Fear of Beauty

by Susan Froetschel

  I struggled to stay calm and keep my face blank. It was mortifying to think that Mari and others knew that Parsaa had put me under watch. I mumbled about unending grief for Ali, and inside, begged for forgiveness from both him and Allah. My grief was real, and the child was more than a convenient excuse.

  Upon our friends, our strength depends, she said with a curt nod. Then she lowered her voice, All of them are wrong for how they treat us. Don’t warn any of them, but it will end this week. With that, she hurried off toward her home.

  Without explanation, I told the boys we’d climb the opposite hill to check our animals from a distance. They laughed, but it was easy convincing the boys about a walk. Who knows what we’ll see if they don’t know we’re watching? I suggested.

  I ran home and emptied the basket of vegetables. Lining the basket with an old white scarf, I added bread and fruit for us. Then we climbed the hill. Light rain from the night before made the grass soft and lush. Mari’s sheep were content, alert as we first approached. Once they realized we meant no harm, they grazed and ignored us.

  Saddiq looked to our hill and shouted with glee. Our lambs play more than Mari’s!

  That’s good to know, I replied.

  The boys wanted to climb to the very top, and I told them that I’d wait for them at the tree line. The sun was bright overhead, and while they raced to the top, I removed the scarf from the basket and tied it to a low branch to provide more shade. The boys weren’t long, and after we ate, they wandered about, examining rocks and plants. Questions tumbled from them, and I answered most, admitting what I did not know. The day was beautiful, the best since my last walk with Ali, and the boys didn’t want to leave even as a fierce wind arrived.

  On the way home, Hassan remembered the forgotten scarf and offered to run back. It can wait until tomorrow. Laughing and agreeing, the younger boys raced down the hill.

  Saddiq and I walked more slowly, and it was then that I murmured thanks to him for reminding me about the pleasures of the hills. He smiled, and I did not have to explain further.

  Chapter 22

  Mita’s father had thanked the outpost and search team for his daughter’s safe return. No one expressed surprise that she was ready to continue with the mission. No one demanded an all-out investigation.

  That didn’t mean Joey didn’t investigate. He spent hours with her, asking questions, and found most of the story, what she was willing to tell, troubling and hard to believe.

  During the firefight, she had backed away, fell down a cliff, and went unconscious. An unknown Afghan moved her away from the scene and hid her in a cave, bringing her clothes and food. Another unknown was planning a possible suicide attack on the outpost, but it was postponed after Mita went missing. A third unknown was planning to poison the men of Laashekoh. She couldn’t divulge names or details, and warned that revealing the plans would endanger the informant.

  “We’ll see a signal if something is about to happen,” she said, and explained about a white cloth.

  He asked if she could guide him back to the hiding place, and she shook her head. “Even if we tried by air?” he pressed. She shook her head again.

  It wasn’t the first time that Afghan wiliness had withstood state-of-the-art surveillance equipment.

  Joey paused. “I know it’s a woman who helped you.” Mita looked startled but did not confirm or deny. “I almost called in dogs,” Joey added. “Cameron wanted to raid Laashekoh. God knows what your father wanted.”

  “I’m grateful you did what you did,” she said quietly.

  The details of the briefings sounded less like intelligence or evidence, and more like a mysterious dream. He asked her to let him know immediately if she remembered other details.

  Confirmation of her strange tale came soon. Joey held her arm and helped her to the roof and the surveillance scope. He typed codes into a laptop and then pointed to the hillside that blocked a view of Laashekoh. A thin white cloth was tied or caught in a treetop. “Is that the signal you talked about?”

  Mita dipped her head and stared into the scope at a long headscarf, whipped by wind, that was ready to break free from the dark tree. The magnification was strong enough to see the gauzy weave and a knot twisted around a limb.

  “The knot—it’s deliberate.” She pulled her eye away from the scope and was surprised to see him studying her more closely than the scarf.

  “Mita, can’t you tell me more? Where you stayed?”

  Mita hesitated. “It was just one woman, not the village. And she’d be in serious trouble for warning us. Please understand, Joey, I must protect her.”

  “I don’t see how withholding intelligence protects her!”

  “They’re afraid to talk to us,” Mita said. “If you try, they’ll guess she was involved. Even her family didn’t know.” She reached for his arm. “Joey, you had to be there. . . . I was unconscious. She took a risk by helping me. The woman yearns to read and write and study. I would love to give her a book to read, but that alone would mark her as dangerous in her community. If we’re not careful, she’ll be dead.”

  Joey went quiet. The story revived memories of growing up with brothers and friends who snickered at a boy who loved reading and school, as if either minimized one’s toughness. Extremists had a knack for devising narratives that ensured obedience among the uneducated, raising uncertainty about educators and others unafraid of change. “Could she be a pawn for extremists?”

  “Absolutely not,” Mita insisted, sitting near the scope. “She begged me not to tell anyone. . . .”

  “But how do you know it’s not a trap or a game?” he asked.

  Mita shook her head. “She’s not like that. It was my idea, and she promised to signal if she heard any strange plans.”

  He talked as he typed away on the computer. “It might not be her fault, but it could be a way to distract us from other activity.”

  “From what though?” Mita asked. “Laashekoh is one of the more comfortable villages in this area.”

  “All the more reason for extremists to target them.”

  “You asked me about other details? I do remember something . . .”

  He moved close and got on his knees in front of her. “Every detail is important.”

  “She wanted to read and write, and had nothing but the family Koran, which I couldn’t read. One day she showed me a piece of paper—an Afghan document.”

  “What kind of document?”

  “Just one page—a certificate. Maybe a birth certificate.”

  That got his attention. “A certificate. One of her children’s?”

  “No, it was blank.”

  “Do you remember any numbers, a name of a city or province?”

  “Nothing special, but my Dari is not that good,” Mita apologized. “She asked me what it said, and I wasn’t sure. So we didn’t talk much more about it, and she didn’t say how she came by it.”

  “Did she talk about illicit activities—drug or human trafficking? Did you see illegal activity?”

  “No.” Mita said, frustrated. “I was in a cave, and she was nothing but kind. She did nothing wrong, except help a stranger and try to read.”

  “Mita, can you find the cave?” he asked again.

  She took a breath. “Maybe. . . . But I can’t chance betraying her.”

  “You don’t trust that we can help people like her anymore?”

  “It’s not us,” Mita said with a sigh. “It’s the endless obstacles in these villages. The men don’t agree, and the women don’t know what’s going on. They have enough problems, with one woman attacked by acid and another woman thinking about mass murder.” Mita paused. “Their life is so hard, but this woman never complained. I cannot risk hurting her.”

  “There are good men in the village, too,” Joey noted. “The factions could work for us.”

  She sighed. “I think so, too, but how many times have we heard there are no moderates here?” she said.

  “If one group is a shade fr
iendlier than another, depending on their reasons, they could become our moderates.”

  “The extremists despise moderates and will attack them with a vengeance. I’m terrified for my friend and others like her.”

  “Changing minds takes time,” Joey said.

  “Something we don’t have.” She returned to the scope and asked to reposition the view.

  He nodded. “You won’t see the village,” he added. “Just sheep and rocks and the waterfall down the south slope.” She stared into the scope without talking. Joey watched and wondered what she was thinking.

  He didn’t blame her for not trusting anyone at the outpost with details about the woman. Hell, he still hadn’t told her that he had already guessed which woman had provided the help. Before calling Mita to the platform, he had watched a woman and children descend the slopes. Dressed in dark gray, she had slowly zigzagged down the hill, arms out, latching onto tree trunks to slow her pace and perhaps avoid being seen.

  He didn’t want to alarm Mita into trying something foolish.

  “You arranged a place for dropping off messages with her—let’s leave a note and ask her to drop off that paper?”

  “Sure, if you think it will help,” Mita said.

  “Write a note that could only come from you. Tell me where to leave it, and I’ll head out tonight.”

  “If she still has the paper, she’ll get it to us.” Mita was more confident than he was. The woman may have kept Mita away longer than necessary, and Mita may have provided more information than she realized about the outpost. Fortunately, he was in control of that investigation.

  The Laashekoh woman may have already had regrets about befriending Mita. She could be in trouble with others or frustrated about her reading, forgetting words, and wanting more. She could be angry that Americans didn’t stick around villages long enough to ensure that real education took hold.

  “The paper? You won’t let anyone else know?” Mita asked.

  “Only us.” It wasn’t a good idea, but he wanted to reach out, hold her, kiss her the happy way he had the day she returned.

  The many questions about her time away were a constant distraction. She was a Muslim and a civilian. In a strange land, her loyalties could be divided for many reasons.

  “Go write that note,” he directed. “In your handwriting, as simple as possible.”

  He stood, ready to log on to a more secure computer and report the birth certificate, if that’s what it was, to the intelligence analyst center. Getting his hands on it was another test of whether Mita was telling the truth and whether her contact was reliable.

  But he had another problem unfolding fast. A reply to his e-mail about the illness in Laashekoh was waiting:

  “Sounds like botulism. Antidotes work best BEFORE poisoning, not after. Only some experimental antidotes are available for actual cases. We put in a request. If the case is botulism, the poor guy’s already dead. Wpn dev? Try to get samples. DO NOT eat anything coming out of that village. Specialists on way.”

  Joey still moved out for surveillance every night. He felt more secure working alone. Adding others meant more tracks, noise, and complications. The band of traffickers would be ruthless. He wasn’t going to try and stop them on his own, but he could prepare. He had to work within the parameters set by the villager—and he had to ensure that no children were hurt in the process.

  Joey announced that visits would resume from agriculture specialists. “You’ve already been shot at once near that village,” said a soil scientist.

  “The indicators suggest the attack came from an outside force,” Joey said. “They asked for these pamphlets, and we’re responding.”

  “You heard from someone in the village?” Cameron questioned. “But how . . . ?”

  “A reliable source.”

  “Maybe we should focus on finding the people who snatched Mita,” Cameron grumbled.

  “The village didn’t take her.” Joey said in a firm voice to counter the whining. Others were getting irritated about Cameron constantly questioning orders. With every question, the man managed to spread doubt about the mission, Mita, Joey, Laashekoh, all of Afghanistan.

  “We’re running out of time, and passing out a few pamphlets isn’t worth the risk,” Cameron insisted. “There are US companies that would help, but these villages are too ignorant to want that.” He shook his head.

  “They’re doing better than any village around here, without our help,” Mita protested. “We should be thrilled. We need to catch up on making contacts with the villages.”

  “You haven’t been around the last few weeks,” Cameron accused. “That’s why we’re behind. An absence still not explained.”

  “For security reasons,” Joey retorted.

  Cameron, visibly startled, was at a loss for words and looked about the room. When no one else spoke up, he fired back. “What are you talking about? We deserve full access to any reports on that village and abduction. We’re risking our lives out here every day . . .”

  “It’s enough for you to know that the village had nothing to do with Mita’s absence, as you put it. The assailants are unknown. Mita was separated. An unknown civilian assisted her. End of story.”

  “But who?” Cameron demanded. “The incident compromised our safety. It’s your job to find out more.”

  “We’re not talking about this.” Joey put his pen on the table. “Not knowing could protect you.”

  “You don’t trust us!” Cameron accused.

  Joey didn’t answer. It was ridiculous trying to convince a man who had started the pattern of mistrust, who argued with anything that didn’t go his narrow way.

  “The goal hasn’t changed here,” Mita said. “We’re letting the villages decide their needs, and we’re not going to impose our ideas. They’re not guinea pigs for our pet projects.”

  Some people looked down and others nodded. Support for Cameron was fading.

  “This is chaos,” he concluded. “Waiting for villagers who don’t understand their options.”

  Ending the meeting, Joey asked Dan and a younger soldier to stick around. Cameron was curious, but Joey waved him away. Only after the room emptied out did he explain. “The Taliban are getting money somehow, and we’re investigating shipments passing through this area at night.”

  “I’m game,” interrupted Daniel.

  “Me, too,” said the younger man.

  “I’ll give you more later. We’re tightening the noose.”

  Joey promised to check for a message from the woman in Laashekoh—and Mita was disappointed when he returned the first night empty-handed and reported that the note still waited underneath the rock. The next night, though, the note was gone. It was after midnight, but he couldn’t resist seeing and telling Mita. He tried giving two soft knocks on her door, and the door opened quickly, as if she had been waiting.

  The room was dark. Feeling awkward, he waited by the door until she switched on a bedside lamp and gestured for him to sit beside her on the cot.

  “Can’t sleep?” he whispered.

  “So many thoughts racing through my head,” she admitted, crossing her legs and facing him. “And I worry about my friend in Laashekoh.”

  He reached for her hand and held it. “The note’s gone,” he said. “There’s no message.”

  “You’re sure it was the right place?” she pressed.

  He went over once again the description of the pile of rocks near a stand of trees, just off the footpath. “Believe me, I didn’t forget where we were ambushed. But I worry—it can’t be safe for a woman to leave the village.”

  “But she left to see me for such long periods every day. . . .”

  “I found these on top of the rock.”

  He pulled the wilted sprigs of cumin from a top pocket and placed them into her hand. She sniffed. “Kala jeera, the seed that cures every disease but death.”

  “Powerful stuff.”

  “Cumin.” Mita smiled as she studied the stems, evenly cu
t. “It’s from her.”

  “I didn’t think it was a coincidence. I’ll check again tomorrow.” Joey leaned back against the wall and took her hand again. “We may have two informants inside that village—if anything, it’s more confusing than it was before.”

  She curled her legs and leaned against his shoulder. “Not in here . . . not with you.”

  Chapter 23

  I was pleasant, but stern, keeping Saddiq busy at women’s tasks he had never tried before—folding the family’s laundry, stirring and watching the stew, and sweeping floors. My shadow must copy whatever I do, I pointed out. Or your father won’t be pleased.

  My husband’s directive still irritated me, and if anything, Saddiq would learn that women worked as tirelessly as men. Parsaa and the boys could name my many flaws, but the sin of shirk was not among them.

  In the fields, I moved at a brisk pace—snipping bare limbs from the trees, tossing the compost, and carrying buckets of rich soil to far ends of the field, stretching to pluck vegetables and then lugging the bins to the cool caves at the base of the mountain.

  I wanted the boy to drop with weariness, to fall in bed exhausted and grateful. But Saddiq kept up without complaint. Together, we ate and walked, worked and rested. Eventually my anger subsided, and I found myself enjoying his company. I learned to work and think with my constant and quiet shadow.

  Soon I realized that the boy was not sharing my every move with his father. Slowly, my trust in him began to build, and it was less painful to think of him as my oldest son.

  A warm breeze lifted the autumn day, and I prepared for a longer walk than usual. Talibah agreed to watch the younger boys. I wrapped some bread in a cloth, added apples to my sack, then poured water into four containers that were easy to carry a distance.

  Bring a hat, I advised Saddiq. We will work in the fields and then climb the hill and check some plants. Moments later, I set off for the fields, carrying several bags, while he gathered his pack and ran to catch up.