by N G Osborne
Noor eyes snap open. Elma is holding out a lacy white bra. Noor places it over her breasts, and Elma clips it at the back.
Elma helps her into the shirt, and Noor buttons it all the way up to the top. Elma leans in and undoes a couple of buttons.
“Now the skirt.”
Noor undoes her shalwar pants and grabs the skirt off the bed before Elma can suggest a new set of underwear. She wriggles into it. Elma tells her to sit on the bed and returns with a leather make-up case.
“When was the last time you wore make-up?” Elma says.
“I haven’t.”
“Well the secret is simplicity. You want to accentuate your beauty, but you never want a man to look at you and think you’re trying to impress him.”
Elma applies the foundation with her fingertips. Noor closes her eyes, and imagines Charlie caressing her face, standing in front of her as naked as the night she watched him from the tree. She breathes in sharply.
“Sorry, did I press too hard?” Elma says.
Noor shakes her head. She tries to think of something to say. Anything but think of Charlie right now.
The interview. How self-absorbed could I be?
“How did your interview go?” she says.
“How do you know with these things?” Elma says.
Elma applies powder with a brush. Her touch is gentle and sensuous.
“I think I impressed them. It was good to see our work out here doesn’t go completely unrecognized—but I just got this sense that they’ve already made up their minds and decided to give the job to this other woman. It left me feeling so powerless.”
Elma applies blush to Noor’s cheeks.
“Maybe if you went to New York—” Noor says.
“I’ve thought about that, and if it’d make a difference I would—now open your eyes wide.”
Elma extracts an eye pencil and lines Noor’s eyes.
“Just before we escaped I asked my mother if she’d show me how to do all this,” Noor says. “‘Once we’re in America,’ she said. It was her answer to everything at the time.”
“Well, if you let me, I’d love to teach you.”
“You’re too kind to me, Elma. I’ll never be able to repay you.”
“Trust me, having you here, it’s been a blessing.”
Elma stands back and takes in the job she’s done.
“Good, now just the lips.”
She rummages through the make-up box until she finds a color she likes.
“So there’s nothing else that you can do?” Noor says.
“Who knows, maybe Rod’s article will help.”
“When will it be published?”
“In two weeks, I think. Pucker your lips—like this.”
Elma pushes her lips out. Noor giggles. It looks so silly. Elma smiles.
“Go on.”
Noor imitates her, and Elma applies her lipstick.
“Okay, go take a look.”
Noor looks at herself in the floor mirror. She doesn’t recognize the woman staring back at her.
“You’re going to be the hit of the party,” Elma says.
Elma finds Noor a pair of high heels, and Noor puts them on. She feels like a giraffe. They exit the bedroom, and she wobbles behind Elma to the kitchen. A team of Pakistani waiters are readying the drinks and appetizers. They stop what they’re doing and gawk at Noor. Elma snaps at them to get back to work and gives instructions to their slick-haired supervisor. Noor wishes she could run back to her room and read Charlie’s letter over again. The door bell rings.
“Our first guests,” Elma says.
Elma guides Noor into the sitting room and introduces her to a burly man and his boisterous wife. From what Noor can gather he runs the United States aid effort in Pakistan. From then on the guests keep arriving at a rapid pace until there are close to thirty Westerners crowded into the room. Every few minutes Elma guides Noor from one group to the next as if Noor were her most prized possession. Noor meets the Australian consul and a Danish journalist, a tanned American academic and the German head of the UN’s demining operation, a British charge d’affaires and a Canadian TV reporter. Everyone seems so interested in her, so eager to help. She remembers her father asking her how many Westerners they’d ever had the opportunity to interact with.
Oh, if only you could see me now, Baba.
She senses Elma stiffen, and turns in the direction she’s looking. A short, beady eyed man in a suit jacket and jeans is worming his way towards them.
“I don’t remember sending you an invitation,” Elma says.
“Came as Jeremy’s plus one,” the man says.
The man catches Noor staring at him and smiles.
“Ivor Gardener,” he says.
“Noor Khan.”
The man sucks on his straw. Noor feels as if he is dredging the contents of her mind.
“It’s funny, I feel like we’ve already met,” he says.
“That’s enough, Ivor,” Elma says. “No games tonight.”
Elma grabs Noor’s arm and begins pulling her away.
“Of course,” he says, “you’re the girl from the article, you just look so different I didn’t recognize you.”
Elma turns back.
“What are you talking about?”
“Rod’s article. It totally changed. Became about the plight of Afghan women. Noor, here, is a big part of it.”
“Oh, how delightful,” the English woman says.
Noor looks at Elma. Elma’s lower lip is trembling.
“It’s an amazing photo, really,” the man says. “Noor stares right into the camera, as if her eyes contain all the pain of the Afghan people. Least that’s what the blurb said. I can have someone at my office make you a copy if you want.”
Elma turns to Noor and forces a smile.
“Would you mind seeing if the kroket are ready? They should have come out by now.”
“Of course not,” Noor says.
Noor scurries to the kitchen, and finds a cook already arranging the krokets on a silver platter. She looks around and wonders if she should go back to the party.
No, you’ve won yourself a reprieve.
She heads out into the garden. There by the leaf strewn pool, she sits on a recessed stone bench and slips her shoes off her aching feet.
What’s going on? This article. That man back there. None of it makes any sense.
She shivers and wraps her arms around herself.
This is nothing to how cold it must be in Afghanistan.
Yet she would give anything to be there with Charlie right now.
You can’t deny it, a voice within her says. You love him. You know you do. You’re going to love him forever.
She laughs. It’s true, and it’s the greatest, craziest discovery she’s made in her life.
FORTY-SEVEN
CHARLIE LOOKS AT the map—a solid swathe of blue surrounds the village He rolls it up. When they get back to Peshawar he’ll have it framed and hung in his office.
“Mr. Matthews.”
In the dim morning light he makes out Najib at the door.
“We just finished our prayers.”
Charlie nods at a couple of boxes on the earthen floor.
“Do you mind taking one?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Charlie picks up the other box, and they walk down the alley towards the center of the village.
“I’ve never asked,” Charlie says, “you married?”
“Ten years. I’m fortunate, my wife’s most intelligent and has blessed me with three beautiful children.”
“Does she work?”
“She did, at a woman’s health clinic, but it has closed since. This job has been a gift from Allah to us.”
“What’d you do before the war?”
“I was a lawyer in Kabul.”
“Ever think then that you’d end up being a deminer?”
Najib laughs.
“Not in my wilde
st dreams.”
They turn onto the main street. Down below the men are standing around smoking, their blankets wrapped tight around them, the vehicles exhaling exhaust fumes into the freezing dawn air.
“Najib, what’d you say if I put you in charge of these guys? It’d mean more responsibility but also more pay.”
“What about you? Mocam?”
“We’ve got to concentrate on a fresh group of recruits.”
“I’d be honored.”
“Then the job’s yours.”
Najib smiles.
“Thank you, Mr. Matthews, thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“That’s the point, Najib, you never have.”
They come up to the Pajero. Bakri rushes over and opens the trunk. There’s just enough room to shove the boxes in.
“Load everyone up,” Charlie say to Najib.
Najib shouts out to the men, and without hesitating they scurry for their vehicles. Charlie smiles. He chose right.
FORTY-EIGHT
NOOR SQUATS IN front of her mother’s grave and spies on the man sitting under the eucalyptus tree.
It’s one of the few advantages of wearing a burqa.
She’d guessed Tariq would have someone watching their hut, yet she’d still come to an abrupt halt when she’d seen the effeminate young man sitting on the bench reading a Quran. She’d recognized him immediately; he was one of the men who’d chased her. He’d looked up and asked if he could help her. She had shaken her head and moved on.
Now to her relief, he was once again immersed in the holy book. From time to time he glances in the direction of their hut, but that’s it. As far as he’s concerned, she’s just another war widow visiting her long dead husband. She closes her eyes and tries her best to forget him.
“Mamaan, are you there?” she says. “This is when I need you.”
In the distance she hears the cries of children playing and dogs barking, a plane flying overhead and a dull explosion far, far away. But not her mother.
“I remember you telling me once how much you loved, Baba. It was after that day at Bamiyan when he’d taken us to see the Buddha statues. Just as we were leaving Baba had realized that he didn’t have his keys on him, and for hours we scoured the paths looking for them. It was me, remember, who thought to go back to the car and look in his jacket. There they were. They’d dropped through a hole in his pocket and were nestled in its lining. The whole drive back—how long was it, three, four hours? —you harangued him. I sat in the backseat in tears. I knew Baba was forgetful, but this felt so unfair. That night you knelt by my bed and begged my forgiveness. It had nothing to do with Baba, you explained, you’d just had a miscarriage, and the real reason you were so angry was because the idea of having another child with this wonderful man had filled your heart with joy. ‘We’re harshest on the ones we love the most,’ you said, ‘one day you’ll discover that, and though there’s no excuse for it, if they love you too they’ll weather it until your mood changes, and the sun shines on your relationship once more’.
“I was terrible to Charlie in the beginning, Mamaan. I couldn’t have said uglier things, but he weathered it. That letter Elma gave him, I don’t think I ever truly believed what I wrote, they were as much her words as mine, but he weathered that too. Is that true love, Mamaan? Elma says that all men move on, if not literally then in their hearts. But how does that explain Baba? You were forever putting him through the wringer, and yet he only loved you more.”
Noor waits for a response but receives none. She opens her eyes. Over at the bench, there’s a changing of the guard. She screws her eyes tight.
“Mamaan, why have you been so silent recently?”
I haven’t, a voice says in her head.
Noor laughs out loud as she realizes that the voice, she hears on occasion, is her mother’s.
Of course, I’ve forgotten what you sound like.
“What should I do, Mamaan?”
Noor waits, her body still.
“It’s up to me decide, isn’t it?”
Trust your feelings, never disown your instincts, the voice says.
Noor smiles.
“I won’t, I promise.”
She heads back towards the camp, this time taking a more circuitous route in order to avoid Tariq’s snoops. Her legs feel strong, her head clear. She knows what she has to do.
As soon as she arrives at Elma’s house, she goes to her room and writes a draft in her notebook. She needn’t have bothered; the words flow effortlessly. She rereads it and feels her heart beat faster.
Once you send this, there’s no turning back.
She pulls out a sheet of letter paper and transcribes it. She seals it in an envelope and writes Charlie’s name on the front. She looks at the clock. Half past ten. She might as well drop it off now while she still has a chance. She hears a car roar up the driveway. Noor freezes.
“Noor—Noor, where are you?” she hears Elma shout.
Noor jumps up from her desk and runs out of the room. The front door flies open.
“Noor—Noor—”
Noor enters the kitchen at the same time Elma does. Elma’s face is bright red.
“You got in.”
“I got what?”
“You, Noor Jehan Khan, are officially a scholar at the University of Amsterdam.”
Noor screams.
“They called me at the office; it’s a full scholarship. That means everything—a living allowance, tuition, even your travel to Holland, and you know what the best part is?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“They want you to start this semester.”
“That’s good, right?”
“That’s one week from now.”
Noor lets out another scream. This one more in shock.
“But how?” Noor says. “I’ll need a visa—”
“They can expedite it. Just please tell me you have a passport?”
“My father has it.”
“Good, I’ll go get it.”
Noor hesitates.
“I can do it,” she says. “In fact I’d prefer to, if that’s okay. I’d love to tell Baba myself.”
“But Charlie—”
“He’s in Afghanistan.”
“Of course. But hurry, I want to fax it over straight away.”
Noor runs out of the house, and down the street. The mansions pass by her in a blur.
In a week, they’ll be replaced with canals and barges, cafes and museums, bridges and bicycles.
She reaches Charlie’s driveway and takes a moment to catch her breath. She studies his grand old house.
To think this was once my home.
She rings the door bell and waits. The door swings open to reveal Wali in his wheelchair.
“Ah, so you’ve returned to grace us with your presence,” he grins.
“Only for a moment,” she smiles.
“Well a moment’s better than nothing.”
Noor steps inside and remembers the first time she was here; Charlie standing there in his jeans and flip-flops, reeking of aftershave and cigarettes.
I couldn’t have thought less of him.
“Is Baba around?” she says.
“That’s it, no inquiry as to my own well-being, your sister’s, Mr. Matthew’s perhaps?”
“You’ve heard from him?” she says a little too quickly.
“Less than you.”
Noor blushes.
“Thank you for getting his letter to me,” she says.
“You should really thank your sister.”
“She helped you?”
“Even I’m not strong enough to wheel myself all the way to that woman’s house.”
Noor stands there uncertain as to what to say. This is the last thing she’d have expected Bushra to do.
“I’m telling you, Miss Noor, your sister is a lot more open minded than you give her credit.”
Noor smiles.
Maybe she is.
&nbs
p; She takes the envelope out of her pocket.
“Well here’s another letter for you.”
“For me? Oh, you are too kind.”
Noor gives Wali a stern look.
“Don’t worry I’ll see that Mr. Matthews gets it.”
Wali deposits it in the side pocket of his chair.
“Now follow me.”
Wali rolls through the house and out onto the verandah.
“Look who I found,” he shouts.
Aamir Khan sees Noor, and jumps up from his rocking chair. Noor runs over and wraps her arms around him.
“Is everything all right?” Aamir Khan says.
“They gave me the scholarship, Baba. They want me there in a week.”
Aamir Khan raises his arms and whoops.
“What’s going on?” Wali says.
“This amazing young woman is going to Holland, Wali.”
Aamir Khan grabs a hold of Wali’s chair and twirls it around. He dances back to his daughter.
“Oh my dear, our prayers have finally been answered.”
“My passport is still valid, isn’t it?” she says.
Concern flashes across Aamir Khan’s face.
“Hold on, let me go retrieve it.”
Aamir Khan hurries away leaving Noor alone with Wali. In the garden Rasul is tilling a flower bed.
“I sat here with Charlie the night after your accident,” Noor says. “I know there’s a part of him who wishes it’d been him rather than you.”
“I tell you, Miss Noor, I have never known a truer friend.”
And I a truer man.
Noor hears someone approaching and turns expecting her father. Instead she finds Bushra there. She looks leaner, her complexion rosier.
“Congratulations,” Bushra says. “I just heard.”
“Thank you,” Noor says.
“You’ve always worked so hard, Noor. It’s why I respect you so much.”
Noor blushes overwhelmed by her sister’s words. Bushra looks down at Wali, and Noor can’t help but notice that her sister’s eyes are sparkling.
“It’s time for your exercises,” Bushra says.
Wali groans.
“I am telling you, Miss Noor, your sister may seem like a gentle woman but she is a taskmaster.”
“Someone has to be,” Bushra says.
Wali grins, and Bushra gets behind Wali’s chair and pushes him down the ramp towards the parallel bars.