Maroof let out a guffaw.
“He looked like he might pick her up right there. Send a note and a few afghanis to her parents!”
“Would’ve been a lot easier if he’d done it that way. What a pain her family was. Putting up a show like they come from royalty or something.”
“But I remember your face when he made us stop so he could watch her… you thought she was a real boy then, you idiot!”
“You did too!” Maroof said in self-defense. “She looked like a boy. How the hell should I have known there was something more interesting under those clothes?”
“You probably liked her better the other way!” Hassan chuckled. “What do you think of her new haircut, eh? Got your appetite going?”
I backed up slowly and as quietly as I could, my mind racing.
They had sold me out to my husband. I trembled at the way they talked about me.
My thoughts tumbled and turned until I finally realized what it was that I had just overheard.
I wasn’t safe.
I turned the doorknob, watching the hallway to see if the men had noticed my presence. They hadn’t. I closed the door behind me and went straight to the washroom. I couldn’t look at Badriya right now, knowing she would be of no help to me. It looked like she was asleep anyway.
My husband was a man of violence and I knew that I’d barely seen a tenth of what he was capable of. He was a man of war, of guns, of power. He demanded respect and obedience, and the guards had just told him that I was out of control. He must have been wild with rage.
I couldn’t help but remember he was looking to add a wife and that five was one more than he wanted. I knew what that meant for me.
I thought of the woman in the shelter. She’d disobeyed and her husband had sliced off her ear. I had no doubt Abdul Khaliq could be just as vicious. I leaned against the wall, my heart pounding in fear. I had to think fast.
We were due to return home in three days.
CHAPTER 64. SHEKIBA
Shah’s feet pounded against the dirt of the road. Just because he was supposed to accompany his sister home from school didn’t mean he couldn’t race her to the front door. He panted, turned around and saw Shabnam walking hurriedly to catch up. She looked frustrated.
“Why are you always in such a rush? Don’t you know it’s not easy to run in a skirt? And anyway, Madar-jan would be upset if she saw me chasing after you through the streets!”
“It’s not my fault I’m faster than you. I could have been home a long time ago if I didn’t have to wait for you!”
It was the same argument every day. They bickered but adored each other, oblivious to the resentment between their mothers. Shabnam had long ago opted to ignore her mother’s hand pulling her back and would sit with Shekiba while she washed the clothes, asking her question after question about everything from horses to baking bread. And Shah, who knew no boundaries thanks to his father, loved to torment Gulnaz by pulling at her knitting and running away, his giggles undoing her anger at the work he had unraveled.
Aasif had hoped for more children but Gulnaz and Shekiba seemed to alternate; one would start her womanly illness when the other stopped. He wondered if a curse had been lifted from him for those two years. Or maybe the women had done something… but he grew tired of being angry. His mother had not given up hope. Even one week before her death, she’d reminded her son that Allah had wanted men to take on more than two wives.
“And where will I put another wife, Madar-jan? In our small home, there is no room for another woman and I have enough trouble feeding the ones I have.”
“Marry and Allah will provide a way,” his mother had told him, her eyes half closed with fatigue.
He debated her advice, as illogical as it seemed, on his way to and from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He had been transferred from the Ministry of Agriculture and given a position working with a higher-ranked vizier two years ago thanks to his relationship with Amanullah.
When Agha Khalil arrived with his wife, it was Shah who met them at the door. His knees were dusty from trying to climb past the second branch of the tree in their courtyard, which made the visitor and his wife smile and think of their own young son at home.
“Good evening, dear boy! Is your father home? I would like to speak with him.”
“Yes, he is. Come in! My mother is making dinner. Why don’t you stay and be our guest?” he said with a grin, aping his father’s hospitality. Agha Khalil’s wife could not help but laugh.
“Isn’t that kind of you! We wouldn’t want to trouble her, my friend,” he said just as Aasif entered the courtyard.
“Agha Khalil, how pleasant to see you!”
“And you as well, Agha Baraan. Forgive me for dropping by at this hour but I wanted to bring you those papers since I will not be at the office tomorrow.”
“Please, please, come in,” Aasif said, motioning to the house door.
“Your son was quite the host and already invited us but my wife and I were just on our way home from visiting relatives. We don’t want to be a bother.”
Aasif insisted and Shekiba quickly set out cups of tea and dried mulberries. Gulnaz had taken to her room with a headache, so Shekiba was forced to join Aasif in sitting with the guests. Shekiba and Agha Khalil’s wife, Mahnaz, were introduced and they sat in one corner of the living room while the men chatted in the other. Shekiba kept her head turned to the side as she always did when she met someone new.
“Your son is such a darling boy, nam-e-khoda!” Mahnaz said. Shekiba bowed her head and smiled to hear the kindness in this woman’s voice. Mahnaz wore a taupe-colored ankle-length dress with airy sleeves that buttoned at the cuff. She looked elegant and fitting of someone who might be a palace guest.
“May Allah bless you with good health, thank you,” she said, not wanting to invite nazar by saying any more about her little king.
“Do you have much family in Kabul?”
“No, I came from a small village outside Kabul.”
“So did I. This city was quite a surprise for me! So different from where I grew up.” Mahnaz was young, probably no more than twenty-four years old, with a bright and cheerful face. “Where was your village?”
“It was called Qala-e-Bulbul. I doubt you ever would have heard of it,” Shekiba said. At the age of thirty-six, she hadn’t thought of her village, named for the hundreds of songbirds that lived there, in years. And her village made her think of her songbird sister. Aqela’s lifted voice and dimpled face flashed across her mind, blurry and vivid all at once as memories are.
Mahnaz’s mouth dropped open. She put a hand on Shekiba’s. “Qala-e-Bulbul? Are you really from there? That is my village!”
Shekiba suddenly felt a surge of panic. She did not regret in the least that she had no contact with her family. She looked over at Aasif and saw that the men were deeply engaged in a conversation. He had never cared to ask her anything about her family and she saw no reason for him to learn anything now.
“I left when I was fairly young and I barely remember anyone…,” Shekiba said quietly.
“What a remarkable coincidence! What is your family name?”
“Bardari.”
“Bardari? The farm that was north of the hill of the shepherd? Oh, my goodness! My uncle was neighbor to the Bardari family. I spent so much time at my uncle’s house that I know them well. We lived not too far from there ourselves. How are you related to Khanum Zarmina or Khanum Samina? Their daughters and I used to braid each other’s hair and sing songs by the stream that ran behind my uncle’s land.”