What do you think?
I think you look like a queen.
A few minutes passed. Then footsteps, a creaking sound, and a click. “He does know him.”
“He does?”
“It’s what he says.”
“Where is he?” Mariam said. “Does this man know where Jalil Khan is?”
There was a pause. “He says he died years ago, back in 1987.”
Mariam’s stomach fell. She’d considered the possibility, of course. Jalil would have been in his mid- to late seventies by
now, but . . .
1987.
He was dying then. He had driven all the way from Herat to
say good-bye
.
She moved to the edge of the balcony. From up here, she could see the hotel’s once-famous swimming pool, empty and grubby
now, scarred by bullet holes and decaying tiles. And there was the battered tennis court, the ragged net lying limply in the
middle of it like dead skin shed by a snake.
“I have to go now,” the voice at the other end said.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Mariam said, weeping soundlessly into the phone. She saw Jalil waving to her, skipping from
stone to stone as he crossed the stream, his pockets swollen with gifts. All the times she had held her breath for him, for
God to grant her more time with him.
“Thank you,” Mariam began to say, but the man at the other end had already hung up.
Rasheed was looking at her. Mariam shook her head.
“Useless,” he said, snatching the phone from her. “Like daughter, like father.”
On their way out of the lobby, Rasheed walked briskly to the coffee table, which was now abandoned, and pocketed the last
ring of
jelabi.
He took it home and gave it to Zalmai.
Laila
I
n a paper bag, Aziza packed these things: her flowered shirt and her lone pair of socks, her mismatched wool gloves,
an old, pumpkin-colored blanket dotted with stars and comets, a splintered plastic cup, a banana, her set of dice.
It was a cool morning in April 2001, shortly before Laila’s twenty-third birthday. The sky was a translucent gray, and gusts
of a clammy, cold wind kept rattling the screen door.
This was a few days after Laila heard that Ahmad Shah Massoud had gone to France and spoken to the European Parliament. Massoud
was now in his native North, and leading the Northern Alliance, the sole opposition group still fighting the Taliban. In Europe,
Massoud had warned the West about terrorist camps in Afghanistan, and pleaded with the U.S. to help him fight the Taliban.
“If President Bush doesn’t help us,” he had said, “these terrorists will damage the U.S. and Europe very soon.”
A month before that, Laila had learned that the Taliban had planted TNT in the crevices of the giant Buddhas in Bamiyan and
blown them apart, calling them objects of idolatry and sin. There was an outcry around the world, from the U.S. to China.
Governments, historians, and archaeologists from all over the globe had written letters, pleaded with the Taliban not to demolish
the two greatest historical artifacts in Afghanistan. But the Taliban had gone ahead and detonated their explosives inside
the two-thousand-year-old Buddhas. They had chanted
Allah-u-akbar
with each blast, cheered each time the statues lost an arm or a leg in a crumbling cloud of dust. Laila remembered standing
atop the bigger of the two Buddhas with Babi and Tariq, back in 1987, a breeze blowing in their sunlit faces, watching a hawk
gliding in circles over the sprawling valley below. But when she heard the news of the statues’ demise, Laila was numb to
it. It hardly seemed to matter. How could she care about statues when her own life was crumbling dust?
Until Rasheed told her it was time to go, Laila sat on the floor in a corner of the living room, not speaking and stone-faced,
her hair hanging around her face in straggly curls. No matter how much she breathed in and out, it seemed to Laila that she
couldn’t fill her lungs with enough air.
ON THE WAY to Karteh-Seh, Zalmai bounced in Rasheed’s arms, and Aziza held Mariam’s hand as she walked quickly beside her.
The wind blew the dirty scarf tied under Aziza’s chin and rippled the hem of her dress. Aziza was more grim now, as though
she’d begun to sense, with each step, that she was being duped. Laila had not found the strength to tell Aziza the truth.
She had told her that she was going to a school, a special school where the children ate and slept and didn’t come home after
class. Now Aziza kept pelting Laila with the same questions she had been asking for days. Did the students sleep in different
rooms or all in one great big room? Would she make friends? Was she, Laila, sure that the teachers would be nice?
And, more than once,
How long do I have to stay?
They stopped two blocks from the squat, barracks-style building.
“Zalmai and I will wait here,” Rasheed said. “Oh, before I forget . . .”
He fished a stick of gum from his pocket, a parting gift, and held it out to Aziza with a stiff, magnanimous air.
Aziza took it and muttered a thank-you. Laila marveled at Aziza’s grace, Aziza’s vast capacity for forgiveness, and her eyes
filled. Her heart squeezed, and she was faint with sorrow at the thought that this afternoon Aziza would not nap beside her,
that she would not feel the flimsy weight of Aziza’s arm on her chest, the curve of Aziza’s head pressing into her ribs, Aziza’s
breath warming her neck, Aziza’s heels poking her belly.
When Aziza was led away, Zalmai began wailing, crying, Ziza! Ziza! He squirmed and kicked in his father’s arms, called for
his sister, until his attention was diverted by an organ-grinder’s monkey across the street.
They walked the last two blocks alone, Mariam, Laila, and Aziza. As they approached the building, Laila could see its splintered
façade, the sagging roof, the planks of wood nailed across frames with missing windows, the top of a swing set over a decaying
wall.
They stopped by the door, and Laila repeated to Aziza what she had told her earlier.
“And if they ask about your father, what do you say?”
“The Mujahideen killed him,” Aziza said, her mouth set with wariness.
“That’s good. Aziza, do you understand?”
“Because this is a special school,” Aziza said. Now that they were here, and the building was a reality, she looked shaken.
Her lower lip was quivering and her eyes threatened to well up, and Laila saw how hard she was struggling to be brave. “If
we tell the truth,” Aziza said in a thin, breathless voice, “they won’t take me. It’s a special school. I want to go home.”
“I’ll visit all the time,” Laila managed to say. “I promise.”
“Me too,” said Mariam. “We’ll come to see you, Aziza jo, and we’ll play together, just like always. It’s only for a while,
until your father finds work.”
“They have food here,” Laila said shakily. She was glad for the burqa, glad that Aziza couldn’t see how she was falling apart
inside it. “Here, you won’t go hungry. They have rice and bread and water, and maybe even fruit.”
“But
you
won’t be here. And Khala Mariam won’t be with me.”
“I’ll come and see you,” Laila said. “All the time. Look at me, Aziza. I’ll come and see you. I’m your mother. If it kills
me, I’ll come and see you.”
THE ORPHANAGE DIRECTOR was a stooping, narrow-chested man with a pleasantly lined face. He was balding, had a shaggy beard,
eyes like peas. His name was Zaman. He wore a skullcap. The left lens of his eyeglasses was chipped.
As he led them to his office, he asked Laila and Mariam their names, asked for Aziza’s name too, her age. They passed through
poorly lit hallways where barefoot children stepped aside and watched. They had disheveled hair or shaved scalps. They wore
sweaters with frayed sleeves, ragged jeans whose knees had worn down to strings, coats patched with duct tape. Laila smelled
soap and talcum, ammonia and urine, and rising apprehension in Aziza, who had begun whimpering.
Laila had a glimpse of the yard: weedy lot, rickety swing set, old tires, a deflated basketball. The rooms they passed were
bare, the windows covered with sheets of plastic. A boy darted from one of the rooms and grabbed Laila’s elbow, and tried
to climb up into her arms. An attendant, who was cleaning up what looked like a puddle of urine, put down his mop and pried
the boy off.
Zaman seemed gently proprietary with the orphans. He patted the heads of some, as he passed by, said a cordial word or two
to them, tousled their hair, without condescension. The children welcomed his touch. They all looked at him, Laila thought,
in hope of approval.
He showed them into his office, a room with only three folding chairs, and a disorderly desk with piles of paper scattered
atop it.
“You’re from Herat,” Zaman said to Mariam. “I can tell from your accent.”
He leaned back in his chair and laced his hands over his belly, and said he had a brother-in-law who used to live there. Even
in these ordinary gestures, Laila noted a laborious quality to his movements. And though he was smiling faintly, Laila sensed
something troubled and wounded beneath, disappointment and defeat glossed over with a veneer of good humor.
“He was a glassmaker,” Zaman said. “He made these beautiful, jade green swans. You held them up to sunlight and they glittered
inside, like the glass was filled with tiny jewels. Have you been back?”
Mariam said she hadn’t.
“I’m from Kandahar myself. Have you ever been to Kandahar,
hamshira
? No? It’s lovely. What gardens! And the grapes! Oh, the grapes. They bewitch the palate.”
A few children had gathered by the door and were peeking in. Zaman gently shooed them away, in Pashto.
“Of course I love Herat too. City of artists and writers,
Sufis and mystics. You know the old joke, that you can’t stretch a leg in Herat without poking a poet in the rear.”
Next to Laila, Aziza snorted.
Zaman feigned a gasp. “Ah, there. I’ve made you laugh, little
hamshira
. That’s usually the hard part. I was worried, there, for a while. I thought I’d have to cluck like a chicken or bray like
a donkey. But, there you are. And so lovely you are.”
He called in an attendant to look after Aziza for a few moments. Aziza leaped onto Mariam’s lap and clung to her.
“We’re just going to talk, my love,” Laila said. “I’ll be right here. All right? Right here.”
“Why don’t we go outside for a minute, Aziza jo?” Mariam said. “Your mother needs to talk to Kaka Zaman here. Just for a minute.
Now, come on.”
When they were alone, Zaman asked for Aziza’s date of birth, history of illnesses, allergies. He asked about Aziza’s father,
and Laila had the strange experience of telling a lie that was really the truth. Zaman listened, his expression revealing
neither belief nor skepticism. He ran the orphanage on the honor system, he said. If a
hamshira
said her husband was dead and she couldn’t care for her children, he didn’t question it.
Laila began to cry.
Zaman put down his pen.
“I’m ashamed,” Laila croaked, her palm pressed to her mouth.
“Look at me,
hamshira.
”
“What kind of mother abandons her own child?”
“Look at me.”
Laila raised her gaze.
“It isn’t your fault. Do you hear me? Not you. It’s those
savages,
those
wahshi
s, who are to blame. They bring shame on me as a Pashtun. They’ve disgraced the name of my people. And you’re not alone,
hamshira.
We get mothers like you all the time—all the time—mothers who come here who can’t feed their children because the Taliban
won’t let them go out and make a living. So you don’t blame yourself. No one here blames you. I understand.” He leaned forward.
“
Hamshira.
I understand.”
Laila wiped her eyes with the cloth of her burqa.
“As for this place,” Zaman sighed, motioning with his hand, “you can see that it’s in dire state. We’re always underfunded,
always scrambling, improvising. We get little or no support from the Taliban. But we manage. Like you, we do what we have
to do. Allah is good and kind, and Allah provides, and, as long He provides, I will see to it that Aziza is fed and clothed.
That much I promise you.”
Laila nodded.
“All right?”
He was smiling companionably. “But don’t cry,
hamshira.
Don’t let her see you cry.”
Laila wiped her eyes again. “God bless you,” she said thickly. “God bless you, brother.”
BUT WHEN THE time for good-byes came, the scene erupted precisely as Laila had dreaded.
Aziza panicked.
All the way home, leaning on Mariam, Laila heard Aziza’s shrill cries. In her head, she saw Zaman’s thick, calloused hands
close around Aziza’s arms; she saw them pull, gently at first, then harder, then with force to pry Aziza loose from her. She
saw Aziza kicking in Zaman’s arms as he hurriedly turned the corner, heard Aziza screaming as though she were about to vanish
from the face of the earth. And Laila saw herself running down the hallway, head down, a howl rising up her throat.
“I smell her,” she told Mariam at home. Her eyes swam unseeingly past Mariam’s shoulder, past the yard, the walls, to the
mountains, brown as smoker’s spit. “I smell her sleep smell. Do you? Do you smell it?”
“Oh, Laila jo,” said Mariam. “Don’t. What good is this? What good?”
AT FIRST, Rasheed humored Laila, and accompanied them—her, Mariam, and Zalmai—to the orphanage, though he made sure, as they
walked, that she had an eyeful of his grievous looks, an earful of his rants over what a hardship she was putting him through,
how badly his legs and back and feet ached walking to and from the orphanage. He made sure she knew how awfully put out he
was.
“I’m not a young man anymore,” he said. “Not that you care. You’d run me to the ground, if you had your way. But you don’t,
Laila. You don’t have your way.”
They parted ways two blocks from the orphanage, and he never spared them more than fifteen minutes. “A minute late,” he said,
“and I start walking. I mean it.”
Laila had to pester him, plead with him, in order to spin out the allotted minutes with Aziza a bit longer. For herself, and
for Mariam, who was disconsolate over Aziza’s absence, though, as always, Mariam chose to cradle her own suffering privately
and quietly. And for Zalmai too, who asked for his sister every day, and threw tantrums that sometimes dissolved into inconsolable
fits of crying.
Sometimes, on the way to the orphanage, Rasheed stopped and complained that his leg was sore. Then he turned around and started
walking home in long, steady strides, without so much as a limp. Or he clucked his tongue and said, “It’s my lungs, Laila.
I’m short of breath. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel better, or the day after. We’ll see.” He never bothered to feign a single raspy
breath. Often, as he turned back and marched home, he lit a cigarette. Laila would have to tail him home, helpless, trembling
with resentment and impotent rage.
Then one day he told Laila he wouldn’t take her anymore. “I’m too tired from walking the streets all day,” he said, “looking
for work.”
“Then I’ll go by myself,” Laila said. “You can’t stop me, Rasheed. Do you hear me? You can hit me all you want, but I’ll keep
going there.”
“Do as you wish. But you won’t get past the Taliban. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’m coming with you,” Mariam said.
Laila wouldn’t allow it. “You have to stay home with Zalmai. If we get stopped . . . I don’t want him to see.”
And so Laila’s life suddenly revolved around finding ways to see Aziza. Half the time, she never made it to the orphanage.
Crossing the street, she was spotted by the Taliban and riddled with questions—
What is your name?
Where are you going? Why are you alone? Where is your
mahram
?
—before she was sent home. If she was lucky, she was given a tongue-lashing or a single kick to the rear, a shove in the back.
Other times, she met with assortments of wooden clubs, fresh tree branches, short whips, slaps, often fists.