“So are you!” Tilly cheered. “Be proud of yourselves. The Himalayas didn’t kill us. So go and live. And don’t forget to hug your mothers. For God’s sake, please hug your mothers.”
This woman who didn’t know the Himalayas from the Hindu Kush kept me from feeling utterly lost and alone. I couldn’t understand why Antonia didn’t feel the same way about Tilly. Here she stood, on a tree-lined street in Islamabad, making these two couples laugh, even as their stomachs likely still fluttered to think of how close they’d come to plunging into a chasm or being tossed into a dank prison cell.
But they hadn’t, and she wanted them to remember that.
“Now Star and I are off to get her passport sorted. Farewell, friends,” Tilly said, taking my hand and nodding in the direction of the embassy.
I watched the van pull away, Patricia’s hand waving from the open window. We were on our own and ready to set Antonia’s plan into motion. Tilly dug a tissue out of her bag and pressed it to her nose. I gave her hand a squeeze to remind her she wasn’t alone.
Police officers with bright badges stood on the curb just outside the embassy and watched as we approached. I had to will my feet to move toward them, remind myself that I was far from Kabul. I might as well have been crossing a raging river. Every step felt treacherous.
We saw the police officer’s mouth move. His words melted into the drone of traffic behind us. I dared not look him in the eye. I held on tightly to Tilly and kept my eye on the flurry of people moving in all directions.
Tilly exchanged a few words with them and showed her passport. In a moment, we passed through the front gates and were escorted by a police officer into a brick building. Inside, three soldiers stood on guard with rifles on their shoulders, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses. I could tell from their faces and the flags stitched onto their uniforms that they were Americans. A soldier sitting behind a desk took Tilly’s passport and my sister’s birth certificate and examined them front and back. Then he nodded at the bandage on Tilly’s forehead.
“Ma’am, have you had that looked at?” he asked.
“This is a scratch. We have more urgent matters to deal with,” Tilly announced. “My daughter, Antonia Shephard, is a Foreign Service officer at the Kabul embassy. She’s contacted some folks here about our predicament. We need some help with documentation.”
The soldier considered her for a moment and made a phone call before walking us down a long hallway. He carried Tilly’s bag for her while I kept mine slung over my shoulder, the bulk of it pressed against my belly. We were led into another room, a sparse office with a desk and two chairs. Tilly pulled a packet of crackers out of her bag, and though I had no appetite, I ate them to quell my roiling stomach. Being inside a government building in plain view had me rattled.
“They’re calling Antonia,” she whispered in my ear. “She’ll sort it all out.”
I watched faces, too nervous to understand the English. It felt like they were talking at double speed, and most of it flew over my head. A woman set a small glass bottle of apple juice in front of me and offered Tilly a fresh bandage. Tilly thanked her but, when she had gone, muttered that we had “bigger fish to fry.”
“Fish?” I whispered, puzzled. But Tilly’s attention was on the man who had just entered the office, his hand extended. He had wavy brown hair and square-framed glasses. Tilly shook his hand.
“Good to meet you,” she said. “I hope they’ve briefed you on our passport situation already. Do you know my daughter, Antonia?”
He started to speak, then looked at me and paused.
“Could we step into the hallway?” he asked Tilly, extending his arm toward the door.
“If that’s where good news is best delivered, then certainly,” she said. Tilly looked at me and I nodded. She touched my shoulder before she exited the room. They stood just outside the door, where I could still see her listen and nod and point at something in the distance. I looked at the expression on the man’s face. If he was one of Antonia’s friends, why did he seem so wary of us?
I touched my hip, feeling for the lump beneath the fabric of my pants. Just before we left Antonia’s apartment with Indigo, I’d locked myself in the bathroom to use the small sewing kit in her medicine cabinet. My mother had taught me to sew buttons onto shirts, and in the bathroom I managed, without too much difficulty, to stitch the ring into the pocket of my pants. It felt routine now, corrupting my parents’ teachings so that I could find ways to survive in their absence.
I had thought about leaving the ring behind, placing it on the shelf of the medicine cabinet for Antonia to find. She likely would have taken it to the Kabul Museum. I didn’t know if any of the Ai-Khanoum pieces had made it there or if they were still trapped in the basement of Arg. But this ring had become a talisman for me. As if this loop of ancient gold held together boulders instead of gems, the ring prevented me from feeling untethered, vulnerable to any rogue wind.
I stood and looked out the office window. Tilly and the man were out of view. I could make out the shapes of people moving down the hall, and some passed close enough that I could see the shiny buttons of a blouse or the geometry of a man in a jacket. There were hardly any soldiers in sight in this part of the embassy, and those I saw didn’t seem to be carrying a weapon. People moved purposefully, but breezily.
The door opened and Tilly stepped back into the room, her lips thin and her shoulders pulled back. She tucked the envelope with my birth certificate back into her handbag. The man next to her had an expression equally grave on his face, his hands deep in his pockets.
“Aryana, honey, we’re going to spend the night in town. This gentleman, Mr. Harris, has been kind enough to find us a hotel close by so we won’t have to go far. By tomorrow,” Tilly said, turning her pointed attention to the man beside her, “Mr. Harris is going to have a shiny passport ready for you. He understands how eager we are to get you home.”
I, the reluctant liar, nodded and pretended my name was Aryana.
Parents generally slip when calling their children’s names. My parents had even confused my brother and me when calling us to come in from the yard. Neelab’s mother had once called the names of her own five sisters, Rostam, and a sister-in-law before she managed to summon her daughter’s name.
But my parents had never called me Aryana because her name was never said casually. Her name was preceded and followed by words of prayer, by eyes blinking back tears, and by heavy sighs. But now, because of me, my sister’s name was being spoken plainly and without a whiff of commemoration.
“I will do everything I can,” the man said sternly, “but you’re well aware of the challenges. I’m hoping to have some answers for you and . . . Aryana . . . soon.”
May your spirit live in light, dear sister, I said under my breath.
“Absolutely. We’ll be here in the morning. It’s a date,” Tilly said. She tucked a folded piece of paper into her purse. With our two bags in tow, we retraced our steps. The same soldier escorted us to the front door, signaling to the Pakistani officers guarding the front gate to let us out. Tilly hailed a taxicab and handed the driver the slip of paper with the address of the hotel.
I was quiet in the car, thinking of how fate could be decided by a bullet or a birth certificate, by a stamp or a stampede. I was still falling and feeling in the pit of my stomach that my landing would not come softly. I sensed an electricity in the streets around us, a loose wire. My stomach clenched when a man in a red T-shirt and dark jeans stepped in front of our car at a red light and looked past our driver, to see his passengers.
Within a few moments, the yellow taxi slipped out of the serene neighborhood of embassies, each with a unique flag hoisted high on its front lawn and each with a unique reason for planting itself on foreign soil. This cast of banners were lifted into the air like the raised hands of diligent students in a roll call. Of politicians casting self-serving votes. Or of righteous witnesses preparing to testify.
Chapter 23
When, after two hours of trying, Tilly finally got through to Antonia, she sank back into her chair with relief. We were exhausted from the day’s journey and the hours spent at the embassy.
“Nia, thank goodness. Where have you been?” she asked, her back resting against the velvet of the armchair.
“Where have I been? Mom, did you really just ask that?” I could hear the bewilderment in her voice from where I stood. I didn’t bother pretending I wasn’t listening.
“Sweetheart, we didn’t mean to give you a scare. Indigo stopped by, and we had to make a quick decision. You had way too much on your shoulders already. But we can hash all that out later when we’re in the same country. Meanwhile, the folks at the embassy here have an obvious love for formalities. Do you have any friends at the Canadian embassy? Just in case.”
I couldn’t make out Antonia’s response, and Tilly did not reveal any details after she cradled the phone.
“Is your head better?” I asked as we slipped into the twin beds.
“Much better,” Tilly said brightly, so I believed her and fell into a hopeful slumber.
I woke to a sky of dusty rose. Our window looked out on an empty school with a small soccer field and a playground with swings. If Neelab had been with me, we would have found a way to steal a few moments there, pitching our bodies forward and kicking our legs to lift ourselves into the sky.
“Star,” Tilly said. I turned to face her. She was sitting up in bed, a pillow propped behind her. “How did you sleep, dear?”
“Fine,” I replied before my thoughts turned to last night’s conversation. “Will they give me passport here today?”
“Nia thinks they will, but that it might take some time.”
“She is angry with us?” I asked. It did matter to me how Antonia felt.
“No,” Tilly scoffed. “She’s angry with me. That has nothing to do with you. It’s me. It’s always been me.”
Tilly reached for a tissue on the nightstand. She pinched the tip of her nose with it, sniffling.
“I must be allergic to something in the air.”
The air was different here. Islamabad smelled of industry and incense. I’d stared out the window on the short ride to the hotel, watching people move through streets and shops with bags swinging at their sides, some dressed in tunics and some in shirts and slacks. This was a different city, but one that pulsed at Kabul’s pace.
We ate a quick breakfast of boiled eggs and bread at the hotel. Tilly gathered salt crystals on her fingertip then touched the tip of her tongue.
“Antonia wants to join us, but she can’t leave Kabul for another two days. I’d much rather travel with her, but I was also hoping we could be on a plane to the U.S. before then.”
I hated feeling like a burden.
Every Ramadan, my parents paid the local masjid to feed families less fortunate than our own. One day as I walked with Boba to the masjid, our conversation circled around the meaning of the holiday.
A man holds his empty hand out for help. Another man wears thick gold rings on every finger and has a brick of gold in the palm of his hand. Which man struggles more to bear the weight of his outstretched hand?
I thought I’d understood his meaning then, but I didn’t really understand it until now.
“She must do too much for me,” I said.
Tilly shook her head, vehemently.
“Never think that. Not for one moment. You don’t know my daughter as well as you should. Nia only does what Nia wants to do. Do you know why she’s working in Kabul?”
I shook my head. Tilly dabbed at her nose.
“Every few months, I get a letter from Kabul. Nia doesn’t tell me much about herself. She never has. But she writes to me about the people she’s met. When her driver came to pick me up from the airport, I felt I knew him already because she had written to me about this gentleman who did beautiful pencil drawings of birds. She told me about students from the university who would bring her dried mulberries and practice their English with her. Or the factory owner who asked if she was related to Elvis Presley.” Tilly let out a laugh.
“Maybe it was those letters that made me get on a plane and follow her to the other side of the world. I don’t know. But I do know that if I hadn’t been here, I would have gotten a letter from her about the night the bravest girl in all the world showed up at her door.”
I made a new promise in that moment. I would find a way to show my gratitude to these two women even if I couldn’t imagine being capable of offering anything to anyone.
We returned to the embassy. Tilly waved at the officers in front of the gate and announced that we had been told to return. She smiled impatiently, as if she wouldn’t tolerate being asked to wait. The officer spoke to someone on a walkie-talkie, then led us back into the same building we’d entered the day before. It was morning, and the embassy whirred with activity. More people were moving through its hallways than the previous afternoon.
We were led into a room by the same man and offered the same seats. He stepped out and returned with two cups of mango juice and a small plate of biscuits, which I could decline thanks to the hearty breakfast we’d just had at the hotel. I didn’t want to accept their offering if they were going to tell us they could do nothing for me.
Moments later, Mr. Harris entered the room. “Tilly, as I discussed with you yesterday, this is a complicated matter and will take time to sort out, officially and unofficially. The birth certificate is helpful, and certainly there are extenuating circumstances involved. But we don’t have anything documenting parental permission to travel. It’s just not that simple.”
“Mr. Harris, Leo, our friend and compatriot. My daughter has spoken very highly of you. She said you are relentless and righteous. Now, are you telling me that my very smart daughter is wrong?”
“Ma’am,” Leo said, shaking his head, “Antonia is the best we have. We were together in Morocco, and I would never want to be on the other side of an argument with her.”
Leo knew my story or a closer version of it than we’d ever revealed to anyone else. Antonia had shared some details with him yesterday, enough that he felt compelled to help even if he didn’t know how.
“If we issue a passport from here, you may get questioned at the airport. Pakistani immigration is going to raise an eyebrow to see the two of you traveling together, and the last thing we need is to draw attention. There are some people who think we don’t know how to mind our own business,” he said, making sure his voice was not audible from the hallway.
“The longer we stay here, the more time there is to catch attention. We need to get moving,” Tilly said, as if Leo were holding her up from getting to a doctor’s appointment. Leo let out a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair.
“That’s not how it works at all,” he said, barely hiding his frustration. “I’m going to have to step out for a bit.”
Whether some other matter needed his attention or he simply wanted to exit the conversation, I was not sure. Tilly gave me a nod and let her shoulders fall. I wondered how much of her confidence was real and how much was an act.
The sound of the clock on the wall ticking filled the room and chipped away at our patience. Two hours passed. I tried not to feel anxious, but the skin on my arms had become prickly, my hairs standing on end. I told myself to breathe, to remember that we were in the American embassy, which was almost like being in the United States itself.
Tilly stood before a large map of the world on the wall, tracing the borders of Afghanistan and its surrounding countries.
“I didn’t know Afghanistan touches China,” she observed.
If Tilly had much to learn about Afghanistan, I also had much to learn about America. One night I had sat on the balcony with Antonia as she studied the script for the show the Americans were putting on. I asked her to explain the story to me. At first she said it was a love story, but then, after chewing her lip for a second, she amended her description.
“
Two love stories,” she’d said. “Set in a time long ago, the beginning of a new state in America—Oklahoma. At that time, it was Indian country.”
“We have Indian people in Afghanistan too. And a Hindu temple,” I replied.
“Not that kind of Indian,” she’d explained, and then went on to tell me that the people who lived in America before Europeans settled there were called Indians too, and that American cowboys had ventured into that land to grow America.
Surely there must have been a war. No people gave their land up without a fight. While I wondered why people would sing and dance about war, she sighed and explained that it was really a story about a woman choosing a husband.
“You are not married?” I’d asked. There was no trace of a man in Antonia’s apartment. I didn’t know any women her age who were not married with children. She was a beautiful woman, and I could not imagine why no one had courted her.
Antonia had shaken her head.
“I don’t think I could be someone’s other half. I move from country to country. Men don’t like it when their wives aren’t home to greet them,” she’d explained. “I suppose that’s why they used to make women resign from the service if they got married.”
I had never thought of my parents as two halves. I saw them as two individual wholes, but also as a single organism that lived and breathed for me. And maybe because of me. It almost seemed as if I’d brought them to life instead of the other way around.
I jumped when the swirling sound of a siren began, drowning out whatever it was that Tilly was trying to say to me. Flashing lights, red as the smoke that engulfed the palace the night of the coup, poured into the room and cast ghostly shadows on Tilly’s face and on the map of the world.
Yet again, I hadn’t seen the danger coming.
The door of the office was flung open, and two soldiers stepped in, faces half hidden by helmets and fingers poised on triggers.
Chapter 24
In the cradle of my father’s lap, I learned the history of Afghanistan. Boba told these stories in the way the voice on the radio would tell stories, giving each historical figure a distinct voice, a posture, and a weakness. One night he would tell me of the day Alexander of Greece fell madly in love with an Afghan woman, Rukhshana. The next night he would tell me about Genghis Khan from China, who organized his Mongol army into units of ten. Ten multiplied into a thousand, which was how, some theorized, his descendants, the ethnic Hazara, got their name.
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