Two days passed as such. In the nights, Shekib stared at the wall, pictured Amanullah’s face and imagined how someone from the palace might approach her with his proposal. Where would she live? She would grow her hair. She would wear makeup, as some of the women in the harem did from time to time. A British woman visiting the palace had brought rouge and powder, showing the women how to lighten their complexions and bring an alluring tint of color to their cheeks. Shekib wondered if the powder could conceal her disfigurement, her half mask.
On the third night, Shekib was on duty. She stood outside the harem, watching the palace and wishing her mother was alive. She took longer than she should have to react to the footsteps and talking inside the harem. Halima was at the front entrance just when Shekib was starting to realize something was going on.
“It’s Fatima! She’s not well. We need to send for the doctor!”
Fatima had taken a dramatic turn for the worse and with it, Shekib’s naseeb changed course.
CHAPTER 39
RAHIMA
THE ROAD WAS BUMPY. My sides ached with every jolt. Badriya watched me from the corner of her eye. The experienced first wife wasn’t surprised. Last night Abdul Khaliq had asked me to visit him. I entered his room quietly. Although I was no longer a new bride, the nights with my husband still repulsed me. I had to take my mind elsewhere, think of the chores I still needed to do or school days when the moallim would teach us to sing our multiplication tables to memory.
Whenever my wifely obligations were fulfilled, I would wait to hear my husband’s snores, a signal that I could put myself back together and retreat to my room. Last night was different.
Badriya and I were set to leave in the morning for my first trip to Kabul. I was excited but anxious about leaving Jahangir behind. Abdul Khaliq’s even breaths told me he was relaxed but not yet asleep. I took a chance.
“I wanted to ask something . . . ,” I said hesitantly. I looked for the combination of words that wouldn’t anger him right away. He looked surprised to hear me speak. With a raised eyebrow, he told me to explain.
“Tomorrow . . . because I will be helping Badriya-jan . . . I was hoping I could take Jahangir with me so that—”
“Jameela will watch him.”
“But I didn’t want to trouble her. She’s already got her own to look after.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“And I want to be sure that Jahangir eats well. Sometimes he can be so picky . . .”
I had said too much.
“Then don’t go!” he thundered. “It was an idiotic idea to start with! Now I have to listen to you nag! You appreciate nothing!”
He was up now, the sheets pulled behind him, leaving my legs uncovered.
“I’m sorry—” I started to say, hoping to stymie the reaction I could see coming.
It was too late. Abdul Khaliq spent the next thirty minutes making me regret I’d spoken.
I realized then my husband understood people. He knew just how to get to people to do what he wanted, to make them angry or sad or fearful. I realized that was probably how he had been successful at whatever it was that he did.
Morning came and I kissed my sleeping son before laying him on a cushion in Jameela’s bedroom. I touched his cheek and watched as his lips turned slightly in a dreamy smile.
Jameela bit her lip when she saw my face. My cheek was starting to turn a deeper red, a bruise in the outline of a hand taking shape.
“He’ll be fine, Rahima-jan,” she said warmly. “I’ll have Jahangir sleep right next to me with your blanket. We’ll talk about you until you come back. This will be good for you, you’ll see.”
I was grateful and knew Jahangir loved being with her and her children. Still, I hated to leave my son.
Two weeks, I thought. We’ll be back in two weeks for our first break. It’s not that long, right?
I ran my fingers through his dark locks once more and leaned over to kiss his head. He turned onto his side, his perfect lips parting just wide enough for me to see his petite teeth.
“It’s okay, Rahima-jan. He’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. You’ll see,” Jameela said. She hugged me delicately, knowing one bruise heralded the presence of others.
I carried my duffel bag out to the car. Bibi Gulalai and Badriya were outside, as was Hashmat. He looked over and smiled snidely.
“Good morning!” he called out.
“Good morning,” I mumbled, my mind still on Jahangir’s soft face. I was in no mood for Hashmat’s facetiousness today. “Salaam, Khala-jan.”
She ignored my greeting. “You’re ready for your trip to Kabul I see. I don’t know how you could leave a young boy to go off doing things you’ve no business doing. My son is being kind in allowing this, so you better make yourself very useful to Badriya.”
“That’s right,” Badriya echoed.
“I doubt she’ll be worth the trouble she’ll cause,” Bibi Gulalai muttered.
Hashmat laughed. “Isn’t that nice that you’ll be joining Madar-jan in Kabul! I bet all your classmates would be jealous if they knew you were going to see the city,” he said.
I shot him a sharp look that went unnoticed by Bibi Gulalai and Badriya. Hashmat made a point of talking about my bacha posh days and my male classmates as often as he could. He used to do it in front of his father but it sometimes resulted in such an explosion of anger that he would be caught in the overflow. Something about me as a bacha posh had piqued Abdul Khaliq’s interest, but now he could not tolerate hearing about me even sitting next to boys in school.
Abdul Khaliq’s guards put our bags in the back of the car. We donned our burqas and climbed into the backseat.
Don’t speak to the guards. They’ll watch out for you but if you do anything . . . let me assure you . . . you’ll regret it. And in Kabul, I have people. I will hear about everything you do. If you do anything to embarrass me, I promise you that you’ll wish you never stepped foot in that city.
He was clear. I was thankful Jahangir was too young to cause much trouble. Abdul Khaliq’s temper came hard and fast and often without warning. I had asked Jameela to make sure Jahangir did not get in his father’s way. I wouldn’t be there to shield him.
These thoughts played over and over until the rough road finally lulled me to sleep in the backseat. Badriya was in no mood to talk. She leaned her head on the window and started to snore lightly.
I don’t know how many hours passed before structures came into view again. There were buildings, houses, horses and cars. I sat up straight. We were in a jeep with tinted windows so I dared to look out and see what the people of Kabul looked like. My mind jumped to Bibi Shekiba and her first impressions of the capital, as Khala Shaima told it.
I was the same, wide-eyed and amazed, but in a different way. I had never seen so many cars and people in one place! It looked as if everyone who lived in Kabul owned a car. And store after store, the streets were lined with exotic wares and different foods. Bakeries, tailors, even a beauty salon! This was so different from home. I wished Shahla could be here to see it all with me. Or the boys. There were so many places we could have explored if we’d grown up here!
“Kabul is . . . Kabul is amazing!” I exclaimed.
Badriya seemed entertained by my reaction. “Of course it is! There’s a lot going on here. We won’t have time for me to point everything out to you.” I saw Maroof and Hassan in the front seat look at each other. It was unlikely Badriya had actually seen any of Kabul. She had complained to Jameela that the guards took her from her hotel to the parliament building and back. “We’re almost there. We’re going to be staying at a guesthouse run by some Europeans.”
Down a tree-lined street, a building came into view.
It had a gated entrance flanked by porticos with stone pillars, Through the main entrance, a wide path led to and encircled an imposing tower with a flag flapping from its summit. I craned my neck to get a good view.
That tower reaches the sky! I thought.
&
nbsp; The palace’s façade was embellished with carvings and arches, dull and chipped, but it surely once looked very majestic. A woman walked past the front gate, her green-yellow head scarf pulled across her face, hiding everything below her nose and cascading down her shoulders. As we drove past, she turned slightly and looked directly at my tinted window, her eyes meeting mine as if she could see through it. This first glimpse of a Kabuli woman was exciting for me, a girl from a village.
“What’s that building?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“That’s Arg-e-Shahi, the presidential palace.”
“Bibi Shekiba . . . ,” I whispered. I got a chill thinking of how my great-great-grandmother must have felt when she first saw those gates. And to think of what she had seen on the other side. As usual, Khala Shaima had left her story unfinished. The turn of events in her life was unpredictable. I wanted to know what became of her almost as much as I wanted to know what would become of me.
“God have mercy, what the hell are you mumbling about?”
Badriya’s question went unanswered. I stared at the palace, where my legacy began.
What happened to you here? I wondered.
Maroof turned left, then right and left again, weaving through the crowded streets and cursing every car in his path. There were tanks and soldiers in fatigues and helmets. They didn’t look Afghan. These were the foreign soldiers Badriya had told us about. Just like my husband’s guards, they had large guns hanging at their sides. Little boys stood in front of them, looking curious. The soldiers laughed and chatted casually.
“Are they American?” I asked Badriya.
“They’re from everywhere. Some are American, some European or whatever they are.” She pointed to a building coming up on our left. “We’re here,” she announced.
“Is this where you always stay?”
“Yes, it’s a nice place. You’ll see.”
Badriya was right. We pulled up to a metal gate on a small street, tucked away from the busy market.
Our driver rolled down his window when we pulled up to the blue-uniformed guard at the gate. He mentioned Abdul Khaliq’s name. I thought the men were shaking hands but I realized Hassan’s fingers held a folded stack of bills that the man slipped into his pocket.
I looked over at Badriya but she either hadn’t noticed the exchange or didn’t care.
Hassan opened the gate and our driver, Maroof, pulled into a circular drive that looped in front of the largest building I’d ever seen. It was three stories tall with rows of windows lined up like a hundred eyes. Two columns framed the glass, double-door entrance.
“And this is where the meetings are?”
“No, you fool. The parliament meets in the parliament building.” I was too excited to be annoyed with her condescending tone.
We were led into an elegant lobby with a reception desk. A man wearing a crisp dress shirt and slim pants was talking on the phone, but he nodded when he saw our driver and the other guard. He cradled the receiver and looked up at our guards. I stood behind Badriya, not wanting to make an inappropriate move. Three women walked in from outside dressed in fitted tunic tops and denim pants. Their head scarves were demurely tied under their chins but wisps of hair framed their faces and their delicately arched brows. Their shoes got my attention most. Black leather pumps broke the silence in the room.
Looking at their clothes, I was thankful the burqas hid our faded, baggy dresses. I felt suddenly unsophisticated and awkward. I tried to hide my feet behind Badriya. The women were busy talking and hardly noticed us.
The conversation between Abdul Khaliq’s bodyguards and the man at the reception desk went back and forth until finally there was another handshake. Another wad of bills slipped into the receptionist’s palm and from there was quickly tucked into his jacket pocket, while he made a quick glance around the room to make sure no one else was watching, not that anyone would have cared.
We were led to a room on the third floor with two single beds and a bathroom with a western toilet. The window looked out on the courtyard behind the hotel, a small stone area surrounded by flowering plants and shrubs. I saw a pigeon waddling in the shade of a tree.
Like the palace gardens where Bibi Shekiba used to stand guard, I thought.
“I can’t believe this is where you stay in Kabul! No wonder you like coming here so much!”
“Don’t get used to this,” she said, opening her duffel bag and pulling out a sweater.
“Why not?”
“Because we’ll be in an apartment soon. Abdul Khaliq is only using this place temporarily. He’s been looking to find a place in Kabul where we can stay with more privacy, only his guards outside.”
“Has he found a place yet?” I asked.
“How the hell should I know?” she replied. She sat on the bed and took her sandals off. Her heels were cracked and yellow. She rubbed one of her soles and sighed. “Look, Rahima, I know why you’re doing this. Don’t think I’m stupid.”
I looked at her but said nothing. I thought it best I let her explain.
“But as long as you help me with what I need to read and write for these meetings, then I don’t care much. Just don’t expect to see much of Kabul.”
Badriya was right. Our personal guards kept to themselves but were never more than twenty feet away. Most of the time they stayed in the small seating area on the third floor, just two doors away from our room. I hated knowing that Abdul Khaliq was keeping tabs on us at all times, but Jameela had told me about the threats against parliament members, especially the women, so there was something comforting about knowing Abdul Khaliq’s trusted bodyguards were watching over us in this new, busy town. I felt safer because of them.
Work started the following day. Our guards drove us to the parliament building in the morning. We wore our burqas until we got there. Badriya slipped hers off and instructed me to do the same. I looked over at the guards to see their reaction. They had turned away but watched peripherally while we entered a long and stately building with a row of columns before it.
People walked in and out, men and women who looked to be from all different regions. Some of the men were dressed in the flowing caftans and pants common to our village, their heads wrapped in turbans, one end cascading over a shoulder. But it was the women who made my jaw drop. Some were dressed as we were, in simple flowing calf-length dresses with loose pants underneath. But others wore button-down shirts and long flowing skirts. Some even wore jackets and slacks. They wore their colorful head scarves smartly. As we got nearer, I could see that a few women wore lipstick or rouge, while others had outlined their eyes with kohl. I wondered what their husbands thought of them walking uncovered, with painted faces.
We came to a security station. Four uniformed guards stood at the entrance, two men and two women. The mass of people slowly melded into three lines. Badriya took me by the elbow and led me past the others. She paused briefly when she came to the security guard, dressed in the same khaki color as her male counterparts but in a long skirt.
A woman guard. Just like Bibi Shekiba, I thought. I couldn’t help but stare at her face, wondering if she looked anything like the woman I’d heard so much about.
Badriya muttered a quick greeting and waved at her. The guard nodded and turned her attention back to the woman in front of her. She pulled her behind a partition.
“What are they doing?”
“They’re here for security. They’re checking people for weapons. That room back there is where the female guards check the women. We’re not supposed to bring anything into this building. And we’re not supposed to take anything out of it either.”
“We don’t have to go through the checkpoint?”
“Well, we’re supposed to but I don’t. The guards know me. And no one else from the parliament goes through either. We are the parliamentarians, after all! How ridiculous if we were to be patted down every time we walked in! I wouldn’t stand for it!”
I bit my tongue, knowing she
would stand for it if she were ordered to.
Badriya smiled politely to a few people she knew. Two women, wearing dresses and longer head scarves, approached with bright and cheerful faces.
“Badriya-jan! Good to see you again! How are you? How’s the family doing?” They were of similar height and build and even face structures. But their ages differed by about ten years, the older woman’s face with more lines, her hair with more wisps of gray.
Cheeks pressed to one another, kisses in the air, an arm around a shoulder. The women greeted each other.
“Sufia-jan, qandem, salaam!” My eyes widened to hear Badriya greet her with such syrupy sweetness. “Thanks be to God, everyone is well. How are you and your family doing? And you, Hamida-jan? How are you?”
“Fine, thank you. Ready for another busy session?” Hamida replied. Her face was plain, unpainted and serious.
“Yes, I am. When do you think it will start?”
“They said we should be starting in half an hour,” Sufia said, scanning the entryway. She was the older of the two. There was gentleness in her eyes that put me at ease. “But my guess is that we don’t have enough people here. We’ll probably begin in about an hour. Maybe two. You know how it is.”
Badriya nodded politely and was silent.
She doesn’t know what else to say to them, I thought.
“And who do you have here with you? Is this your daughter?”
Hamida and Sufia were looking at me expectantly and smiling. I looked at Badriya and felt the urge to step away. I didn’t like the idea of her being mistaken for my mother. She didn’t like it either, but for different reasons.
“Her? Oh, no, she’s not my daughter. She’s my husband’s wife.”
“Your husband’s wife? Oh!” Hamida’s smile tightened. She disapproved.
“Have you brought her to see how the parliament runs?” Sufia asked, trying to distract us from Hamida’s reaction.
“Yes, er . . . she wanted to see for herself what it is that I do. That we do. So I’ve decided to hire her as my assistant.”