Allure of Deceit

by Susan Froetschel

  Saddiq complied, then slowly approached to place the coin in the man’s hand. The man handed over a fresh apple, and Saddiq couldn’t help himself. He took huge bites, as if he had not eaten such fruit in a year or more. The memories of home were overwhelming.

  The men asked his name, and without thinking, he replied, “Saddiq.” The men asked why he was alone, and he stuttered a foolish explanation about walking and wanting to see the road. They scolded him, and he lowered his head, mortified that he had made Thara practice her responses so much without doing the same himself. The men introduced themselves and said they were from Kandahar. Saddiq asked if he could help them in some way.

  The two men whispered, and then the younger one spoke up: “We would like to sell all the produce and leave by midday.”

  The older man waved his finger at Saddiq. “Do not think that you can set us up for a robbery. We’re well armed.” He handed over a crate with clumps of large grapes. “Hold the fruit up high,” he ordered. “Let’s see if you can get the drivers to stop and buy.” His friend nodded.

  Saddiq worked without break, and the two men focused on transactions with customers. Another vendor tried to park his truck in the area, but the younger man waved his rifle and chased the driver off.

  The fruit sold quickly and the water, too. The two men were anxious to leave. Saddiq, trying to be helpful, had already loaded most of the empty crates on the truck, and the older man handed over a few coins to Saddiq.

  The boy quickly thanked the man, and asked if he could instead ride with them to Kandahar in the back of their truck. The two men exchanged a glance and shrugged.

  Handing the coins back, Saddiq asked if they would wait while he ran and found his brother. “A younger brother,” he explained, offering a complicated tale how the two of them had walked along the highway to visit an uncle and would be in trouble for wandering so far from home, how his little brother was tired and resting nearby.

  The older man did not respond. The younger one shrugged again and told him to hurry. Saddiq raced up the hill, over the crest, and shook Thara awake. “Hurry!” he shouted, grabbing both packs. “We have a ride! And you absolutely must pretend you are a boy and we are from Kandahar and we were visiting an uncle!” She sat up in alarm and Saddiq asked about the belt. She nodded and pointed to her chest. Not waiting, he pounded downhill, waving to let the drivers know that the two brothers were on their way.

  The two trucks circled out of the clearing and joined the growling centipede of traffic headed for Kandahar.

  Thara joined Saddiq at the crest of the hill, and Saddiq turned away to hide tears of frustration. Two men refused to wait and roared away in their trucks—it was Allah’s will.

  “We wasted a whole day,” he said bitterly. “And I put us at risk by jumping out and waving to sell grapes.”

  She tried to comfort him, insisting that drivers probably took little notice of one boy with two vendors. She focused on their immediate concerns. It was cold, and she returned to the shelter behind the mound of sand, which she had reinforced by digging deeper along the side not hit by the wind. She was motherly. “You need sleep. We must walk tonight.” She emptied their packs, and then stretched out in the new hollow she had created. Despite so much failure, she was kind.

  His anger vanished as long as Thara was not upset about missing a ride to Kandahar. “I should keep watch,” he said. “Those men worried about robbers.”

  Thara reached for his hand and pulled, urging him to sleep. “No one will see us if we stay away from the road,” she promised. “If we both lie flat under this blanket, we won’t be seen.” He wasn’t used to planning and strategizing with a girl. As he hesitated, she advised that he had to get used to new routines. Children preferred routines more than their parents did, as she had learned after her mother’s arrest. She spoke sadly. “The best parents keep that a secret from their children.”

  There were no routines in their travels to Kandahar, he thought, and it was true he was exhausted. They were far enough from the highway. The area was quiet, and any strange noise would waken them. Saddiq stretched out in the mound, as close as possible to Thara without touching, and she arranged the blanket’s two halves over both of them.

  The old blanket shielded them against the cold wind and biting sand. Saddiq closed his eyes. Despite the shame over losing the ride, he tried to reassure himself. They had food and water and more than enough money to pay for a ride.

  Thara suddenly rolled over and faced him. “Why are you so different from the others in Laashekoh? Why don’t you blame me for what Leila did?”

  He didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t like being thought of as so different from his parents and brothers. “One day we were all friends, and the next our parents banned us from talking with you. Maybe I’m terrified the same could happen to our family.”

  “The villagers don’t like us. Your parents will not mind if I leave Laashekoh. But they may not be happy about you bringing a baby to the village. You could be in trouble.”

  He wasn’t sure and didn’t want to admit that his parents were unkind or unjust. Thara warned that she may know his parents better than he did. He caught his breath and wondered if the journey to Kandahar was a horrible idea. But Thara would refuse to go back, and he couldn’t abandon her along the highway. He did not dare voice his worst fears aloud.

  She propped herself up on one elbow. It was as if she could read his thoughts, and the fear was contagious. “You understand, Saddiq, I cannot go back,” she whispered. “They would never believe that we traveled to Kandahar separately. They would punish us. Severely.”

  “No, not in Laashekoh . . . ,” he murmured.

  She sighed, and he was fascinated by the graceful curve of her neck. “Maybe not for a boy. But for a girl, one who is Leila’s sister? I cannot go back. We can find the baby, but we should try to stay in Kandahar. Maybe at an orphanage. Or we could find work and care for Leila’s baby ourselves.”

  That was not his plan. But Saddiq needed Thara to retrieve the infant and didn’t argue. The baby was the only way of blunting his parents’ anger. Surely, his parents could not be angry with their first and only grandson. He hoped the child looked more like Ali than Leila. How could his family blame Thara for alerting Saddiq to the child’s existence?

  Already Saddiq felt a connection with that child. And he missed his mother and father, but he had little doubt about how they might have responded upon hearing his plan. They would have lashed out at Thara and denied that the child belonged to Ali. Eventually his parents would listen and forgive all, but only after Saddiq returned to ­Laashekoh with the child.

  Saddiq wanted Ali’s baby. He would not allow his parents or the villagers to blame Thara. They did not trust her, and that alone would have stopped the rescue plan. It was easier to return home and explain—with an infant as proof.

  CHAPTER 19

  Leila’s youngest attorney described himself as a victim advocate paid by a group of foreign charities reviewing her case. He had established a fund to collect donations specifically for her care. When he visited, he offered compliments and brought along soaps, creams, linens, and other gifts that made life in prison more comfortable.

  He had studied in London and was an expert in international law, human rights, and gender discrimination—not that it mattered in Afghanistan courts. The country had no uniform legal system. His organization’s goal was to demonstrate the inconsistencies and introduce international norms. “A jirga will review the appeal case and apply Islamic law as they see it. That interpretation controls your future.” If the decision did not go her way, he would organize a global campaign using media contacts, Facebook, and Twitter to shame and antagonize local authorities.

  In the meantime, the legal team proceeded with their claims.

  He advised Leila to maintain a low profile and avoid criticism from resentful inmates or local elders. He urged her to keep sharing her gifts, distributing expensive items among the guards and the sma
ller items among the inmates. She continued with her classes, including study of the Koran and Sharia law, searching for examples to apply to her case—especially examples that could be supported by witnesses. “The research is tedious,” he noted. “But it will bring great rewards.”

  Leila still could not believe that donors from other countries cared so much for her. They had never met her. “You are sure that I’m not regarded as a common criminal?”

  “They are moved by your story,” he insisted. “Your accusers will eventually forget, and there is plenty of money in your fund for bribes.” He negotiated all arrangements with the foreign charities. The foreign charities were generous but could also intimidate, pry, and control.

  “That reminds me,” the attorney interrupted. “Afghan military investigators may want to talk to you about a recent incident. A helicopter carrying staff from a Kabul orphanage went missing. The last stop was in Laashekoh.”

  “What can I tell them from prison?” she asked.

  “They will ask if the villagers would harm such workers.”

  She thought about the previous advice—not to lie. But the question was too tempting. She wondered if the orphanage had checked on her sisters.

  “Parsaa, the leader.” She frowned and nodded slowly. “He does not appreciate outsiders. He would resent foreigners trying to remove children from the villages.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “He could be.” Her eyes were wide.

  The attorney warned her not to answer questions without him present. Then he summarized the civil suit the legal team intended to file against Laashekoh, for her share of her father’s property. He described that as a low priority, compared to the possibility of Leila working as a representative for one of the charities, earning a living, and having her own house in the city or abroad, with all the clothes and food she could ever want. “You will travel and tell your story. You could become famous.”

  She laughed.

  “This is serious,” he scolded gently. “These opportunities are not available to every woman in prison. You are fortunate in attracting their interest. Your only job is to be cooperative and friendly. But proceed with caution. You haven’t told the other inmates much?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Too much talk gives the story away.”

  He was uptight, and she was not foolish. The attorney could not possibly trust her.

  “Most important, do not lie,” he ordered. “Liars are forgetful. Better to stop talking. The foreign charities prefer a neat, simple story.”

  Falling silent, she thought about her tale presented to him and her teachers. She had not told her entire story. In the writing class, the teacher demonstrated how to select details for essays and use only words and descriptions that contributed to the overall theme, always showing and not telling.

  Leila had a theme—she had been deprived and deserved more. She had a right to discard her worst memories of Laashekoh and withhold details. The teacher praised Leila’s stories and essays and distributed them to others as models.

  But then the young lawyer would not let her forget her biggest mistake. “Have you had contact with those caring for your child?”

  Leila shrugged and shook her head.

  “Surely they will arrange visits and I can see her?”

  He would not admit that he wanted the caregivers to return the child to prison, and she was annoyed.

  “Travel is difficult for my family, and they cannot bring it here.” Besides, she did not want to move to the section of the prison for children and mothers.

  The attorney lowered his voice but did not disguise his revulsion. “Do not use the word ‘it’ to refer to your daughter. She is your child, your little girl, your infant, a precious treasure.” He looked around to make sure no one listened. “That child is the center of your world. You are ready to risk all for her, you want a better life for her—such sentiments should be mentioned with every breath.”

  Leila slumped against the wall and averted her eyes. She was bored, not ashamed.

  “You do feel that way about your child,” he coached.

  She lashed out. “You care more about her than you do about me!”

  “That is not true. I represent you. Do you not realize your good fortune?”

  She pressed her fingers to her forehead and wished she could erase the child from her life. “No one has asked about her. They don’t need to know . . .”

  “She was born in prison. The charities know about her. They will ask questions, and we must file truthful reports. The donors are not stupid. They have more money than either you and I can comprehend. But I can assure you, reactions in the United States and Britain to a mother showing no concern for her child would be similar to the reactions in Afghanistan. The foreigners can be more judgmental.”

  Her eyes were hard, and she questioned him gently as if he were a child. “But not about a woman in prison?”

  He shook his head, incredulous. “Some of the biggest American charities are supporting your case. The NGO workers do not care about your crimes. They want to help you. But they will question why the baby is not with you. You cannot toy with them.”

  He expected her to lie, and she spoke the truth. “The child is noisy and needy. I prefer being alone.”

  He sat quietly for a few moments, and she wondered if he would give up on her. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t mind staying in prison. The surgery to repair her face would be nice, but not necessary.

  The attorney didn’t walk away. He waved his hand. “All right. I’ll avoid mentioning the child. The charities will review your case and probably still arrange the surgery and ask for early release. They will continue to take care of linens, special food, other small comforts. But the big funding could come with an official post, going on tour, giving interviews and speeches, perhaps even writing a book—and those will require the child.”

  She understood, but felt trapped.

  “Donor interest may not last for long. The story can have no flaws.”

  Leila despised him when he was polite. The attorney could turn compassion on and off the way the guards controlled the prison lights, and he had once mentioned that his team had no shortage of clients. The attorneys were intelligent, and she had to be careful with her words. The men recorded the sessions and questioned any discrepancies.

  He stared at her and finally asked if Leila even knew the baby’s location.

  “She is in good hands,” she offered.

  “So you know where she is at?” He was eager and pleased. “Tell me. I can retrieve her and find a place for her in the city. Your siblings can help. We can arrange photos and visits . . .”

  “No!” Leila didn’t want the attorney traveling anywhere near ­Laashekoh and asking questions. Her sisters, already married off or in servitude, could be bitter. She had to stall the questions. Zahira was clever, too, and she would find a way to keep the baby. “I’m not ready for this.”

  The attorney sat back and studied Leila. “People gossip about a mother who hands her child to a community that was so cruel.”

  Laashekoh was cruel, and Leila impulsively decided that moment to fight for the child if Zahira had not carried out her side of their bargain. And if Zahira had evicted and ruined Parsaa, Leila would resist the attorneys and forget the child. Leila longed to know, but dared not ask questions about Parsaa. He was a petty detail in the stories of her new life.

  “She is not in Laashekoh!” Leila countered. “And it won’t be as easy. The woman may refuse.”

  His face softened. Portraying herself as victim was that easy.

  “The law is on your side,” he promised. Afghanistan was an Islamic republic, he explained. Parents could not lose custody rights over a child regardless of their sins. Strangers could assist orphans, but the children still should know their ancestry and the identity of their parents. “The child will help you. Hold her again. You will change your mind.”

  He only wanted his photogra
phs, and Leila wanted him to forget the child. “Not yet,” she pleaded. “A good mother does not want to raise her child in prison.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Westerners would understand that sentiment. If all goes well, you will have more than enough money to hire someone to care for the child.” Then he pressed for the name of the woman who took the child. Leila was silent, and he asked if Leila trusted the woman.

  She tilted her head, showing the unscarred side with a sweet smile. “I have lost all trust. It is better that way.” She dropped her head into her hands and let tears of frustration flow. The questions ended. The lawyer patted her gently on the shoulder and prepared to leave, but did not turn off the recording device. A tiny light still glowed red. “At least give me directions how to find this woman,” he said. “We should check on the child’s welfare.”

  The baby was a minor problem, Leila thought to herself, one she could handle. Why, the lawyer himself had mentioned the new flow of donations into her fund and how she might need to pay bribes. Any baby would do for the lawyer’s photos. Plenty of mothers did not want their children. Leila had to find such a woman and ensure that her attorneys did not venture near Laashekoh.

  CHAPTER 20

  The morning traffic was heavy again, drivers hurrying for appointments and deliveries did not want to stop, let alone risk giving rides to runaways, radicals, or criminals. The drivers were also wary of packs that could hide explosives or weapons.

  So Saddiq and Thara walked until they reached the next pull-off area. They hid their sling-packs among a pile of rocks off the side of the highway, then they watched for drivers to take a break. As the morning wore on, more drivers stopped to trade goods, chat, or nap.

  Taking a deep breath, Saddiq approached one driver waiting with his wife and children, while Thara followed meekly behind. He was polite, explaining that he had finished an errand with a younger brother in a nearby village and needed a ride back to his parents’ home in Kandahar.