by Sharon McKay
“Like Babar is an elephant, but not an elephant,” replied Famia.
“What did you say?” Nicolette stopped, spun around, and stared.
“I . . . I am not sure,” Famia stuttered.
“You know about Babar the Elephant?” Nicolette’s eyes widened. “You are remembering something. Think, Famia. What about Babar? Think.”
Famia shook her head. “I am sorry, that is all I know, except that he wears a green suit.”
“A green suit!” Nicolette clapped her hands. “You see, it is beginning. Maybe soon it will all come back, suddenly, n’est-ce pas?”
But nothing came after that, nothing.
The sky darkened, and with the night came the stars, and with the stars came the promise of a new day.
Chapter 22
How Tall the Mountain
“However tall the mountain, there is
always a road.” —Afghan proverb
“See ahead, that’s Spin Boldak,” called Nicolette over the clatter of the donkey-cart and the jingle of her horse’s harness. Famia nudged her head out from under the blanket. Each bump on the road was painful, but the pain was muted by the pills Nicolette carefully doled out.
Nicolette pulled on Paul McCartney’s reins and drew up alongside the cart. “Paul McCartney, behave.” As if answering her, the horse snorted. Nicolette, a good horsewoman, reeled him around in circles until he settled. Eyes wide, Famia watched. In that moment there was a flash—horses jumping over fences, riders wearing tall boots, a manicured lawn. And then it was gone.
The town of Spin Boldak was ugly, flat, and filled with garbage. Tents, held up with spindly wooden beams, lined the main street. Fires flared in large steel drums. Bags of rotten apples and potatoes sat unattended on top of rubbish. Famia was sore and her stomach felt queasy. After being up in the mountain air for so long the stink of the village made her feel faint.
Nicolette and Paul McCartney pulled up alongside the cart again. “Famia, look, the crossing into Pakistan is up ahead. We will stop here. Dr. Latouche wants to talk to you.”
Mostly hidden under the blanket, Famia waited. She could see the colors, the shops, smell the food cooking on makeshift grills, see the children playing—it was all exciting, and in those moments of wonder she forgot the pain, and forgot what she had forgotten. Hundreds of people, from many different tribes, were milling around. Despite being a woman and uncovered except for her flat hat, Nicolette moved about freely, as did the other two nurses in their caravan. They were treated as neither men nor women but as oddities in between. Dr. Latouche’s status brought further protection to the women and guides in the medical caravan—everyone wanted the attention of the foreign doctor.
“See the Tajik with their long robes and flat wool hats? They are the light-skinned people with blue eyes and blond hair,” said Nicolette, who was holding on to Paul McCartney’s reins with one hand and pointing with the other. “Those men wearing the chapan, a silk coat with a sash, they are Uzbeks. It is said that they are great horsemen and skilled buzkashi players. Do you know buzkashi?”
Famia nodded. She knew but was not sure how or why. It was a dangerous, fast game played on horseback.
“And see the women over there?” Nicolette pointed to a group of women walking in flowing clothes of bright red, yellow, and blue. “They are Pashtoon nomads and belong to the Kuchi tribe. Look, over there—those men who look Chinese are from the Hazara tribe. They are Shiites and the descendants of Genghis Khan. Many play beautiful music.”
“Yes, I know about Genghis Khan,” said Famia. “He founded the Mongolian Empire. He . . .” She stopped.
Nicolette gave a smart tug on Paul McCartney’s reins then came up beside the cart and stared down hard at Famia. “What else?”
“It was in the thirteenth century . . .” Famia’s voice petered out.
“How do you know that? Think, Famia.”
Famia looked up at Nicolette. Didn’t she know that if she could remember she would? There were images—a beach, a bed, a man under a tree, a beautiful woman lying in a bed, a girl limping on a road—but how was she to connect it all?
Nicolette sighed. “We will camp here. Tomorrow you will cross the border with an Afghan guide.”
Famia lurched forward. Was she going alone?
“Dr. Latouche will explain. You must rest. Tomorrow will be an important day.” Nicolette gave Paul McCartney a gentle kick with her heels and galloped to the back of the caravan.
Later, Famia sat on a blanket with Nicolette beside her. Dr. Latouche, having checked her cast, measured her blood pressure, and felt her forehead, said, “You will go ahead without us. Foreigners are detained at the border.”
Her heart started to race. Nicolette put her arm around her and whispered, “It is safer this way. We could not explain your presence in our caravan. Do not be afraid. Just listen very carefully.”
“The border has changed,” continued Dr. Latouche. His brow was furrowed and his voice rumbled. “Once, Afghans and Pakistanis passed back and forth across the border without checks, but now the Pakistani police are doing random searches, and some will ask for passports. There is a building, security towers, armed guards and gates, but do not look around. Our most trusted guide will lead you across the border. You will pretend to be his wife. He has the money to pay a bribe if need be. Do not speak to him as you cross the border. Do not speak at all. You will be ahead of us, but if we pass you, do not acknowledge us in any way.
“All animals must be left behind. You must get off the donkey and walk as best you can. Once you have crossed the border the guide will get a car. It will take four hours to get to the city of Quetta—the Afghans call this city by their own name, Soba Baluchistan. Many Afghans feel that the city rightfully belongs to their country. It is the capital city of Baluchistan and is 1,600 meters above sea level. There is an orphanage in Quetta, a small hospital, and a school. The city is a good place for many, but it can be dangerous, too. It is believed that Quetta is where the Taliban have their headquarters. The Taliban pass back and forth over the border. Use caution. Do you understand?”
Famia nodded, but in truth it was all very confusing.
“The driver will take you to a safe house. It is owned by good people from Kabul.” Dr. Latouche patted her hand as if to reassure her, but Famia thought it might be to reassure himself.
“I have put new bandages and cream in this bag.” Nicolette held up a small sack. In her other hand she held a small pill bottle. “Once you have crossed the border I want you to take one of these pills. The pills will help with the pain. Do not take one before the border crossing. Your mind must be clear. You may take another one once you are in the safe house. There are extras in case we get detained, but no more than two pills a day.” She placed the pill bottle in Famia’s open palm. She stared at it. It looked familiar.
“Be brave,” said Nicolette.
Startled, Famia looked up. She wasn’t brave, not even a little. “Nicolette, please don’t leave me,” she whispered. Her words came out in a sudden gush. Never mind the burns, never mind the pain, she threw her arms around Nicolette’s neck and hung on tight. Her behavior was unseemly, childish even, and she knew it was, but she had no one, she was no one.
“Take a deep breath. No more tears, n’est-ce pas? Now, I want to explain the money that you have in your moneybelt.” Nicolette spread the bills on the ground. “These are British pounds, American dollars, Pakistan rupees, and of course you know the Afghani banknotes.” Nicolette explained the value of each foreign currency. “Do not take the moneybelt off until you are in the safe house.” The tears started again. “Ma petite, we will not be far behind. We will join you soon. It has to be this way. And wait until you see the city of Quetta. Quetta is Pashto for fort. It is surrounded by snow-capped mountains. Their names are Chiltan, Takatoo, Mordar, and Zarglum,” said Nicolette with a smile as she tucked the bills into the moneybelt. “Now let me put this around your waist.” Tears welled in Nicolette’s eyes.
She is afraid for me, thought Famia. “You love this part of the world,” she said to Nicolette.
Nicolette nodded. “It is possible to love a country, even one that I was not born in, but hate its politics. In this part of the world it is not only possible, it is probable.”
Famia stood very still. It was as if a breath of warm air had brushed her face.
“Famia, what’s wrong? Do you feel sick?”
Famia shook her head. “Nothing, nothing.” But there was something. She had heard those words before.
With a new burka flowing around her, Famia, with help from Nicolette, climbed onto the gentlest donkey in their small herd. Propped up on the donkey and from a short distance, she looked like a tiny, expectant mother. The trusted Afghan guide held the reins of her donkey and, walking well ahead of the medical convoy, trudged on. Panic seemed to rise up and wash over Famia. “Nicolette, do not leave me alone,” she whispered, although the nurse was much too far away to hear. The veil of the burka hid her tears.
Dr. Latouche was right. The actual crossing was confusing. With the fingers of one hand entwined in the donkey’s mane, and the other hand pulling the grille of the burka close to her face, she looked at her surroundings. People and animals were everywhere. The sounds of barking dogs, braying donkeys, angry goats and spitting camels, children yelling and men shouting was muffled by the sand underfoot. She could smell meat cooking over grills. Bread was baking somewhere. To the side of the road a tailor, stooped over a brown sewing machine painted with colorful flowers, guided yards of yellow and blue material under the needle. Near the tailor, a tooth-puller sat cross-legged on the ground. The tools of his trade—pliers, small hammer, and cloth to catch the blood—were displayed on a tattered rug in front of him. Raggedy lines led up to the actual border.
They waited their turn in line. Finally they reached the crossing. The guide held the donkey still as she climbed off. The animal was led to a corral. Scabby-kneed boys with matted hair were sitting on the top of a fence and poking the animals with sticks. What about Paul McCartney?
Famia hobbled on her two bandaged feet. Large sandals, meant for men, were roped overtop of the bandages and around her ankles. Famia shuffled behind her pretend husband. He was old, his beard long, a grandfather perhaps, but he muttered words of encouragement under his breath as they walked. She was grateful for his kindness but said nothing.
The border guards ignored them. They were paying attention to rich-looking Afghans who carried many boxes and bundles. With guns dangling off their shoulders, the guards punctuated the air with indignant, shrill screams. From the little she could see, those from Persian tribes—the Hazras and Uzbeks—were getting the more brutal attention.
Across the border, in Pakistan, different vehicles lined the road—automobiles, vans, buses. The guide walked up to a small Toyota. “We want to go to Quetta,” he said. He and the driver argued about the price. Negotiations settled, Famia sat in the back of the car while her “husband” sat beside the driver.
Fear washed over Famia. Her pretend husband could take her anywhere, he could drop her at the side of the road. He could sell her and no one would know. The mountain air was cool, but the heat under the burka was stifling. She couldn’t catch her breath.
“Please,” she leaned forward and whispered, “where are we going?”
The guide ignored her. The driver turned just a little, his eyebrows arched in surprise. Famia slumped back into the seat. Her body ached, her mind traveled. Her fate was in the hands of a stranger. This, too, was a familiar feeling. Famia reached into the bag Nicolette had prepared for her. She pulled out the small vial of pills and a water bottle. With her hand under her veil she lifted the pill to her mouth and swallowed. She tried to sleep.
Twice the car was stopped by police. The guide pulled out little packets of cigarettes from under his robe and passed them to the driver, who gave them to the police.
The driver turned a sharp corner, sharp enough for Famia to fall sideways and wake suddenly as her head slammed against the door. Four hours had passed. She had slept most of the way. They were in the city of Quetta. Groggy and confused, she looked out the window at pale-yellow walls close enough to touch. Ahead there was a small, neat house.
The car came to a stop. The guide paid the driver, climbed out of the car, and yanked on a bell-cord outside the door. What should she do? What was expected of her? Trembling, she waited. A man appeared at the door. He and the guide spoke. Finally the guide turned and motioned to Famia to come. She climbed out of the car and tried to coax her feet to move. Walk, walk, she willed her feet to move. She took one step, two, three, crossed the threshold, and entered a courtyard.
Pots of flowers and herbs lined the passageway through the courtyard to the front door. When the door opened, a woman, her face exposed, stood in the doorway. Behind her the upper walls and much of the ceiling of the house inside were decorated with blue mosaic stones, while the lower part of the walls were painted a startling pink. It was sparkling clean. It was a welcoming room. The woman opened her arms in greeting.
Famia fainted.
Chapter 23
Prayers on a Breeze
Lying on a thick, soft mat, with an even softer blanket tucked around her, Famia was coaxed out of sleep by the sound of the call to prayer echoing from a speaker on the top of a nearby minaret. Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar. Another prayer from another minaret joined in, and then another and another, as if the mosques were singing in chorus. The prayers were carried on a wafting breeze that billowed the curtains and seemed to penetrate her bones, until she could hear the call from within. She looked up at the walls, at the ceiling decorated in blue and pink tiles, and the peace she felt dissipated.
She took in a breath, and then another, and then another. Where? Where? Panic rose up as the sting of sores on her skin and the pain of bones not yet mended hit her with the force of a fist. Get up. Get away. A small cry, more a yelp then a scream, rushed up her throat. And then a hand reached from behind and a cool cloth dabbed her forehead.
“Do not be afraid. You are safe.”
Famia turned and looked into clear, gray eyes. The woman was older than Famia, but young all the same, maybe nineteen or twenty.
“My name is Mina. I live in this house with my husband, Babrak. You have been asleep for a long time. You are in Quetta, Pakistan. Do you remember coming by car?”
She thought for a moment. Like a wave on a beach being pulled back into the sea, the panic she had felt receded. She nodded, and gradually she remembered that she could not remember.
“Nicolette? Dr. Latouche?” Famia struggled to sit up.
Mina shook her head as she placed her hand against Famia’s back, then adjusted a small pillow so that she could sit up. “They will arrive soon.” Mina placed a bowl of fruit in front of Famia. “Eat slowly. Will you tell me your name?”
“I do not know my name but I am called Famia.”
Mina looked perplexed but did not demand answers.
Famia ate, sipped green tea sprinkled with sugar, and chewed naan.
Later in the day, and a bit at a time, Famia told her story. It was a short story. There had been an explosion, one that she could not recall, but the evidence of the bomb was on her body. By Allah’s blessing, her face and eyes had been spared. She told Mina about Nicolette, about Dr. Latouche, about Paul McCartney.
“What if they don’t arrive? What if something has happened?” She looked into Mina’s eyes, which seemed to grow lighter or darker, depending on the light of the room.
“You are welcome in this house for as long as you want,” said Mina.
Famia turned and looked to the wall. How was it that strangers were so kind? Again she slept, and again awoke in the care of good people.
Mina’s food was nourishing, and she cared for Famia as though she were her little sister. Carefully she unwrapped the bandages around Famia’s hands and feet. “Look, see your hands? I do not know what the original injuries looked li
ke, but I think that they are much improved. I attended nursing school in Kabul before I married, but I did not get very far in my training.”
Babrak, Mina’s husband, was shy and did not talk to Famia directly. He brought fresh fruits and even helped his wife with the household duties. Perhaps it was because Mina was expecting a baby. “Our first,” she said with delight. By nods and small smiles it was clear that Babrak was just as excited.
Another day passed. “Might we not go back to the border and see if they are still there?” Famia asked tentatively.
“Babrak is out in the market every day. He will tell us the news. Come, walk a bit,” said Mina. With Mina’s help Famia stood.
They were in the family room at the back of the house. The room was divided into two. On one side, and behind a curtain, was the sleeping area. That area too was divided between Famia’s area and Mina and Babrak’s. It looked as though they had tacked the curtain up in haste. On the other side of the curtain was the kitchen.
Leaning lightly against Mina, Famia hobbled through the next room and out the door until they both stood in the courtyard. She had seen the pots of flowers and herbs when she arrived, but now she noticed a garden of vegetables on one side of the passage and fruit trees on the other side. The air smelled of mint. But most beautiful of all was a tree, and under the tree a bench, and beside the bench a pillow.
“What is it?” Mina asked. Famia just shook her head. “Come, sit on the bench. The pillow is too low. I think that you with your injuries and me with the baby, neither of us would get up!” When Mina laughed her eyes sparkled.
“How did you come to live here?” asked Famia.
Mina told her that she and Babrak had married a year ago. It was an arranged marriage, of course. Both were from educated families. Their fathers and mothers were old friends, and when they were little they had even taken car trips together.
“My father came under attack for sending my older brothers and sisters to America. The mullahs pointed fingers,” said Mina. “My father supported the president and the foreign soldiers. But in the end it was not the Taliban who killed my parents, it was a roadside bomb. Babrak’s parents, too, are dead. He sends money back to Kabul to support his sister and brother-in-law, who lost his leg when he stepped on a land mine. He was playing soccer with his little girl when it happened. Babrak has a younger brother too. His name is Atal. He studies hard and is a good boy.” Mina paused and looked around. “We left Kabul to find peace, if only for a little while.”