The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

  I agreed, satisfied that I’d gotten my way, even if Badriya had gotten hers as well. We parted ways when the session closed and I followed Hamida and Sufia. Badriya had taken Maroof and the guard. I was left with no one, which made me feel more free than alone. We picked up some dinner from the cafeteria and carried the plastic bags with us.

  “Do they have these classes all the time? Is it like a school?” I asked. I was getting more and more excited at the thought of returning to a classroom. Even if nothing came from the lessons.

  “They have different instructors. Haven’t you heard Sufia speak English? Where do you think she learned to say so nicely, ‘Hello, how are you?’” Hamida mimicked cheerfully.

  I had no idea what she’d said but I was impressed that they were learning English. Even more than that, I wanted to learn how to use the computers I’d seen in the parliament’s library. The library was a small room in the basement level with three bookcases, two of which were empty. The book collection was sparse but the woman in charge was determined to amass a collection with works on politics, law and history. I thumbed through the books and realized how much there was to learn about government. It was not as simple as raising paddles.

  The computers caught my eye. There were three of them but more were coming, we were told. The three were all being used by men whom I recognized from the assembly. I tried not to stare over their shoulders but I wanted to know what they were looking at on those screens. I watched from the corner of my eye as they punched slowly and carefully at the keyboard, piecing letters together in a way I’d never before seen.

  The women took me to a small, newly constructed building with small windows and a sign out front in both English and Dari.

  Women’s Training Center, it read.

  “This is really just for women?” I asked. “The men can’t come here?”

  “Absolutely not, just like the hammam.” Sufia chuckled. “Thank God, someone finally took our involvement seriously. You know, Rahima-jan, international organizations send teachers and computers. All of it is available. We just have to use it.”

  “Do many of the women from the parliament come here?”

  “Hardly!” Hamida said. “So many of those women have no idea what they’re doing. I had no idea what I was doing either but now it’s my second term and I am just starting to realize how much we still have to learn before this assembly is really functional. We’re like babies, just learning to crawl.”

  An image of Jahangir, his knees rough and dark from crawling about, his palms slapping against the floor with excitement. I missed my son.

  Sufia must have read my face.

  “You have children?”

  I nodded. “I have a son.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Almost three years.”

  “Hm. You were how old when you married?”

  “Thirteen,” I answered quietly, my mind still on my little boy’s face. I wondered what he was doing.

  “Your husband must be much older, judging by Badriya’s age,” Hamida said, pausing before she opened the door to the training center.

  I nodded. I realized they both were trying not to look as curious as they were.

  “Your husband . . . what does he do?”

  I drew a blank. I wasn’t quite certain what he did and I was even less certain how to avoid explaining it.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I blushed when I saw the way they looked at me.

  “You don’t know? How can you not know?”

  “I never asked him.”

  “Never asked him? But you live there! You must have some idea what he does.”

  This outing was not as innocent as it appeared. They were interested—probably after seeing Badriya’s bizarre voting trend. But talking too much would come back to haunt me.

  “He has some land. And he provides security for some foreigners, some people who are trying to build something in our province. I don’t really know the details. I keep out of his business.”

  “I see,” Sufia said in a way that made me feel like I had just given everything away.

  I needed to stop talking.

  “Did Badriya talk to you about the candidates? The people she voted for?” Hamida tried to sound casual.

  “No,” I said, reaching for the door. This conversation had to end. “We don’t really discuss the parliament issues. I’m just here to help her with paperwork and reading the documents.”

  “Can she not read?”

  From the first day, I’d liked these women. I really had. But they were making me very uncomfortable right now, hitting every nerve. I was certain I was going to pay for this later.

  “Let’s go in, please. I can’t wait to see what they have inside.”

  They relented. I followed them into the center, where an American woman was sitting at a computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She looked up and smiled brightly to see us, the first visitors she’d had all week.

  She came over and hugged us, greeted us warmly. Sufia, her confidence growing, practiced her English and asked her how she was doing, how her family was getting along.

  “Why isn’t anyone else here?” I whispered.

  “Not interested. They just show up to the sessions and then go home. No one cares to learn anything new. They think they know what they’re doing, even though they’ve never done it before. Born experts!” Hamida laughed.

  The ladies introduced me to Ms. Franklin and explained to her that I was an assistant to another parliamentarian. She seemed thrilled to have me there. I stared at her light brown hair, soft bangs peeking out from under her head scarf. She looked to be in her thirties, with a brightness in her eyes that made me think she’d never experienced sadness.

  If that’s true, lucky her, I thought.

  “Salaam-alaikum, Rahima-jan,” she said, her accent so thick it made me giggle. “Chotoor asteen?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I answered, and looked at Hamida. I’d never before seen an American. I was amazed to hear her speak our language. My reaction looked familiar to Hamida.

  “Her Dari is good, isn’t it?” she laughed. “Now, dear teacher, what can you show us today?”

  We spent almost two hours there, Ms. Franklin patiently guiding us through the basics of using a computer, guiding the mouse across a table to move a pointer on the screen. I was thrilled, feeling an excitement I hadn’t felt since my days as a bacha posh.

  Imagine if I learned to use this machine. Imagine if I could work like this woman, Ms. Franklin. To know so much that I could teach it to others!

  I felt privileged. A new feeling! I doubted even Hashmat had ever seen a computer, much less received personalized instruction on how to use it. I would have loved to see the look on his face if he ever learned what I was doing in Kabul.

  But it was going to get dark soon and it was time to leave. The women had promised Badriya that one of them would escort me back to the hotel with her guard and driver. I hugged Ms. Franklin before we left, making her laugh out loud, her blue eyes twinkling with kindness.

  “I want to come back here, please! I like it very much!”

  If only our day had ended with that sentiment.

  Sufia had a hand on the door when a large explosion startled us all. We dropped to the ground, out of the way of windows. Nervous stares.

  “What was that?”

  “Something. Couldn’t have been too far. But it didn’t sound like a rocket.”

  We were a people of war; explosions were familiar to our senses. But not for Ms. Franklin. Her face drained of color and she was shaking. Hamida put an arm around her young teacher, trying to reassure her. Sufia squeezed my hand. No other sounds came. Sufia got up cautiously and went to the door. People in the street were yelling, pointing. Her driver and guard jogged over to the door. They looked frustrated. They were panting.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” she asked.

  “Some kind of bomb. Looks like it was right
by the parliament building. Stay here. We’re going to find out what happened.”

  We were huddled by the window, trying to read the faces of the pedestrians. Hamida called out into the street.

  “What’s going on? Was that a bomb?”

  The street was chaotic. Either no one heard her or no one bothered to answer.

  We inched out the door, our curiosity overwhelming. I was nervous. Although my father and my husband had been in the throes of battle, the war had always been at least one village away from me. I wondered if Badriya was anywhere near here.

  Sufia’s driver came back, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath. Hamida’s guard stopped him, wanting to know what he’d found out.

  “It was two blocks from the parliament building. A bomb in a car. Looks like they were trying to get Zamarud.”

  My stomach lurched. I pictured her storming out of the building, remembered the hateful leers she’d drawn from some of the men. Even some of the women had shaken their heads as she walked by. People thought she was out of line, and the punishment for being out of line was severe in our world. It always had been.

  “Zamarud! Not surprised, with the finger-pointing she’s been doing. This isn’t good. Is she all right?”

  “I don’t know. Someone said she was killed. They took her away. I didn’t see her there, or her guards. We’d better get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 45

  RAHIMA

  WHEN ABDUL KHALIQ GOT WIND OF WHAT HAPPENED, he told his driver and guard to bring us back to the compound. The bombing had scared me badly. Badriya and I stayed in our hotel room, afraid that other women parliamentarians would be targeted, and heard a hundred versions of yesterday’s events from our guard and the hotel staff.

  She was dead. She was alive but had lost a leg. She was unscathed but three children walking by had been killed. It was the Taliban. It was a warlord. It was the Americans.

  I didn’t know what to believe. Badriya believed each and every story wholly until the next one came along. My head spun. I prayed for Zamarud, thinking there was something inspiring about the way she had riled the entire parliament with her irreverent behavior. The guards came back; our driver was smoking a cigarette, his eyes red from the lingering smoke of the bomb. He’d been too curious to walk away. When he nodded that the car was ready, I sighed with relief. I wanted to hold Jahangir.

  I imagined how my little boy might squeal and laugh when he saw me, how he might run to my arms. I couldn’t wait to hold him, praying he didn’t hate me for leaving. Though I regretted thinking it, I hoped I wasn’t like my mother. I didn’t want to abandon him and leave him to raise himself. I opened my small bag and checked for the ballpoint pen and a few sheets of paper I’d taken from the parliament building. I smiled, thinking how happy it would make Jahangir to scribble.

  My son was the bright spot in my return to the compound. I went directly to Jameela’s room and called his name. He froze at the sound of my voice and toddled to greet me at the door, an innocent grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

  “Maa-da! Maa-da!”

  My heart melted to hear him call for me.

  “Play ball outside! Maa-da!”

  He wasted no time trying to recruit me to play with him. I smiled, wishing I could join him in the courtyard, where we could kick his brother’s soccer ball back and forth. I was close enough to childhood that playing still appealed to me. But they had just killed a chicken for Abdul Khaliq’s dinner guests and there was little time to pluck and clean the bird for tonight’s dinner.

  “Forgive me, bachem, but maybe later I can come outside with you. Right now I have to get some work done. Maybe your brother can go outside with you.”

  I think I secretly hoped that my work in Kabul would change how I was treated at the compound, but that idea was quickly dispelled. Bibi Gulalai stopped by the next day to make sure my time in the city hadn’t undone all the work she’d put into me.

  “That was Kabul, this is here. In this house, remember who I am. There are no meetings or papers for you to look after here. Now go wash your face. You look filthy. How embarrassing.”

  I sighed, nodded and walked away before she talked herself into a worse mood on my account.

  I kept to my room. My last night here with my husband had been exceptionally unpleasant, exceptionally violent, and I didn’t want to put myself in his way again. I wondered if he’d let us go back to Kabul after this. I still didn’t know if Zamarud was alive or dead.

  And something was happening at home. I didn’t know what it was but Jameela looked anxious and distracted. She was polite with Bibi Gulalai but she would quickly excuse herself. Bibi Gulalai seemed to be surveying our home with a discriminating eye. I asked Jameela but she smiled and changed the subject. Shahnaz, bitter because I had been allowed to travel to Kabul, was curt and snide with me. There was no use approaching her.

  Through Jameela’s younger son, I sent word to Khala Shaima that I’d returned from Kabul. I wished very much to see her. Where before I was a listener, we could now exchange stories. I wanted to tell her about Zamarud and the bombing. And about Hamida and Sufia and the resource center. But a week passed and Khala Shaima had not come. I asked Jameela if she’d heard anything about my aunt but she hadn’t. A second week went by and still nothing.

  I was worried and frustrated but there was nothing I could do. Already I was feeling the differences between home and Kabul. That taste of independence, even the possibility of it, made me yearn to go back.

  Three weeks passed. Badriya and I were waiting on Abdul Khaliq’s decision. He was most likely going to allow us to return to Kabul and complete the remaining three months of sessions. He hadn’t said anything to Badriya and she was my source of information. Abdul Khaliq did not discuss these matters directly with me. In that respect, he treated me more like a daughter than a wife. It didn’t matter to me. The less interaction I had with him, the better.

  Badriya finally approached Bibi Gulalai and asked her what was going on. Leaning against the living room wall, her shawl across her lap, Bibi Gulalai began to speak to her in a hush. When I paused by the doorway, the two of them looked up, annoyed.

  “Go on, get to the carpets! And do it right this time. I don’t want them looking dingy,” Bibi Gulalai said.

  I moved away from the door but lingered in the hallway.

  “When did this come up?” Badriya said when I was out of view.

  “Right when you all left. He knows her brother. I wish he never would have taken this stray. I don’t know what he wanted with Rahima. Such a worthless family.”

  “I agree. Why he wanted a bacha posh for his wife, I’ll never understand. But, Khala-jan, why do you think he would want to get rid of her? She is the youngest here and he wanted her for something . . .”

  “He will. I think he knows now that she was a mistake. And he wants to make up for it with this one. He’s going to marry her.”

  “But why not just keep her and marry this girl?”

  “Because he’s living by the hadith! He is a respected man in this village, in this province! He leads by example, so he is doing as the Prophet said. And the Prophet, peace be upon him, said that a man should take no more than four wives at a time. This wouldn’t have been a problem if he wouldn’t have taken that bacha posh.”

  My throat went dry. What was my husband planning? A fifth wife?

  “Well, God bless him. It’s admirable that he wants to be such an upright, devout Muslim.”

  Bibi Gulalai gave a quick hum, agreeing with Badriya’s praise of her son.

  “Just don’t say anything to Rahima about this. She’s wild enough as it is. We don’t need her or her insane aunt Shaima making a fuss about this. It’s none of their business anyway.”

  “I won’t say a word but she’ll find out soon enough . . .”

  The kids were coming down the hall. I slinked away from the door and melded into their footsteps.

  I needed to talk to Ja
meela. Would Abdul Khaliq really try to get rid of me? How?

  “Why? What did you hear?” Jameela said, her eyes narrowed.

  I recounted the conversation for her. She listened intently.

  “I don’t know anything more than that. Bibi Gulalai will only talk to Badriya, of course, her angel. The rest of us will only hear when something happens. But God help us all. If he really does this, it’s going to be a disaster.”

  “But do you think he’ll take a fifth wife? He wants to get rid of me, Jameela-jan. Can he do that?”

  “He can do—” Jameela started to say, but changed her response after a brief pause. “I don’t know, Rahima-jan. I really don’t know.”

  We left it unsaid. If he wanted to take another wife without going over the limit, that would mean getting rid of one of us, and Bibi Gulalai had already made it clear that I was the expendable one. I’d once prayed my husband would send me back to my parents. Now that would mean leaving my son behind. Jameela had told me of one girl who had been sent back to her father’s house, her husband dissatisfied with her as a wife. The girl’s family, unable to tolerate the shame, refused to take her in. No one knew what happened to her.

  Four weeks since our return. Jahangir came into our bedroom, where I was mending a tear in my dress, the blue housedress Badriya had warned me against wearing in Kabul. And after seeing how most of the women parliamentarians dressed, I could see why. But it was in fair shape and there was little chance of new fabric coming my way.

  Jahangir called out to me. I looked up, surprised to see Khala Shaima hobbling a few steps behind him. She had never come into this part of the house.

  “Khala-jan! Salaam, Khala Shaima-jan, you came! I was so worried about you!” I scrambled to greet her.

  Khala Shaima put a hand on the door frame, leaning forward and steadying her breathing.

  “Salaam . . . ah . . . salaam, dokhtar-jan. Damn Abdul Khaliq for building his compound so far from town,” she panted as I kissed her hands. I could hear the air whistle in her lungs. I quickly glanced in the hallway to be sure no one heard her curse my husband.