When the Moon Is Low(48)

Saleem drank it all in. This could be an Afghan wedding, he thought to himself. It really was no different. A circle of men chatted in one corner. Women were laughing in another. Turks and Afghans were more alike than he had thought.

The food was delicious. Since Saleem had barely had time to eat anything when he came home from work, he arrived at the party ravenous. He kept his eyes on his plate. Quite a few girls in the room had caught his attention, but he did not want to be caught ogling them. Although they were dressed modestly, their calf-length dresses showed off the shapes of their youthful curves. One girl had chestnut hair that curled around her face and brushed against her cherry lips. Saleem made extra effort not to stare in her direction.

“Do you want some more food? I’m going for seconds. Or maybe you’re worried you’ll split your pants?” Kamal said, nudging Saleem with his elbow as he stood up.

“No, I’ll come with you. I would gladly split my pants for this kebab.” They walked over to the long tables where trays of food were laid out. Off in the corner, the bride and groom stood chatting with a few guests.

“The family’s been waiting a long time for this wedding,” Kamal explained. “The bride is my cousin. The groom comes from a family that lives nearby, a neighboring farm. He’s been in love with her for years. There’s another family that wanted her to marry their son so that they’ll inherit this land eventually, but she wasn’t interested and her father doesn’t like them anyway.”

Just like Kabul, Saleem thought.

They filled their bellies, listened to music, and watched the men grow rowdy as the hour grew late. There was clapping, feet and elbows bouncing to the music blaring from a stereo system, the rhythm and the instruments reminiscent of the music of Kabul’s past. Tea and syrup-soaked pastries were passed around. Saleem, more sated than he could ever recall being, still did not turn down the flaky baklava or the pistachio-coated nougats offered to him. If only he could have shared this feast with his family. He licked his sticky fingers and wondered if there was a way to slip something into his pockets without being noticed.

“Hey, let’s get a smoke. It’s too hot here, no?” Kamal suggested. Saleem agreed and followed his friend out to the back of the house. His eardrums buzzed. Saleem took a deep breath of fresh air, stretched his arms out, and smiled. Kamal looked amused.

“Having a good time, are you?” Kamal asked, taking out a cigarette and matches.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a party. A really long time.”

“Yeah, well. This is life in Intikal. Every day is a party,” he said sarcastically, the cigarette casting an orange glow in the night. The boys began to stroll around the shed behind the house when they stopped short.

Explosive sounds thundered through the night—followed by screams.

Saleem’s instincts kicked in first. He grabbed Kamal by the shoulder and pulled him to the ground.

“Stay down!” he yelled. On their knees, the boys crawled around the side of the shed to get a look at the house. Kamal did as he was told. There were loud pops, more screaming, and the sound of breaking glass.

“What’s happening?” Kamal screamed, panic in his voice. The screams were more familiar than the gunshots to Saleem. Those were the screams of people under attack.

“My parents!” Kamal yelled, his voice breaking.

“Quiet,” Saleem warned, throwing his arms around his friend to keep him calm. “Quiet for a minute.”

Three shadows ran out of the house, leaped into a car, and roared off. Kamal and Saleem ran back into the house as the car lights faded down the road. The screams had melted into wails.

Blood. Saleem’s stomach reeled at the smell of gunpowder and metal. People were huddled in two corners of the room, groans echoing over the sound of festive music made for a macabre cacophony. Two women snatched curtains from the windows to make bandages. Kamal’s mother was one of them, shouting her son’s name even as she tore at the fabric.

“Mother!” Kamal ran over to her. She dropped the fabric and grabbed him by his shoulders.

“You’re not hurt? You’re all right? Oh, thank God!” she cried.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Where’s Father?”

“Helping your cousins over there.” She picked up the curtain and ran over to a mass of people crouched over one woman.

Saleem stood locked in place.

People were yelling, walking around him as if unaware of his presence. He saw their mouths move and heard a noise, the sound of frightened, hurt people. He saw people running. Arms and legs moved around him, sometimes pushing him out of the way. He couldn’t move.

Saleem was back in Kabul. He heard rockets, saw people burying young children and families crying after disappeared fathers. His breathing slowed, and his eyes grew blurry.

There was no escape. The bloodshed had tracked him down to Intikal. How na?ve he was to think he had left it all behind. It danced around him, taunting him and poking at his sides. It had followed him all along, waiting for him to grow complacent. Saleem had buried his head under a pillow as a young boy to muffle the sounds of the rockets. Now he put his hands over his ears to deaden the cries.

Saleem caught a glimpse of one of the victims, the bride’s father, his white shirt turned crimson. The color drained from his face as his daughter lay over him shrieking.