Parween tried to hide her disappointment. “I can go anytime,” she said softly.
“Ahh, good. Then it is settled. I will see you next week, then. I should know by then when you should go.”
Elsa and Parween left Johann’s office and walked in silence, not knowing what to say. Parween stopped at Elsa’s house for tea, and Elsa reassured her.
“Don’t be disappointed. These things happen. You are going to be a teacher.”
Parween wrinkled her brow. “I know, and I know he said to wait, but tomorrow’s Friday. I could go to Sattar tomorrow. Perhaps then he will see how hard I will work for him. Would you come with me? We could ask Hamid, as well, so that we will have a man with us. I think that if I come back to Johann in a week and show that I have gone ahead and looked at Sattar, he will see that I am a serious person and that I will be a good teacher. What do you think?”
“I think that we should wait as Johann asked. There is no rush, Parween.”
“But,” Parween replied, “I am tired of waiting for men to tell me what to do. Johann said he thought it was safe. We don’t need a report; we’ve been to Mashaal and we were fine. And as long as you wear the burqa, no one will know you are anything other than a quiet Afghan woman.”
Parween paused to glance at Elsa. “We’ll be safer still if Hamid will come. We’re not staying long—just having a look. I know we’ll be safe. Please, Elsa, say you’ll come.”
Elsa sighed. “If you really want to go tomorrow, I’ll go with you,” she said. “But I think Johann already considers you a serious woman.”
But Parween wasn’t listening; she was already making plans. “I must disguise myself again. I think it will be easier to ask questions and have a look around Sattar if I am thought to be a young man. And you will wear the burqa again. Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll do it again—for you.” The prospect of a full day in the burqa wasn’t as exotic now that she knew just how confining it was. But for Parween’s sake, and for safety, she would put up with the discomfort for a day.
They decided it would be best to leave from Elsa’s house. Parween wanted to avoid the watchful eye of Hussein, who would surely object to her choice of clothing and balk at allowing her to make the trip altogether.
“I think we must leave early, as we did when we traveled to Mashaal. The bus to Sattar will surely depart in the morning. Oh, Elsa, I am so excited. Can you tell?”
Elsa laughed. “I can tell. Right now, though, I’m going to the clinic to find Hamid. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
These days when she found herself without a companion, she stayed to the main road, where she often ran into people she knew. Today, it was Hamid she saw as she walked along.
“I was just coming to see you, Elsa, to give you the clinic’s weekly reports.”
“I was looking for you too,” she said. “Parween and I are going to Sattar tomorrow to have a look at school sites for the UN. We’d like you to come. Will you?”
Hamid looked intrigued. “Sattar?” he asked. He seemed to be mulling it over. “Sattar? Weren’t the Taliban there?”
Elsa’s pulse quickened at the mention of the Taliban, but she pushed her uneasiness aside. “I don’t think so, and I don’t think the UN would be considering a school where Taliban still lurk, do you? Besides, Parween thinks we’ll be fine—we traveled together to Mashaal. And if you join us, we’ll have the benefit of a man with us.”
Hamid relented. “You’re probably right. The soldiers have pushed the Taliban farther and farther away. But you will need a man to accompany you. Tomorrow’s Friday, a good day for a trip, I guess. What time shall we leave?”
“Tashakore, Hamid. Be at my house at seven A.M. and we’ll catch the early bus. You should know that I’ll be wearing the burqa, and Parween will be traveling as a boy.”
Hamid’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“It will keep all of us safer. We don’t want to attract attention. That was how we traveled to Mashaal, and I am certain that no one noticed us. As for Parween, it will be easier for her to ask questions if she is disguised.”
“Hmm,” he said, as if thinking it over before replying. “See you tomorrow then.”
“Yes, we’ll see you then,” Elsa said. She walked on, but instead of going to the clinic she turned toward the bazaar.
Mike was off somewhere on yet another mission in the countryside, which was just as well since Elsa had no plans to ask him about the trip, but she did want to let him know that she’d gone. She squatted by the side of the road and retrieved a pen and piece of paper from her pocket. She scribbled out a note and then folded the paper so many times, it disappeared into its own folds. She buried the paper in her pocket and stopped at a little shop that sold envelopes.
“Yak,” she said, pointing to the envelopes in the glass case. She passed the shopkeeper a coin and took the envelope, then reached into her pocket for the note. She scrawled on the envelope—Mike—and stuffed the little note inside. She sealed the envelope and started toward the cassette shop. She stood outside and looked around. She wasn’t sure what to do next, and she approached the entrance warily. This would be her first “drop,” after all, and she wanted to do it right.
Elsa entered the shop, looked around the tiny room full of cassette tapes, and stepped up to the lone clerk. He was a clean-shaven young Afghan wearing headphones, and he sat on a rickety old stool tapping his fingers and feet in time to his music. He quickly rose and removed the earpieces when he noticed Elsa.
“Please, please, may I help?” he inquired.
Elsa hesitated. “Is Majid here?”
“Ahhh,” the clerk replied. “It is I, and you must want Dave. Well, as you can see, he is not here, but I expect him tomorrow. Do you have something for him?”
Sensing her uncertainty, he moved closer.
“Tars na dori, do not be afraid. You are safe here. I will be sure that only he gets your message.” He smiled a warm, comforting smile.
Elsa relaxed and passed the envelope to Majid.
“Thank you, besiar tashakore,” she said. “I was so nervous. Thank you.” And she backed out of the little shop onto the main street of the bazaar.
She could almost imagine Mike walking through this same doorway and picking up her note when he returned to Bamiyan. She pictured him smiling, relieved that she’d used the drop site.
Hurrying from the bazaar, she headed home for a bath and early supper.
30
Early the following morning, Hamid and Parween arrived at Elsa’s house.
Clad again in the confining burqa, Elsa pulled at the headpiece and complained.
“I thought it would stretch out, but it feels tight as ever. We could make some money if we could change the damn design.”
Parween, dressed in the loose and comfortable clothes of a boy, was sympathetic, yet also amused at her friend’s plight.
“Now you have a taste of what we have endured for generations,” she said.
Hamid, unfamiliar with women’s clothes and complaints, looked uncomfortable with the talk and went outside to wait. When they were ready, the three friends headed down the road to Bamiyan’s center and purchased their tickets, then stood while they waited to board the bus. Once they finally climbed on board, they took seats at the back.
Parween fidgeted with the trailing ends of her turban, then realized her nervousness was showing.
“If I can get a good look around Sattar and maybe even write a report—like you do, Elsa—Johann is sure to be pleased.”
Hamid leaned forward and spoke softly.
“I think we should look for Mohammed—you remember him, Elsa. He’s the farmer who was imprisoned with the Taliban, and you paid his ten-dollar debt.”
“I do remember him.” Elsa smiled. “He was a nice man, and you’re right, he was from Sattar. At least he can tell us about the village.”
Not wanting to talk on a bus full of strangers, they fell silent. The road was clear of debris, and within the hour,
the bus pulled into Sattar. They all gazed out at the unexpectedly bleak landscape.
Parched fields lined the road. Many homes had been reduced to piles of rubble, and the carcasses of dead and rotting animals remained where they had fallen by the side of the road. Unlike in Bamiyan, there hadn’t been much in the way of rebuilding the town or replanting the abandoned fields. It was a ghost town. Except there were still people living there. Those people—shopkeepers and villagers alike—watched the visitors warily.
Parween was disappointed. Sattar was a desolate village and not at all what she’d expected.
“It may be too soon for a school here,” she said sadly. “They need homes first.” Then she steeled herself, looking up one road and down another. “Still, I suppose it’s worth a look around and a talk with Mohammed. And besides, I’d like to write a report, at least. I want Johann to have proof that I’m serious.”
“You are surely the most serious applicant he’s ever had,” Elsa replied reassuringly.
Before asking for Mohammed, they decided to investigate a cluster of partially destroyed old buildings they had noticed on the outskirts of town. Hamid approached a shopkeeper in the bazaar.
“Those buildings,” he asked, “the ones at the edge of the village, what were they before they were crushed?”
“The large pile of rubble?” The young shopkeeper paused. “Why, I believe that was a school, but the Taliban took a tank to it last year.”
Hamid frowned, but Parween was intrigued with what she heard.
The trio stepped into the road and looked around. Parween spoke. “I think we should stop for tea first, perhaps introduce ourselves to people we meet, and see if there’s anything to be learned about Sattar.” Tea was a means of diplomacy. It was often said that one cup of tea was necessary to introduce yourself, the second for doing business, and the third for friendship.
Hamid nodded his agreement.
A ramshackle tea shop by the bus station was open and beckoning. They went inside and sat cross-legged on a worn carpet. The shopkeeper—a tiny, wrinkled man with a greasy, fraying turban—approached them where they sat.
“My name is Rasoul,” he said as he looked them over.
To preserve their deception, they’d agreed that Hamid would do most of the talking. He spoke up and introduced Parween as his young brother and, pointing to Elsa, said that she was his eldest sister.
Rasoul nodded but didn’t seem inclined to chat. Shriveled from so many years of service, he padded away to set a kettle to boil, filled with fragrant green tea leaves.
He returned with four china cups and a plate of cookies balanced on a silver tray. He retrieved the kettle with his gnarled hands and poured steaming tea into each of their cups, passing around sugar and milk. His duties performed, he stopped moving and sat to talk. But his manner wasn’t welcoming.
“What is your business here?” he asked brusquely. His brow arched as he spoke.
Elsa remained silent and fidgeted with her teacup. Though she cradled it in her hands, she couldn’t lift her burqa, so she never drank the sweet tea.
Hamid spoke up.
“We have come from Bamiyan. The UN asked us to—” But the sentence hung there, unfinished, as he received a warning nudge from Parween, and suddenly he was nervous, as if afraid that he might give something away.
Parween had been watching Rasoul; there was something unsettling about him. His right eye twitched and watered as he stared intently at each of them in turn. He seemed nervous, rising again and again and looking out through the door of his little shop even as he chatted.
Is he expecting someone? Parween wondered. Oh, Allah, rid me of my suspicions. This poor old soul is but a simple shopkeeper and here I sit, enjoying his tea and worrying.
She spoke up. “Our mother has heard that the UN would be coming here to distribute blankets and maybe food. She sent us to see if perhaps we could be included. We haven’t received anything yet.” To demonstrate their neediness, she held out her hands, palms up.
Hamid nodded and spoke.
“I think that we will just look around before we return to Bamiyan and our mother’s inevitable questions.”
“Such a long way—all for nothing. No, the UN is not here.” Rasoul’s expression didn’t change and his right eye twitched furiously, fueling Parween’s increasing discomfort.
“Well, then,” the shopkeeper said as he wiped his hands along his shirt, “I’m sure you are eager to be on your way. Have a safe trip home.”
His eyes were filmy, and he wiped at them with his grimy hand before he stepped to the rear of the shop.
He never offered a second cup of tea.
Hamid’s questioning glance at Parween was met with a shrug of her shoulders and a whispered reply.
“I didn’t want to say that the UN sent us. It makes us sound more important than we are.” She didn’t want to share her uneasy feelings about Rasoul. There was no real explanation for her concerns about the old man. After a few more moments, when it became clear that there would be no more tea, she stood.
“Let’s have a look around.”
Old Rasoul watched them. Hamid fished some coins from his pocket and left them by the tea.
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness,” he said as they left the shop, but his words were met by only a nod and a grunt. They turned and headed back through the town in search of the old school site.
As they walked, they saw that the outskirts of Sattar were deserted; there were no signs of everyday life. It is quiet, Parween thought, too quiet.
“This isn’t like Mashaal, is it?” Elsa whispered through the burqa, unease settling in her thoughts.
“No, it surely is not,” Parween answered, looking about at the bleakness of the place.
As they walked back out through the village, a young man with a matted beard passed by going the other way. Parween glanced at him, and her blood ran cold.
His eyes seemed to linger on them, yet he never said hello or even nodded in greeting. She felt her skin crawl. Though he wasn’t the only unkempt young man around these days, there was something about him.
Why am I so suspicious today? Parween chided herself silently.
Elsa and Hamid seemed not to have even noticed him.
The trio continued to the outskirts and tramped through the ashes, dust, and debris that had once been a school. Parween looked around trying to picture a school sprouting here from the dirt, then spoke excitedly in a mixture of English and Dari.
“It is a good spot, don’t you think?” she asked her friends. “The UN could start here with a tent or build a school right where the Taliban destroyed one. That would make a tremendous impression on the people of this village.”
Hamid and Elsa agreed, and as they stood and chatted—unprotected by walls or trees—Elsa noticed a lone form striding toward them.
“Someone’s coming,” she said, pointing to the solitary man.
Parween tensed as the figure approached. Beads of sweat collected on her scalp, and she rubbed at her turban.
Hamid turned and cast a questioning glance to the stranger.
“Salaam alaikum. Chetore asti? Khoob asti? Jona jurast?” The stranger raised his hand in greeting, and Hamid recognized Mohammed.
“Mohammed,” he called out. “We were going to ask for you. How are you?”
Relief flooded over Parween.
Elsa pulled back the veil of her burqa to greet him. “Salaam alaikum—” She had only started her greeting when Mohammed reached them and stopped her.
“No, no, cover your face, miss. Take great care. You are surely being watched. There is talk that strangers are here, and that is why I have come. The Taliban are here. If they know that you are a foreigner, then you are all in danger. It is not safe. What were you thinking, coming here to Sattar?”
Elsa’s delight at seeing Mohammed paled and her pulse raced. She hurriedly did as he said and pulled the folds of her burqa down over her face.
“Taliban? H
ere?” She looked at the others. “What should we do?”
Hamid just stood there, as if unable to speak. Aside from the Taliban prisoners at the clinic, he had never encountered one.
Parween felt a familiar anger burn through her skin. Instinctively, her hand tightened around the knife she’d tucked into her pocket.
“Where are they? They won’t show themselves,” she hissed. “The cowards.”
“Shh, please do not anger them,” Mohammed said. He glanced around, fear mirrored in his expression. “I will help you. Just walk with me and as we walk, we can think what to do.” He turned to go. His hands and even his voice trembled as he spoke. “Word has passed quickly that there are strangers among us and that they traveled on the bus from Bamiyan. Because everyone knows that the soldiers are in Bamiyan, it will be assumed that the travelers only mean trouble.”
“No, no,” Parween protested. “We are only here to look for a site for a United Nations school. We don’t bring trouble.”
“But you do,” Mohammed insisted. “You know how the Taliban hate education, and they hate foreigners even more. If they know that you are here to teach, they will surely kill all of you.” Mohammed was firm.
“Sattar is a dangerous place these days,” he continued, his voice so low Parween had difficulty hearing what he said. “I am surprised that you risked your safety to come here. But, inshallah, we will get you back to Bamiyan.”
Elsa and Hamid fell into step as he guided them along the path. Parween hesitated and, fingering the folding knife hidden in her shirt, looked carefully around. But there was nothing to see. Reluctantly, she stepped in behind Elsa and the four tramped through the rubble in the direction Mohammed led them.
But she didn’t want to follow. She didn’t want to be fearful and skittish like an old woman. Without warning, she stopped.
“Wait,” she said urgently. “We don’t even know for certain that there is trouble. We can’t just give up our plans. Perhaps we should just head back to the bazaar and wait there. At least there are people there, and we can learn if there truly is danger. Maybe we are frightened for nothing.”
Lipstick in Afghanistan Page 25
