Ms. Franklin was proud of our progress. She said she’d told her parents all about us, about how impressed she was with our dedication, with our desire to work in government as women. I liked her praise. It had been a long time since I’d heard any.
So when the door opened, thirty minutes into our session, we were understandably intrigued to see who it was.
A tall, thin woman in her forties entered and looked around, unsure.
“Hello, come in!” Ms. Franklin said.
The woman wore a calf-length black jacket over a deep-plum-colored tunic and pants. Her ponytail was hidden by a plum-colored head scarf.
“Salaam!” she replied. “You are Ms. Franklin?”
Her name was Fakhria and she put Ms. Franklin in a tricky situation. She worked at a women’s shelter here in Kabul and wanted to attend the classes at the resource center. Ms. Franklin looked mildly perplexed. The funds that supported the center were specifically allocated to women parliamentarians. The classes were not open to the public because, theoretically, the center couldn’t accommodate more than the women jirga members. But so few of them came.
Ms. Franklin pursed her lips and waved Fakhria in, as I would have done. Somehow, she was not a woman you could turn away easily.
At the end of the class, Hamida asked Fakhria about the shelter. She and Sufia had heard of a women’s shelter but hadn’t ever seen it. I was surprised to hear such a place existed.
“My sister was killed by her husband. I decided I needed to do something and then I came upon this shelter. It was founded by an Afghan woman who was living in America. She raised money and emptied her pockets into building this place for girls. She travels back and forth now but we have a few people who look after the shelter.”
“And your husband, he doesn’t mind you spending time there?” Sufia asked gently.
“No, he is very supportive actually. He’s a kind man, my husband. After what happened with my sister, he knew I would go crazy just sitting there in mourning. We’ve got five children to keep me busy at home but I needed to do this. I wanted my children to see me do something.”
Fakhria started to tell us about the shelter, about the girls who came there. She told us about a girl she called Murwarid. Murwarid was only fifteen years old, she said, and had come to the shelter two weeks ago, bruised and desperate. At the age of eight, she’d been married to a man in his sixties, living in the countryside. Her husband had abused her in every way possible. Her nose was crooked after he’d broken it twice. When he’d tired of her, he’d started to take her around to other villages, selling her off to men to have sex with her. She had tried to run away once before but he caught her and sliced off one ear, dragging her home by the other.
Six months later Murwarid decided again that she wouldn’t survive if she stayed with this man. And this time, if he killed her, she would be better off. So she ran.
She came to Kabul and found the women’s shelter, where she was living now, recovering. She still woke in the night screaming.
Fakhria invited us to visit the shelter. It would be great, she said, if the parliament could help support such a place. Maybe offer some training or jobs to the women living there.
Hamida and Sufia clucked their tongues to hear the stories Fakhria told.
I sat frozen. Too much of what she said sounded familiar.
You see that? Murwarid found her escape, I could hear Khala Shaima say. Why haven’t you found yours?
CHAPTER 51
RAHIMA
“READ THIS ONE TO ME.”
Badriya had unfolded Kabul’s weekly newspaper on the table. She pointed from one column to the next. She stopped me one paragraph into a story about drought conditions in a province to the south.
“Forget it. Who needs to know about that? I want to know what’s happening here. Try this one,” she said, picking out a column on the following page. I sighed and got ready to read about a new bank opening next month when I was interrupted.
A knock on our door.
“There’s a phone call from home. Come down to the lobby to take the call.” It was Hassan, our bodyguard.
“Now?” she huffed. “As if we haven’t had a long enough day!”
Badriya and I had just gotten plates of food sent up from the hotel kitchen. I loved the food there. Maybe it was that I had no part in cooking it or cleaning up after it. Maybe it was the pretty floral pattern of the plates. My mouth watered at the smell of the cumin-infused potato stew. I tore off a piece of bread as she resentfully left the room. I dipped a piece of bread into the stew and brought it to my mouth. The grease felt good on my lips. No reason for us both to eat cold meals, I figured.
Badriya returned a few moments later.
“The qorma is really good,” I announced as she walked in. I looked up and saw that her face was drained of color.
“Are you . . . are you all right?”
She looked at me, her mouth open slightly. Her eyes searched.
“Badriya-jan, what is it? Who was on the phone?”
Her hand covered her mouth. Something wasn’t right.
“Badriya-jan, are you all right?”
Suddenly, something in her shifted. She straightened her shoulders and pulled her lips together tightly.
“It was Abdul Khaliq on the phone. He called about Jahangir.”
My stomach fell at the sound of his name.
“He’s not well,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “He’s not well. Seems he’s been very sick since we left.”
“Since we left? Why didn’t he call sooner?”
“I don’t know, Rahima-jan. I don’t . . . he’s going to have Maroof take us back.”
“I want to go back now!”
“We are. Maroof is bringing the car around.”
I wanted to be there already. I wanted to see my son. The last time he had been ill, he’d spent two days in my arms. Whispering every prayer I could remember, I stroked the moist hairs from his sweaty forehead and watched his cherry lips tremble until the fever released him. I knew he must have cried for me and I hated that I wasn’t there.
We packed our belongings in a matter of minutes. Badriya moved surprisingly quickly. Forty minutes later, Abdul Khaliq’s SUV was on the main road leaving Kabul, whizzing past tanks and western soldiers, their curious eyes shielded by sunglasses. Maroof grunted something to Hassan in the passenger seat.
There was something peculiar about Badriya’s behavior. Jahangir, like all the other children in the compound, had survived fever and illness. I looked over at her. Badriya busied herself folding papers neatly and putting them away in her purse. Papers she couldn’t read.
“What did he say, Badriya? Do they want to take him to a doctor? Has he been eating anything?”
“I don’t know, dear girl. The connection was lousy and you know Abdul Khaliq. He doesn’t explain much.”
The hours dragged on. I tried to fall asleep, hoping I would open my eyes and find myself back at the compound, Jahangir coming to the gate to welcome me. It would be midnight before we got back. I hoped Jameela had made him a cup of the herbal tea she had given him last time. I hoped the other children were not disturbing him.
Just as I was beginning to drift off, it occurred to me that there was something odd about my conversation with Badriya. Something other than Jahangir being ill.
The way she had looked at me. What was that look?
Concern? Annoyance? Fatigue?
Pity.
I don’t know, dear girl.
Never before had she addressed me with endearments.
My mouth went dry. I started to pray.
CHAPTER 52
SHEKIBA
SHEKIBA AND AGHA BARAAN DID NOT SPEAK on the way to his home. Shekiba sat beside her new husband but kept her gaze straight ahead. Agha Baraan guided the horse expertly down Kabul’s busy streets, small shops and pedestrians everywhere. He looked in her direction only once but his expression told Shekiba nothing.
He
turned down a narrow, house-lined street, homes packed so close together that a child could toss an apple into his neighbor’s courtyard. Shekiba thought of her village, the homes divided by kilometers of open fields.
Agha Baraan’s home was in the middle of the street; the royal-blue door set it apart from the rest.
Shekiba suddenly felt a panic set in at the thought of being behind those walls with this man. She briefly considered running—disappearing into Kabul’s maze of roads. But she remembered Azizullah dragging her back from Hakim-sahib’s doorstep and decided against it.
He opened the door and she followed. The courtyard was small, much smaller than houses in her village, but it was neatly kept and had bright flowers and a birdcage with three small canaries. She followed her husband through the house door.
A woman in her twenties looked up from her needlework. She did not seem surprised.
“Gulnaz, this is Shekiba. You can show her to her room please. She has no belongings so you’ll have to give her a dress or two for now.”
Gulnaz stood up and looked at the blue cloak before her. Agha Baraan walked out, uninterested in how the two would take to each other.
“You can take your burqa off. You look ridiculous wearing it inside.” Shekiba understood by the tone of her voice that Gulnaz was Agha Baraan’s first wife and that she was not happy to see her. Shekiba lifted her burqa but kept her right profile toward Gulnaz.
“I hear they call you Shekiba-e-haleem. Let me see your face.”
Shekiba turned, making a point to look Gulnaz in the eye. Each woman took a moment to consider the other. Gulnaz was a beautiful woman but nowhere near as striking as Benafsha. She had almond-shaped eyes and gracefully arched brows. Her hair looked soft and thick, loose curls tossed over her shoulders.
“I see,” she said, wincing. “Well, come this way. I’ll show you to your room.”
The layout of the house was similar to Bobo Shahgul’s. Behind the living room was a small kitchen. Off the main hallway were three other rooms, which Shekiba was not shown. The last room was to be hers, an eight-by-ten-foot space without a window. A thin cushion lay against the wall and a lantern sat on a narrow round table.
“I’ll bring you some clothes later. For now you can stay here. We won’t be eating dinner for a while. I’ve prepared the meal for tonight. You can start helping tomorrow.”
“Khanum Gulnaz, I—”
“Don’t call me that. It doesn’t sound right. Just call me by my name. You’re his wife now and it would sound strange if someone were to hear you say that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let me warn you. This is my home. I do things the way I like and you better not expect to change things. You’re here because he wants you to be here but that does not mean you can do as you please.”
“I had no intention—”
“Good. Then it’s understood and I’ll expect no problems from you. I asked him to have you in a separate house but there just isn’t room for that right now. You’ll have to be here.”
Gulnaz was only slightly older than Shekiba but she spoke with such condescending authority that Shekiba felt like she was being chastised by one of her uncles’ wives. She had no reason to expect Gulnaz to be any kinder to her, but Shekiba thought Gulnaz might be able to shed some light on her situation.
“Excuse me, but can I ask one question, Gulnaz-jan? Can you tell me why I am here?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You said he wants me to be here. Why does he want me here?”
“You have no idea?”
“No.”
Gulnaz shook her head and walked out of the room, leaving Shekiba with more questions than answers.
She heard from Gulnaz once more that night, when she walked by the room and announced that there was food left in the kitchen if she wanted some. Shekiba stared blankly at the door but did not respond. She felt terribly out of place. And she was now a woman again. Her dress felt cumbersome and heavy. She had just about forgotten how to keep her head scarf in place. She had left her guard’s uniform in Benafsha’s room but took with her the corset used to bind her breasts. She could not tolerate their jiggling, even though the corset chafed her raw wounds.
Shekiba wondered how things would be here, with her living as a second wife to Benafsha’s lover, the man who had betrayed the king in the worst way. How had she become involved in such a twisted affair?
She listened, nervous, for the sound of Agha Baraan approaching. She knew, from watching the king’s habits, that men came for women at odd hours of the day and night. She felt unprepared to be near him behind closed doors. Shekiba dozed off sometime near morning.
“Look, you’ve got to get up and eat something. It doesn’t really matter to me what you do but I won’t have the blame on my shoulders if you get ill from hunger. Looks like you’re not in great shape to start with. Here’s a dress too. That’s all you will be getting from me. He can buy you fabric if you need another.”
Shekiba sat up and rubbed her eyes. She watched Gulnaz put a plate with bread and butter on the floor, along with a cup of black tea.
“And if we’re to share the house then we’ll share the work. You can’t expect to just laze around all day long.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize the time . . .”
Gulnaz did not wait for an explanation. She was gone before Shekiba could finish her sentence. The butter melted on her tongue. She walked out of her room hesitantly and found the washroom. It was summertime and a bit of cool water felt good, especially on her scabs. Shekiba wondered how badly scarred her back was. She cursed Ghafoor again but Ghafoor wasn’t the only one to blame. Agha Baraan and Benafsha had created the mess as well. Shekiba had been caught in an elephant stampede.
I am not welcome here. I am his wife, but only half. Nothing about me is whole. Why did he do this?
Shekiba went out to find Gulnaz and make herself useful. This part was nothing new to her. It felt the same as being in Marjan’s home. Or Bobo Shahgul’s. She found the kitchen empty, a pile of raw potatoes on a counter. Shekiba looked around. Agha Baraan had a nice home. The walls were smooth and flat and intricate hand-knotted carpets covered the living room floor. There was a tufted sofa with carved wooden arms as well as a chair that Shekiba had not noticed the day before. On the walls were framed pieces of calligraphy, Allah’s name written in graceful curves, slants and dots.
Shekiba went back into the kitchen and looked around. There were cups and plates in the cabinets and a pile of pots and pans underneath the counter. Shekiba found a knife and sat down to peel the potatoes. It was a relief to be doing something and when Gulnaz came back in from the courtyard, she pretended not to notice the second wife in her kitchen, walking to her room instead.
They have no children, Shekiba realized. That was what was different in this house. No excited footsteps, high-pitched voices or crying. They lived alone and apart from the rest of Agha Baraan’s family.
It would be hard to get lost in such a small household. Gulnaz said nothing more to her than household instructions. She left dirty clothes in a pile and told her Aasif, Agha Baraan’s first name, needed his shirts for the morning. They did not eat together. Gulnaz and Agha Baraan shared their meals when he was home but Shekiba kept herself occupied with chores and made no motion to join them. Nor was she invited. She took her meals to her room or ate a few bites in the kitchen.
Aasif said no more than a few words to her each day, mostly small greetings in passing, his eyes averted. Shekiba would mumble something to complete the exchange. Aasif was different with Gulnaz. He chatted about the people he had seen and told her of Kabul’s local news. Gulnaz listened and asked questions. Sometimes they even laughed together. Shekiba wondered how things had been for Aasif and Gulnaz when they were first married. Had Aasif been as cool with her as he was now with Shekiba? Would he ever say anything more to her?
The silence was uncomfortable, but Shekiba dreaded a conversation with Aasif. That
day in the palace, when she had spoken with him, he had seemed a gentle person, a noble man. But what she knew now made her question her first impression.
Four nights passed before he came to her room. Shekiba had begun to believe he had brought her only to help with the housework when she heard her door open. It was late and her eyes were just beginning to feel heavy with sleep. In the darkness, she could make out his thin silhouette.
He stood there for a moment, watching her. Shekiba kept her eyes mostly closed, feigning sleep and praying he would turn and walk back out. Her heart beat so loudly she was sure he could hear it. He came in and closed the door behind him. Shekiba nearly stopped breathing.
He sat beside her mattress on the floor, his back turned to her. His head was lowered.
“Things turned out badly,” he said quietly. “I regret that it happened this way.”
Shekiba stayed silent.
“She was a good woman and did not deserve what they did to her. I did not want . . . I did not think it would go so far. But once they found out, there was no stopping it. I was foolish to ignore what might happen—what did happen,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “She warned me and I ignored it. I ignored it. Still, she spared me or I would not be sitting here now. I am very aware of that.”
Ramblings of a guilty conscience. He knew Shekiba was aware of their affair. Maybe he thought Benafsha had revealed his identity to her or maybe he thought she had recognized him as he stumbled past her on that night. Shekiba did not know why he was making this admission but she listened carefully.
“Gulnaz is not happy. Things will be difficult for a time but it will get better.”
And without a word from Shekiba, Aasif, her husband, walked out of her room and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 53
RAHIMA
IT WAS PITCH-BLACK WHEN WE ARRIVED at the compound. Never had I been so relieved to see those gates. Maroof parked the car, looked at Hassan and sighed. Badriya had fidgeted so much in the last hour of the drive back that I’d thought she might just jump right out of the car. I didn’t bother with my burqa. Our car had barely stopped before I jumped out and opened the gate. There were lights on.