When the Moon Is Low

  My chest about to burst, I wandered into the orchard. Every step felt like a trespass. The branches that had once welcomed me like open arms now seemed to point at me with accusing fingers, witnesses to my crime.

  I coughed lightly.

  “Salaam,” he called out cautiously.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

  “Good, it’s you,” he said brightly. “I wasn’t sure either.”

  The cheer in his voice felt blasphemous.

  “Did you not hear the news?” I whispered.

  “News? What news?” His tone grew solemn.

  “About the boy. You really don’t know?”

  “What is it? You sound distressed.”

  “He died.”

  “What? Is this some kind of joke, Fereiba?” he whispered back. There was a bite to his tone that surprised me.

  “I would not joke about such a thing,” I said. In my next breath I blurted out what I’d been wanting to scream since KokoGul broke this news at dinner. “It’s true. He’s dead and it’s almost as if we had prayed for it but we didn’t, did we? What did we ask for? What sin have we committed?”

  “Lower your voice,” he cautioned. “You are serious then. Of course, we never prayed for such a thing. Don’t be foolish. Tell me what happened to him.”

  I related everything I had heard from KokoGul. I’d gone over the events in my head so many times, it was almost as if I’d watched his last afternoon. I pictured him gasping, grabbing at his chest, his skin a fiery red, a storm raging from within and circling tight around his throat.

  “Fereiba-jan, listen to me. This is shocking news and I know it might feel odd given our conversations but believe me, I had no intention of bringing him any harm. It was a prayer to God, not a curse. Whatever happened, it was never in our hands.”

  “But we prayed—”

  “And that was all we did. We wished no evil upon anyone, I promise you. We only meant for you to be spared from misery. You must know that.”

  The orchard let out a soft breath, and the knot around my chest loosened. He was right. I did know that we’d meant nothing so fatal in our wishes. And I’d known from our first exchange that this voice in the orchard had a good heart. He had acted as a friend when I had no one to trust with my private thoughts. Even now, he was my only friend in a place and time where friendships between boys and girls did not exist. There were brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, husbands and wives—but no friends.

  I could not bring myself to look directly at him nor would I offer to shake his hand even though these would have been meaningless gestures in comparison to the intimacies we’d already shared. I felt my face warm to think how much I had relied on this stranger through the ugliest days.

  “You’re right. It was such a terrible feeling to think . . .”

  “Don’t think that way. You’ve been set free by strange and sad affairs. I won’t speak badly of the dead, but you and I both know what type of person he was. This was not your doing. It wasn’t my doing either, so don’t put it on our shoulders.”

  I dared not interrupt when he was saying precisely what I needed him to say. In hindsight, I wonder if much of what he said was a bit too perfect. It was possible that, in my solitude, I’d created this friend out of a shadow of a person and brought him to life to fill a need, a dangerous trick of the mind.

  “Fereiba-jan? Say something. Tell me you agree.”

  There was no room for doubt when I heard him utter my name. For the time being, he was as real and true and caring as I needed him to be. I couldn’t leave, tied to him by an unseemly thread of my own creation.

  CHAPTER 9

  Fereiba

  “THEY BLAME YOU FOR HIS DEATH. THAT’S WHAT I HEARD,” KOKOGUL said flatly. The back of my neck grew hot. I stopped drying the dishes. The rag hung limply in my hand.

  “Me? Why do they think it was me?”

  “They say that he was a perfectly healthy young man and that he was taken from his family the day before they were to come for your shirnee. Of course, Agha Firooz’s wife insists that you must be cursed. First your mother, then your grandfather, and now this suitor who was just hours away from becoming your fiancé.”

  My eyes grew moist. To name the people whose loss hurt me most was cruel.

  “It’s nothing to cry about,” KokoGul admonished. “How could they not draw such conclusions? They’re grieving and conflicted and they know your history. Maybe I should consider myself lucky to be alive.” KokoGul chuckled.

  It was possible she had made the whole thing up. I had a hard time telling with her. Sometimes, she got so wrapped up in her own version of the truth that she couldn’t put her finger on the real story. I went back to drying the plates, but she continued.

  “I went to pay my respects to his mother. As soon as she saw my face, she burst into a rage of tears and told me my daughter was a curse. She said ever since they started courting you, things had gone very badly for their family. I think a few of the women sitting around her heard, not many.”

  Oh God. In the quiet of a fateha, I was certain that every woman in Kabul had heard her. I would be Kabul’s black maiden with whispers and raised brows following me.

  “What did you say to her?” I asked hesitantly.

  “What could I say to a grieving mother? I told her that I prayed God would give them peace and rest his young soul in heaven.”

  “I mean about me. About me being cursed.”

  “Fereiba, a fateha is not the time or place to argue. I told her I hoped that wasn’t true.” KokoGul took a glass and poured herself some water. “Anyway, it’s terrible to speak of him this way now that he’s gone, but I hear he was a troublemaker—disrespectful and thieving from his own family. Homaira-jan said he once beat her young son so badly, he couldn’t see out of one eye for a week.”

  “When did you see Homaira-jan?” I asked casually, keeping my eyes on the dishes.

  “Oh, a couple of weeks ago, in the bazaar. She’s back from her trip to India, showing off her new gold bangles, of course.”

  And yet she’d been preparing my shirnee.

  Mother. All my life I had called KokoGul by this radiant and hopeful name, wishing for the touch of lamb’s wool on my cheek and too often getting nothing but a cool draft.

  “The ladies were talking at the fateha. Agha Firooz thought marriage would settle the boy and knock the mischief out of him. They’d been trying to find a match for him for months. Who needs that? We aren’t here to give our girls as second or third options.”

  I snapped the dishrag against the edge of the counter. “But you were ready to give them my shirnee anyway, weren’t you? Why am I so different?”

  My tone was sharp. The hurt, unfurled, lay between me and KokoGul in a rare moment of honesty.

  KokoGul’s eyes met mine.

  “My dear, there is a difference between you and Najiba, and I’m surprised you’re asking me about it at this point. Najiba is simple. She’s a pretty girl . . . pretty enough that she’ll get attention. She comes from a good family. She’s bright and polite.”

  “And me?”

  “And you,” KokoGul said, her words jabbing me like a finger in my sternum. “I have to be more careful with you. Yes, you’re well mannered and have nice enough features, but everyone knows that you lost your mother. And that makes you different. And before you look at me with those angry eyes, remember that it is not my fault you lost your mother and it’s not my fault that people talk the way they do. But it is up to me to do the best I can for you. Think about it, Fereiba. If you wait to dance on the moon, you may never dance at all.”

  “You don’t love me the way you love them.”

  “And you don’t love me the way you love your father. Or your grandfather. Don’t think I don’t know that.”

  I was silent. She was right, of course.

  KokoGul, unfazed, went right back to being personally offended by the would-be suitors.

  “I’m sorry she lo
st her son but I’m even sorrier I wasted my time serving them tea and biscuits.”

  PADAR-JAN SAID NOTHING ABOUT THE MATTER. HE CAME IN AND out of the house, speaking to us gently about our classes but not a word about Agha Firooz or his son. I wanted my father to be different, but it wasn’t something he could do. Though I was free of the suitor and his family, I was left to wonder how readily my family would have given me away. And when it might happen again.

  My neighbor was my retreat. He recited poetry and complained about losing points on his last engineering exam. He spoke passionately of the work he wanted to do when he graduated. He wanted to go abroad and train with a foreign company. He wanted to explore the world. I loved to hear him talk about the university and its layout. He described the buildings and professors in such detail, I could close my eyes and imagine walking through its halls.

  One day, he said something he’d never said before.

  “It would be nice to get to know you and your family without a wall between us.”

  My cheeks grew warm. I smiled and wiggled my toes in the grass.

  “But that would be . . . I mean, that’s not . . .”

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But I wanted to let you know that I was thinking our families should begin a conversation . . .”

  “Do you know what you’re saying?” I asked, half embarrassed. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

  “I wouldn’t, Fereiba. Believe me, qandem.” My sweet. My skin prickled to hear him say my name, the delicate but daring “qandem” settling in my ear like a soft kiss. “Do you know what I think about doing every day?”

  I fell back into the grass and stared up into the branches, green teardrop-shaped leaves backlit by a defiant sun. Its white, red, and black fruits glimmered in various stages of ripeness. The light tickled my eyes.

  “What do you think about?”

  “Every day that I sit here and talk to you over this wall has made me think of climbing over it so I could look at you, walk through your father’s orchard with you, and talk while we listen to songs on the radio.”

  I held my breath. The feeling in the pit of my stomach—the trembling feeling of falling off a cliff—this was new. I found it odd that I could recognize so easily something I had never before seen or felt. This was love the poets described—I was sure.

  “But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized that I don’t want to trespass into your father’s orchard. I want to be welcomed through his front gate. I want to walk with you, hand in hand, without a wall between us, without having to hide our voices from the rest of the world.”

  Tears slid from the corners of my eyes, past my temples, and fell to the earth. For so many years, I’d received nothing but the watered-down love of my siblings, the resentful tolerance of KokoGul, and the guarded affection of my father. These words, ripe and whole, fed the emptiness I’d lived with my entire life.

  “Fereiba.”

  “Yes?”

  “You haven’t said anything.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You could say what you want.”

  I sat up and covered my face with my hands. I couldn’t say the words with God’s sun on my face.

  “I want the same,” I whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

  TWO DAYS LATER, THERE WAS A KNOCK AT OUR FRONT GATE. Thankfully, I was elbow deep in a basin with clothes, socks, and soapy water so KokoGul went to answer it herself. A few moments later, KokoGul stood over me, watching me rub the ring from my father’s shirt collars.

  “After darkness always comes light. Wash my burgundy dress too. Looks like we’ll be having guests this Thursday afternoon.”

  “Who is coming on Thursday?”

  “Agha Walid’s wife, Bibi Shireen, is coming,” she said with a meaningful wink. “Seems our neighbors have something to talk about. You should wash Najiba’s olive dress as well. No, on second thought, make it the yellow one. The green one makes her hips too wide.”

  I said nothing but nodded. KokoGul would be in for a surprise when she realized the conversation was not about Najiba. Just two years younger than me, my half sister had blossomed into a tall young woman, with straight black hair that curled girlishly at the ends. Her skin was milky white and her mouth a pouty rose. KokoGul claimed Najiba had taken after herself but it was hard to see much resemblance.

  The home and orchard adjacent to ours belonged to Agha Walid, a respected thinker and engineer. KokoGul thought highly of him, not because she thought he was a brilliant engineer but because others did. Respect and rumors self-propagated in that way in Kabul. It was good and bad.

  KokoGul was again wetting her lips. Another courtship, another round of choreographed flattery and boasting.

  I STAYED CLEAR OF THE ORCHARD AND HELPED KOKOGUL READY the sitting room for Thursday afternoon. KokoGul picked out Najiba’s dress, a flattering cap-sleeved, A-line cut that showed off her figure but maintained modesty. Just before they were to arrive, I changed into a shift dress with an embroidered neckline. KokoGul raised an eyebrow to see me wearing something I usually saved for special occasions.

  “Don’t spill anything on yourself,” she warned. “Najiba might need that dress in the next few months.”

  I didn’t know how KokoGul or Najiba would react when they found out the suitor was here for me. Najiba had been nervously excited when she heard of the Walids’ visit. My first courtship had given her a taste of the process, and she was eager to feel the spotlight herself.

  I opened the gate for Bibi Shireen, mother of my orchard friend. She’d brought her sister along with her. I greeted them quietly, afraid my tongue would tie if I said more than a few words. I led them into the sitting room just as KokoGul entered from the hallway. She beamed and opened her arms to welcome our neighbor. They kissed cheeks three times and smiled warmly. KokoGul signaled for me to bring some tea for our guests.

  I stole glances at Bibi Shireen, wondering what her son might look like or if he even took after her. Her soft brown eyes smiled at me and settled the nerves in my stomach. Looking at her was like getting a message from my friend in the orchard.

  Everything will be fine, he was telling me. She’s here to make things right.

  I prepared small dishes of yellow raisins, pine nuts, and pistachios. I walked back into the room just in time to hear Bibi Shireen telling KokoGul what an honor it was to have such a lovely family next door.

  “Thank you, sweet girl,” she said, as I placed a cup of tea before her and her sister. I hoped she hadn’t noticed how much the cup had rattled in the saucer.

  “With pleasure,” I mumbled before making a quick exit back to the kitchen. I wondered how much her son had told her about me or our conversations.

  Out of sight, I listened in. She continued to praise our family and then started to talk about her own. Her son, she said, was completing his engineering studies in a few months and was now of age to begin his own family.

  “He will be standing on his two feet soon, what a mother dreams to see. We are very proud of all that he has done.”

  “As you should be. He takes after his father then. Agha Walid is much respected, of course.”

  “Indeed,” his aunt added. “He’s been a role model for his younger siblings and his cousins, my own dear son included.”

  “I see.”

  “KokoGul-jan, we come to you today on behalf of my beloved son, who is the jewel of our home and of our extended family. Praise Allah, I have been blessed with an intelligent, hardworking, and loving son, and I want to make sure that he will have a wife who will bring him happiness. It is time for him to start a family. As a mother, now that he is himself a man, this is one of the most important things I can do for him—to put the right woman at his side. Your family is a respectable family, a trustworthy family, and, praise Allah, a beautiful one.”

  “You are kind,” KokoGul said, sitting straight and tall with her hands folded neatly on her lap. She ate up Bibi Sh
ireen’s sweet talk.

  “And so we have come to talk to you about your darling daughter,” she continued.

  “I see,” KokoGul said, doing her best to appear at least a little surprised.

  I held my breath in the hallway. Najiba was still in her room, wondering if KokoGul would signal her to join the guests.

  “We believe that your eldest daughter would be a good match for my son.”

  “Well,” KokoGul drew her hand to her chest. “My family is honored to hear this, but we had not yet considered marriage for our daughter. She is still young.”

  “Young, yes, but she is of perfect age to consider marriage. These are sweet days for young love to grow, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Her sister, Zeba, echoed her sentiments.

  “Yes, this is a wonderful age for two young people to get to know each other and commit to each other.”

  “I think they would be a wonderful match. Our two families have respected each other for years as neighbors. Our children are grown and it is our responsibility, as their mothers, to think of their futures.”

  I could hear the clink of teacups on saucers as the women planned what to say next.

  “This is something we would have to consider carefully. I cannot even begin to think of giving my daughter’s hand. We, too, have been honored to share a border with your family but . . . at this time, there is nothing more that I can say. As a mother, I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course, dear KokoGul. We are here only to begin a conversation. I want you to know our interests are not superficial. I mean everything I have said. I know that your family must consider this and that you will take your time to think on it. But I’m also certain that you want to do what’s best for your daughter, and it is my hope that you will see my son as the best match for your dear daughter, Najiba-jan.”