When the Moon Is Low(6)

KokoGul was beside herself. To her friends, she boasted that I, her daughter, had been visited by an angel. The visit was a herald of good fortune, and she hoped to absorb some of that light. She began to examine her dreams with more diligence, looking for clues that the heavens were communicating with her too. I heard her newly charged supplications when she prayed at home. She spoke to me a little more sweetly, with a gentle hand stroking my hair.

My sisters were curious about the whole matter but unable to grasp KokoGul’s yearning to meet the man I’d seen in the orchard. Najiba, closest to me in age, was most puzzled by KokoGul’s reactions.

“What did the angel look like, Fereiba? Were you scared of him?” she asked curiously. We were sitting cross-legged on the floor, shelling peas from their pods.

“He just looked like an old man, like somebody’s grandfather.” My words felt far too simple, but I didn’t know how else to answer.

“Whose grandfather? Our grandfather?”

“No, not anyone we know. Just a grandfather,” I paused, wanting to do him justice. “He glowed and he knew my name.” I tossed a handful of peas into the bowl between us.

Najiba was quiet, considering my explanation. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t see him. I think I would have been scared.”

I might have said the same had I not been there to see his blue-gray eyes. His gentle voice had filled the darkness and left no room for fear. Still, Najiba made me feel brave.

KokoGul didn’t quite see it the same. She began to absorb my encounter as her own, vicarious experience. I heard her talking to two friends over tea one day.

“And then he disappeared? Just like that?”

“Did you expect a horse and carriage would come and carry him off?” KokoGul said in her trademark snappish way. Unless they were the target of the sarcasm, her friends were typically entertained by it.

“God must be watching over her to have sent an angel to her,” said one.

“You know, the poor thing, her mother’s spirit in heaven watches over her. Must have had something to do with it,” said the other sympathetically.

The reference to my mother inspired KokoGul’s imagination. “I asked Fereiba to go to the orchard that night. I rarely get such cravings for the mulberries, but something mysterious had come over me. My tongue began to tickle for those sweet berries. I tried to ignore it but I couldn’t help myself. As if something in those trees was beckoning me, I wanted to run out there. But I was busy helping the girls with their homework so I asked Fereiba to pick a few for me. She’s such a good daughter, she went off into the orchard for me. So I’m not sure who the angel was supposed to meet. Maybe that craving was his way of calling me. But I sent Fereiba-jan in my stead, so we’ll never know.”

The women didn’t seem too impressed with KokoGul’s theory, but they didn’t challenge her. I entered the room, carefully balancing a tray with three hot cups of tea in one hand and carrying a bowl of sugar in the other.

“Afghan carpets were made with Fereiba-jan in mind,” KokoGul announced. “Thanks to their red color, you would never know how much tea gets spilled on them.” There was light laughter, and my head stayed lowered. I smiled politely as I placed a cup before each woman and offered sugar cubes. I could feel myself being scrutinized.

“Afareen, dokhtar-jan,” KokoGul commended. Well done, dear daughter. I retreated to the kitchen with the empty metal tray. Today I was her daughter.

In truth, most days I was her daughter. Because I wasn’t attending school, I spent a lot of time at home with KokoGul. Indeed, the weight of the household fell mostly on my shoulders, and she reprimanded me severely when things weren’t done to her liking. But I was with her the most. We spent hours together preparing meals, cleaning the house, and tending to the animals. Her sharp tongue needed an audience—or a target. I loved going to the bazaar with her. Inspecting a pile of bruised tomatoes, she asked the vegetable vendor if his hefty wife had mistakenly sat on his produce. At the housewares shop, she asked if the overpriced dishware was from the king’s private collection. KokoGul’s wit either rubbed the wrong way or scored a chuckle and a discount.

We were allies when we bargained our way through the things we needed: the meats, the vegetables, the shoes. I mimicked KokoGul’s brazen demeanor and negotiated the best price I could. She would nod approvingly. In the market and the chores, my younger sisters could not do anything as well as I did.

“Najiba, look at this,” she would complain. “This shirt still turns the water brown. How can you think this is clean? Have you seen how your sister makes a good lather? How many times have I told you—you can’t expect a shirt to clean itself! Thank goodness I at least have one daughter who can actually help me around the house.”

These were moments when I felt connected to her, this woman who was my mother, without being my mother.





CHAPTER 3


Fereiba


EACH NIGHT MY BROTHER AND MY SISTERS WORKED ON THEIR school lessons, pencils in their right hands, erasers in their left. They sat with elbows propped up on the table, chins in their palms while they read, memorized, added and subtracted. At first, they stumbled over the letters, learning how each character was connected to its neighbor with curved strokes. The dots, the dashes carefully placed, bringing words to life. Then came phrases, short simple sentences describing the daily activities of obedient boys and girls. When they started to learn the complex Arabic of the Qur’an, I grew even more envious. I’d learned to recite these prayers under my grandfather’s tutelage, but I hadn’t been taught to read the text itself.