Words in the Dust (10 page)

I breathed with relief as we followed them. He should not call me an angel, but anything was better than letting him touch me like that. For people who called us rafiqs, they certainly didn’t treat us like trusted friends.

We were led through the massive steel gate with its sharp metal spikes sticking straight up from the top. It clanged shut behind us. We were inside now. In the private world of the Americans. Somehow, the place looked even larger from within. To our right was a big metal tower with water tanks mounted on top. One soldier sprayed water from a hose while others used rags to wash their big truck. Outside another building, more men were busy changing the tire on a different vehicle. A few more soldiers ran next to the wall, wearing only black short pants and gray shirts. They were the only men on this busy base who had no guns.

There were at least five big buildings, with more under construction, all of them painted tan. They had built a whole village.

“Ah. Here she comes,” said Shiaraqa.

A little red truck pulled up and out stepped Captain Mindy. Like Corporal Andrews, she looked much smaller without her armor and helmet, yet even inside the base, she still wore a pistol at her side.

“Salaam!”
said the woman. I guess all American soldiers knew at least that one word. She held out her hand for me to shake and I looked up to my father. This was terrible. She must shake Baba’s hand first, not mine. But she simply smiled and kept her hand extended. It was a great relief when my father nodded permission. Still, I felt like I was betraying Baba, insulting him by being greeted first.

Captain spoke and Shiaraqa translated. “She welcomes you. She says she is sorry that she did not learn your names the last time she saw you.”

“Sadiq Frouton,” my father said in a quiet voice. “This is my daughter Zulaikha.”

“Zulaikha?” said Captain. She continued talking with a smile and her hand over her heart.

“She says Zulaikha is a lovely name,” said Shiaraqa. He motioned toward the truck. “If you will climb in, she will take us to the medical room.”

Baba and I crawled into the tiny backseats of the small vehicle, while Shiaraqa sat up front and Captain Mindy drove us across the base. We passed one of the construction sites, where dozens of Afghan men were hard at work on a new building. Nearby, two soldiers threw a big, brown, egg-shaped ball with pointed ends back and forth. Baba didn’t seem to
notice them. He stared straight ahead, his hands folded tightly in his lap and his eyes narrowed.

Finally, we stopped near the double doors of another tan building. Several meters away, seven Afghan men worked with pickaxes and shovels, carving a trench almost a half-meter deep. Near the trench, a soldier stood guard with his weapon hanging by its strap from his shoulder.

Baba leaned forward toward Shiaraqa and spoke quietly. “Why are the workers guarded?”

The interpreter shrugged. “They are digging to bury some electrical cables for the new barracks. The Americans are worried the workers will steal the tools.”

Baba sat back in his seat and cracked his knuckles.

We climbed out of the truck and were led inside the building. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. We went a short way down the hall and then into what must have been their medical room. The floors, walls, and ceiling were white-painted cement. A large wooden desk occupied the corner. In the middle of the room were two wooden beds, and between those was a cart loaded with strange machines and equipment. Captain Mindy brought out two plastic chairs.

“She asks you to please sit down,” said Shiaraqa.

I waited, watching over my chador to see what Baba would do. Without a word, he sat down in one of the plastic chairs and motioned for me to sit as well. I sat down, but first I pulled my chair a little closer to my father’s. Captain Mindy took a seat on one of the wooden beds. Shiaraqa remained standing, but leaned against the wall.

Shiaraqa translated for Captain. “She has some bad news.” I pressed my hand to my mouth. “The helicopter cannot make the flight from Kandahar. They say the weather is too bad.”

As soon as the interpreter spoke, my shaking shoulders dropped. I slumped down in my chair and pulled my chador more tightly over my mouth. My father shifted position and cleared his throat. His words were short, clipped, and controlled, and the quiet in his voice frightened me like the stillness before a storm. “The weather is fine outside. It is hot, but not too windy. Why can’t the helicopter make it?”

When Shiaraqa finished translating his words, Captain rolled her eyes and held up her hands, talking to Shiaraqa. He turned toward us. “She says she does not know why they have decided they cannot fly. Maybe it is the weather up in the mountains. She does not make this choice.”

I watched my father clench his fists in his lap. Captain must have noticed his tension because her voice became louder and her words seemed to come more quickly. She shook her hands in front of her chest. Shiaraqa said to us, “No. You must not worry. There is another flight in one week.”

Baba shook his head. “I have to work. I have asked engineer Hajji Abdullah to supervise my job site so that I could take this trip, and now it is for nothing. She said the helicopter would be here
today
!” He smacked his hand on the handle of his chair. Captain Mindy started talking to Shiaraqa, but Baba didn’t give him the chance to translate. “The most powerful army in the world and they can’t land a helicopter on a clear
day? Or maybe this woman doesn’t know when the helicopter is supposed to come.”

“What he say?”
Captain spoke urgently in bad Dari to Shiaraqa.

Shiaraqa started to translate, but Baba grabbed his arm and turned the interpreter back to face him. “Tell her, I have traveled a long way. She needs to do the surgery here herself. Today.” He did not even look at the woman.

When Captain heard the translation, she laughed and shook her head. My father quickly stood up. His plastic chair scraped back on the cement floor. A cold, dull emptiness dropped in my stomach. Shiaraqa looked at the floor, but translated Captain’s words. “She does not have the training or the equipment to do the surgery here.”

Captain started talking again with Shiaraqa translating, something about how this surgery was routine for the American doctor at Kandahar, but my father was already on his feet. Maybe the doctors would have no trouble with my mouth, but Captain didn’t seem to understand that she had insulted my father. How dare she laugh at him and then go on with her plans like everything was fine? I looked at Shiaraqa, hoping he would explain this problem to the woman.

“She hopes you will return in one week so that —”

“I cannot come back in one week. The helicopter was supposed to come today! I do not get my money from my government like she does. I must work for it. I cannot afford to keep making these trips and missing work.” He punched
his fist into his palm. “She said that helicopter would be here today! These damned infidel Americans think we are all simpleminded.” He tapped his finger to the side of his head. “Child minds, that we will just do whatever they say. They want us to pat them on the back for invading our homeland. They act like our friends, but I see the soldiers with their rifles guarding the poor workers outside. I felt their hands checking me for bombs. That’s their friendship! Their trust! I know. Our family will be busy with wedding plans in a week. You tell her that we won’t be back.”

I felt an ache in the back of my throat and a stinging in my eyes.

Shiaraqa told Captain Mindy what my father had said, and her smile faded.

“She doesn’t understand why you can’t find someone to bring the girl next week so she can have the operation.” Shiaraqa translated Captain’s words, but he sounded like a puppet, not happy at all about what he had to say.

My father folded his arms over his chest and glared at Shiaraqa.

Captain Mindy repeated some of what she’d said earlier, but with greater emphasis. Shiaraqa shook his head and started to say something back to her. She snapped her fingers at him. I felt my father straighten up next to me. Finally, Shiaraqa sighed and spoke to me. “She says you are very beautiful and when we get this little problem taken care of, you will be a little princess.”

My father breathed out a deep sigh that almost sounded like a growl.

I looked at my baba-jan, praying to Allah that he could fix this the way he could fix his car or a broken hinge on a door at home. Instead, he only silently stared at Shiaraqa. The surgery, my one hope in the world to be normal or even a little pretty, all the fantasies about a someday happy marriage, none of it was going to happen. Those dreams belonged to my beautiful sister. I would be Donkeyface forever. I’d always be stared at and pitied. I’d never be free of the cruel comments and humiliations from people like Gulzoma. When I saw her at the shahba-henna and the day after that at the wedding, she’d treat me like a monster on display for the guests.

Anwar had been right all those times he’d shouted at me. I was ugly. I would always be ugly. But now I knew he was right about something else too. I was ugly and stupid. Stupid to have ever believed that life could be any better. Stupid to trust the Americans.

Captain broke the long quiet. “Here.” Shiaraqa put the American woman’s eager words into our language. “You remember the corporal who was at the gate today? He is the one who told us about you. He wanted you to have these little presents.” From a shelf above the desk she brought out a toy animal, a dog maybe, and two dumb toy cars. At least my little brothers could be happy.

Captain went back to the shelf and I shook my head. I didn’t want any more of their useless trinkets. She returned
and held out a blue notebook with a metal spring binding and two new pens.

“
Baksheesh,
” said Captain.

I had to dab at my eyes with my chador. A few days ago, I would have been thrilled by such a gift and the way the pen and paper would help me with Muallem’s lessons. But what was the use of all that ancient poetry when I was doomed to be the same old Donkeyface? Donkeyface. I wiped the tears away and accepted the presents, putting all of my gifts into a plastic bag that Captain held open for me.

Baba gently pushed my shoulder. I finally looked up. “Tashakor.”

Captain Mindy smiled but nervously turned a ring on her finger as she spoke.

“She is very sorry you won’t be able to make it back here in a week for the flight. If you change your mind, she is sure we can still make this plan happen sometime,” Shiaraqa said.

“We need to go,” Baba said. “I have work.”

Outside the building, I kept my chador tight over my ugly mouth. Captain crouched down in front of me again. Suddenly, she put her arms around me and there was nothing I could do but wait until this strange woman let me go.

Finally, Baba took hold of my arm and pulled me away. Captain Mindy stood up and smiled at my father, though something in her eyes had changed. She reached out her hand for him to shake.
“Tashakor,”
she said. Baba ignored her and pulled me away.

And with a plastic bag full of toys, my notebook, and two pens, we were taken back to the front of the compound, where there was a new set of American soldiers guarding the gate. Again, these soldiers made a big fuss. Again, they insisted on shaking my hand. Then they put candy into my bag before Baba-jan and I were finally released and allowed to leave.

The inside of the car felt as hot as Malehkah’s stove. I rolled down the window, sat back in the seat, and dropped my shawl. Baba got into the driver’s seat and started the car, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He punched the steering wheel in front of him.

I gripped the top of my plastic bag in both hands and waited. Finally, Baba turned to me, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “That stupid American woman. You don’t need their precious surgery. You’re my daughter. You’re pretty enough just as you are.” That was it, then. He had decided. I would never be normal. “I am a very busy man, you know. Too busy to be worrying myself with this big complicated plan the Americans dreamed up.”

I looked down at my hands, twisting the bag in my lap. It would be wrong to let my father see my disappointment after all he had been through today. Then I felt his big strong hand on my shoulder. He squeezed it and gave me a shake. When I looked up, he forced a smile. “Come on. Let’s head back.”

I turned away from my father and looked out the window, fingering my disgusting mouth as we passed the mounds of garbage on our way back home.

At supper, I still had to tilt my head back when I ate, pushing the rice deep in my mouth with my fingers to keep the food from slipping out. Even then, a few grains ended up in my lap. This was how I had always had to eat. I never thought about it as much as I did that night.

“Najibullah.” My father ripped off a big piece of the beef and put it all in his mouth at once, wiping the spiced sauce from his lips with the back of his hand. When my brother didn’t answer, Baba leaned over and lightly elbowed him as though Najib couldn’t hear, even though they sat close. “We’ll go out again tonight. I want to tack up those three support braces for tomorrow.” He was a little hard to understand when he talked with food in his mouth.

I watched Zeynab beside me. She rolled the rice into a ball in her slender, graceful fingers and popped it into her perfect mouth without dropping a single grain. She must have noticed me watching her, because she smiled sadly.

My cheeks were hot with embarrassment. How could I allow myself to feel jealousy toward my sister, who had never been anything but completely kind to me? Envy was a sin and I prayed for forgiveness. I knew she had been excited, thinking about how wonderful everything leading up to her wedding would be. Our remaining time together was so short,
and now I felt bad for ruining it. It was because of my stupid mouth that Baba had to waste a trip all the way to Farah. It was because of me that he was in such a terrible mood. If only that woman hadn’t been so insulting. If only Baba could have been more patient and willing to work out some way I could still have the surgery.

I put my head back for another bite. After I had wiped my fingers on the cloth I always kept for meals, I saw Baba watching me. I thought he was going to say something to me, but instead he turned to Malehkah. “My brother and his family will be here next week. They’re used to their fancy city apartment, so we’ll let them have the storage room all to themselves. I want everything spotless. They think they’re so much better than us. I don’t want to let them think we live like slobs.”

“I still think we’re rushing. What will people think?” Malehkah said. “We already agreed to the marriage in only one meeting, and then the shirnee-khoree so soon after that, and now a wedding only two weeks after that? People will talk. They’ll say we were too eager to get rid of Zeynab.”

“Let them talk!” Baba spoke loudly. “What will they say? Hmm? Our darling girl will be marrying a sharp businessman. We’ll be united by marriage and business to one of the richest, most honorable, most important families in An Daral.”

Najib spoke quietly. “The Americans want the Nimruz Province clinic completed even earlier than we thought. The Abdullahs are going to help Baba-jan win the construction contract.”

Baba grinned. “Tahir is a great man. He’s making a lot of money in the trucking business, shipping food and supplies around Afghanistan for the Americans. Now he’s expanding into making cement blocks. Since peace has come, everybody’s building. He’s going to cut us in on a percentage of his construction profits after we make him a couple of cement block handpress machines. All this would be a very generous bride-price, but he’s also raised the amount of money to one hundred thousand Afghanis.”

Malehkah nodded.

“Who needs all that old-fashioned stuff? Times are changing fast. If we want to keep up, we need to change too.”

“It’s tradition,” said Malehkah.

Baba shook his head. “Old customs for an old Afghanistan. Still, I want the shahba-henna the night before the wedding to be just right. All the best food. Everything will be perfect for my sweet girl.”

“If we could just hold off until —”

“Just do it!” Baba cut her off. “I get enough disrespect from that American woman. I won’t have it in my own house.” He groaned and braced himself on Najib’s shoulder as he stood up.

“Bale,” said Malehkah. She sighed quietly and looked across the table at Zeynab and me. “We’ll be ready.”

Khalid and Habib followed Baba and Najib outside to watch them load tools into the Toyota. Malehkah, Zeynab, and I sat around the little remaining food, staring at the mess that none of us wanted to clean.

After the evening prayer, everyone slept but me. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but behind my eyelids I kept seeing flashes of color that reminded me of the glints of sunlight on the steel teeth of the razor wire at the American base.

How could everything have gone so wrong? Worse, how could Baba act so casual about it all? It was as though he had almost completely forgotten about my surgery hopes already, and he barely seemed to notice that Zeynab was right in the room as he discussed her wedding. He just went on with his business, all grumpy, making Malehkah, of all people, seem like the nice one.

It would have been better if the Americans had never even come to An Daral. I remembered them at the construction site with all their big guns. Their stupid guns and their stupid wars. All the dumb soldiers always ruining everything. Afghanistan had had too much of all of it.

My mother certainly had.

The beginning of my last memory of my mother was faded and vague now, but the end was always sharp and painful. Usually, I blocked it out and thought about something else, but sometimes I couldn’t help but think of that night.

It was during the Taliban time. I had been sitting on Madar-jan’s lap in the center room of our house. She closed her big brown book, but I wanted her to read more. She laughed and recited some of the words from memory.

Madar-jan wrapped her arms around me. “Your big sister always falls asleep, but you, little one, you love the poetry so much.” I felt proud at that moment, like I was better than my pretty sister in at least one thing.

Zeynab was asleep next to Malehkah. I wouldn’t have wanted Baba’s new wife to sleep on my toshak, but since Malehkah hardly ever talked, she didn’t say Zeynab couldn’t sleep on hers.

“I love you. Promise me, my sweet princess. Promise me you’ll read and learn all you can.” Madar kissed the top of my head. “Even if the Taliban or somebody else tells you it’s bad.”

“Bale, Madar-jan,” I said. “I promise.”

“But for now you must go to sleep.”

“It’s too early to sleep. Too hot,” I said. “Can’t I wait for Baba and Najib?”

Madar shook her head. “They may be welding very late. Even I won’t stay up for them. It’s time for you and Zeynab to go up and go to sleep like baby Khalid.”

Suddenly, there was an urgent knock on the door. Madar jumped, her eyes wide. Malehkah sat up and frowned at her.

“Malehkah, check the door.” Madar dumped me from her lap and made for the storage room with her book. “I have to hide this.”

Then a screeching metal crash came from outside. Madar froze. She turned and pulled Zeynab to her feet. “Take the kids to the roof. Try to keep them all quiet.” Madar pushed Zeynab to Malehkah. Then she handed over the book. “And take this too.”

“Saima, what —”

“Now, Malehkah!” my mother shouted.

Malehkah gripped Zeynab’s wrist and hurried toward the stairs, pushing me the best she could while holding the book under her other arm. But I twisted around and got away. She carried my screaming sister up to the roof without me.

The front door of our house burst open, tearing off its hinges. Baba was thrown into the room. He rolled across the floor and hit the wall with a groan. His eyes were swollen, and blood streamed down his beard from his mouth and nose. I screamed.

“Zulaikha, get upstairs!” Madar shrieked.

Three men in black turbans and very long beards stepped into the main room of our house. They were all holding guns. One of them took three quick steps toward my father and kicked him in the stomach.

“Please,” Baba said. “Please, no more. In the trunk.” He pointed toward the storage room. “They’re in the trunk. I promise, that’s all that’s here. The only books she has.”

“Sadiq, no!” Madar shouted. Her back was against the wall near the door to our small kitchen.

The man who must have been their leader nodded to his men. They went to our side storage room. I heard crashes,
dishes breaking and trunks being thrown around. They came back, one of them holding two of my mother’s books in his shaking hands.

“Oh, Sadiq.” Tears rolled down my mother’s face.

The leader strode up to my mother and swung his rifle like a club. I heard it crack against her jaw. Her blood splattered the wall.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Baba shouted. “You said you’d just take the —” The third man’s boot crashed into my father’s stomach once more.

Madar-jan spit white bits of teeth in a stream of red blood. The leader swung the rifle again. She raised her hands to protect her face, and her arm snapped like a dry stick as the rifle crashed into it. She screamed and dropped to her knees.

The leader pointed to the man with the books and then to the floor. The Talib dropped the books, pages flapping open. The leader took a bottle from his pocket and squirted something smelly onto the paper. He didn’t take his eyes off my mother as he struck a match, holding the flame up before his face. He smiled. Then he dropped the match. The books puffed into flames, the pages curling back into black char. He spun around and kicked at my mother. His boot crunched into her chest and knocked her back against the wall.

“No! Please!” Baba cried.

The leader snapped at his men, who stomped on my bloodied father to hold him down.

“Go away!” I shouted, my fists clenched tight.

The big man turned to face me. His eyes were squinted and lined in black. But when he took a step toward me, my mother was on her feet, pushing out her good arm to stop him.

He grabbed her by the hair. Madar screamed as he pulled her out the door to the front courtyard. The other two held my struggling father to the floor.

There was screaming. Shouting. Screaming.

A shot like thunder.

After the men had left, there was only crying. I went to the door. My father knelt in the dust, wailing over my mother in the courtyard.

“Saima, my Saima, I’m so sorry. Saima.”

Years later, lying on my toshak, surrounded by my sleeping family, I thought of my lost madar-jan and my lost opportunity for the surgery that would make me look pretty. All my chances for happiness had been stolen away. I buried my face in my chador and cried.