When the Moon Is Low(11)

“I wish your father could carry his talents into his home, but they seem to dry at the threshold. That leaves things in your hands, Fereiba-jan.” Boba-jan shook his head. I wanted to disagree, to tell him my father was nothing like KokoGul, but he continued.

“Even your brother has found his way, without obligation to anyone. I do not know who is to blame. He has the body of a horse but the mind of an ass.”

“But you have always looked out for me,” I said, holding his hand.

“Maybe I am hard on your father because he is too much like me. You, you are different. More like your mother, may Allah give her peace. She could see beyond her nose. With her, your father was better. It’s too bad. She would have made a man out of him.”

My legs were going numb, sitting beside Boba-jan, but I dared not move. I wanted to remember every word of what he was saying.

“No use speaking of such things. You are an intelligent girl. Trust yourself to know what’s best for you.”

“You always know what’s best for me, Boba-jan. I can always turn to you.”

“It’s best not to depend on the gray haired. We’re too close to God to rely on,” he warned with a tired sigh.

He was exhausted, so I changed the subject and talked to him about the rosebushes growing outside his home. I told him about the chicken vendor who had to chase his clucking hens down the market street when a child opened the latch on the cage. He smiled and nodded, his eyes drifting off as sleep overcame him.

I kissed his hand and promised to return in the morning, but some time between then and sunrise, Boba-jan left to be with God and my mother. I wondered if the angel from the orchard had come to claim him. I wept for two weeks, away from my father and KokoGul and my siblings. I wanted to be as alone as I felt, and the only place I could do that was in the thick of the orchard.

FORTY DAYS AFTER MY GRANDFATHER’S PASSING, I WENT WALKING among the fruit trees. Boba-jan’s death made me think of the angel from my childhood again, though I was fairly convinced he was nothing more than my youthful imagination toying with me. Still, I had the fleeting thought that if I saw him, I’d like to ask him about my grandfather and mother.

Behind a row of mulberry trees was our neighbor’s orchard, separated from ours by a high clay wall. As I spent more time in the shade of the mulberry trees, I began to feel I wasn’t alone. It was different from the time I’d seen my guardian angel. This time the presence felt earthly. This time the presence sneezed.

I sat up straight, suddenly very self-conscious. I closed my book and straightened my skirt, looking all around me for the source of the sneeze. There was not even a bird in sight. I was walking around the trees when I heard a rustle of leaves from just beyond the perimeter wall and a thump, followed by the sound of running feet. Someone had been watching me!

In the following days, I wasn’t sure if I should return to that corner of the orchard. But, in my heart, I knew the mulberry tree had always brought me good fortune, so I wandered through the brush again, walking quietly and listening closely. A week later, I crept along the wall and looked up into the neighbor’s trees. I was surprised to see a pair of legs dangling from a heavy branch.

It was him, I was certain. I tried to get a better view of the rest of him but I could only see his pant legs. Leather sandals hung loosely from his swaying feet.

This had to be the son of the neighboring family. He was a few years older than me, but I had never seen him before. Had my academics not been so delayed, we might have met in school. What was a boy, a young man, of his age doing perched in a tree?

Feeling a bit brazen, I stepped purposefully on small branches and kicked at a rock as I made my way over to the mulberry tree, taking my usual place in its generous shade. With an upward glance, I noticed the legs had disappeared from view. He was hiding! I took out my book and stared at the page, the words blurred together as I asked myself why I’d come out here. After an interminable period of silence, I got up and walked back into the house, hoping I didn’t look as panicked as I felt.

Nothing is foolish to the adolescent. The adolescent acts, without questioning the wisdom of the action. I returned every day after that, slinking through the trees, spying the familiar leather sandals, and taking my place under the mulberry tree. It became routine: school, housework, and orchard. I would stay awake late into the night to work on homework since I couldn’t concentrate in the orchard. After two silent weeks, I decided to let the stranger know I was aware of his presence. The stalemate was driving me mad.

I spent the walk home from school working up my nerve. By the time I snuck into the orchard that afternoon, I was feeling so bold I barely recognized myself. I walked loudly and approached the wall. When I was sure I was within earshot, I said loudly, but not too loudly, “It’s not polite to stare. It would be more respectful to say salaam.”

I heard nothing in reply. Not a single word. Had I imagined the whole thing or was he not here today? Worse yet, perhaps he thought me shameless to speak this way to a stranger. I spent all my time either in a classroom of girls or at home. The only boys of my age that I knew were my cousins. To have any interaction with a boy outside was taboo and I knew it. I was at that age where I needed to be mindful of my comportment, but it was the orchard and I was invisible. I allowed myself some latitude.

That he ignored when I had crossed a line to interact with him disappointed and angered me. I stormed off.