The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan (3 page)

I look at Zohra and realize she’s figured it out before I have, as she goes back to slapping the dirt off her clothes. “Welcome back, Sami!”

“
Salaam,
Zohra Jaan,” he says. “Thank you.” His voice rumbles. The sound is deeper than I recall. But it’s not just his voice that has changed. He is almost as tall as his father now, and his skin on his face looks tighter and prickly, without the smooth, round cheeks I remember.

For the first time, I see the line of a jaw, chiseled like the men around the village. Except Samiullah’s is different; it’s not worn-out and tired-looking like the others, his bone structure is . . . beautiful. His perfectly arched eyebrows look darker and thicker, making his emerald eyes stand out even more. They hold the same sparkle I remember from years ago. But today it forces me to look away. I can feel my heart racing and my breath becoming heavier, and I don’t know why. All I know is it gets worse when I try to look at him.

“When did you get back?” Zohra asks.

“On Saturday,” Samiullah responds. “How are you both doing?” I know he’s directing that question to me as well, but I’m afraid to speak. I feel nervous and out of breath, and I don’t want them to know.

“We’re fine, thank you for asking,” Zohra finally answers him. “We were just getting some water, and I tripped and fell while I was chasing Fatima back to her house. It’s getting dark, and we were scared to make my father wait too long to take me back home with him.”

“Of course, I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to say
salaam
and see how you both were.” I can hear his voice as I continue to focus on the yellow container holding the water.

“Thank you,” Zohra says. “It’s good to see you back home. I’m sure you have brightened your family’s eyes, especially your mother’s.”

He nods. “Please send my regards to your fathers for me.”

“We will. Fatima?” Zohra picks up one of the jugs and seems to be walking fine now. I follow her lead and carry the other jug with my head down. I use my head scarf to shield me from Samiullah and focus on not tripping as I walk toward my house.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is Sami, our Sami, my Sami. Why can’t I look at him?

FATIMA

When I wake up, I realize I’m the only one left in the sleeping room. My father must be out in the fields with Karim, and my mother is likely milking our cow, with Afifa begging to help. As for my younger brothers, Houssain and Massoud, they are probably out playing with the neighbors’ children somewhere in the village.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes. I barely slept last night replaying yesterday’s events in my mind. I kept seeing Samiullah’s face and hearing his new voice. But every time I remembered how I had acted, I buried my head in my pillow to keep from screaming. I’m just grateful Zohra didn’t say anything afterward to make me feel worse about it, though to be honest, I don’t think she could have, even if she’d wanted to. By the time we were out of Samiullah’s earshot, we were within sight of our fathers and my mother, who had been waiting for us. I hope the encounter with him wasn’t as embarrassing as I remember it being.

I follow my morning ritual, roll up my
toshak
and place it on top of the other mattresses that have already been stacked in the corner. I then fold my blanket, get dressed, wash my face at the stream and go to the
tandoor
room to have some green tea and
naan
that my mother and I made yesterday morning.

As I rip into the stiff day-old bread, my mother walks into the room carrying a bucket of milk.

“
Salaam,
Madar Jaan,” I greet her. “I’m sorry I slept in. Why didn’t you wake me?”

“
Salaam,
my life,” my mother responds. Her hair has small pieces of hay in it. It looks like there may have been a wrestling match with Afifa, our
madar
and a frightened cow this morning. I wonder just how much of the milk actually made it into the bucket. “We thought we’d give you a day to catch up on your rest. We had enough bread left from yesterday and didn’t need to make more for today. I hope you saw good dreams?”

“They were good, thank you,” I reply looking down at my clear glass cup, not buying her reasoning, but I can’t figure out why else my mother is being nice to me this morning. Usually she pulls me out of bed and has me slaving over the bread before I can even see straight. But today she is as sweet as honey.

Staring at my half-empty glass, I see one lonely little tea leaf floating at the bottom—it must have escaped the pot before I put the strainer underneath. The green leaf looks as alone and isolated as I feel. I can’t help but sense the leaf’s guilt at escaping its family of leaves in the kettle. “Madar Jaan, may I go to Zohra’s house and see her?” I ask, quickly pulling out the leaf and dropping it back in the pot before my mother can catch me. I don’t know how I would explain that to her. She already thinks I’m crazy.

“Of course, my darling,” my mother responds without hesitation, pulling a piece of hay out of her hair and throwing it out of the room. “Have you moved past the alphabet yet?”

For the last several months, I’ve been going to Zohra’s house to learn how to read. Her grandmother is one of the few literate people, let alone women, in this village. Her mother had been brought up in a time when the king of Afghanistan, a man named Amanullah, wanted women to excel and wanted the country to be one of the best in the world, at least that’s the way Zohra’s grandmother tells it. Zohra’s great-grandmother had lived in the capital, Kabul, at that time, and the owners of the house her parents worked in taught her and her brothers for an hour a week before they convinced her parents to let her go to school. Then Zohra’s great-grandmother taught her own daughters how to read and write. And now Bibi was teaching Zohra and had agreed to teach me too.

As a thank-you to their family, my father started giving Zohra’s father, Karim, a little more of the share of wheat they farm together. My
baba
was thrilled at the opportunity, because my brothers aren’t allowed to go to the one boys’ school in our village, which is for Pashtuns. Samiullah’s father, Kaka Ismail, says that my
baba
should send them anyway and that he would ensure their safety. But my father says Kaka Ismail is just being friendly and the boys are better off at home where they will learn how to provide for the family. Whatever I learn from Zohra’s
bibi
I’m supposed to pass on to my little brothers when they get older. I think it’s a pretty good trade, especially since it means I get to spend extra time with Zohra.

Plus, I really enjoy the lessons.

“We have the alphabet covered,” I say to my mother, “but she likes to go over it every day and then add something new.” I’ve been hiding the fact that I’ve actually learned more, because I want to surprise them when I get really good at it.

“Okay, well, make sure you send them my
salaam
s and take some of the cookies I made the other day,” my mother responds as she heads to our sleeping area to grab some laundry to wash in the narrow stream. Hopefully she’ll wash her hair too. There seems to be even more hay stuck in the back, but I don’t feel like telling her about it. So I don’t.

•   •   •

Before heading out, I grab the bag of week-old cookies that I know my mother is just trying to get rid of. I slip one out of the blue plastic bag for myself to make the trip to Zohra’s more enjoyable. Luckily, they still taste good. I’d be so embarrassed if I gave Zohra’s family stale cookies . . . again!

The crumbs make their way down my dress, but I decide not to wipe them away until I am fully finished with the cookie. What’s the point? I’ll just have brush myself off again. I’ve stuffed the entire cookie in my mouth when I hear something.

“
Pssssht!
”

I turn around and don’t see anything. I’ve begun to think it’s an animal in the woods when I hear it again: “
Psssssht!
” I stop chewing my cookie and give all of my attention to the noise.

“Who is it?” I try to say, but my full mouth blocks the words.

“Fatima, over here!” I hear a male voice coming from the woods. I slowly make my way to the brush. As I get closer, his tall body emerges from the shadows of the trees.

The cookie falling from my mouth snaps me back to reality and has me mortified. I quickly wipe my mouth and chin and the crumbs on my chest. As if the embarrassment of yesterday wasn’t enough, I can add this to my list of nightmares.

Samiullah laughs. The deep guffaws are sounds I’ve never heard from him before.

“What’s so funny?” I snap. I suddenly feel very defensive. Who does he think he is?

“You were scared just now, weren’t you?” He looks at me with his piercing emerald eyes.

“I was not scared! I was just wondering what animal sounds like a generator on full blast, rumbling,
tak tak tak
!” I am very happy with my response, but I suppress my smile the best as I can.

Samiullah starts to laugh again. His teeth are so straight, white, and from the looks of it, still real. That is something very rare in our village. Most people lose their teeth shortly after their teens. That’s why my
baba
won’t let us eat candy with our tea unless it is a holiday. He says the candy burns through your teeth, making them look like burnt sugar in a pan. But Samiullah used to sneak me candy from his house every week—and he ate a lot himself. From the state of his teeth, I think my
baba
was wrong about the candy. Samiullah’s smile is perfect.

“What are you doing, hiding in the trees like a criminal?” I ask. It feels so good to be able to talk to him again. And I’m surprised at how easy it is, after last night.

“I’ve
felt
like a criminal hiding in these woods waiting for you,” he answers. I feel my cheeks tingling. He’s been waiting for me? “When I saw you with Zohra yesterday, I figured you two still see each other and that one or the other of you would pass this way.” My stomach suddenly sinks—he wasn’t waiting for me. “I was hoping it would be you who passed,” he adds.

I can’t meet his eyes. My gaze makes it to his chest, and all I can see are hard muscles through his thin white
payron.
My stomach starts to twirl.

“I just felt . . . strange after yesterday. We didn’t even exchange one word.”

“I know” is all I can say now, moving my eyes to his lips. They’re deep red and thick. The top lip is perfectly curved and heart shaped.

“Look, I don’t want to take too much of your time, but I wanted you to know how happy it made me to see you again.” His words bring me back. “And if you pass through here often—”

“I do, almost every day!” I sound far too enthusiastic.

“Well, then . . . maybe we can catch up more tomorrow?” he asks. His eyes start blinking rapidly, a trait that used to mean he was nervous. Is Samiullah nervous like I am? I can’t believe how much that thought alone helps calm me. Still, I know I shouldn’t be out here alone with him. And I shouldn’t agree to meet him tomorrow. But my mouth betrays me.

“Okay,” I say, as I start to leave.

“Before you go—” I turn around and see him reach into his pocket, pulling out a piece of folded paper. It’s when he begins to unwrap it that I see the candies I missed so much while he was gone. “I thought you might like some.”

“Thank you,” I say. I take the candy. My fingers graze his palm, sending a bolt through my body. My heart races with excitement. And I realize, yes, I’ve missed the candy . . . but I’ve missed him more.

•   •   •

I reach Zohra’s, not remembering any part of my walk there. All I see, over and over, is Samiullah’s green eyes, hard chest, and deep red lips. My fingers still tingle where they touched his.

“Fatima!” Zohra comes running toward me and snaps me back. “My grandmother isn’t feeling well!” she says with joy and a smile that catches me off guard.

“What? I’m sorry . . . what’s wrong?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Just old-people problems. But this is good news. Now we don’t have to study, and instead we can talk!” Zohra grabs me by the hand and drags me to the room with the
tandoor,
where a kettle awaits us. Zohra pours us both a glass of
chai sabz,
not caring about the tea leaves, which pile into each glass.

I pull out my candies to share with Zohra over the tea and quickly ask her a question before she can ask me where I got them. “So are we supposed to study together without your
bibi
?”

She responds with laughter.

“Why would we do that? If
bibi
isn’t around, neither is the work!” Zohra pops a small orange candy into her mouth. “My mother says she may have to be in bed for several days! That is several days of freedom!” Zohra’s enthusiasm over her grandmother’s sickness would almost be disturbing if I didn’t know how much she loved her
bibi.

“Are you sure she’s okay?” I pick a red piece in the shape of a small slice of tangerine and savor the sugar as it melts on my tongue. I follow it with a sip of tea. The mixture of the sweet and bitter sends my taste buds into overdrive. I can’t believe what I have been missing for so long. It’s like fireworks in my mouth!

“Of course she is. She just has a little cold. My parents say it is harder for old people to recover, so she has to stay in bed longer.” Zohra looks at me and then rolls her eyes. “She’ll be fine! Stop worrying . . . Besides, we need a break from all this work. It’s not like it’s necessary anyway.”

“Why do you always say that? We’re so lucky, and I don’t think you even realize it. We’re being taught things other girls won’t ever know.”

Zohra rolls her eyes again, this time the other way to make sure I’m catching her reaction. As if it can be missed. “There is a reason why they aren’t taught it—because they’ll never use it!” Zohra says, taking a gulp of her tea, her hands surrounding her clear glass mug. “When we get married, do you think our husbands will have us sitting around reading books? Or do you think they’ll have us cleaning, cooking and taking care of their family?” I know she’s right, but it makes me so angry. “They’ll probably be jealous that we can read. So why bother?”

“Then they’re
khar
s!” I say, already furious at the men we have yet to meet.

“Donkeys or not, they’ll be our bosses,” Zohra says with such ease it makes me even more agitated.

“Don’t you have other dreams? Don’t you want more than just to be married off to someone you don’t know?” I ask. I’m confused at how simple it is for her to talk about giving up her life to a complete stranger.

“What’s the point of dreaming about things we can’t have? We’ll only be disappointed. We might as well dream of the things that we’re bound for, things already in our destiny. Like dream that the man we marry isn’t old . . . dream that he’s kind . . . and dream that our destiny holds a mother-in-law who won’t be horrible to us—”

“But what about love? What about the heart?” I know my question sounds foolish, but I can’t stand how resigned she seems. In the poems Zohra’s
bibi
reads us, there is always love, and it sounds wonderful.

“The heart doesn’t count. Not with us. Forget about the heart. It’s as useless as the rocks scattered throughout our country.” Her words ring tragic and true, but I still hope to capture the rare gem in the pile of stones. “It’s our destiny.”