Tiny Dancer (26 page)

Hasan left it to the other men to calculate among themselves what such a thing must have cost the Americans: four men in two jeeps who drive hundreds of kilometers to take their friend Hasan away to some important place in order to speak with his burned daughter over a telephone to America. And then after he is finished talking to her, they actually
bring him back home?
The villagers were certain to conclude that a man who can command that kind of attention from military forces is not a man to be trifled with over the details of when he plans to assume payment on his outstanding loans.

Hasan had observed wise businessmen in the marketplace who pretend to forget what they are owed, even as they make sure to thicken the bonds of friendship and silently prowl for opportunity. These wise businessmen seemed to know that as long as they remain are close enough to the sources of money or power, it is only a matter of time before they receive their share and more.

Or so they might be allowed to think. And if there was an opportunity in this for Hasan to protect his family by delaying the day when he might have to choose between making loan payments or feeding his children, then he would do anything he could to help his friends and neighbors believe there was potential for great good in showing patience to Hasan regarding his outstanding loans.

Chapter Twelve

It was like playing inside a cave
or within some silent section of her ancient village’s ruins. All the world dropped away. Her hearing still worked, but inside of her head there was quiet and stillness. Her feelings still worked, but the anxiety and the sense of frantic distraction were gone. Now she realized that the tightness around her chest had not been entirely due to the scars from her burns and surgeries. Much of it came from the deep tension that had settled around her heart to become her daily companion. But now she could feel that tightness melting away.

Throughout Zubaida’s life, she and her family had remained rooted in the practicalities of daily survival, where a stroke of good fortune is celebrated but not questioned. There is no reason to ask why good fortune arrives, because if you do that you will logically have to ask why so much ill fortune also arrives, and one of the basic components of poverty is its power to transform compelling philosophical questions into irritating nonsense.

There had never been a means for her to question her life because there was no other set of rules and no other point of view to apply to it. To question one’s life implies that there is something that can be done about it if the great Answers arrive. Zubaida knew that such personal choices didn’t exist in her future or for any of the women she knew back at home.

She didn’t feel any urge to understand what was making her feel different; she just fell into the rising sense of physical and mental comfort which she felt so clearly manifesting inside of her. She moved along with like a natural dancer instinctively responding to music.

“To this day,”
Peter would much later say,
“I believe that Zubaida was suffering from a variant of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Her reaction to the medication was a validation of that. The change in her for the better was immediate and dramatic.”

Peter was still at the hospital for the day when Rebecca happened to walk past Zubaida’s bedroom, glanced inside and saw to her utter surprise that Zubaida was sitting quietly by herself, reading one of her English language books—and she seemed to be engrossed in it. The thing that made the sight a jaw-dropper was that up until that day Zubaida only did her homework with difficulty, and had always avoided unnecessary contact with books of any kind. Her joy in learning seemed to come mostly from classroom discussions and the personally interactive nature of lessons with other kids in a schoolroom.

Now here she was at home, on her free time, and not only was she reading by herself but she was so engrossed in the book that she didn’t even look up when Rebecca peeked in on her. She continued to quietly sit and amuse herself by practicing her English.

Rebecca had recently been wondering if she could really see some progress coming from Zubaida’s therapy sessions or if she only saw signs of change because she wanted them. Either way, there was no mistaking the dramatic shift that was taking place at that moment, right there in front of her. With the ADHD symptoms held under pharmaceutical control, it was obvious that the Concerta was balancing out Zubaida’s brain chemistry in ways that she needed in order for her to relax and concentrate. In that state she could experience enough calmness to experience her own basic enjoyment of living while still remaining alert to the world.

If the best possible effect was realized from the medication, she would also find that her calmed, focused energies would also allow her school work to proceed faster and with less effort.

Zubaida knew when an old friend unexpectedly taps you on the shoulder in some far away place and pulls up a chair beside you, the joy of their presence and the gratitude for the renewed relationship can prevent you from wanting to question the appearance too much. You understand that questions and answers can suck the heated air out of the balloon while it is still carrying you on your happy surprise ride. Such things are well avoided.

So she greeted the old friend’s return the same way she reacted to any emotionally risky situation; she shut down her feelings and lifted up her chin and pretended that there was nothing going on that she wasn’t familiar with already and that she couldn’t handle perfectly well.

Even so, it was too much of a surprise for her to completely conceal. Her heart speeded up so fast and beat so loud that she could hear the sound of her heartbeat coming up out of her throat and between her parted lips. Her breathing became ragged with excitement, even though she made a deliberate effort to take ordinary breaths. In any unpredictable situation, she knew that it could be a mistake to reveal anything about her true feelings when others could easily use such knowledge to take advantage, or even to do harm. She put to work every bit of self-control that she could muster, using her deeply engrained knowledge of the marketplace to avoid the foolish vulnerability of showing shock or reacting with surprise.

She reacted the same way she would respond if a beautiful and rare bird perched right on her windowsill, to avoid scaring it away. Only this time the rare bird was Zubaida’s music—in the new quiet of her mind and the new ease to her thoughts, the former sputters of returning music were replaced with a full dose. It happened without warning. The long-gone music simply reappeared inside of her, just as if it had come rising up out of a low fog. She didn’t want to make a single move that might scare it away.

No big deal
. She had learned the American words well enough to console herself with their sentiments. Tense up and music tends to disappear; relax and it gets better. So no big deal. Following her own advice, she relaxed all the way down inside of herself, spreading all of her physical energy evenly through her body so that every muscle was relaxed, even though she remained poised to move at the same time. She took deep, even breaths to keep herself calm and balanced, and then let her old friend move through her in waves of music that she heard inside of herself like a radio that comes from everywhere.

Parts of the music were slippery and just moved through her in the form of musical sounds, but other parts were sticky and grabbed at her feet or her legs or her hips or hands until they had to move in response. She kept the movements small, nothing so dramatic as to startle off her welcome visitor, just enough to allow the music to run through her while she undulated ever so slightly to the rhythms.

She couldn’t jump around much or do any fancy twists, but she could let the music flow through her and trace the motion of its waves with her body. She realized that she needed to avoid exuberant moves until she was better healed, but she would have avoided them anyway, at that moment, just to keep from seeming too happy about the return of her music. The ways of the marketplace were clear enough in her memory—she knew that the best way to prevent anyone from taking away something as precious as this was to keep all of her emotions to herself until the coast was clear.

Before too long, she found herself eavesdropping on Peter and Rebecca while they talked about how much this new medicine was helping her. She picked up enough of their English to understand that they were saying that they both thought she seemed happier and more content, and that they thought it was because of the doctors and the medicine and all of the therapist’s talk, talk, talk.

She didn’t see it that way at all.

Zubaida’s personality was better because the music was back again, constantly running through and reminding her that she was herself. And she was better because the surgical scars around her torso were finally healing enough to allow her to move her body along with the music, so long as she kept things gentle. This much was enough to remind her why this painful journey was worth doing in the first place.

Amid all the uncertainty around her, she knew that as long as she had her music and she could send its ripples through her body, she could be Zubaida in this world. No matter if the circumstances were familiar or completely strange, she could remain strong when strength was needed. She could endure all sorts of trials and remain composed throughout, because with her music and dance she carried a potent weapon against despair. Perhaps this weapon would, one day, even provide some kind of protection against developing that deadly cold blue depression which so often gripped her mother—who did not dance.

Zubaida knew that without her music, she would be of no use to anybody because in such a case her spirit would be so low that no one would want her around, anyway. Who could blame them? She wouldn’t want to have to live around somebody who was dead inside, and that is what she would be. Not that most of the men would concern themselves with that as long as she kept up with her chores, but it would be very hard to have female friends if she was dead inside unless they were dead inside, too.

The idea of a bunch of dead friends caused a shiver to run up her spine. She shook off the fear that accompanied the shiver by incorporating the movement into a series of waves that she sent up and down her spine in time to the melody. The instant that she shook off the fear-wave, a rush of elation filled her.

This was it. She had just demonstrated it to herself, although without intending to; this shiver-dance was an instance of her
power
in action. It allowed her to pass a burst of fear all the way through herself, without taking any harm from it, by translating the fear into physical motion and then playing it out in time to the music.

Now while she looked out from inside of the beautiful silence where her rampaging thoughts used to be, she could sense the attraction that she was feeling to all sorts of details about life in this world. Sources of fascination seemed to shine at her from every direction. She was content to wait until later to break out into long leaps over large pieces of furniture and throw the high kicks and the twisting jumps that she had always loved to hurl at the world with her body.

Such things could wait, for the time being, because she was certain that they were coming back to her. She knew it now. And she was sure that the hour for all of that wasn’t so far away, because she could already sway and slowly spin to the music in her head. She could carve the air with graceful hands and fanned fingertips. It was enough to prove to her own doubts and fears that she had real reasons to be glad inside her heart.

She was going to be all right, not only because her music was back but because she was already such a surgical veteran that she had inherited a little bit of Peter’s ability to see three dimensional objects and people through the fourth dimension of time—she could visualize her own healing process. And she could see herself steadily regaining her movement, her
power
, as time went on.

A quiet sense of happiness spread all through her. This one wasn’t so strong that it made her feel any need to run and scream and jump around. She didn’t feel compelled to stomp her happiness all around the house or to shriek it in the face of anyone she came across. She just let the happiness run through her until she felt all smoothed out inside.

It was as if she had just stepped outside and met the rest of herself out on the street—and brought her back home to live. With that, it occurred to her that she hadn’t been seeing the other girls from school very much lately, so she wandered on out of her room to go ask Rebecca if she could arrange for a visit with Emily, her best friend from class, who sometimes still got depressed about the dog bite scar on her forehead. Zubaida figured Emily could probably use a little cheering up.

She grabbed a phone and gave Emily a call, just to see what she was doing.

Later that same month, she asked Peter to take her to the Father-Daughter dance at school. She seemed so proud to have her “dad” accompanying her along with the fathers of the other girls and looked so adorable in her frilly dress, Peter later described it as a turning point in the level of trust and comfort she demonstrated with him.

* * *

John Oerum, the Foreign Service Officer at the UN Assistance Mission in Kandahar, was initially unsure of what to make of the story told by a man calling himself Mohammed Hasan and claiming to be from the village of Farah, out in remote Farah Province. Hasan was requesting—no, demanding—that Oerum find some way to make a telephone call to the United States and talk to some American doctor who supposedly had Hasan’s ten year-old daughter living in his home, while he operated on her over and over. Oerum wasn’t up to speed on the story yet, but he knew a potential international incident when he smelled one.