When the Moon Is Low(14)

And bring your aspirations within your reach

Yes, I thought, looking at the skyline and seeing the hundred mountain peaks that separated Kabul from the rest of the world. There was quiet as the simple words made the distance between us thin and meaningless. The verse he’d chosen made me feel he knew every thought I’d dare not share with others. He had put a gentle arm around me. It was my first experience with intimacy, both rousing and frightening.

“That is a beautiful poem,” I said finally. “Thank you.” I wished him a good day and slowly returned to the house, feeling my throat thicken and not wanting to cry in his presence. I’d revealed enough today.

I ran back into the house, passing KokoGul on my way up the stairs. She was hemming a skirt and barely looked up.

“Fall and break your leg and see who will carry you around. Act your age!”

A FEW DAYS LATER, KOKOGUL RECEIVED THE CALL SHE’D BEEN awaiting. The Firoozes had made their intentions clear and official. KokoGul was delighted, as if she herself were being courted instead of me.

“I knew. I knew they would take one look at my daughter’s face and see the loveliest aroos a mother could want for her son! That woman would be lucky to have you as her daughter-in-law and they know it now. You’re far more beautiful than anyone in their family, and our family has a good name. Your padar is as well respected as Boba-jan was, may God give him eternal peace. Agha Firooz will have to show us that they are worthy of our daughter. And we won’t make it easy . . . no, no, no. I’ll make that woman call on our home so many times, she won’t be able to dance at your wedding for the calluses she’ll have on her feet; I don’t care how much money they have.”

I knew that wasn’t true. She’d estimated, in the days after their first visit, just how much the fabric of their dresses had cost. She’d taken stock of the stitching and the design, commenting that only Kabul’s most capable seamstress could have crafted a dress that made such a stocky figure seem womanly.

I was relieved to hear KokoGul’s plan for the day of their return. She and I both wanted me out of sight for their second visit.

“Your sisters will bring the tea and biscuits. They saw you last time—let’s let their mouths water a bit.”

“Madar-jan, a girl should have multiple khastgaar, shouldn’t she? You’ve said many times that one khastgaar attracts a second suitor and a third. That would look better for us, wouldn’t it? Maybe you should turn this family away.”

KokoGul balked at my reasoning.

“A second and a third khastgaar? Look who thinks very highly of herself! Agha Firooz’s son is not good enough? An educated boy from a wealthy, respected family like that is not good enough? Listen, girl, just because one family has come knocking does not mean that anyone else will! Kabul is full of girls.”

Her demeanor had changed completely.

“I just thought . . .”

“You should be thankful that anyone has come knocking on your door at all! A girl raised without her mother is not exactly the kind of wife a family welcomes with open arms.”

Without a mother. Her words should not have stung as harshly as they did. I’d lived my life as KokoGul’s stepdaughter, aware with each breath that I was not Najiba or the others. I was inherited, an outsider in my father’s home. That I’d laughed at her jokes, that I’d learned to cook the foods she loved, that I’d rubbed her back when it ached, that I’d spent my life calling her “Madar-jan”—I wanted to take it all back. KokoGul’s heart was a fixed space, a container with finite dimensions, and every inch of it had been spoken for by my sisters and my father. I stared at her and through her. Once again and even more unexpectedly this time, I was motherless.

“Such ridiculous notions. This business is for me to manage. You’re too young to know what is good for you.”

I watched her lapis ring tap sharply against her teacup. She was a fiery woman, with strong feelings about everything. But in every embrace, every conversation, every glance with me she was lukewarm. I imagined my home without me—my sisters laughing in the hallways, my brother at my father’s side, and KokoGul, hands on her hips, proudly presiding over it all.

Why did my mother have to die?

Nothing exceptional happened on this afternoon. It was a few words, not much different from any other day but it was a private, cataclysmic moment when I saw the woman before me through unclouded eyes.

“They’re coming back sooner than I expected,” KokoGul said, thinking out loud. “But I’ll find a way to keep them baited.”

KokoGul made her own mouth water.

I saw the peaks of a hundred mountains rising before me.





CHAPTER 7


Fereiba


AGHA FIROOZ’S FAMILY APPROVED OF ME. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN flattered.

Instead, I wondered if I could have done something in that first visit to turn their attention away.

But the mother returned, and this time she brought her son along with her. Forbidden from appearing, I kept hidden. I snuck down once only to catch a glimpse and confirm my suspicions. Sitting next to his mother and appearing as proper as a prince was the boy from the market. I slinked away without anyone noticing.

Repulsed, I sat on my bed. My head fell against the wall.

I could hear KokoGul speaking in the singsong voice she used to tell witty stories. She was masterful at telling tales, creating suspense with the cadence of her words. Her eyes would brighten under the attention. She disarmed people in that way, mimicking voices and facial expressions in a way that had listeners doubled over in laughter.