When the Moon Is Low(13)

She had the same gap-toothed grin as the lewd boy from the market.

Had I not already set the teacups down, I’m sure they would have rattled right off the tray. I kept my head lowered and made a quick escape from the parlor. I could hear Agha Firooz’s wife casually suggesting to KokoGul that I join them for tea. KokoGul waved off the suggestion and began to extol my virtues. Najiba was in the kitchen gulping down a glass of water—ever neutral, ever oblivious to what was going on around her.

“Najiba, can you stay here and listen out for Madar-jan? Wait a few minutes and then refill their teacups, please. My head is spinning and I need to lie down.”

Najiba looked at me as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Okay, Ferei,” she replied affectionately.

I kissed her cheek and went out the back door of the kitchen, creeping up the stairs as noiselessly as I could.

I leaned against the upstairs wall, my heart pounding. I prayed Agha Firooz’s emissaries would soon take their leave.





CHAPTER 6


Fereiba


COURTSHIP AND GIFTS LOST THEIR ROMANTIC APPEAL AS I WAS slapped with the reality of marriage. I could not imagine becoming part of Agha Firooz’s family. How could I tell Padar-jan how I felt? Through KokoGul’s oblique comments I learned that Padar-jan was exploring Agha Firooz’s business propositions. I couldn’t confess my worries to my sisters or my brother. I had much to hash out and no one to talk with.

KokoGul eagerly anticipated a second call from Agha Firooz’s wife. A respectable courtship was a slow, deliberately coy dance between two families. KokoGul rehearsed for that call, her chance to feign surprise and hesitation. With me, she was especially lenient in the next few weeks. I was excused from many of my duties around the house, a pampering that made me feel more suspicious than grateful.

“Fereiba-jan, do not bother with the pots today. Too much scrubbing will roughen your soft hands. Let your sister help you,” she called out. I put the washcloth down and turned my palms up. Years of hand-washing the family’s clothes, sifting dry rice, and scrubbing burnt cookware had callused my fingers. I wiped my hands dry. The orchard called.

As I neared the mulberry tree, the sandaled legs abruptly stopped swinging. I did my best to steal a glance at his face, but the rest of him was hidden, as usual, by the foliage. He could see me from his vantage, which I thought very unfair but dared not protest. I had to consider my modesty.

“Salaam.” A cautious greeting.

“Salaam,” I returned. I breathed easier in the silence that followed. I was more comfortable in this unknown, protected by the orchard walls. I waited as my neighbor pondered his next words. There was, today, a tranquil tension between us.

“You haven’t brought a book today.”

“I haven’t felt much like reading lately,” I confessed.

“Something troubles you.”

How much could I reveal? But I was lonely. Not one person in my family knew how I felt. Not one person knew why. My distress was trapped in my throat like something I could neither choke down nor spit out.

“I come to the orchard when there’s something I want to avoid. Or when there’s something I want to think about . . . something private.” His voice dropped off at the end. I kept my eyes on the grass. I didn’t want to see his face or any other part of him. In this moment, the unsure rises and falls of his voice were all that I needed.

“My father loves the orchard enough to do his dawn prayers here. He believes his prayers nourish the trees, but it’s probably the other way around,” I said. “He empties his heart to these trees, to their branches and roots, and in return they sweeten his mouth with their fruits. In the afternoons, the orchard is mine. My siblings are too afraid to come this far out into the trees.”

“Some people fear what they cannot see.”

“I have seen and there’s nothing to fear here. It’s beyond this orchard that frightens me.” Again, there was a pause.

“You were reading Ibrahim Khalil last time.”

I was surprised. Indeed, I had been. My reading skills had improved tremendously, and I was now studying the writings of contemporary Afghan poets.

“Yes, actually.”

“Why?”

Why? A question that I couldn’t eloquently answer. There was something powerful about the clarity and conciseness of the lyrics. How amazing to condense the profoundest of thoughts into a few lines, to boil them down and mold them into an enchanting rhyming package. I loved picking those packages apart, like unwrapping a gift meant only for me and deciphering the lines.

“He is a compass,” I explained, finally. “There are days when I sleep and wake with a dilemma. I can think and think on it and not know up from down. But more than once, I’ve read his words and then . . . I don’t know how to say it. It’s almost as if he has written answers to questions I never asked him.”

“Hmm.”

Did he think me ridiculous?

“That’s how I see it,” I added. I felt my face blush.

“Can I tell you one of my favorites?”

I nodded. He cleared his throat and began to recite. I recognized the poem as one I’d bookmarked and underlined.

As you tread to the temple of your supreme pursuit

A hundred peaks may hinder your route

With the hatchet of persistence, conquer each