The Pearl that Broke Its Shell (56 page)

“I’m not wasting my time with those busybodies.”

Maroof and our bodyguard stayed with her because she was the more important wife and because she always claimed to be considering going to visit her cousin across town. As far as I could tell, she never actually left our room. She knew better. She knew word would get back to our husband. Badriya’s survival instincts were strong.

I spent my evenings in the training center under Ms. Franklin’s tutelage. I was getting better at navigating my way through the computer programs. For practice, I would type letters to my sisters Shahla, Rohila, and Sitara—letters that were never sent. The woman from the shelter, Fakhria, came from time to time and brought with her stories of girls who had fled from home, hungry for a new chance. Their shelter functioned on money raised in the United States and it was becoming obvious that she was trying to garner Hamida and Sufia’s sympathy, hoping to secure some funding from the parliament. I wanted to tell her that she was wasting her breath. Even I, the lowly assistant to a parliamentarian, could have told her there was no chance of getting the
jirga
to allocate money to a shelter for women who had run away from their husbands. In fact, I’d heard several people say the shelters were nothing more than brothels. I didn’t think it was true, but others did.

Four weeks remained until the parliament’s winter break. Four weeks left for me to attend class at the training center, four weeks of Ms. Franklin patting my shoulder in praise, four weeks left of Hamida and Sufia, instead of cooking and cleaning.

I wondered how Khala Shaima was doing. She looked worse each time I saw her. Still, she had outlived both Parwin and Jahangir. Their deaths had taught me that anything was possible, and that death was closer than I wanted to believe.

“I’m an old woman,” Khala Shaima had told me before I left for Kabul. “I’ve cheated the angel Azrael more than once but he’ll come and claim my last breath soon enough.”

“Khala
-jan,
don’t say such a thing,” I said, protesting.

“Bah. I’ve wanted to be around only so I can look after you girls, to tell you the truth. Nothing else matters much. But I can’t slip through his fingers forever. It’s like the story of that man—did I tell you that one?”

“No, Khala
-jan
. You’ve only told us about Bibi Shekiba.”

“Ah, and I hope you’ve learned something from her story. You are her legacy, after all. Remember, your great-great-grandmother was Bibi Shekiba, guard to the king’s harem.

“
Dokhtar-em,
my dear, I’m not well. You are not a naïve girl anymore. It will give my heart peace if you can tell me that every story I’ve told, every
mattal
I’ve shared, that you’ve gotten some wisdom and courage from it. Remember where you come from. Bibi Shekiba is not a fairy tale. She is your great-great-grandmother. Her blood courses through your veins and gives strength to your spirit. Always walk with your head high. You are the descendant of a
somebody,
not a nobody.” She sighed heavily, which turned into a long, exasperated cough. She took a minute to catch her breath before she continued.

“I’ve tried to tell Rohila and Sitara the same. But Rohila is to be married soon and I think she’ll be better off. The family seems reasonable. Sitara will be alone with your parents, left to fend for herself. I can’t do much more for her. I wish I could tell you to watch out for her but you could do more for her if a mountain stood between you. These walls hold you tight. Focus on yourself. Everything you’ve endured in life should have taught you something, made you hungry for something. Remember, Allah has said, ‘Start moving, so I may start blessing.’ ”

I tried to find the words to reassure Khala Shaima, to tell her that I understood what she was telling me and that I was proud to know I was a descendant of Bibi Shekiba, the woman who had guarded the king’s harem, who had walked through the royal palace. I may have lived my entire life in a small village but I was connected to Afghanistan’s aristocracy.

But I’d never been able to find the right words. As I sat there, I had to admit I could see my aunt fading. She didn’t look like the person I remembered. She had spent her adult life trying to guide us, trying to look out for my sisters and me.

And she was right. As much as I might have wanted to do for my sisters, Abdul Khaliq’s walls were high and his leash short. I could only pray for them.

Badriya was lying on the bed. She’d spent the day griping about how long it was taking for Abdul Khaliq’s men to finish the home he’d bought in Kabul. She was tired of staying in a hotel and having the man in the lobby watch our comings and goings with interest. I wanted to go for a walk, tired of listening to her complaints.

I adjusted my head scarf and opened the door. Badriya looked up, shook her head and turned around to face the wall. I could tell she didn’t want me to leave since it would leave her without an audience but I was starting to feel the walls close in. I walked out of our room.

To my right was a staircase leading to the lobby. I could hear Maroof and Hassan on my left, about forty feet down the hall, talking. I could make out Maroof’s back, sitting on the chair. As much as I wanted to head directly down to the street level, I knew there would be hell to pay if I were to leave unchaperoned and unannounced.

I could make out their voices as I neared.

“You told him that?”

“I did. What the hell was I supposed to tell him?” Maroof asked.

“God help her. What did he say?”

“You’ve heard how he gets. He said a lot of things. I don’t know what he’s going to do to her but I had no choice. And it’s your fault anyway, Maroof. You’re the one who told him she was spending a lot of time with those two hags. You didn’t stop to think that he would get pissed we weren’t guarding her? Maybe you don’t think it’s your job since you’re the driver, but I’m their
guard
. Did you miss that?”

“What was I supposed to tell him? He called when she wasn’t around. He wanted to speak to Badriya too. If I hadn’t said she wasn’t here, she would have told him. He would have had my neck for sure if he thought I was keeping something from him.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, I hope he got that she went without our knowing about it. I don’t want to get back to the house and find out it’s us he’s mad at.”

“Just stick to what we said. She snuck out without telling us and went to hang out with those godforsaken women. He’ll believe it. You know he doesn’t think much of her anyway. You’ve heard about his plans. He’s lost interest. She’s not as exciting to him as she was in the beginning. Remember that day he saw her in the market?”

Maroof let out a guffaw.

“He looked like he might pick her up right there. Send a note and a few afghanis to her parents!”

“Would’ve been a lot easier if he’d done it that way. What a pain her family was. Putting up a show like they come from royalty or something.”

“But I remember your face when he made us stop so he could watch her… you thought she was a real boy then, you idiot!”

“You did too!” Maroof said in self-defense. “She looked like a boy. How the hell should I have known there was something more interesting under those clothes?”

“You probably liked her better the other way!” Hassan chuckled. “What do you think of her new haircut, eh? Got your appetite going?”

I backed up slowly and as quietly as I could, my mind racing.

They had sold me out to my husband. I trembled at the way they talked about me.

My thoughts tumbled and turned until I finally realized what it was that I had just overheard.

I wasn’t safe.

I turned the doorknob, watching the hallway to see if the men had noticed my presence. They hadn’t. I closed the door behind me and went straight to the washroom. I couldn’t look at Badriya right now, knowing she would be of no help to me. It looked like she was asleep anyway.

My husband was a man of violence and I knew that I’d barely seen a tenth of what he was capable of. He was a man of war, of guns, of power. He demanded respect and obedience, and the guards had just told him that I was out of control. He must have been wild with rage.

I couldn’t help but remember he was looking to add a wife and that five was one more than he wanted. I knew what that meant for me.

I thought of the woman in the shelter. She’d disobeyed and her husband had sliced off her ear. I had no doubt Abdul Khaliq could be just as vicious. I leaned against the wall, my heart pounding in fear. I had to think fast.

We were due to return home in three days.

CHAPTER 64

S
hah’s feet pounded against the dirt of the road. Just because he was supposed to accompany his sister home from school didn’t mean he couldn’t race her to the front door. He panted, turned around and saw Shabnam walking hurriedly to catch up. She looked frustrated.

“Why are you always in such a rush? Don’t you know it’s not easy to run in a skirt? And anyway, Madar-
jan
would be upset if she saw me chasing after you through the streets!”

“It’s not my fault I’m faster than you. I could have been home a long time ago if I didn’t have to wait for you!”

It was the same argument every day. They bickered but adored each other, oblivious to the resentment between their mothers. Shabnam had long ago opted to ignore her mother’s hand pulling her back and would sit with Shekiba while she washed the clothes, asking her question after question about everything from horses to baking bread. And Shah, who knew no boundaries thanks to his father, loved to torment Gulnaz by pulling at her knitting and running away, his giggles undoing her anger at the work he had unraveled.

Aasif had hoped for more children but Gulnaz and Shekiba seemed to alternate; one would start her womanly illness when the other stopped. He wondered if a curse had been lifted from him for those two years. Or maybe the women had done something… but he grew tired of being angry. His mother had not given up hope. Even one week before her death, she’d reminded her son that Allah had wanted men to take on more than two wives.

“And where will I put another wife, Madar-
jan
? In our small home, there is no room for another woman and I have enough trouble feeding the ones I have.”

“Marry and Allah will provide a way,” his mother had told him, her eyes half closed with fatigue.

He debated her advice, as illogical as it seemed, on his way to and from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He had been transferred from the Ministry of Agriculture and given a position working with a higher-ranked vizier two years ago thanks to his relationship with Amanullah.

When Agha Khalil arrived with his wife, it was Shah who met them at the door. His knees were dusty from trying to climb past the second branch of the tree in their courtyard, which made the visitor and his wife smile and think of their own young son at home.

“Good evening, dear boy! Is your father home? I would like to speak with him.”

“Yes, he is. Come in! My mother is making dinner. Why don’t you stay and be our guest?” he said with a grin, aping his father’s hospitality. Agha Khalil’s wife could not help but laugh.

“Isn’t that kind of you! We wouldn’t want to trouble her, my friend,” he said just as Aasif entered the courtyard.

“Agha Khalil, how pleasant to see you!”

“And you as well, Agha Baraan. Forgive me for dropping by at this hour but I wanted to bring you those papers since I will not be at the office tomorrow.”

“Please, please, come in,” Aasif said, motioning to the house door.

“Your son was quite the host and already invited us but my wife and I were just on our way home from visiting relatives. We don’t want to be a bother.”

Aasif insisted and Shekiba quickly set out cups of tea and dried mulberries. Gulnaz had taken to her room with a headache, so Shekiba was forced to join Aasif in sitting with the guests. Shekiba and Agha Khalil’s wife, Mahnaz, were introduced and they sat in one corner of the living room while the men chatted in the other. Shekiba kept her head turned to the side as she always did when she met someone new.

“Your son is such a darling boy,
nam-e-khoda
!” Mahnaz said. Shekiba bowed her head and smiled to hear the kindness in this woman’s voice. Mahnaz wore a taupe-colored ankle-length dress with airy sleeves that buttoned at the cuff. She looked elegant and fitting of someone who might be a palace guest.

“May Allah bless you with good health, thank you,” she said, not wanting to invite
nazar
by saying any more about her little king.

“Do you have much family in Kabul?”

“No, I came from a small village outside Kabul.”

“So did I. This city was quite a surprise for me! So different from where I grew up.” Mahnaz was young, probably no more than twenty-four years old, with a bright and cheerful face. “Where was your village?”

“It was called Qala-e-Bulbul. I doubt you ever would have heard of it,” Shekiba said. At the age of thirty-six, she hadn’t thought of her village, named for the hundreds of songbirds that lived there, in years. And her village made her think of her songbird sister. Aqela’s lifted voice and dimpled face flashed across her mind, blurry and vivid all at once as memories are.