The next morning Mahtab played with her breakfast. She tore the dried bread into strips and rolled one into a ball before finally putting it into her mouth. She threaded another through her fingers and nibbled at the edges that hung over her palm. She let her tea go cold.
‘Come on, eat up.’ Her mother frowned.
‘Why? Are we going somewhere?’ She had never spoken to her mother in that voice before.
Later Mahtab spread her possessions on the mattress: two sets of underclothes, a nightdress, thin now and reaching only just below her knees, two shirts, two pairs of socks, a second pair of trousers, a second veil, a hairbrush and a small hand towel. She packed them back into her small bag, leaving out the photo of Leila.
‘What’s this?’ Farhad grabbed it and held it up to the light.
‘Give it back.’ She snatched the photo from him and ducked behind the curtain, into the darkened room of her mother.
‘What is it now?’
‘Look. He took my photo of Leila. He’s torn the corner of it. I hate him. He should leave my things alone.’
‘He’s just bored, Mahtab. It’s hard for everyone.’
‘That’s why we should go. We’ll go mad shut up in this place.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘But it’s true.’
‘We are not going and I don’t want to hear you speak of it again.’
And then Farhad was gone. Mahtab and her mother came out of the inner room and saw Soraya drawing with three pencils in one hand.
‘Look what I can draw.’
‘Where is Farhad?’
‘Outside.’
But when they peered through the doorway they saw only the empty yard.
‘Did you see him?’ Their mother seized Soraya’s shoulders.
The little girl shook her head.
‘Did you see anyone come into the yard?
‘No.’
‘Did you hear anyone? Anything?’
Mahtab watched her mother pacing the tiny room. She could feel that tightening again, fear squeezing her stomach, closing her throat. ‘I could look outside,’ she said, ‘outside the wall.’
‘No, not you.’ Her mother grabbed her cloak. ‘I’ll go.’
Mahtab and Soraya waited.
‘Have the black-turban men got Farhad?’ said Soraya.
‘Don’t be silly, they aren’t here.’
‘Where is he then?’
Mahtab didn’t answer.
For hours they waited. One minute Mahtab paced up and down the length of the two rooms, the next she flopped on the bed and buried her face in her hands. What if Mum couldn’t find him? What if he never came back? What if she was lost too? If she never returned? Could she, Mahtab, go on? Could she find her father? Soraya climbed up on the bed beside her. She put her arms around Mahtab’s neck and the two of them lay silent for a long, long time.
And then they were there, Farhad crying, pushed into the yard by his mother. She gripped his arm, yelling, ‘How dare you disobey me. You don’t know who those boys are. I have told you that there is danger to you, to all of us, if some people know we are here. Do you want us dead? Go into the inner room and stay there.’
Mahtab sat under the sink, her back pressed hard against the wall. She stared at the photo of Leila. Was she safe now, in Iran? Was she with her mother and her father and her older sister? Was she going to school? Was she taller too, like Mahtab, her wrists poking out of the folded cuffs of her tunic? Would they ever see each other again?
Soraya came and sat opposite her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come and play a game with me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Don’t you like me?’
‘Not today.’
Soraya’s bottom lip curled and tears welled in her eyes.
‘Don’t cry. Mum’ll get angry.’
‘Play with me then.’
Mahtab crawled out from under the sink and pushed the photo back into her bag. ‘What do you want to play?’
‘Drawing. It’s not really a game. We just have to draw.’ She pointed to sheets of paper in the corner and produced two pencils from her pocket. ‘I’m drawing Mumma and my paddling pool and the orange tree.’
‘I’ll draw our old house,’ said Mahtab as she took a sheet of paper. She drew quickly – the long outside brick wall broken by the heavy double doors. Above them the inner building, a single storey with sections jutting into the garden, the fruit trees, the trailing creepers that spread under the windows. She drew the detail, the fine narrow leaves, the bursting flowers. She glanced at her little sister. Soraya had stopped drawing and was staring at her.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘When did Daddy die?’
‘What?’
‘When did Daddy die?’
‘He didn’t. He’s not dead.’
‘He must be. Where is he?’
Mahtab rocked forward and back. She turned the pencil slowly in her hand. Farhad was still in the other room with her mother. She took a long, deep breath. ‘Hasn’t Mum told you? He got in touch with Hairy Man. He has arrived safely and he’s sending money and we are leaving soon to go and be with him. There was danger, but he is safe. You mustn’t tell Mum that I told you. She hasn’t told Farhad either. She is very happy but she gets all upset when she talks about it. She wants it to be a secret till we are ready to go.’
‘Can I tell Farhad?’
Mahtab nodded. ‘But he can’t say anything to Mum. Promise?’
‘I promise.’ She grinned. ‘Now I’m going to draw Dadda and a big whale.’
Mahtab watched her. How easily she believed. If only it were true.
That night, Mahtab again crawled into her mother’s room and knelt beside her. ‘Mum?’
‘Mmmm.’
‘Mum, I have to talk to you. Soraya thinks that Dad is dead. She asked me today when he died.’
‘What? What did you say?’
‘I told her it wasn’t true but she doesn’t believe me. We cannot stay here. We have to follow him. We have to.’
Her mother sat up. Her dark hair, streaked with grey at the temples, hung almost to her waist. She drew her cloak around her shoulders and clasped her hands together, fingers interlaced, and placed them in her lap, saying nothing.
‘Well?’ said Mahtab. She thought of telling her mother what else she had said to Soraya, but she pushed that from her mind.
Still her mother said nothing.
‘Do you think he’s dead?’
Her mother shook her head.
‘We have to go, Mum. What if the bandits get us or if something has happened to Dad and he cannot send us the money? We cannot stay here like this. We cannot.’
‘Go to bed, Mahtab. I have to think about this. We’ll talk in the morning.’
Mahtab woke to the sound of Farhad and Soraya giggling and sipping tea. They were sitting in the sunshine that filled the doorway. Their mother was gone.
‘She’s talking to Hairy Man,’ said Farhad. ‘She said we’re going to follow Dad.’ He stood up and ran around the room, arms outstretched. ‘We’re going on a big plane, brmm brmm.’
‘I told him,’ said Soraya. ‘He said he won’t tell Mum. He promised.’
They watched their mother come back across the dusty yard. She sat cross-legged on the mattress and they sat in front of her.
‘He says we need papers: passports. That means photographs, so this morning we are going to the bazaar to have them taken. It’s risky going out, but we can’t travel without them. You are to wash and be ready in half an hour.’
In the van, Mahtab pressed her face to the window. She was outside the gate for the first time since they had arrived in Pakistan. She could see open fields, then clusters of farmhouses and beyond them, far in the distance, the mountains of her homeland, Afghanistan. Shivers ran through her body. What of those who had taken the women
and children hostage? Could that happen, today? Today when they were finally making the plans to leave?
‘Stay very close,’ Mum said as they climbed down from the van. ‘Especially you, Farhad. Don’t look anybody in the eye and don’t stop to touch or to look at anything.’ She held on tightly to Soraya’s hand as they walked beneath the arched doorway.
They were in the meat market. Carcasses of cows, goats and sheep hung from hooks above them. Men stood behind broad benches, trimming cuts of meat, brushing aside the fat and wrapping the bloody chunks that a buyer had chosen. Chickens, live ones, squawked and flapped as their necks were wrung and they were thrust head-first into shopping bags. Live birds, not destined for the table, called and sang as Hairy Man led the family further into the maze of stalls.
Mahtab kept her eyes on the worn flagstones as they passed brilliantly rich carpets, burnished copper utensils, huge buckets filled with objects of tin and plastic.
‘Hey, girl. A dress for you? A scarf?’
She ignored the young man calling from his racks of brightly coloured cotton shirts, trousers and dresses. The smell of spices washed over her and from the corner of her eye she saw huge tubs of gleaming peppers, golden turmeric, cinnamon and cardamom and others that she didn’t know. More voices called to them to buy, but they stayed close to Hairy Man and hurried on. At length he turned down a narrow alley, opened a door and then led them into a dark room.
They sat on a bench, waiting while a man and his three sons were photographed. Then one by one they went behind a curtain and climbed onto a high stool. Mahtab went first. She sat as still as she could, her hands in her lap, her face frozen, neither smiling, nor frowning. Her eyes were fixed on the camera. We are coming, Dad. We are coming.
They left quickly, retracing their steps, past the spices, the clothing, the carpets, and then the birds and meat. Only when they had reached the van did they stop. They fell into their seats.
‘Why don’t we stay?’ said Soraya. ‘I’m hungry. I want something to eat.’
‘No. We have to go.’ Mahtab glanced around. Men lounged in shop doorways or squatted on the footpath, watching as Hairy Man slammed the van door and started the engine.
‘I’ll pick up the papers in a few days,’ he said to their mother. ‘You won’t need to go back in there.’
‘And the plane tickets?’
‘Those too. You could be out of here in a week. Off to Malaysia.’ He grinned at Farhad. ‘Off in an aeroplane, eh?’
Mahtab tried to imagine it. Trucks she knew, and now vans. But an aeroplane. What would it be like to fly higher than a kite or a bird and further than any creature, ever? As they bounced over the rough surface of the road, she tried to see herself looking down on the world, from the window of her plane. What would mountains and deserts, villages and towns be like from up there? Would people seem as small as the ant she could squash beneath her sandal?
At home, when the others were asleep, Mahtab lay on the mattress next to her mother.
‘I’m glad we’re leaving here. Where exactly are we flying to?’
‘Malaysia first. Then we have to take a second plane to Indonesia. The man says that we must fly over the sea. You will see the sea for the first time.’
‘What’s it like?’ Mahtab snuggled in closer to her.
‘I’m not sure. I haven’t seen it either. Some say it is as blue as the sky on a clear summer day, some say green like the dense glass in a bottle.’
‘And there will be fish?’
‘And seagulls.’
‘What are they?’
‘Special sea birds that follow the fish as they move around and dive down and eat them.’
‘And when we get there, I wonder if Dad will be there?’
‘Not in Indonesia. We’ll take a boat then and cross more sea, and finally, finally, we’ll get to Australia. That’s where your father has gone.’
Mahtab rolled over then and hugged her mother. For the first time she saw that the necklace of gold coins was gone.
Four nights later, they left for Malaysia. They set out for the airport just as the last rays of sun caught the tops of the mountains. They left nothing behind. Mahtab folded the paper chessboard and slipped it and the fragile pieces into the pocket on the inside of her bag. The few clothes they had brought were thinner and more faded than she had realised. Hairy Man’s wife, Neeman, pressed a parcel of dried fruit into their mother’s hand.
‘For the trip,’ she whispered and waved them goodbye from her doorway as the van moved through the gate.
They drove in silence for about half an hour. The road took them past farms and along a flat area beside the river. As they turned from it and headed towards a cluster of buildings, a rumbling, roaring sound tore through the air. Above them, seemingly so low that they could reach up and touch it, was an aeroplane, lights winking, coming in lower, closer. Soraya grabbed Mahtab’s hand and held it tightly, saying nothing.
At the airport, there were as many people as in a crowded marketplace. Children sat on battered suitcases or bags tied together with thin strands of rope. They waited while parents queued at ticket counters. Tired old men and women dozed on the floor. Mahtab heard voices, some raised in anger in languages she didn’t understand. Men waved pieces of paper and shook their fists in the direction of officials behind the counters.
‘I’ll go there,’ said her mother. ‘You watch your brother and sister.’
Farhad and Soraya dragged Mahtab to the window to peer out at planes lined up in front of the wall like bulls at a feeding trough.
‘Which one’s ours?’ Soraya pointed. ‘That one?’
‘That’s a helicopter, stupid.’ Farhad waved towards the sleeker commercial planes. ‘One of them, probably, and we’ll go right up, just like a bird.’ He let go of his sister and pressed his nose against the glass. Then he turned back. ‘No. We’ll be like a kite, like the one we buried that day. Remember?’
Mahtab nodded. She saw again the beautiful red-and-blue fabric as the clods of brown earth rained over the boys’ most precious things. And Leila. Was she safe? Did she remember? Uncle Wahid’s screaming echoed in her head. ‘We will all be killed. You are never to play like this again. Never. Never. Never.’
Soraya tugged her arm. ‘Are all these people coming with us?’
Mahtab shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe some of them.’ She looked across the room. How many were from her country? How many had come as she had done, hidden, frightened, hoping? And what would come next?
Their mother found them and led them along a narrow passageway. They stood in line, waiting at the door of the plane.
‘Can it really fit all these people?’ whispered Soraya.
Mahtab nodded. ‘I suppose so.’
They moved forward then, into the narrow tube of the plane. A smiling woman guided them down the aisle and waved them to their seats: two on one side and two on the other. Mahtab found herself next to a window, glancing out at the lights of the terminal. The plane filled.
Farhad was strangely quiet. They all were. Their eyes never strayed from the person who first of all showed them how to click the belts that went across their laps. She pulled a yellow jacket over her head and said something as she tightened it and touched strange objects that hung from it. Mahtab couldn’t quite understand the words she was saying but the meaning was clear. The woman took the jacket off and then sat down and tightened her own seatbelt. Calm words came over the loudspeakers.
The plane moved slowly back from the building and Mahtab looked out boldly, but when the engines roared like an angry lion and the plane lurched down the long road, they all seized each others’ hands and Mahtab heard her mother praying. She closed her eyes and began the slow count backwards again.
Chapter Six
MAHTAB WOKE as a voice came over the loudspeakers. The sky outside was streaked with a pale golden light.
‘Are we there yet?’ whispered Soraya.
‘I don’t know.’
The
plane shuddered. They heard screaming engine sounds, then a thud and groaning beneath them. Mahtab saw mountains and then huge city buildings, their glass throwing sunlight back into her eyes.
They bounced and slowed along the ground and she looked out at the rich green of the trees and shrubs beyond the fence of the airport.
Inside the terminal, they stayed close to each other, drawn along like flowing liquid. Signs were in writing Mahtab couldn’t read. A small, smiling woman in a uniform as sharp as glass glanced at their tickets and barred their way from the main hall. She waved them through an opening into a room where there were already others sitting around with tired, waiting faces. There were no seats left, so they sat on the floor, in the corner by a window. Farhad and Soraya looked out at the planes but Mahtab pushed close to her mother. ‘Where are our bags? What’s happening now?’
‘Someone told me the bags will be there when we arrive. For now, we wait.’
‘For what?’
‘For a plane to Indonesia.’ Her mother closed her eyes.
They sat that way for hours. The dried fruits were long gone and Mahtab became more and more hungry. Soraya and Farhad crawled on their mother’s legs, one minute asking for food, the next demanding to know when they would be getting onto the next plane. Mahtab studied the rest of the group. They were mainly women with children, none her age. The chair opposite her was filled by a young woman with a boy the same size as Farhad. He had been sleeping, his cheek red from where it had rested on her round, pregnant belly. She saw Mahtab looking at her and she smiled in a tired, sad way.
The doors opened and another woman in the same severe uniform waved the group along a narrow corridor that stretched the length of the building. They walked slowly, Mahtab carrying Soraya as her mother spoke with other travellers, trying to find out what exactly was happening next. No one knew. They came to a door and a man in a uniform waited in front of it, seated behind a small desk. Each person held their papers.
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