When the Moon Is Low(33)

Raisa looked as if she had just taken a bite of something horrid and was waiting for the right moment to spit it out.

“Fereiba-jan, let us sit and talk,” Abdul Rahim said. “Saleem-jan, look after your sister for a bit, bachem.”

When Abdul Rahim, the gentle giant who lived next door, called Saleem my boy, I knew. Everything I needed to know was in that seemingly trivial endearment, the word he’d slipped in instinctively wanting to fill a sorry void. Abdul Rahim, a loving father, knew the needs of a young man. A young man needs someone to tousle his hair, to put a hand on his shoulder, to watch him fiddle with a broken watch.

A young man needs to be someone’s boy.

Bachem.

No wonder Mahmood had respected our neighbors the way he did. He’d seen the goodness in them long before they’d needed to show it.

My son was without a father. My children were without their father.

Saleem, my obedient boy, headed off to sit with Samira. I knew he would listen in and I did nothing about it. I couldn’t protect any of us from our reality. I sat down and let Abdul Rahim tell me what he needed to tell me.

“My brother works for the . . . two weeks ago . . . taken by Taliban . . . disagreed with their actions . . . man of ideals . . . brave . . . workers found a body . . . note in the pocket . . . forgive me for sharing this with you . . .”

Raisa wrapped her arms around me. She sobbed, her heavy bosom heaving. I’d known for weeks, but some truths need to be said out loud before they can be believed.

Mahmood would never come back. We’d had our final moment together just a few feet from where I sat. He’d told me everything he needed to in that last moment, his fate written on his face. He had known from the moment the men entered our home.

Saleem slipped back into the living room and walked over to Abdul Rahim who sat with shoulders slumped, his hands folded between his knees.

“Kaka-jan?” he said.

Abdul Rahim met his gaze.

“My father—he is not coming back?”

It was not a boy’s question. It was the question of a young man who needed to know what to expect of tomorrow and what tomorrow would expect of him.





CHAPTER 16


Fereiba


I HAD TO GET MY FAMILY OUT OF KABUL.

With Mahmood gone, there was nothing left for us. We would almost certainly starve once the money ran out. The imminent arrival of our third child complicated matters.

Samira had not spoken since the afternoon of Raisa and Abdul Rahim’s visit. She gave her answers in nods and gestures. I spoke softly with her, trying to coax the words from her lips, but Samira remained silent.

I found Saleem in our bedroom, staring at his father’s belongings. Unaware of my presence, he touched the pants, brought a shirt to his cheek, and laid the pieces out on the floor as if trying to imagine his father in it. He picked up Mahmood’s watch from the nightstand and turned it over in his hand. He slipped it on his wrist and pulled his sleeve over it. It was a private moment between father and son, so I snuck back down the hall before he realized I’d been watching.

My son thought I was too wrapped up in my own grief to know what he suffered, but I observed it all. I saw him kick the tree behind our house until he fell into a tearful heap, his toes so bruised and swollen that he winced with each step for a week. I held him when he allowed me, but if I started to speak, he would slip away. It was too soon.

If I thought of my last exchange with Mahmood, so did Saleem. I could see the remorse on his face as clearly as I felt it in my heart. We would have done things differently, Saleem and I. We would have had much more to say.

From what Abdul Rahim was able to gather, the local Taliban had decided to make an example of Mahmood Waziri. The rest of the family would not be targeted, he believed, but no one could say with any certainty. Even in the light of day, there was little certainty in Kabul. The cloak of night made all things possible.

I couldn’t bear to have my children out of my sight. I sent Saleem on errands to the marketplace only when I was truly desperate. Just one month after the news of Mahmood’s assassination, my belly began to ache. At first, I thought it might be the balmy winter air bringing a cramp, but as I walked from room to room, the familiar pains became clearer.

I paced the room, my lips pursed and my steps slow.

“Nine months, nine days . . . nine months, nine days . . .” I repeated softly.

Just a few hours later, Raisa coaxed my third child into the world. I named him Aziz.

“Saleem and Samira,” I managed to get out. “Meet your father’s son.”

AZIZ WOULD NEED TO GAIN SOME WEIGHT BEFORE WE COULD venture out of Kabul. As I nursed him, his face started to take on his father’s features: the squint of his eyes, the dip in his chin, the curl of his ears.

Abdul Rahim kept a watchful eye on the widowed Waziri family. He invited Saleem to sit with him when he returned from school. I don’t know what they talked about, but Saleem always came home pensive. I was grateful my son had Abdul Rahim to turn to.

Abdul Rahim and Raisa agreed that it was best for us to leave. We had no family to help us. I feared my son would be swallowed by the Taliban, and as a woman, there was little I could do to help us survive.

“We’re going to leave,” I told my neighbors. “I have no choice but to get my children out of Kabul. Their stomachs are empty, their lips parched. There’s nothing for us here.”