The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

  I put my sandals on and considered my duffel bag for a moment. From the back, it might give me away. I decided against taking it and sat down to calm my breathing.

  It took five minutes of intent listening at the door to convince myself no one was approaching, especially Hassan. No thump of his heavy foot or whistle of his raspy breath. I imagined he’d probably gone out for a smoke.

  My fingers touched the knob and closed around it slowly. I turned, still keeping my ears perked.

  I looked out through the crack, opened the door wider when I was certain I’d seen no one. And wider yet when I worked up the nerve to walk into the hallway. I craned my neck to see where the chair usually sat.

  Hassan’s back. I took a deep breath and turned to the right, to the stairwell. I closed the door as silently as I could behind me. I moved one foot in front of the other, walking past the four doors between me and the end of the hallway. I was so focused on listening for the sound of Hassan moving that my left sandal caught on the carpeting and I stumbled, catching my balance by grabbing the doorknob of the next room.

  I held my breath when I heard the scraping of the metal chair legs.

  “Hey!”

  I froze, keeping my back to Hassan. I was sure he could see my whole body quivering even from a distance.

  “Watch your feet, you klutzy kid!” he called out.

  I nodded and grunted something in a voice deeper than my own but barely audible.

  “Boys running around in a hotel . . . ,” I could hear him muttering as I resumed my trek to the stairwell. With each step I waited, waited for the moment when he would realize that the boy he saw was actually a girl in Hashmat’s new clothes, the pants still unhemmed.

  I was and then I wasn’t. I was Rahima. And then I wasn’t.

  I walked through the lobby, keeping my eyes lowered. The man from the front desk was nowhere to be seen. I moved quickly. I opened the door and sunlight tickled my eyes. I lifted my hand and blinked. When my sandals hit the dirt road I scanned the street to make sure I recognized no one and that no one recognized me. My eyes fell on a sparrow, nimbly passing between tree branches and chirping as earnestly as the birds over Jahangir’s grave. Pray for me too, I thought.

  Rahim wound in and out of the streets, heading further away from the hotel and in the opposite direction of the parliament building. Rahim, the bacha posh, listened for someone yelling behind him, listened for a sign that he’d been spotted, that he was going to be dragged back to Abdul Khaliq’s compound and punished.

  Rahim, shaking so badly that he thought his legs might collapse, needed a place to hide.

  CHAPTER 68

  RAHIMA

  TAXIS HONKED. ONE SLID PAST ME, skimming my side as I tried to dodge traffic in a busy intersection. I cursed myself for choosing to cross here, in front of so many cars. I felt a million eyes on me, eyes that might notice something was not right about this adolescent boy. Didn’t I look frightened—like I was running away from something? Did they see that my chest seemed to swell where a girl’s might?

  I had done my best to tie down my breasts with a head scarf but it was harder now than it had been a few years ago. Having Jahangir had thickened me with curves that were more difficult to disguise.

  “Hey, bacha! Watch where you’re going!” a man yelled through the driver’s-side window of the taxi, a cigarette between his fingers as he waved at me angrily.

  Without a pause in my step, I raised an apologetic hand, silently thankful to know my disguise was working. Funny how easily I slipped back into this person, how comfortable I felt even though my nerves were on fire.

  My sandals slapped against the dusty road, my legs free in the pants, a loose tunic covering my curved rear.

  It had been nearly eleven o’clock when I left the hotel. That felt like a year ago, though it couldn’t have been more than twenty or thirty minutes. A bus came up ahead, slowing near a crowd of people and honking an awkward tune. Maybe that was the one. I looked for signs, turning my head and suddenly feeling my legs weaken.

  A black SUV slowed as it approached, only half a block away.

  I felt exposed even in the crowded street, wondering if I’d been spotted. If I hadn’t been, running now might draw attention.

  The driver slowly rolled down the tinted window and I let out a soft moan of panic.

  But it was a face I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Abdul Khaliq’s car.

  Regrouping quickly, I pushed my way through and reached the crowd of people clamoring to board the white and blue bus.

  “Is this the bus to Wazir Akbar Khan?”

  No one turned around.

  “Agha, is this the bus to Wazir Akbar Khan?” I asked again, louder. I tried to deepen my voice, to hide my feminine tone.

  A man turned around, annoyed. He wore a button-down shirt over slacks and held a briefcase in his hand.

  “Yes, it is! Hurry up and get on if you’re coming,” he said. He and another man tried to squeeze through the bus door at the same time, each hoping to get a square of standing space.

  With my head down, I managed to slip onto the bus behind two men. I waited for the bus driver to notice and shout, but he didn’t. I wiggled my way to the back of the bus, as far from the driver as possible. Looking around, there was not a single woman on the bus. I felt my face flush at being surrounded, so closely, by so many men. I kept my elbows close to my chest and cringed when the bus’s movements pushed a body against mine. I craned my neck to see between the chests and arms. I hoped I would recognize my stop.

  The bus will stop on a road lined with shops. Look for a beauty shop between an electronics store and a food vendor. Usually there’s a man with a long beard and half an arm standing around there begging for money.

  It was a long ride to Wazir Akbar Khan. Beads of sweat slid down my neck. My nerves were just starting to settle as the bus put distance between me and the hotel—between me and Abdul Khaliq’s guards.

  I was supposed to be there at twelve. I had meant to leave the hotel earlier but Badriya had taken her time that morning, putting the whole plan in jeopardy.

  Wazir Akbar Khan was a neighborhood to the north of the city, a suburb that was home to many embassies and foreign workers. The streets were wider than they were in the part of Kabul I had seen. Two-story buildings lined the road. I tried not to look as nervous and lost as I felt.

  The bus slowed. Pharmacy of Wazir Akbar Khan, read the sign on a building.

  This is it, I thought, and snaked through the crowd to get off before the bus resumed its course.

  I recognized no one and didn’t notice any suspicious stares. I turned my attention to the shops, looking for the landmarks I’d been given. One storefront had crates outside, boxes of detergent, household supplies. There was a butcher shop. There was everything except what I was looking for.

  I turned down another street but saw only houses. Beautiful houses that put Abdul Khaliq’s estate to shame. They were new buildings with modern façades that I didn’t have time to take in. Minutes were ticking by and I might miss this opportunity.

  I worked up the nerve to ask someone, steeling my voice an octave below in disguise.

  “Agha-sahib? Agha—”

  “For God’s sake, boy, I don’t have any money to give!” the man said, and kept on moving.

  I looked for someone else to ask.

  A woman walked by. I wanted to approach her but my tongue froze when I saw the little boy, probably three or four years old, holding her hand tightly. He pointed at a car in the street and looked up to see if his mother noticed. She nodded and said something that made him giggle with delight.

  Jahangir, I thought, my chest tight.

  The woman was gone before I recovered. I walked further down the street, blinking away tears. I stood in front of a shop window, a clock catching my eye and sending me into a panic.

  One o’clock. My pulse quickened. If I was too late, this could all fall apart. I would have risked everything for nothin
g. What would become of me?

  My eyes moved from the clock to a flyer hung on the storefront.

  Visit Shekiba’s Beauty Shop, Sarai Shahzada. Weddings and all occasions.

  That must be it! I thought. Shekiba.

  I closed my eyes, reenergized by the shop’s name. It was as if a hand was holding mine, guiding me. I read the flyer again.

  Sarai Shahzada. I was sure I’d seen a sign with that street name and traced my steps back. Two lefts and I was there again, concrete sidewalks and trees giving it a clean, welcoming appeal. Within minutes, I had found the beauty shop, sandwiched between an electronics shop and a store with crates of fruits and vegetables outside.

  Shekiba’s Beauty Shop.

  As I had been instructed, I looked directly across from it and spotted a teahouse.

  I hope I’m not too late.

  I dodged oncoming cars again and crossed the street, trying to see through the shop’s glass front. The door handle rattled in my hand. I took a deep breath and hoped I didn’t look too crazed to the people inside.

  I spotted her immediately, her soft bangs peeking out from beneath her gray and plum head scarf. Her eyes were on the door and looking just as nervous as mine. When she recognized me, her hand flew to cover her open mouth. She stood up.

  I wove through the tables, the Afghans speaking English, the foreigners drinking cardamom-infused green tea.

  “You made it!” she whispered when I approached her table.

  “Yes, Ms. Franklin,” I said, and collapsed into the chair.

  CHAPTER 69

  RAHIMA

  NINE DAYS PASSED before I saw Hamida and Sufia. They had kept away, afraid that somehow they might lead someone to me. Hamida became tearful when she saw me. Sufia let out a triumphant yelp, with an energy I’d never seen her display in the parliamentary sessions.

  Ms. Franklin and I had gone directly from the teahouse to a women’s shelter she had located. It wasn’t the shelter that we’d heard about. It was another one, one much further from the parliament building and on the western outskirts of the capital.

  The shelter was both sad and uplifting. There were stories there, stories that made me cringe, scars that would never heal.

  I met a woman who lived there with her three children. When her in-laws learned of her husband’s death, they accused her of killing him. About to be jailed, she decided to run rather than risk losing her two daughters and one son.

  Another woman had escaped a heavy-handed husband, a husband who was having an affair with her younger sister. One night, while he snored beside her, she crept out softly and walked two days and two nights to reach a police station.

  And there was a girl. She was my age and her story made me realize that I wasn’t alone. At twelve years old, she’d been married off to a man five times her age. Her family had put her in a white dress and taken her to a party. At the end of the night, they left without her. Four years later, she had run off, escaping the in-laws who treated her as a slave.

  I wasn’t ready to share my story with them yet. Even here, in this open room with Afghan carpets and the smell of cumin, I felt my husband’s reach. If he knew where to look, it would only take him a day to reach me. The thought made me so nervous I could barely eat.

  Hamida and Sufia only came once. I missed them but I could expect nothing more, knowing the route was long and that they had obligations to their own families. Visiting a shelter could attract the wrong attention and endanger everyone involved. I would always think of them warmly and with deep gratitude, remembering how they and Ms. Franklin had formulated a plan to help me escape the naseeb that awaited me had I returned to my husband. My plan, though, didn’t account for what might happen to Badriya. Hamida and Sufia had seen her once the day after my disappearance. She looked furious and suspicious, they said, but she seemed to believe their surprise to hear I was missing. I was sure Abdul Khaliq would never let her return to Kabul and I hated to think what Abdul Khaliq had done to her when she’d returned to the compound. Though she hadn’t been kind to me, I wished his wrath on no one.

  I had time in the shelter, time to finally sit down and contemplate all that had happened. I felt embarrassed, remembering the day I’d argued with Khala Shaima, snapped at her that all the education she’d pushed me to get hadn’t done me one bit of good.

  It wasn’t true.

  It was only because I was literate that I was able to join Badriya in Kabul. It was only because I could hold a pen with purpose that I was able to be her assistant and feel comfortable joining Hamida and Sufia in the resource center. It was my few years of school that allowed me to read the beauty shop flyer in the store window, to locate the street where Ms. Franklin waited nervously to help me make my escape.

  I’m sorry, Khala-jan. I’m sorry I never thanked you for fighting for me, for everything you taught me, for the stories you told me, for the escape you gave me.

  My only regret was that I hadn’t been able to send word to Khala Shaima, to let her know that I had made it out and that I was safe. I hoped she didn’t think Abdul Khaliq had killed me. I prayed she would not try to visit me at Abdul Khaliq’s compound, knowing she would be met by my very angry husband. But I wanted to send her a message, somehow—I had to try. I would take pen to paper and write my dear aunt a note, a few words, so that she could share in what I’d managed to do, what she’d given me the strength to do.

  I finally was able to convince Ms. Franklin to mail her a letter.

  The letter, addressed to Khala Shaima, was from her second cousin and it talked of nothing but the smell of fresh air, the delightful sound of birds chirping, and the hope that the family could pay a visit sometime soon.

  I had no way of knowing if it had arrived, so I could only hope that the letter found Khala Shaima. It wasn’t until many years later, a lifetime really, that I heard it had been discovered in her hand by her older sister, my khala Zeba. Khala Zeba couldn’t make sense of it anyway, since she’d never gone to school or learned her letters. She was too distraught at finding her sickly sister cold and breathless to give it much thought then anyway. But two weeks later, when the rhythm of her life returned and the birds had prayed all they could over Khala Shaima’s grave, she would ask her husband to read it for her and be puzzled, wondering which cousin would write to her crippled sister of things as mundane as birds and the weather.

  The letter was signed Bibi Shekiba.

  Excerpt from When the Moon is Low

  CHAPTER 1

  Fereiba

  MY FATE WAS SEALED IN BLOOD ON THE DAY OF MY BIRTH. AS I struggled to enter this twisted world, my mother resigned it, taking with her my chances of being a true daughter. The midwife sliced through the cord and released my mother from any further obligation to me. Her body paled while mine pinked; her breaths ceased as I learned to cry. I was cleaned off, wrapped in a blanket, and brought out to meet my father, now a widower thanks to me. He fell to his knees, the color leached from his face. Padar-jan told me himself that it was three days before he could bring himself to hold the daughter who had taken his wife. I wish I couldn’t imagine what thoughts had crossed his mind, but I can. I’m fairly certain that had he been given the choice, he would have chosen my mother over me.

  My father did his best but he wasn’t built for the task. In his defense, it wasn’t easy in those days. Or in any days, for that matter. Padar-jan was the son of a vizier with local clout. People in town turned to my grandfather for counsel, mediation, and loans. My grandfather, Boba-jan, was even tempered, resolute, and sagacious. He made decisions easily and didn’t waver in the face of dissent. I don’t know if he was always right, but he spoke with such conviction that people believed he was.

  Soon after he was married, Boba-jan had come upon a substantial amount of land through a clever trade. The fruits of this land fed and housed generations of our family. My grandmother, Bibi-jan, who died two years before my tragic birth, had given him four sons, my father being the youngest. Her four sons
had all grown up enjoying the privilege their father had secured for them. The family was respected in town, and each of my uncles had married well, inheriting a portion of the land on which they each started their own families.

  My father, too, owned land—an orchard, to be exact—and worked as a local official in our town, Kabul, the bustling capital of Afghanistan tucked away in the bosom of central Asia. The geography would become important to me only later in my life. Padar-jan was merely a faded carbon copy of my grandfather, not penned with enough pressure to imprint strong characters. He had Boba-jan’s good intentions but lacked his resolve.

  Padar-jan had inherited his piece of the family estate, the orchard, when he married my mother. He devoted himself to that orchard, tending to it morning and night, climbing its trees to pluck the choicest fruits and berries for my mother. On hot summer nights, he would sleep among the trees, intoxicated by the plush branches and the sweet scent of ripe peaches. He would barter part of the orchard’s yield for household staples and services and seemed satisfied with what he was able to garner in this way. He was content and didn’t seek much beyond his lot.

  My mother, from the bits and pieces I heard growing up, was a beautiful woman. Thick locks of ebony fell below her shoulders. She had warm eyes and regal cheekbones. She hummed while she worked, always wore a green pendant, and was well known for her mouthwatering aush, delicate noodles and spiced ground beef in a yogurt broth that warmed bellies in the harsh winter. My parents’ short-lived marriage had been a happy arrangement, judging by the way my father’s eyes would well up on the rare occasion he spoke of her. Though it took me almost a lifetime to do it, I put together what I knew of my mother and convinced myself that she had most likely forgiven my trespass against her. I would never see her, but I still needed to feel her love.