The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan (11 page)

FATIMA

It’s been two days since Sami asked my father to marry me, but we have not yet talked about it. In fact, my
baba
has barely spoken to me at all. My mother has been eyeing us, but the children haven’t noticed that I’m the cause of the uncomfortable silence. I haven’t been allowed to go to Zohra’s house—my mother said that I need to do more chores, and my
baba
agreed. But I know the only person who can tell me what is going on is Zohra. I still feel guilty for the beating she received because of me. I know her father must have felt guilty about it later. We’ve known him a long time, and I’ve always thought him to be a gentle man. I don’t dare bring the subject up with my
baba,
so I continue to pretend I don’t know what’s happening. All I know is I have to find a way to see Zohra.

“Is everything okay, Madar Jaan?” I ask my mother as we prepare dinner. The silence in the room is agitating me, and I need to break it.

“Everything is fine,” she responds as she continues to dice potatoes, not meeting my eyes. I know everything is not fine. My parents stopped their nightly conversations. My mother has tried to speak, but my father will not let her. Our meals are silent. The boys have tried to get our father to tell stories, but he stays quiet. Even Afifa has sensed something is off and finds comfort in sitting on my lap during dinner, asking me to feed her.

“Okay . . . ,” I say as I scoop up the onions I’ve been chopping, using both hands. I drop them in the pot of oil. Immediately the oil starts crackling. I stir the pot with a wooden spoon, and the oil splatters, landing on my hand, burning it a little. I continue to stir the onions before daring to speak again, afraid of what the reaction will be. “Madar Jaan, I was wondering if I could go to Zohra’s house tomorrow to practice our studies.” I don’t dare look up as I say these words, continuing to concentrate on the onions as they begin to brown in the pot.

“No!” my mother says firmly, walking over with the plastic bowl of diced potatoes and dropping the pieces in while staring at me. The pot sizzles, shooting up burning droplets of oil.

“But, Madar, Bibi must be upset that I haven’t been coming.” I try one last time.

But my mother ignores me this time, walking out with the
distarkhan
and setting it up for dinner outside.

It’s another meal of silence. Except for the sounds of chewing, slurping and finger licking. Everyone eats but my
baba,
who just stares at the food.

At the end of the night, we all head in and make our beds, and my father finally says something to me.

“Fatima,” he says sternly.

“Yes, Baba Jaan?” This is the first time in two days he has been able to look at me.

“Don’t go to sleep yet. We need to talk to you after the children fall asleep,” he says.

“Okay, Baba Jaan,” I respond as he turns to go back to his sleeping mat. My mother is sitting on her mat staring at us with angry eyes as she knits yarn booties for the boys.

I tuck the boys in and give them kisses. Afifa waits for me.

“Sing a song,” she says to me. I look at my angelic little sister and long to be her age again—to be so innocent and unaware of the world. She curls up in my lap, and I start humming a tune I learned years ago from Zohra’s radio. I start rocking my little sister, hoping it will take her a while to get to sleep. But she falls asleep as fast as she does every other night. I slowly lay her down and cover her with a blanket. I kiss her forehead and cheeks and brace myself for what’s next. I stare at my sleeping sister and stall as much as I can.

“Fatima, come here,” my
baba
says, and I know I can’t put it off any longer. I can feel the thumping of my heart as I approach my parents. My mother puts down her knitting and almost looks excited.

“Sit down,
azizam,
” my
baba
says with gentleness in his voice. The tone is so surprising that I can’t help but look at him. I sit down in front of the lamp, casting a shadow on their faces, but I don’t dare move. My eyes bounce between my parents. One who looks so tired and drained, and the other who seems to have found new energy as she stares at me.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, still pretending not to know what happened.

“Fato, we have something very important to speak with you about,” my
baba
says and then lets out a breath. I nod my head. “We’ve decided . . . your mother and I have decided . . . it’s time for you to get married.”

“What?” I say, wondering for a brief moment if he has agreed to let me marry Sami. Perhaps that’s why he has been so quiet—he’s been making a plan with Kaka Ismail. I feel hope fluttering in my chest.

“We know about your strong friendship with Samiullah,” my
baba
says, and that tiny flutter grows larger. “He approached me in town the other day and expressed his feelings for you. He said that he cares about you and would like to marry you.” Could it really be true? Have my parents agreed to Sami’s proposal?

“He spoke with you?” I manage to whisper.

“Yes, and he told me that the feeling belongs to him and not to take it out on you.” My
baba
presses his hand to his forehead. “But after speaking with Karim, I know that you have missed days of reading practice with Zohra and her grandmother.”

“She did what?” my mother interjects. But my father ignores her.

“I had hoped that I was wrong, but I believe you have been seeing that boy.” My stomach drops. Zohra must have told her father. I don’t blame her, but I don’t know what to say now.

“Baba—” I get out before being interrupted by my mother.

“You whore!” She gets up and slaps me in the face. I feel my lips quivering, and my eyes begin to drown in tears. More blows come my way. “Stop your fake tears, you stupid girl! How could you do this to us?”

“Mossuma, stop it!” My
baba
holds her back.

“But, Mohammad, she keeps shaming us!” she says before turning back to me. “Whose daughter are you? Who do you belong to? I can’t have given birth to such a disgusting whore!”

My tears flow fast and harder now. “I’m sorry! I swear nothing happened. We’re just friends. We just talk. I swear on the Quran-e-sharif that we just talk. He is my friend! Like when we were kids!”

“Like when you were kids? Mohammad, are you listening to this? What kind of man are you? Beat this filthy girl! She deserves to pay for throwing our name, our family and our dignity in the dirt! She let a snake slither into our lives, and now it will swallow all of us!”

“Stop it! Both of you! You’ll wake up the children. I’m not going to hit her. I haven’t laid a finger on you your entire life,” my
baba
says, looking at me with watery eyes. “I’ve treated you like a precious vase. My beautiful . . . precious—” His voice cracks. It sounds as though he is about to cry. He quickly clears his throat and takes a deep breath. My
baba
’s words are worse than any beating, because I know I have hurt him. I can’t breathe I am crying so hard. I don’t make noise, but I can feel the spit from my mouth fall into my lap. “Fatima, we have decided to marry you to Karim. Your mother and I talked about it, and I have convinced him to take you as his second wife. It is the only way.”

“K-k-karim?” I manage to stammer out. “But . . . but . . . but, Baba Jaan . . . you . . . you . . . said Sami wants to marry me.”

“Karim is your best option for a good future. For a family who will take care of you. He didn’t want to take on a second wife but because of our friendship he said yes. Sami is not an option.”

“But . . . but . . . why? You said that he cares for me. I care for him too. He is my best friend. He can take care of me.”

“May the dirt fall on your head!” my mother hisses, wishing for my death. “
Khak da saret!
”

“He is not the right choice for you,” my
baba
says. “I am your father, and I see things that you do not. I am making the right choice for you.”

“But, Baba Jaan, you have known Sami all of his life. You know his family.” My tears and sadness are replaced with confusion and despair. “You know they’re good people. You know he’ll do anything to make me happy and treat me with respect,” I plead. Although I feel intimidated I find the courage to keep talking. “I don’t understand . . . Is it because he’s Pashtun? Didn’t you say that we are all God’s servants and no one is better than the other—that in the eyes of God, there are no differences between us? No matter our ethnicities? Baba Jaan?”

“You don’t understand this world. You don’t understand the hardships you’ll face. This will be the easiest life for you. Karim will provide you a good home with food and family. He has agreed to take you in and care for you. This is for the best. That is my final decision. I don’t want to hear any more—from either of you.”

•   •   •

Lying on my toshak, I beg God to let me sleep, knowing that it is my only escape from the nightmare I am living. But my ghosts don’t leave me alone, even in my dreams.

I dream of a future with Karim and without Sami. Living in a home with a family that once loved me but is now bitter to have a disgraced girl among them.

Zohra has changed from my dear sweet friend into an enemy who hates me for marrying her father. In the dream, she ignores me as I beg for her guidance. I need her, but my friend won’t even talk to me.

My
khala
Zainab treats me worse. She is angry that her husband has taken on a new wife after decades of her being his only wife, bearing his children and taking care of his mother. Unlike Zohra, she does speak to me, but it’s only to bark orders and slap me around. She uses me as a servant, one whom she hates. I endure the beatings and scolding from her.

Bibi is the only person who doesn’t hate me. Instead she feels sorrow for another future lost—especially after she put so much hope in us . . . in me. I am no longer a part of her reading lessons; she takes back the book she has given me. And I watch from afar as Zohra continues the lessons I loved and she hated. Bibi can barely look at me, let alone talk to me.

The person who feels the strongest toward me is Karim. But it’s not love he feels; it’s hatred and lust. Once my father’s closest friend and a dear uncle, he is now the center of my universe. A universe that has gone black. He is angry at the deal he made with my father, marrying a girl he feels is a whore. And he treats me as such . . . I see his body on top of mine as I scream and cry . . . I feel his sweat on my skin and taste tears when I wake up.

My body still trembles in fear as I realize that this time my dream may come true.

SAMIULLAH

I’ve been waiting all morning for her. After waiting all day yesterday. Hoping she will make her way out here. When I finally see her, I feel relieved.

“
Afo, bia . . . Afo, gak!
Little one, come here,” I say to Fatima’s little sister. Grabbing her attention.

I see her looking around. Looking for the sound of my voice.

“
Keeeeeeesht?
” she shouts, asking who it is. “
Jinn ashtee?
” She asks if I am a spirit.

“Afo, it’s me.” I poke my head and body out from behind the small tree that’s barely concealing me. When she finally sees me, she smiles and toddles over.

“You’re the sleepy man!” Afifa says, smiling. “My
madar
says I can’t be friends with your family. Your
baba
wears a funny hat!” She starts to laugh again.

“You can be friends with me. But you’re right, my
baba
does wear a funny hat.” I smile at her and pinch her cheek. “How are you, my little one?”

“Good! I thought you were a
jinn,
” she says, looking down. “I got scared.”

“Oh, Afo, don’t be scared. Not all
jinn
s are scary. There are nice
jinn
s too.”

“Really?” She looks up with excitement.

“Yes, of course. There are
jinn
s who want to help you and protect you from the bad ones. And since you’re a good girl, the good
jinn
s are always near you, protecting you from the naughty ones.”

She starts smiling at me before looking around, possibly for
jinn
s.

“Afo, I need you to do something for me,” I say, getting her attention back. “But it has to be between you and me. It will be a secret. Are you old enough to keep a secret?”

“Yes!” she shouts with enthusiasm. “I
dokhtar kalon
!”

“Yes, you are a big girl,” I say. “But no one can know, not your mother, not your father and not even your brothers.”

“No one?” Her thrill turns to astonishment.

“Only one person can know—your sister, Fatima.”

“Fato! Fato is my sister!” She smiles. “I love Fato!”

“I know you do. But you have to remember, you can only tell Fato. This is a secret.”

She nods at me with fervor.

“Can you give your sister this letter? Remember, no one else can know. This is our big-person secret between me, you and Fato. Okay,
janem
?”

“
Kho!
” She grabs the letter. “Will the bad
jinn
s come after me if I tell someone else?” She looks frightened again.

“Don’t worry about the bad ones. The good ones will protect you even more when you keep your promises. Do you promise to give this to your sister and not tell anyone else?”

She nods at me and hides the letter in her
payron
before running back to their house. I hope this works. I have already caused Fatima so much torment. If this doesn’t work . . . if her parents find the letter . . . I can’t even imagine the danger that will come to us.