“What did you say to her?” I asked hesitantly.
“What could I say to a grieving mother? I told her that I prayed God would give them peace and rest his young soul in heaven.”
“I mean about me. About me being cursed.”
“Fereiba, a fateha is not the time or place to argue. I told her I hoped that wasn’t true.” KokoGul took a glass and poured herself some water. “Anyway, it’s terrible to speak of him this way now that he’s gone, but I hear he was a troublemaker — disrespectful and thieving from his own family. Homaira-jan said he once beat her young son so badly, he couldn’t see out of one eye for a week.”
“When did you see Homaira-jan?” I asked casually, keeping my eyes on the dishes.
“Oh, a couple of weeks ago, in the bazaar. She’s back from her trip to India, showing off her new gold bangles, of course.”
And yet she’d been preparing my shirnee.
Mother. All my life I had called KokoGul by this radiant and hopeful name, wishing for the touch of lamb’s wool on my cheek and too often getting nothing but a cool draft.
“The ladies were talking at the fateha. Agha Firooz thought marriage would settle the boy and knock the mischief out of him. They’d been trying to find a match for him for months. Who needs that? We aren’t here to give our girls as second or third options.”
I snapped the dishrag against the edge of the counter. “But you were ready to give them my shirnee anyway, weren’t you? Why am I so different?”
My tone was sharp. The hurt, unfurled, lay between me and KokoGul in a rare moment of honesty.
KokoGul’s eyes met mine.
“My dear, there is a difference between you and Najiba, and I’m surprised you’re asking me about it at this point. Najiba is simple. She’s a pretty girl. . pretty enough that she’ll get attention. She comes from a good family. She’s bright and polite.”
“And me?”
“And you,” KokoGul said, her words jabbing me like a finger in my sternum. “I have to be more careful with you. Yes, you’re well mannered and have nice enough features, but everyone knows that you lost your mother. And that makes you different. And before you look at me with those angry eyes, remember that it is not my fault you lost your mother and it’s not my fault that people talk the way they do. But it is up to me to do the best I can for you. Think about it, Fereiba. If you wait to dance on the moon, you may never dance at all.”
“You don’t love me the way you love them.”
“And you don’t love me the way you love your father. Or your grandfather. Don’t think I don’t know that.”
I was silent. She was right, of course.
KokoGul, unfazed, went right back to being personally offended by the would-be suitors.
“I’m sorry she lost her son but I’m even sorrier I wasted my time serving them tea and biscuits.”
PADAR-JAN SAID NOTHING ABOUT THE MATTER. HE CAME IN AND out of the house, speaking to us gently about our classes but not a word about Agha Firooz or his son. I wanted my father to be different, but it wasn’t something he could do. Though I was free of the suitor and his family, I was left to wonder how readily my family would have given me away. And when it might happen again.
My neighbor was my retreat. He recited poetry and complained about losing points on his last engineering exam. He spoke passionately of the work he wanted to do when he graduated. He wanted to go abroad and train with a foreign company. He wanted to explore the world. I loved to hear him talk about the university and its layout. He described the buildings and professors in such detail, I could close my eyes and imagine walking through its halls.
One day, he said something he’d never said before.
“It would be nice to get to know you and your family without a wall between us.”
My cheeks grew warm. I smiled and wiggled my toes in the grass.
“But that would be. . I mean, that’s not. .”
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But I wanted to let you know that I was thinking our families should begin a conversation. .”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” I asked, half embarrassed. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I wouldn’t, Fereiba. Believe me, qandem.” My sweet. My skin prickled to hear him say my name, the delicate but daring “qandem” settling in my ear like a soft kiss. “Do you know what I think about doing every day?”
I fell back into the grass and stared up into the branches, green teardrop-shaped leaves backlit by a defiant sun. Its white, red, and black fruits glimmered in various stages of ripeness. The light tickled my eyes.
“What do you think about?”
“Every day that I sit here and talk to you over this wall has made me think of climbing over it so I could look at you, walk through your father’s orchard with you, and talk while we listen to songs on the radio.”
I held my breath. The feeling in the pit of my stomach — the trembling feeling of falling off a cliff — this was new. I found it odd that I could recognize so easily something I had never before seen or felt. This was love the poets described — I was sure.
“But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized that I don’t want to trespass into your father’s orchard. I want to be welcomed through his front gate. I want to walk with you, hand in hand, without a wall between us, without having to hide our voices from the rest of the world.”
Tears slid from the corners of my eyes, past my temples, and fell to the earth. For so many years, I’d received nothing but the watered-down love of my siblings, the resentful tolerance of KokoGul, and the guarded affection of my father. These words, ripe and whole, fed the emptiness I’d lived with my entire life.
“Fereiba.”
“Yes?”
“You haven’t said anything.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You could say what you want.”
I sat up and covered my face with my hands. I couldn’t say the words with God’s sun on my face.
“I want the same,” I whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.
TWO DAYS LATER, THERE WAS A KNOCK AT OUR FRONT GATE. Thankfully, I was elbow deep in a basin with clothes, socks, and soapy water so KokoGul went to answer it herself. A few moments later, KokoGul stood over me, watching me rub the ring from my father’s shirt collars.
“After darkness always comes light. Wash my burgundy dress too. Looks like we’ll be having guests this Thursday afternoon.”
“Who is coming on Thursday?”
“Agha Walid’s wife, Bibi Shireen, is coming,” she said with a meaningful wink. “Seems our neighbors have something to talk about. You should wash Najiba’s olive dress as well. No, on second thought, make it the yellow one. The green one makes her hips too wide.”
I said nothing but nodded. KokoGul would be in for a surprise when she realized the conversation was not about Najiba. Just two years younger than me, my half sister had blossomed into a tall young woman, with straight black hair that curled girlishly at the ends. Her skin was milky white and her mouth a pouty rose. KokoGul claimed Najiba had taken after herself but it was hard to see much resemblance.
The home and orchard adjacent to ours belonged to Agha Walid, a respected thinker and engineer. KokoGul thought highly of him, not because she thought he was a brilliant engineer but because others did. Respect and rumors self-propagated in that way in Kabul. It was good and bad.