The Taliban Cricket Club (18 page)

“At least knocked his gun down, spoiled his aim. We knew what he was going to do when he swung the gun off his shoulder.”

“And be killed for doing that also.” Then he added stoutly, “You saw, we went to her body. I'm not afraid.”

“You should be.” I turned to face Jahan. “I have to help you get out of this murderous country. Even though it's madness. I cannot sit here doing nothing while waiting to hear from Shaheen,” I said.

We sat on the divan, staring at the wall. Finally, Jahan tentatively reached out and I allowed him to drape his arm around my shoulder. It felt stiff from nervousness. I leaned against him.

“I hear your stomach rumbling.”

“We haven't eaten since this morning,” he reminded me. “Do I need to buy anything?”

I rose. “No, we have some food from yesterday, if you don't mind the chicken again. And we have some naan. I'll check on Maadar.”

I went to her room; Dr. Hanifa was reading aloud from
Pride and Prejudice
. Mother smiled when I came in and the doctor put the book down.

“I heard someone shouting,” she said.

“That was me. I banged my toe on the door. But the toe's not broken.”

“You look tired,” Mother said when I bent to kiss her.

“I'm just not fit, that's all. How are you feeling?”

“The doctor says I'm feeling fine.” They both smiled. “I had some dinner with Hanifa, but you and Jahan haven't eaten.”

“Y
OU MUST WRITE A
letter giving your permission for me to leave the house. I'll carry it around in case we get separated,” I said to Jahan after dinner.

“I'll do it now,” he said and went up to his room.

Although I was so tired, I went to Father's office and started dialing Shaheen's number. I would keep at it all night if necessary. After the fifth hit on redial, it connected and I heard the ringing a long distance away.

A man answered with a hello and I recognized Shaheen's father's voice. “Uncle,” I shouted down the line in English. “It's Rukhsana.”

“Rukhsana! How are you?”

“I'm fine.” I hated this polite pleasantry, nervous that we'd be cut off before I could talk to Shaheen. “How are you and the family?”

“We're very well and happy here in America. How is your mother?”

“Not any better, Uncle.” We could continue all night like this! I plunged in. “I must speak to Shaheen, it's very urgent.”

“He's not home, but I'll tell him you called and he will call you back. I know he wants to speak to you. He's tried calling, but there was no answer.”

I managed a smile. “You know our phones, Uncle.”

“In America the phones always work and the calls are cheap,” he announced proudly.

“When will he be back?”

“Soon. He'll call you.”

“Tell him I'm waiting and it's very urgent.” I hurried on, “Do you know if he's sent—”

The line disconnected.

I sat in the chair, staring at the phone, waiting for Shaheen to call back. I fell into a sleep of confusing images: cricket, a woman screaming, a motorbike passing. I was there in the morning, stiff and still tired, as the light slipped through the cracks in the shutters. I checked the phone and heard the stuttering dial tone.

I scratched another day off the calendar, trying not to look at the shrinking numbers. Maybe Shaheen had tried to call and couldn't get through. And if he had my letter, he would be arranging the transfer through the
hawala
dealer. I washed in cold water and that revived me, and I went down to make breakfast. Jahan appeared in the kitchen, sleepy and shuffling, but I didn't tell him I had spoken to Shaheen's father. What was there to tell? We took the tray up to Mother and ate with her, not saying much, as she looked as if she'd had a restless night too. When Dr. Hanifa joined us, I went down to the kitchen.

I heard the soft knocking on the back garden gate and reflexively looked at the battered clock on the table. It was nine thirty—I had forgotten about the girls.

Over three years ago, Mother and I had started clandestine classes for girls in and around Karte Seh. They came once or twice a week, or sometimes not at all, depending on whether or not they were free of their chores. Only a few came these days—Raishma, a cheeky girl with an impish laugh and lovely green eyes was the oldest at eight; the youngest, Sooryia, was only four, a shy, thin girl.

They broke the monotony of our restricted lives with their eagerness to learn and their gossip. It was Raishma who had told me about the woman whose fingertip, with the nail varnish, was chopped off. And a girl named Louena told me about her brother, who was given an electronic game the size of a playing card, a magical gift for his eighth birthday that he took to show off to his friends on the street. The religious police caught him. They first smashed the toy, then beat him and broke his right arm. I wrote that story too after talking to the depressed and frightened boy, his arm in a sling.

When Mother could no longer teach the classes, I continued alone. I taught them to read and write and then some geography, science, and arithmetic. We used small slates that they brought with them, hidden under their
shalwars
. Because they were that young, they could go out alone, as they didn't have far to travel. They were so proud of their skills. I thought of the priceless value of the written word. Without reading, how would they find where they were in a country, how could they read signs on a bus, read the instructions on a packet? To read a language, any language, is a wonderful gift that I had taken so much for granted. I remembered my own excitement at discovering the alphabet—first the letters formed words and then sentences, paragraphs, and pages, and ultimately they provided the pleasure of reading a whole book, even a child's story.

On two occasions women banged on our gate and told us they wanted their little girls to join the classes. As I suspected they were informers, I would blandly deny teaching any girls.

“Jahan, the girls are at the gate. I can't teach them and they mustn't see me. Tell them I'm away.”

Jahan took the keys from the hook and went to the back door. I watched from the kitchen window as he opened it and stepped out—there were three here today.

Jahan closed the gate and returned to the window. “I told them you were away and they want to see Maadar,” he said.

“I'll go up and hide.” I retreated up the stairs as he let them in. Raishma, Sooryia, and Louena trailed after him. I ducked into Mother's room. She was propped up on pillows, and Dr. Hanifa was reading to her.

“The girls want to see you,” I said and went into my room, leaving the door open just enough to listen.

They went in quietly and I heard Mother say, “Come and give me a hug.”

“You look so beautiful, Maadar
,
” they chorused.

“Never as beautiful as any one of you. I'm sorry Rukhsana's away, and I don't have the strength to teach you. Are you reviewing your lessons every day?”

“Oh yes,” Sooryia said. “But we miss you teaching us.”

“Isn't Rukhsana a good teacher too?”

They giggled. “But not as good as you. When will you be teaching our classes again?”

“Soon,” Mother said. “Very soon. Once I get my strength back, I will teach you all everything I know so that you will be full of learning and will do wonderful things in your lives. You'll become engineers and doctors, scientists and journalists, film stars and biologists. You'll be whatever you want to be.”

I knew they loved hearing her say those magical words, although they already knew that they would never fulfill those dreams. I imagined each one leaning over to kiss her and then quietly filing out of her room. They would soar on her imaginings until they reached home to crash in their prisons.

“When will Rukhsana come back?”

“Oh, in a week or two,” Jahan told them as they went downstairs.

“And then she'll marry Shaheen?”

“Yes.”

They always asked that question, concerned for my future. I was not just old but ancient, and still unmarried.

“He's in America,” I would reply. “We'll marry when he returns here. And that could be very soon.” It was a hope, of course, that instead of sending money he would send himself.

“But why would he return here? Everyone is trying to leave.”

“He'll return just to marry me, and then I'll be leaving for America with him.”

A dozen pairs of eyes lit up, their faces took on a dreamy look, and I felt myself reduced to their ages when we believed in fairy tales. Like them, I imagined Shaheen racing across the sky to Kabul, racing along the roads to this door, snatching me up, and racing us back to the plane and flying away. It was fairy tales that sustained us in childhood, filling in the nooks and crannies of our imaginations and soaring us into enchanted worlds, and we believed they could keep nurturing us when we became women, but we know now that those stories belonged only to that age, and that life has shorn away dreams. There are no princes riding to the rescue; there are only ferocious dragons guarding us against them, and the princes haven't the weapons or the powers to strike them down.

J
AHAN AND
I
LEFT
for practice a half hour earlier than usual to pick up my new beard at Noorzia's. While she whisked me inside, Jahan stood outside “Don't be too long,” he warned. “And don't leave without me. I'll buy the naan and vegetables and be back.”

“I worry about you all the time,” she said, closing the door behind us. To my surprise, she continued in English. “Safe still you are?”

“I'm still alive, yes. But why English suddenly?”

“Some English. You speak. I understand need to.”

“If you want me to.” I followed her into her salon. “Tell me why.”

“Remember, I told you about my friend in Melbourne? I have the visa and now I wait for the air tickets. I practice must my English.”

It was a broken dialogue, but I felt my envy slip through the gaps in her words. She was escaping; she would be free. I imagined Australia from seeing it in my atlas, a vast island on which a hundred Afghanistans could fit with ease. A safe, peaceful land so far from our bloody turmoil and fear. I knew its cricketers—Ponting, Warne, Gilchrist, McGrath, strong young white men—and caught glimpses of those cricket stadiums when India toured. I had also seen Melbourne when the cameras panned away from the Australian Open tennis tournament to reveal the Yarra River, tall buildings set against a clear azure sky, and a pale silvery sea.

“Who is this friend?”

“Dead husband friend,” she began in English, determined to master it.

“Tell me in Dari first, and then we'll speak English.”

She slipped back into her native language. “Hussein was the producer I worked for when I was a makeup artist in Beirut. Somehow, he found his way to Melbourne, and he owns a video store. He cannot work as a producer, as his English isn't good.” She smiled happily. “He wants to marry me and sponsored my visa. He will send the money to pay for the smuggler to take me to Karachi. From Karachi I'll fly to Colombo, Sri Lanka, and then on to Melbourne.” She switched back to English. “I need to speak good English to understand immigration questions. I speak so little, but with you I make better.” She searched for her next words. “He make good . . . what is word?”

“Husband?”

“Husband. Yes. Say salon business good.”

“I will miss you,” I said. “I am sad.”

“Sad I too,” she managed. “You are safe no and every day danger, danger here.” She smiled. “Protect,” she pointed at my chest, struggling for the word. “Yes . . . protect your tits . . .” I lifted the shirt to show her the protector and playfully she gently dug an elbow into a breast. “No tell a tit. Muscle? Yes, only strong muscle.”

She had my new beard ready, a young man's sleek fine down. The netting was almost translucent, and each hair was firmly in place, a light brown to match my own hair. She had a roll of Velcro tape, cut two strips, and stuck them on my cheeks. The beard had Velcro too and she placed it firmly against the Velcro on my face. For added safety, she had stitched flesh-colored straps to fit around my lower neck and metal hooks to hang it from my ears. When we fit it, it felt more comfortable than my old one, and much more secure. I shook my head vigorously but it remained in place.

“Will difference, see?” She was determinedly back to English.

“Will they notice the difference?”

“Will they notice the difference?”

“Dif-fer-ence. I hope not. When do you leave?”

“Oh, time not know. Days, weeks. Wait for ticket, money. Did Jahan see my smuggler, Juniad?”

“Yes.” Jahan had wandered the crowded, meandering lanes in the old city, south of the river, looking for the address. When he finally found the smuggler's home, the man was very wary until Jahan used the magic password “Noorzia” and was welcomed and offered a glass of tea. “But the price has gone up. It's now one thousand five hundred dollars because of the rising cost of diesel, paying bribes, and whatever else. He said he doesn't have a schedule and makes his run only when he has a full load of people to smuggle.”

“That's Juniad.” She hesitated, then added, “Just be careful. I told you, you can't trust him or any other smuggler.”

“Do the Talib know who they are?”

“I don't know.” She returned to Dari, as her English was tiring us both. “Have you heard from Shaheen?”

“Not yet. I'm praying hard he will send the money through the
hawala
any day.”

She hugged me. “I'm sure he cares for you. You'll see. Shaheen will send the money. You need a good husband. I had a good one in Tariq, he pleasured me a lot. Most men don't care for the woman enough for her pleasure; they use us for their own, brief as it is. I miss the pleasure that my husband gave me. When Shaheen sends the money, go and see Juniad. But be careful. Pay half up front, half when you cross. He's a good man at heart.”