Fear of Beauty

by Susan Froetschel

  Her smile was sad. Don’t worry about me—I’m almost home. You hurry and get back before dark, and hide if you hear the helicopters. Her voice shook. We both expected the American soldiers to ask a lot of questions and start looking for those who hid Mita.

  Then she hugged me, urging me to practice writing every day. Tears flowed from our eyes. I had no way of stating in a few words how much the lessons had meant.

  She stood, watching me hurry away. We returned to our old, separate paths, but our lives would never be the same.

  Part 3

  11-2. With training, equipment, and the WILL TO SURVIVE, you will find you can overcome any obstacle you may face. You will survive. You must understand the emotional states associated with survival, “knowing thyself” is extremely important in a survival situation.

  —Ranger Handbook

  Your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He become displeased,

  And surely what comes after is better for you than that which has gone before.

  —Koran 93:3–4

  Chapter 19

  I returned as the sun set—relieved that I didn’t have to use Mari’s gun and defiant about showing remorse for being away the entire day. First, I stopped by the fields, walking briskly and retrieving a basket of potatoes and turnips gathered and hidden the day before. Then I deliberately crossed the village center, empty because the men were still at market. To avoid suspicions or questions, I moved quickly, as if hard at work all day, without stopping to shake the dust from the clothes.

  The most difficult part, returning after a day-long absence, was the angry reaction from Saddiq. He turned away—no greeting or smile. Stepping into the back courtyard, where no one could see, I beat the dust from the clothes with angry swings of a stick.

  In the cold kitchen, Saddiq waited, sullen. I fired up the oven and then bustled about, as if I had not abandoned my family. The home felt strange, a single day away had reduced my sense of belonging.

  I didn’t want to ask a string of questions that would only emphasize my long absence. But the boy didn’t talk much. Annoyed, fretting about the other boys, I gave in.

  Standing in front of him, I snapped, I trust the other children behaved? They helped you with the herd?

  They were not much help. He looked away.

  It’s your job to teach them as Ali taught you. I pounded flour, oil, and water for bread.

  The boy lashed out. And who taught Ali? You walked the hills with him. You showed him the favorite grasses, the spring for water, the best places for keeping watch. You showed us how to move the animals along the hillside and play games to use our minds. But you don’t care anymore. . . . He covered his eyes with his arm.

  We miss Ali, too, his voice broke. But we miss you more.

  Shame swept through me, though it wasn’t the boy’s purpose. Walking the hills had lost all joy since Ali’s death, and I cringed at remembering how little I had thought about the children during the trek with Mita.

  Since Ali’s passing, I should have tried walking and working more with the other boys instead of clinging to grief and memories.

  Pounding the bread, I refused to apologize or take the boy into my arms. His hurt had built over a long time. He wasn’t in the mood to trust my sincerity with sudden gestures or words. So much more was required to make up for days of neglect. For the time being, it was enough I didn’t argue. It was frustrating to feel wrong about hiding Mita and activities that could only improve our lives. Mita’s return to the outpost, the end of our lessons, would give me more time with the children. But I was resentful and didn’t want to take my feelings out on Saddiq.

  It’s good to show your brothers. It was all I could say while slapping the dough hard. Where are they?

  They are at Mari’s house. Madar, Hassan got hurt today.

  My hands stopped. What happened? The boy rushed with an explanation. He’s all right now. It happened when I handed the gun to Zalmai. We dropped it and . . .

  What? I screamed.

  It fired and hit him in the leg.

  Saddiq, why didn’t you tell me immediately? Such a fool I was, hurrying with ordinary tasks, trying to hide dust and bake bread, while a son was hurt. The neighbors should have heard my howls of anger long ago. My voice was too weak. How is he? Can he walk?

  It was no more than a scrape. I tied a cloth to stop the blood.

  I dropped to the ground in relief, giving thanks to Allah that the boy was all right and promising to devote more care to my sons. My bitterness about saying farewell to Mita was wrong. All I wanted was to get my sons home.

  I was upset about my sons spending too much time with Mari. Cleaning my hands of flour and dough, ready to retrieve him, I paused by our doorway. Saddiq, how long ago?

  After lunch, he said.

  I’m not angry with you. Does he need help getting home?

  His eyes were wide with responsibility and fear. No, he can walk, and the wound is clean. I tried to keep him near, but he cried so hard. Mari came inside and wanted to know what happened. She took him away, cleaned it again, and gave him candy.

  No other food or drink?

  Some fruit and bread. The question puzzled Saddiq. That quieted him. But she kept asking questions and blamed me for taking one of their guns.

  Of course, you didn’t . . . I murmured.

  Hassan fell asleep, and I got tired of her insults.

  What did she say? I bit my lip, cringing inside.

  That you and father do not keep a good watch over us! I told her that we have enough guns and my parents work hard. She told me I was disrespectful, like the Americans. The boy frowned. She also asked if you and father talk about Jahangir.

  And?

  I told her no.

  Of course not . . . The question was odd. But my children had long been taught the dangers of divulging details about what went on inside our home.

  Mari’s question revealed how much she didn’t trust us. Suddenly, I dreaded facing her, so soon after talking about her plan with Mita. She’d look into my eyes and guess that I had revealed her secret. I turned and faced Saddiq. You are a big boy . . . can you carry Hassan home? Without waking him. Please?

  The boy leaped up, ready, almost as if he felt guilty and wanted to please me. I touched his shoulder. What’s wrong? he asked.

  Nothing. Hurry. Give her no time for questions. I turned back to the dough.

  She’s busy—Uncle Gul fell ill during the night and didn’t go to market.

  My fingernails clawed into the dough. Only Gul?

  He gave me another puzzled look. I suppose . . . the pain worsened throughout the day. She is sitting with him.

  Hurry, hurry, and get your brother! Panic swept me that Mari had packed a meal that went off with the other men. That the men passed around her oil and Parsaa tried some with his bread. He could be clutching his stomach, writhing in pain, somewhere along the trail.

  I didn’t know what else to say, rushing to bake my bread and deliver some to my friend. Mari either assumed that I didn’t care about her or my children, or guessed that I had been away from the village for the entire day.

  My resentment returned. Men did not have to explain their whereabouts. Little boys could interrogate their mothers. A friend could talk about killing her husband and get upset that I left my sons alone.

  At least I didn’t have girls and didn’t have to force restrictions on them. My boys had enough secrets. Someday, before they took wives, I’d explain to them that women were just as curious as men and had ideas, too. Maybe when I understood myself . . .

  The bread went into the oven before it was ready, and I stirred the pot of stew and hung it over the fire—barely enough for two families. I would not eat, and the boys could go and collect more carrots.

  I slapped and flattened the bread. Of course, I’d refuse to talk about my whereabouts. The truth was impossible, that I had left the entire day, accompanying an American woman who had been hunted for many days. Travel for two women be
yond the boundaries of their village, without male relatives as escorts, was dangerous. Inside, I trembled with thrill at the feat—hiding Mita and then returning her safely.

  I’d refuse to explain—let Parsaa guess that I went off and prayed for Ali. In death, the child protected my lies more than I had protected him in life.

  The meal was almost done, and I readied myself to carry it over, forcing Mita and the long walk out of my mind. Maybe I’d hand the meal to Leila and not see Mari. She wouldn’t realize that I had contacted the Americans and that her plan was no longer a secret.

  Then I chided myself for being foolish, collecting rags for carrying the pot away. Gul’s illness had nothing to do with her plan.

  Or maybe she’d stop with Gul.

  Still, I prayed that I wouldn’t see Mari who had a knack for seeing what others did not want her to see.

  Word quickly went through the village about Gul’s illness. One family after another knocked on the door of Gul’s home. Mari simply shook her head and explained it was a stomach virus. The man couldn’t eat or take liquids, and Mari and Leila handled his care with efficient serenity.

  I delivered warm bread and a pot of stew with a small group, and Mari’s eyes locked on mine. I stared over the top of her head into the room and caught my last glimpse of her husband. Gul was still, his eyes barely open as he moaned softly, his wide eyes suggesting that he wanted to writhe and scream in pain. Mari refused to allow anyone to join her or the children in the vigil over her husband.

  He cannot swallow or speak, Mari said, as she took the bread. Then, she slowly closed the door, her eyes still on me. In them, I could read no sadness or revenge, though I was thankful she did not want to spend much time with me.

  Returning to my home, I had to pass by the group of young men at prayer near Gul’s doorway. I could not forget Mari’s gaze and was nervous to know her thoughts and if she suspected that I told others. My moods shifted from feeling guilty for not telling Parsaa to scolding myself for thinking that she had hurt Gul.

  If she were behind this strange illness, more men would have suffered, I told myself.

  From inside my kitchen, I heard the men taking turns reading from the Koran. Not long ago, I would have followed along, and tried to pick up new phrases. But I was familiar with these passages and now could read better than the youngest men. Listening to the readings, I realized how often the word “care”—ehtiyaat-kar—was used to mean warn or guard against. Such was the nature of our village.

  After darkness fell, I tossed Mari’s gun over the wall, close to the rear entry of her home, and would not argue if she accused the boys of playing with it. I did not want it in our home.

  The other men returned from market, but Parsaa was not with them.

  I crawled into the bed. A weary Saddiq draped his arm around me on one side, and the youngest pressed against me on the other. I was in a bed with four children and should have felt relief after the long day. But I had never felt so alone.

  Of course, I couldn’t sleep. Long hours of steady walking, the fear of getting caught, the agony of saying farewell to Mita, and the thought that we might not ever talk again—too many racing thoughts interfered with sleep.

  I turned from one side to the other, bothered that Parsaa was not around. Fear about explaining my absence that day mixed with relief and sadness. Maybe I wouldn’t have to explain to Parsaa at all. With Gul’s illness, my husband would be busy and might not hear about my long absence. Or, perhaps he’d already heard and was out searching for me. Or maybe he prowled for a second wife. Either way, blame for the day’s problems could slide my way.

  A few hours later, after midnight, I heard greetings for Parsaa from the other men gathered outside Gul’s home. It was too late for Parsaa to knock on his friend’s door and visit, and the others updated him.

  He didn’t enter our home, instead joining the other men with their prayers. Throughout the night, Mari and the daughters took turns holding Gul’s hand, comforting him. In the end, paralysis took control of his limbs, and Gul died before dawn.

  Chapter 20

  A guard radioed Joey about a small figure approaching the outpost from the east. Joey reached for the binoculars and sprinted for the barricades. Someone in dusty clothes emerged from rocks and forest edging the base of the nearest mountain just before sunset—and walked in a direct line toward the base. A woman.

  Moments later, two Humvees exited the outpost gate—and the woman whipped away her head cover, waving it like a flag. The vehicles encircled her, creating a cloud of dust, and then braked. Recognizing Mita, the men let loose with ecstatic hoots. Joey hopped out of the back of the nearest vehicle and ran to her, wrapping his arms around her, lifting and twirling her with joy, squeezing as if never to let her go.

  Exhausted from walking all day in the sun, she leaned against him and could not speak. Her eyes and skin were crusted with dust, exposed to blowing sand, and her feet burned. But she beamed a weary smile.

  “Where were you?” “How did you get away?” “Are you all right?” The questions came fast and she let loose a happy laugh, unaccustomed to dealing with so many people at once. “That day . . . ,” she started to reply. “I fell . . .”

  “Give her a break everyone,” Joey ordered. He handed her a bottle of cool water, urging her to drink. “Small sips.” She happily obeyed, and he wondered if she was more grateful for the water or the delay in having to explain what she had been through during the past two weeks. It didn’t matter. Relief exploded inside him, and he wasn’t ready to handle the tumbling emotions, not in front of a group. He also didn’t want Mita locking herself into statements in front of so many witnesses.

  Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he guided her to a Humvee. “Get her back to the base!”

  “But I don’t . . .”

  “Quiet, and that’s an order,” he whispered as he squeezed her. “I’m so damn happy to see you.” As the vehicle sped back to the outpost, Joey didn’t miss her wistful glimpse toward the craggy stretch near Laashekoh.

  Time stretched out in the hours after midnight. The night Mita returned, Joey went out to wait and sleep within sight of Laashekoh. She had managed to convince him that she was fine, not hurt, though somehow spirited away the day Habib had died.

  She didn’t provide specifics and, in dealing with a retired general’s daughter, some of his commanding officers didn’t want many details either. Everyone was ready to take her at her word, and the meetings were perfunctory. A specialist would fly in later in the week to conduct a routine assessment.

  She didn’t talk much, and it didn’t take long before Joey guessed she was disturbed by her time away, worrying about Laashekoh and its problems.

  So he planned on observing both her and the village—and hoped to confirm his suspicion. From a distance, the place appeared serene, no arguing or suspicious, defensive, or paranoid activity. The place had fewer conflicts than the outpost did.

  He enjoyed time alone away from the outpost. Leaning against the tree, he listened to the sharp insect noises and tried to imitate them. He thought about the war that had consumed a decade of his life and the thankless task of trying to undo centuries of wrongdoing. He thought about time and how creatures, young or old, small or large, experienced it differently depending on the content of their memories. He wondered if adding clocks and watches, heightening the perception of time, would change Afghan attitudes.

  The Afghanistan nights, the landscape, reminded him of a poem memorized long ago:

  Knowing that Nature never did betray

  The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege

  Through all the years of this our life, to lead

  From joy to joy: for she can so inform

  The mind that is within us, so impress

  With quietness and beauty . . .

  He couldn’t remember all the verses or the poet’s name, and he reminded himself to look up the poem the next time he was online. Watching the village wall, he re
membered fragments of other poems and thought about writing his own before he fell asleep.

  He awoke to find a man in gray waiting patiently in the nearby shadows. Once again, the Afghan draped a scarf around his face, revealing only his eyes. Joey sat up slowly. “Salaam aalaikum.”

  “Wa’alaikum salaam,” the stranger said. “You’re too trusting.”

  “Trust breeds more trust, no?”

  The man cocked his head. “It’s common for men to act—and then reconsider.”

  “Everything you’ve told me so far has been true.”

  “You stopped the searches, and the woman came back.”

  “She is back,” Joey admitted.

  “She was never in Laashekoh.” The man looked away. “But someone there may have known her whereabouts.”

  “A woman . . .” Joey said.

  The Afghan studied Joey’s face. He picked up a small pebble and tossed it, watching it land. “Will you pursue the matter?”

  Joey couldn’t make promises, but his interests aligned with those of the village. So far, questions were few because of Mita’s status as star. But that could change. “She is safe. She was injured and not abducted. Of course, some of our people don’t believe her.”

  “It’s best not to pursue the details.” He tossed the pebble again. “Outsiders are furious at us for letting her return. They want to cause trouble and control this area.”

  “The man who called me a dog?” Joey smiled.

  “He does not realize that calling a man a dog does not turn him into a dog.”

  “Not the worst insult where I come from.”

  But the villager was less sanguine. “This man is dangerous for us and you. He wants to use this area for illegal activities, and that’s the only reason he goads our men into fighting the Americans.” The man kept his voice low and gruff, his face covered, but it didn’t matter. Joey felt comfortable with him. “The Americans slowed the drug trade, and now he finds it easier to sell children. His excuse is the funds go toward fighting the foreigners. But his activities won’t stop if you leave.”