Words in the Dust (14 page)

Introductions were exchanged and most of the adults drank tea. Baba had an orange, but when none of the other adults ate, the children quickly took care of the food. I might have enjoyed some naan, but I didn’t want to embarrass Zeynab in her new home by making everyone watch me eat. The music floated in from the courtyard outside and the conversation slowed.

Finally, Tahir slipped his hand around Zeynab’s back. “Let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.” He led the way to what must have been his bedroom, and we all followed. “These are new blankets,” said Tahir. He patted his incredibly big bed. It would be the first time my sister had ever slept on anything but a toshak.

I held the end of my chador up higher to cover my hot cheeks and tried not to think about my sister and Tahir. This was the way it was supposed to be, but it felt different seeing Tahir’s bed. I turned and looked at Zeynab, trying to focus on something else.

Belquis stepped forward. She held out a hammer and nail to Zeynab, who was still smiling but shaking — nearly trembling. Malehkah had prepared her for this tradition before the shahba-henna. Standing up on her toes, she was just able to hold the nail to the top of the wooden door frame. With a number of timid taps at first, and then some harder hits, she drove her nail in beside two others. Zeynab’s destiny was now fixed to this house, and to the man who owned it.

Baba smiled and shook Tahir’s hand, pulling him closer and clapping him on the back with his other hand. “I’m very happy,” said Baba. “These are good times.”

Tahir nodded. “Bale, the very best.”

“Khuda hafiz, Najib,” said Zeynab. She hugged him. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Khuda hafiz,” Najib said.

Baba hugged her next. “My beautiful daughter. I’m so happy for you. Everything has turned out perfect!”

Zeynab blushed and spoke quietly. “Tashakor, Baba-jan.”

I wanted to make sure I was the last to say good-bye to my sister. I waited for Malehkah to say something, but she only pinched my elbow to remind me of what I must do.

I walked up to my sister in that dimly lit bedroom and quietly slipped her the wedding cloth. Before it became too
awkward, I threw my arms around her. “I love you so much!” I blinked my eyes to try to hold back the tears. “I’m so happy for you.” Even with my disfigured lips, I kissed Zeynab’s cheek.

“I love you, too,” Zeynab said. When I stepped back, she smiled. “Tashakor.”

We went back to Baba’s Toyota and then to An Daral, leaving my sister in her new home.

Late the next morning, Jamila arrived at our compound carrying a cloth sack. She smiled at Malehkah and me and then pulled from the bag Zeynab’s wedding cloth, stained with my sister’s blood. Malehkah smiled, accepted the cloth, and thanked Jamila. Once she left, Malehkah’s smile vanished.

“There,” she said. “It is finished. Your sister is married.” She handed me the cloth. “Now go burn this thing.”

All my life, whenever I needed to talk about anything, I would go to Zeynab. When I had a question, I would ask her. When I was scared or worried, she would comfort me. When I needed someone to laugh or celebrate with, she was right with me. She was a line of protection against Malehkah and she was my best friend. My sister. We shared the same life, never separated.

Did she miss me like I missed her?

I couldn’t ask her. I had seen her only three times since the wedding two weeks earlier — once at a party where we brought gifts to her in her new home, then at another party at Hajji Abdullah’s, then at one more party in our house. All of these gatherings were supposed to unite our two families into one. I guess they did this, and I was excited to see my sister again, but with everyone else around, I didn’t get the chance to talk to her. Not really. Not the way we used to talk.

When Zeynab and her new family had come to An Daral, I found one moment to talk to her alone in the kitchen. “Well, what’s married life like? Is Tahir nice? What is it like to live with his other wives? I’ve missed you —”

“It’s wonderful!” Zeynab’s smile and the sound of her voice reminded me of the way she had tried to sweet-talk
Khalid when we were watering the garden. She watched the door. “Everything I’ve ever hoped for and more!”

“Zeynab?” Tahir called from the main room.

My sister quickly snatched up the teapot she’d come to get and rushed out of the kitchen. That was my only chance to talk to her, and she hadn’t even looked at me.

No matter how much I told myself that being married and having a family was what she had always dreamed about, no matter how much I tried to force the sad thoughts from my mind, I could not get past my loneliness.

Baba and Najib had their work and could talk to each other. Khalid and Habib played together. Malehkah never liked to say much to anyone. My unhappiness wasn’t just doing the extra work that Zeynab used to do. I would have happily done twice as much work if it meant I could have someone to be with. Someone who understood me.

Now, after having taken Baba and Najib’s midday meal to the construction site, I approached Meena’s sewing shop. After what I had said to the muallem during my last visit, I doubted if she would even say more than a few words to me. But that was just it. I needed to hear something besides Malehkah’s grumpy orders, my father’s constant stream of business, and the whining of my little brothers.

I neared the shop door, reached out, and then dropped my hand and walked past. I couldn’t go in there. Why should Meena talk to me after I’d been so mean to her?

“Change your mind, child?” Her voice came from behind me.

I stopped and faced her. She was standing on the packed-dirt walkway just outside her door. “What?”

“Did you change your mind about reading?”

“I don’t know.” I hesitated. At first I loved the poems, and I wanted to keep my promise to my mother. Then it all seemed like a waste…. Now … “I really don’t know.”

“Ah, last time you were so certain,” said Meena kindly. “Now it seems you need a cup of tea more than ever.”

I followed her through her shop, past the faded curtain to the small space where she lived. She said nothing, but motioned for me to take my old seat in the green plastic chair. The faded black-and-white photograph of Meena’s husband remained on the little table near her bed. The crack in the glass over the picture made it hard to see.

“How did you meet your husband?” I asked.

“What do you mean, child? I met Masoud at our wedding.” She looked at me while she waited for the kettle to boil. “My second cousin’s mother came to our house one day seeking a wife for her son. My parents thought it would be a suitable match.”

“Were you happy?”

Meena smiled. “At first, I was nervous. Married for life to a man I’d never met! But my parents chose wisely. My years with Masoud were the happiest of my life. We loved each other. Had fun together. He even helped me through my studies so that I could become a professor at the university
in Herat.” The kettle began to whistle. She turned down the heat and poured the steaming hot water into the teapot. Then she took a book from a shelf and sat down on her bed, leafing through the pages. “Is that what this visit is about? Are you worried about your sister?”

I stared at the tiny wisp of steam rising from the spout of the teapot. The only sound was Meena flipping the old pages, one after another. “I don’t know,” I said. “She … I mean all she ever dreamed about was being a good wife for a good man. Having a family.” I shrugged. “She is happy. I should be happy for her.”

“Are you?”

“I miss her.”

Meena set the book aside, open to whatever point she had turned to. She stood up, poured two cups of tea, and handed one to me. I took it and dipped my head back to drink. She sat down and picked up her book. “Why are you here?”

I looked at her nearly white hair. Her aged face. Her deep, clear, sharp eyes. “I don’t know,” I said.

She nodded and lifted the book up to read.

“More from
Yusuf and Zulaikha
?” I asked. She nodded. “I feel like the poet is writing about me.” Meena smiled. I shook my head. “I’m not just talking about him using my name. I mean, this part is about Zulaikha missing someone. And it’s about …”

“Missing something else?”

“Yes. A secret longing. A restless desire.” I searched for the right words, grateful that Meena was patient enough to wait for them. “Zeynab is married. That’s a wonderful thing.” I touched my split lip. “I was supposed to have this fixed. Only I didn’t get my surgery, and somehow my sister’s marriage hasn’t made me happy.” I took a drink, hoping that Muallem would say just the right thing. Instead, she still waited for me to speak. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about what I said the last time I was here. I didn’t mean it.” I wanted to explain everything. “I’m sorry” was all I could say.

Muallem held up her hand. “No apologies, child. You are learning.”

I took a drink. “I think I want to keep learning.” I wanted it if only for the pleasure of having someone to talk to, that much I understood. “I want to be able to read and write on my own. The poems were important to my mother. To you too.” I looked up at Muallem. “I want to learn more about them.”

“What’s more,” Meena smiled, “the words, the old poems, are a great comfort to us when we are lonely. Now, let us look at this bit of
Yusuf and Zulaikha
that I just read from. We’ll
explore the sounds the letters make and examine in particular some of the simpler words.” She looked up from the page. “Ready?”

“Bale, Muallem-sahib.”

“This lamb,” my father said later that night, sucking the juice from his fingers as we all sat around the dastarkhan to eat, “is really good, Zulaikha.”

“Tashakor,” I said, trying to remember the last time he’d complimented Malehkah’s cooking. Or Zeynab’s. I looked at the empty space next to me.

“You keep cooking like this, and you’ll make your husband really happy someday.” He picked up a bone and gnawed on the little bit of meat left on it. “Mmm. So good.” Malehkah stared at Baba for a moment. When Habib reached for more naan, she tore off a strip for him. Baba dropped the bone in front of him. “Kind of quiet without Zeynab around. If she’s cooking half this good, then Tahir must be a very happy man! Ah, speaking of Tahir …” Baba pointed at Najib. “I still need you to take the Toyota to the bazaar tonight and pick up the steel I ordered. Tahir wants that second block press machine finished by the end of the week.”

“Bale, Baba,” said Najib.

With a sigh, I rolled rice into a little ball in my fingers. I was about to lean my head back to eat, but my father was watching me with a frown. He seemed to miss Zeynab too, at least a little bit. Maybe he’d take me to see her.

I took a deep breath. “Baba-jan, do you think —”

“You know,” Baba said. “Hajji Abdullah hasn’t had a moment’s peace since the wedding.” He rubbed his knuckles against his chin. “It seems that his first wife always pesters him and asks if it is still possible to get you to the Americans in Kandahar for your surgery.” He grinned. “He talked to that woman soldier in Farah. She says they’re expecting a flight tomorrow. I figure Najibullah can take you there. We can spare him for three or four days. Maybe we’ll get you all fixed up after all.”

I dropped the rice I’d been holding and stared at my father, wide-eyed. Then I looked at Najib, who seemed as surprised as I was. Baba-jan sounded like a cannon when he burst into laughter. “What? Not even a ‘tashakor’?”

“Really, Baba-jan?” I asked. “Tomorrow?”

Baba laughed until his face was red. I scrambled to my feet, sidestepping a clapping Khalid to run to my father’s outstretched arms. Baba squeezed me close. “That’s my good, sweet girl, Zulaikha. Everything will be perfect very soon.”

I buried my face in my father’s chest, almost afraid that if I let him go, the chance for the surgery and a normal mouth would be snatched away again.

Later that night, after the dishes and the evening prayer were done, I tried to sleep on my toshak up on the roof. Reaching out to the empty space next to me, I wished I could hold Zeynab’s hand. My chest ached with the need to share this wonderful news with her.

A spark of light, a shooting star, fell across the starscape, a bright trail burning behind it. Had Zeynab seen it too? I had been praying for her happiness in her marriage. Maybe she had prayed for my surgery. How else could this miracle be explained?

But I worried, because I had thought all of these happy thoughts before and then my hopes were wasted on a helicopter that never came. I prayed and prayed that this time would be different. I didn’t know how I could deal with the disappointment again if it wasn’t.

I must have slept, because Najib shook me awake and said simply, “Zulaikha.” It was still very dark. I looked to the mountains in the east and could not see even the faintest hint of dawn. We were awake impossibly early, well before the call of the muezzin. I snapped to action, jumping up off my toshak and hurrying after my brother down the steps into our house. I expected all to be dark. Instead, everyone was gathered in the center room, which was brightened by our kerosene lamp. In my sleepiness and hurry, I hadn’t even noticed that Khalid and Habib weren’t up on the roof.

“Good luck, Zulaikha,” Khalid said.

Habib said nothing, but kept his small stubby arms wrapped tightly around my legs until Khalid pulled him away. My smallest brother wiped his sleepy eyes and then waved at me.

“Be good for the Americans, Zulaikha. Make sure you thank them. Do what they say,” said Malehkah. When our
eyes met, my father’s wife only nodded deeply before we both looked away.

Last of all, Baba-jan picked me up in a tremendous, warm hug. He lifted me off the floor and held me as he hadn’t held me in years. He kissed my cheek and then set me down.

“Don’t you worry, Zulaikha. Najibullah will make sure you are safe on your journey. Then when your mouth is all better and you come back to us, I promise you we will all celebrate! Didn’t I say before that these are good times?” Baba-jan rubbed my back and then tossed his keys to Najib. My brother nodded to me and we went outside, and then we were finally in the car and on our way.

After we passed through An Daral, Najib gripped the steering wheel tightly. “I’m trying to remember the way to Farah. It all looks different in the dark.” He didn’t say anything else the entire trip. Eventually, we did reach the city, where we drove through the dark, empty, early morning streets and out to the American base. When our headlights struck the wire, the whole base looked even more frightening and unwelcoming than it did the first time I was there.

When we parked by the checkpoint, Najib’s hands shook as he fingered his prayer beads, sliding each bead one at a time along the loop of string. An Afghan guard approached our car, took one look at me, and announced us over his radio. Then he asked us to shut off our car and wait. Finally, I could see the headlights of a vehicle approaching. A little pickup stopped next to our car, and Captain Mindy and Shiaraqa stepped out.