When the Moon Is Low(22)

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.

KokoGul was again wetting her lips. Another courtship, another round of choreographed flattery and boasting.

I STAYED CLEAR OF THE ORCHARD AND HELPED KOKOGUL READY the sitting room for Thursday afternoon. KokoGul picked out Najiba’s dress, a flattering cap-sleeved, A-line cut that showed off her figure but maintained modesty. Just before they were to arrive, I changed into a shift dress with an embroidered neckline. KokoGul raised an eyebrow to see me wearing something I usually saved for special occasions.

“Don’t spill anything on yourself,” she warned. “Najiba might need that dress in the next few months.”

I didn’t know how KokoGul or Najiba would react when they found out the suitor was here for me. Najiba had been nervously excited when she heard of the Walids’ visit. My first courtship had given her a taste of the process, and she was eager to feel the spotlight herself.

I opened the gate for Bibi Shireen, mother of my orchard friend. She’d brought her sister along with her. I greeted them quietly, afraid my tongue would tie if I said more than a few words. I led them into the sitting room just as KokoGul entered from the hallway. She beamed and opened her arms to welcome our neighbor. They kissed cheeks three times and smiled warmly. KokoGul signaled for me to bring some tea for our guests.

I stole glances at Bibi Shireen, wondering what her son might look like or if he even took after her. Her soft brown eyes smiled at me and settled the nerves in my stomach. Looking at her was like getting a message from my friend in the orchard.

Everything will be fine, he was telling me. She’s here to make things right.

I prepared small dishes of yellow raisins, pine nuts, and pistachios. I walked back into the room just in time to hear Bibi Shireen telling KokoGul what an honor it was to have such a lovely family next door.

“Thank you, sweet girl,” she said, as I placed a cup of tea before her and her sister. I hoped she hadn’t noticed how much the cup had rattled in the saucer.

“With pleasure,” I mumbled before making a quick exit back to the kitchen. I wondered how much her son had told her about me or our conversations.

Out of sight, I listened in. She continued to praise our family and then started to talk about her own. Her son, she said, was completing his engineering studies in a few months and was now of age to begin his own family.

“He will be standing on his two feet soon, what a mother dreams to see. We are very proud of all that he has done.”

“As you should be. He takes after his father then. Agha Walid is much respected, of course.”

“Indeed,” his aunt added. “He’s been a role model for his younger siblings and his cousins, my own dear son included.”

“I see.”

“KokoGul-jan, we come to you today on behalf of my beloved son, who is the jewel of our home and of our extended family. Praise Allah, I have been blessed with an intelligent, hardworking, and loving son, and I want to make sure that he will have a wife who will bring him happiness. It is time for him to start a family. As a mother, now that he is himself a man, this is one of the most important things I can do for him—to put the right woman at his side. Your family is a respectable family, a trustworthy family, and, praise Allah, a beautiful one.”