Fear of Beauty

by Susan Froetschel

  “Have you seen these transports?”

  “I’ve heard from other villages.”

  “Nobody around here wants checkpoints and us stopping caravans. To take action, I have to witness an actual transport. I need proof.”

  “That could come soon,” the man explained. “He wants the village to ready supplies of food and water for a group traveling through in the next few days. That could be your chance.”

  Joey frowned. “You’re sure it’s not a school or a family moving through . . .” The man glared and didn’t answer. “How many men with them?”

  “Based on what I’ve heard about previous trips—only one or two men travel with the children. They’ll meet up with one or two from our village. Understand, I have no direct knowledge.”

  Joey looked up at the sky and thought. He didn’t like an operation involving kids. The possibility of a firefight meant dead kids and an end to any American goodwill in the area. Efforts to stop trafficking operations had a way of backfiring on Americans.

  “Can you help me act on this?” the man pleaded. His voice and eyes were earnest, but others could have plans to lure both him and the Americans into a trap.

  “I’ll need your advice on the best places to keep a lookout,” Joey said. “I’ll need details about what weapons they might have.”

  “We can do that.”

  “And you’ve got to let me know if you figure out who in your village is involved.”

  Families had so many children in Afghanistan—sometimes ten or more. Men moved truckloads of poor, rural children through the area, pretending they were orphans. Using a series of lies about communities attacked by foreign forces, the traffickers pretended to take them to refugee camps. The men starved, drugged, or terrified the children—convincing them that their parents no longer cared, that names and memories of their family no longer mattered. Desperate parents sometimes cooperated, handing off children, especially girls they could no longer afford to feed.

  The most appealing children were adopted, married, or sold to sex traders. The others worked long hours as servants or apprentices for carpet makers, stone quarries, or farms. Which group was more fortunate was debatable.

  “The traffickers are typically secretive and change their routes frequently,” Joey said.

  “Increased patrols have pushed them our way, away from main routes. If anything goes wrong in this area, they will blame your outpost.”

  Joey was sickened. “Others must oppose this trafficking. How do they get away with it? And how many believe stories about attacks from Americans?”

  The man sighed. “The traffickers find the poorest villages. The parents want to believe them. And sometimes, the Americans do attack.”

  Touché. “What do you want from me?”

  The man had his plan and hurried to explain. “Our men can kill the men who pass through, but the networks that rely on these trips for funds will target us for revenge. We can stop this man, and you could return the children to their villages.”

  Joey nodded.

  “You’re fighting the Taliban anyway. If the Americans attack the traffickers near our village, then the ringleaders may leave us alone. Any help from me would be kept secret.”

  The plan made sense. “Okay. But we need a plan where none of the children get hurt. Not one.” The Taliban were too damn clever at luring Americans into attacks and blaming them for civilian deaths.

  “Better death than a life of hell,” the man said.

  Joey wanted to hear more about the ringleader, Jahangir. The Afghan described him as impulsive, angry, and insecure. “He’s dangerous. Some of his men have run off—and he’s looking to stay in our village.”

  Joey had to prepare for anything. “Others from your village will help?”

  “Not many,” the man said, looking away. He pulled out a bottle of warm tea and offered Joey a sip. Thanking him, Joey swallowed the strong tea. The drink was sweet, coating Joey’s teeth, and he couldn’t wait to sip fresh water to clear the taste out of his mouth. To be hospitable, though, he drank more.

  The two quietly passed the bottle back and forth, and Joey thought about how war and crime pushed the need for a secret alliance. “I’m not sure how many men in my village could be helping the traffickers. I worried about one, but he’s no longer with us.”

  “To Allah he belongs, to Allah he returns.” The man nodded, and Joey listened to the description of a sudden turn to illness followed by a quick death.

  “The flu?” Joey asked, alert about a contagious disease that could rampage through villages and hit the outpost, too.

  “Perhaps. He had trouble swallowing, and we could barely understand him.”

  “Was there coughing or fever?” The man shook his head, and Joey thought the symptoms sounded odd. “This could delay the transport?”

  Troubled, the man paused. “Others could take over for him. It was Gul, and I do not know if he was assisting Jahangir. If he was, he may not have known the exact nature of these transports.”

  “A village leader . . .” A sudden illness, followed by a power shift, was a concern.

  “Gul was a friend all my life, and I worry if he was involved . . .” His voice broke. “Or others. I do not know. What will you do with the traffickers?”

  “Arrest them,” Joey replied. “They’ll be sent to Kandahar for trials and then prison.”

  The man looked down. “If women from my village are there with foolish ideas, you’ll let me handle them.”

  Joey swallowed, wondering what the guy had planned. “A woman would help with such an operation?”

  “For the money? Or think they are helping children? Anything’s possible.” He shook his head and looked down. “Only one is my concern, and she should know that men like Jahangir do not help children.”

  Joey agreed that the man of Laashekoh would confront the traffickers first and determine the ringleaders before arrests were made. Time was short. There was no time for practice, and the Americans had to avoid the area, so as not to alert the traffickers. “If you’re in danger, we need a phrase,” Joey noted. “A signal for my men to move in.”

  “All matters remain with Allah,” he said with no hesitation.

  Joey nodded, and advised the man to also lift his right arm high especially if he could not speak out. “One signal or the other, we move in,” Joey repeated. They sipped tea, exchanging other ideas for an operation only a few nights away.

  The Afghan suddenly changed the topic. “Let me ask you? Why are the Americans here? It’s not just about the farming or trafficking?”

  Joey told the man the truth. “We’re scouting the area for locating a base that would train soldiers for the Afghan military.” The man asked about how many. “A few hundred. If we can train enough men from this area, your village—the entire country—will be more secure.”

  The man put his palms together, raised them to his lips, as if in prayer. “Our village is too small. Such a force would overwhelm this area. Do you have a say in the decision?”

  “Some,” Joey admitted.

  “You must let the others know this is not the right place. Do what you can to put it near one of the cities. We’re not ready. And if it’s not good for us, then it won’t be good for you.”

  “I’ve had the same thoughts,” Joey conceded.

  “One or two men can keep a village on the right path.” He tightened the cloth around his face. “I must get back.”

  Joey stood too. “We’ll be watching for the caravan.”

  “Do not let them see you,” the man warned. “If I find out more, I’ll try to let you know. And I warn you, this man Jahangir will do everything in his power to make the Americans look bad.”

  “Khoda hafiz.” He put his hand over his heart and then raised his hand before disappearing into the brush and darkness.

  Joey waited in the darkness, giving his comrade time to separate and get some distance.

  Joey returned to the outpost, retrieved his laptop, and
headed to the trailer office with the VSAT modem, used for work by day and contact with friends and family members during off times. Overseeing the outpost’s security, Joey had priority. But at 0400 hours the satellite link was free, and he didn’t have to chase anyone off.

  He logged on to an early-reporting system designed to catch ordinary contagions like the flu or attempts at a biomedical terrorist attack. He typed in the symptoms described by the stranger: slurred speech, difficulty swallowing, and muscle weakness.

  Then he did his own Google search, typing in the same symptoms.

  The results suggested brain tumor, stroke, ALS, Myasthenia gravis, food poisoning, or botulism.

  Joey didn’t want to wait for doctors and bureaucracy. Instead, he immediately fired out an e-mail: “Send antidote for botulism to outpost Rockville-628 ASAP. Possible case in nearby village.” He added the list of symptoms and then hit “send,” before heading back to his room to crash for the night.

  Chapter 21

  A noise outside startled me, and the sunlight was more alarming. After the stress of hiking from the day before, I slept long past my normal time. My husband abruptly stormed into the bedroom, and ignoring the sleeping children, he ripped the covers away from my head and grasped my wrist. With one hard pull, he jerked me away from the room where we had once slept together in peace.

  The kitchen carried the night’s chill. I longed to start a fire as a way to avoid Parsaa’s questions, but he refused to release my wrist.

  Where were you? He kept his voice low, so others could not hear. Such control had its own way of terrifying.

  A fury went through me that I could not ask the same of him, but I kept my face blank. Thoughts of Ali leaped to my mind, but I refused to use the boy as an excuse. He did not deserve a mother who had to lie to his father. Thoughts of the boy tormented me, as I struggled to remember his eyes and smile. He had joined my parents in a distant part of my mind.

  I was walking in the fields.

  A good mother does not go off all day and leave her children alone.

  It won’t happen again, I said softly, bowing my head to keep him from staring into my eyes.

  My demeanor threw him off guard. His voice lost its gruffness. Such wandering is dangerous, he concluded. There are men who do terrible things to women.

  The vivid image of Jahangir took over my head, increasing my anger. And there are men who let them do as they please, I snapped. Parsaa stared, but I refused to explain. I wasn’t sure I could and only repeated my promise.

  He flung my arm aside and headed for the bedroom. And then he turned. There’s no need for your promises. I already spoke to Saddiq. He will tell me where you go and what you do, every moment. You’re not to go anywhere without him, do you understand?

  I stared at him, furious at a husband who didn’t trust me, who shamed me before my son, a step in turning my boys against me. There was no use arguing. I no longer understood a world where women had so few privileges or control.

  And if you try to sneak away in the night, the boy knows the reason why he can no longer sleep. This is for your protection. Embarrassed, he grabbed a pack from the bedroom and walked out into a brilliant morning ready to expose our flaws.

  Mari bathed Gul’s body alone. He was buried before noon that day.

  Many expected my husband to take over Gul’s duties, but he refused to discuss the matter, alternately spending his hours praying and assuring Mari that she and her family would be well taken care of in our village. Parsaa and others worked together, cooperating on the burial and other arrangements for Gul’s family. Jahangir returned a few hours before the burial and surprised many by insisting on staying in Gul’s home.

  So the man who detested any freedoms for women lived next to my home. But could I complain if Mari didn’t?

  Gul’s death, painful and sudden, would deliver unavoidable changes. Everyone was anxious, and the other villagers overlooked my eyes burning with shame about my husband teaching our sons to belittle me and treat me like a prisoner. Sadness returned, and I realized it was more about missing Mita than Ali.

  I’d been so content about Saddiq sleeping close throughout the night, and only afterward realized that his motivation was no longer love, but a lack of trust.

  I thanked Allah for giving me the wisdom to guide Mita away from a land of such foolishness. No wonder Mari was desperate to devise a plan to end the control of men in Laashekoh. Slapping my cheek, I tried to get my anger under control. I had to think of other ways to escape prying eyes and villagers who believe that women are incapable of thinking on their own.

  Parsaa’s anger wouldn’t last forever, and I was patient. No man, no child, could watch a woman every moment. Women can steal their privacy, claiming it was their time of month. Without hesitating, I went into the kitchen and snatched a knife and copied what other women did when they wanted to avoid intercourse with their husbands. Pulling clothing away, I sliced the inside of the top of my leg. Blood seeped onto a rag, and I left it close to our bed where it would not escape Parsaa’s notice.

  Pacing, I imagined troubles in the days ahead. I waited for my chance, and while Saddiq slept and Parsaa was in the courtyard, I went to the cabinet where my husband kept an extra pistol and a rifle. In this part of the world, we keep the guns loaded, ready to fire. Men, women, and children know how to handle the weapons, ready to pick them up to defend our families or celebrate.

  The village had celebrated little recently, and there wouldn’t be many reasons until the Americans and Jahangir moved on their separate ways. Standing before the cabinet, I thought about what to do.

  Hurrying, my hands shaking with anger and fear that someone in our family could turn on another, I took each gun and removed the bullets, shaking every last one from its chamber.

  Then I gently returned the guns to their place. Tucking the bullets inside a rag, I placed the bundle next to the container for carrying drinking water. I’d hide the bundle later.

  I wished that I could unload every gun in our village. In Afghanistan, empty threats or unloaded guns can be lethal in their way, and I would leave the consequences for Allah to decide.

  Saddiq kept a distance, but I felt his eyes on me. As long as I was in the house, he and Parsaa left me alone. Inside, I cooked and swept the floor. I organized laundry and sometimes wrote in my notebooks. I expected that, with time, my husband and son would become less vigilant.

  Convincing Saddiq to hide anything from his father was not an option. But I didn’t blame my son and remained pleasant, as if nothing was horribly amiss in our home. My composure disconcerted them.

  After the confrontation with Parsaa, I felt no shame. As far as I was concerned, the men were resentful, suspicious, and strange. I was reasonable, patient, and superior.

  Their watchful eyes reminded me of the danger of getting too attached to my own secrets, and I shuddered imagining what might have happened had Parsaa trapped me this way before Mita had returned. Disclosing her location to Parsaa would have been unthinkable and so was the notion of her making the trek back to the base on her own.

  Allah smiled on me. Mita was back at the outpost. I had learned much, though the lessons made me long for more. I was certain that Allah didn’t frown upon the time spent with Mita. No, Allah had led her to me.

  I sighed. Now He wanted me to spend more time with my children.

  The morning was cool and I warned the boys to don extra layers. Saddiq and the youngest would help me in the orchard, and the other two would tend the sheep and goats.

  We left the house together, and we encountered Mari on the path. She carried a basket and asked if we wanted vegetables. I told the boys to run back and retrieve a basket. Saddiq lingered and stood his ground even after Mari tried to chase him off. I had nothing to hide regarding this encounter, and expected her to tell me more about Gul. He obeys his father, not women, I explained to Mari.

  Mari glared, and then turned her back on him to whisper, Leila is ready to go to the
Americans. Jahangir has her under a spell.

  Frowning, I questioned how.

  They plot together and do not include me. She says she will ask for treatment, but I don’t know. I worry they plan an attack.

  How can that help? That Leila was willing to go along with such a plan surprised me, though it was a relief that Mari was worried and had come to her senses.

  Mari looked toward the village. Jahangir spins tales of glory and changes his mind about what he wants with every sunset.

  Mari, we must protect her from Jahangir.

  We must protect her from herself. Mari’s smile was odd, and she plucked a turnip from the basket, twirling it in her hand.

  Will they still marry?

  They must. She was firm. The marriage will happen soon.

  I shook my head. She’d marry a man who wants to kill others?

  Leila matters more than the Americans, Mari retorted. The turnip dropped, and she ignored it.

  My youngest ran over and interrupted, handing us a basket. She patted the boy on the head as I bent to retrieve the turnip and waited awkwardly as Mari slowly transferred vegetables from one basket to the other.

  I told the boys to run ahead, while I delivered the vegetables to our kitchen. Again, Saddiq hung back and stared. Jahangir’s plans won’t help this village.

  Mari glanced at Saddiq and shook her head. The boy is a nuisance.

  I murmured an apology. Parsaa worries about my safety.

  Allah has His plan. Mari scowled. Jahangir promises to help my family.

  But if he makes new promises every day . . . I wanted to warn her. I don’t like to think of him with our children.

  She stared. Sofi, these are dangerous times. You should not take your eyes away from your children and go off alone.