but Najeeb did as he always had, and changed the subject.

  “If we could only get our visas, these problems wouldn’t matter.”

  “That’s your solution to everything. Getting to America. But it’s not going to happen. Not now.”

  “Maybe.” Then he told her more about the ISI meeting, and they talked again about Tariq’s offer. Daliya cautioned him not to trust anyone who made a living from duplicity, and maybe she was right. And if Tariq failed them? Then there was only one other realistic option, although up to now neither of them had dared bring it up. But, this being an evening of firsts, Daliya got straight to the point.

  “We could marry, if you really wanted to get to America. It’s always easier for a woman to get a visa. Then, after I got a green card I could bring you over. It would still be an arranged marriage, of course, only on our own terms.”

  Najeeb nodded, saying nothing. If he was going to raise an objection, or back away, now was the time. But he let the moment pass, and by doing so realized he’d conceded the point, surrendered the territory. And was that so bad? Most any man he knew would say so, but he no longer knew whose rules mattered. He supposed that Daliya and he really were pioneers now, although they couldn’t keep going the way they had, not in the fevered atmosphere of Peshawar. Between the demonstrations in town and the air attacks fewer than forty mi
les away, it was as if the city itself were part of the war zone. The anonymous notes and the slash on her cheek were confirmation.

  So when Najeeb next spoke, his tone was softer, yielding, a tiny white flag that accepted her terms. “You know, if I really were ‘one of them’ I’d probably be quoting you poetry now. Some line from Sher Azim Khan, who believed that all women were nothing but temptresses, luring us into traps.”

  “Try me.” She smiled, willing to be humored, knowing that though he hadn’t exactly acknowledged her point he also hadn’t shoved it aside. It was progress.

  Najeeb searched his memory for the right stanza. All those smoky nights in his father’s hujera, listening to the old men recite for hours on end.

  “ ‘Your curls are a swing,” he began, the words coming back.

  “ ‘Your forelock a snare.

  “ ‘Your face a lamp

  “ ‘That draws the moth.’ ”

  “Very romantic,” Daliya sneered. “And very deft, the way you avoided my proposal entirely. Or seemed to, anyway.”

  Najeeb smiled, saying nothing.

  “But what should I do tomorrow?” she asked. “I probably shouldn’t be seen leaving in daylight. Not after what happened.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait until dark. Stay here all day with the door bolted.” Although he wondered if that would do any good at all, given the day’s events. “If I’m not home in time, you’ll have to call Rukhsana. She’ll have to vouch for you anyway. You’ll really have to come up with something good for your aunt and uncle.”

  Daliya shook her head.

  “There’s no way I’m staying here all day. Maybe Rukhsana can come get me. I should call her now, anyway, to set up my cover story. My aunt and uncle will be climbing the walls by now, wondering why I haven’t come home.”

  So much planning and deception merely to spend the night with a lover, Najeeb thought, surprised that the word “lover” had even come to mind. In one context it was so Western, so casual in its assumptions. Or did he mean it in the deeper sense, one of “commitment,” the unspoken word the American girls had bandied about more than all the others. He considered saying “lover” aloud—professing it, so to speak. But again he let the moment pass, and he looked up to see Daliya eyeing him watchfully, as if she knew that he had allowed some opportunity to slip away.