Fear of Beauty

by Susan Froetschel

  Reaching an area with onions and carrots, I heard his footsteps pounding behind me. I handed over a sack and without a word bent over and started plucking young carrots from the ground, a small variety. Less sweet, they were tangy and wild and delicious with roasted lamb and raisins.

  I checked the carrots in his sack. Do not miss any with tops wider than your thumb. We do not want them to get too tough. He nodded, but studying the carrot tops slowed his work. By the time I reached the end of the row, I had two bags to his one.

  As we passed each other along the rows, he put his hand out to me. You work so hard for us. Please don’t be angry with me.

  I’m not angry, not at all. I stood and stretched.

  But you’re not talking with father.

  It’s not easy being treated like a young child who can’t take care of herself.

  He’s only trying to protect you.

  My laugh was short. It’s foolish to rely on others for protection.

  Especially those who pretend to protect, the boy muttered. The Americans.

  His bitterness surprised me. As far as I was concerned, our village had more reason to resent Jahangir than the Americans, and I wondered what Parsaa had told the boy. The Americans have left us alone. I worry more about those who invent threats to prove their superiority.

  The boy nodded, but I doubted that he understood my reference to Jahangir and others like him. Even with my own family, I had to be careful about defending the Americans. It’s dangerous to talk about these matters. But children your age can handle more than adults imagine.

  He nodded and moved with more speed. We worked more rows, without pause, before I called him to join me to check the steeper slopes.

  We’ll eat lunch up there, I promised. The climb toward the ridge didn’t take long, but I had to stop often, catching my breath and blinking to hold back tears. I had not been to the area since after Ali’s death, when I returned for the documents. The days since stretched like years.

  I worried about climbing this ridge with another son. But to harvest the crocus, I was left with no choice. I was determined not to let him near the ledge where the documents once waited.

  Not many in the village came to this rough area. My husband and I had not been here together in years. Perhaps it was selfish, but we didn’t want to attract attention to the tiny plants sprinkled along the roughest side of the mountain.

  I had started the field years ago with the handful of corms given to me by my father. Every year, I worked at separating corms and expanding the field, removing weeds and stones, loosening the soil and providing ridges for drainage. I studied the mountainside from afar and was careful about expanding the plots. Every autumn, the flowers burst into bloom against ancient rocks, and all together, from below, they looked like nothing more than a cloud’s shadow stretched along the folds of the mountainside.

  Early on, I collected only enough saffron for our family meals. After a few years of marriage, Parsaa asked where I had found the cache of crocus. I brought him to the field, and he agreed the place should be kept a secret.

  You took a long time to tell me about this, Parsaa had commented only once. Your secrets can be my secrets.

  Maybe, I had thought to myself. Maybe.

  He didn’t tell the others, and I was relieved. Our secret field expanded every year, and this made explanations to other villagers more difficult. Parsaa and I, and later Ali, worked alone, camping out and ready to pluck stems with blooms that lasted but a single day.

  Each year, we faced intense work ten days or so, pinching the blooms soon after they made their appearance and then carrying the flower-heads to a nearby cave where we removed the stigma that provided golden color and flavor. We placed the slender threads on trays so they could dry, before arranging them in small tins that Parsaa carried to market.

  Then I’d climb about the hill, checking corms, dividing and spread­ing more. I always kept a few corms hidden away at home, close at hand, just in case the unthinkable happened, and we were uprooted from this village.

  Villagers had no reason to question our activities or climb the twisting paths for this slope. Of course, the young and those who had keen eyesight might spot us. We donned dark gray clothing, and only worked during the early morning hours, when other villagers were busy with tasks. The fold of the mountain shielded us from most onlookers, and as the field expanded, we kept visits to a minimum.

  Parsaa made a point of taking the boys on long walks far from Laashekoh, and so a few walks to this area did not seem unusual. I also took the precaution of planting corms on other hills—and shared that saffron with other families.

  On this day, I stood at the top of the hill and stared down at the treacherous fold that dropped into a precipice. Dark strands of autumn crocus leaves poked out from behind rocks over the hill, with no sign of purple blooms among the hundreds of plants.

  This isn’t far from where Ali died, Saddiq noted.

  I nodded. Ali had been the only one of our children who knew about the crocus harvest, and he often helped, heading alone to the field before dawn, plucking flowers steadily throughout the day, using our handmade wooden tweezers to gently remove the stigma.

  Our family didn’t own the slopes of this hill. As a whole, the people of Laashekoh had rights to use the surrounding fields and hills for farming and grazing. Since my arrival, I had assumed we were the only ones who frequented the rougher slopes. The saffron belonged to us as long as we were the only ones who knew about it.

  Before Ali’s death and after, I had kept an eye out for anyone setting out on the path to undertake the difficult climb—and never saw climbers. I was sure the crocus fields were still our secret. The one who had killed Ali didn’t seem to know or care about the flowers and their value.

  Maybe Ali’s death was an accident. Or maybe someone had returned the documents to their hiding place. Since Mita had left the cave, I yearned to find something new to read, anything, and was curious.

  So I used the crocus to distract Saddiq from watching me hunt for the papers again. We walked the ridge, reached the section overlooking the crocus field, and sat on a large rock to eat our lunch. After we finished, we sidestepped down the slope, where I pointed out the spiky leaves that we had planted and explained how we collected the stigma. We do not tell anyone about the saffron, I explained. It would cause too many problems. Of course, your father and I share our wealth in many ways.

  I gently poked with my finger among the folded leaves to show him a bud, and directed him to descend the slope and check the lower parts of the mountain’s fold. From there, he would not see the hiding place overhead in the rocks. See that large rock? Climb carefully. The plants there are in the sun and can bloom a week earlier than those up here. Tell me if you see any hint of color at all.

  As he skipped down the hill, I called out for him to use care on the loose stones. Then I backed away, hurrying to the ledge to remove the rocks and check the hiding place. But there was no point. The metal container and papers had not been returned.

  Returning the rocks as cover, I scanned the river valley and wondered about Ali’s final thoughts, praying that he was happy and free of evil.

  Then I returned to the ridge, and sat, waiting for Saddiq and his assessment. They’re not nearly ready, the boy reported.

  The next rain . . . I said, staring up to the sky and looking forward to the frantic work and deadline. They will burst into bloom. One of us will be here every day, gathering what is ready.

  And Ali helped with this? he asked with awe. He never told me.

  He was very good at keeping secrets, I said. And you are, too. The compliment pleased the boy, as children always enjoyed being trusted with the secrets of their parents. I gave him advice on taking cautions to prevent others from noticing our harvest. I always pluck fresh mint or other herbs and keep it in a basket, to cover the saffron, if others ask questions.

  So this is where you went to be alone, he said with a voice of wonder. I di
dn’t correct him. Mari and the others wonder why you are so good with the crops.

  I just pay attention to what’s around us. Someday, your father will show you how he delivers the saffron to market. The saffron allows us to pay for your school . . .

  Saddiq bit his lip. I’m afraid to go to school after what happened to Ali.

  I took him by the shoulders. Ali did not die at school. He died here, close to home.

  Yes, but Leila and the others didn’t want him to leave. I heard Jahangir laughing with Uncle Gul. He says schoolwork makes boys weak.

  I dared not criticize the men directly. Your father respected your uncle, but that’s one point they did not agree on. School will make you strong in ways Jahangir doesn’t understand. You will solve problems and have ideas. I looked out over our field. The beauty of saffron is how much power comes with its slender size.

  We hurried down to the other fields, stored vegetables in the cool caves at the base of the mountain, and then took plenty more back to the village. As was the custom, we left a large basket of carrots for others to take. By evening, the basket would be empty.

  Once at home, Saddiq helped me chop carrots and onions, and we used lamb from the previous day, putting the mixture over a low fire. I added raisins and the fragrance filled our home.

  I decided the time was right to check the rocks along the path, where Mita had agreed to leave messages. Under the watchful eye of Saddiq, I dared not check too soon. But as days passed, Saddiq no longer stayed so close to my side, staring at me every second. Saddiq, there’s a spice that I’d like to add to this meal, I noted. It won’t take long for me to get it at all.

  He nodded and stood by the doorway, waiting for me. Tell me what it looks like, he offered. I can go.

  A green plant with white flowers and small, spikey leaves, I said. Black cumin—it’s easy to find.

  I think there’s one along the wall not far from the orchard, he exclaimed.

  Hmm, I saw a good one not far from the village gate. He didn’t ask questions, and we hurried off, climbing over the wall. The trail was empty in both directions, but I didn’t worry. Searching for spices around the village was common, and I carried a basket.

  Which way? I pointed downhill, and he dashed ahead.

  The pile of rocks where we agreed to hide notes wasn’t far. With Saddiq busy, I had plenty of time to pause, lift the rock, and check for a message.

  A folded piece of thin paper waited in the crevice, and I was delighted to find my first note to read! Looking around, I checked that no one was near before folding my fingers around it and putting the rock back in place. More than anything, I wanted to unfold the paper on the spot and read words from a good friend.

  But that had to wait until I was sure I was alone.

  And because I had no note with me, I left a few sprigs of cumin on the rock, a way of letting Mita know the note had been received.

  Chapter 24

  Mita’s note described waiting near the river before she returned to the outpost; the antics of songbirds; and a reminder about my experiment on mixing compost and sand. The words made me nostalgic for the sound of her voice.

  She also asked if I could send the document that she thought was a birth certificate. Excited about receiving another note, I wanted to send my own reply quickly. I snatched a paper from the notebook and wrote a description of the spices that grew along the hills, the taste of wild carrots, the long wait for rain and our saffron to bloom, and the constant help from Saddiq. I was too embarrassed to explain how Parsaa had put me under watch.

  My words came quickly and I relished that I could control how an American woman saw my world. Eager for a reply, I retrieved the document, folded it with the note, and hid both inside my tombaan.

  It was a relief to dispose of the reminder of an awful day.

  But Saddiq might wonder about getting more cumin so quickly. I dipped the leftover cumin in hot water from the stove, and placed the ruined pieces to the side before taking a basket and calling out to him. I need more cumin. It wilted so quickly. I should have put it in cool water when we returned home.

  He examined the sprigs. The plant in the orchard is better than the ones along the path, he offered. And it’s closer.

  The plants along the path get more morning sun.

  He shook his head, puzzled, but accompanied me, climbing over the wall and returning to the path. Along the way, I happily pointed plants out to him—one that soothed a burn, another that eased stomach aches, and others that flavored meals. A large array of plants, each with a special purpose, emerged around our village year after year—for me that made a home, along with learning their names and what they could do.

  Approaching the hiding place with the tree and the rocks, I slowed. Saddiq pointed to the blunt cuts where we had already removed sprigs. This is the plant you used.

  Kneeling, I pretended to examine the plants. I already took the best sprigs, and there are probably more ahead. Can you run and check? Find one that gets more sun and select the youngest leaves.

  He dutifully went ahead. I was impatient and, while he was still in sight, extracted the note from my tombaan.

  It was a terrible mistake to focus on Saddiq and not check for others. As I lifted the rock, ready to place my note underneath, Leila stepped out from behind a tree. Startled, I dropped the rock and stepped back. She gave her lopsided smile. Her skin no longer looked raw, but it was stretched and scarred.

  Are you waiting for someone? she asked.

  Yes, I replied, pointing to Saddiq, and then tugged at a stem. We’re collecting cumin. Would your mother want some?

  She likes spices, but aren’t there enough growing near our doorways?

  I shrugged, trying not to sound nervous as I put both hands behind my back. We are hunting a certain kind.

  Yes, you’re always so particular. She moved closer and cocked her head, asking about the paper in my hand. Panicked, I glanced down the path. Saddiq heard our voices and hurried to return, to guard my side, as ordered by his father. Trying to think of what to say, I didn’t want to connect my son with the paper.

  This—it’s not mine. I tightened my grip on the papers, distraught that Leila had discovered my hiding place for messages and I could not leave the document for Mita. Upset, I crossed my arms and stuffed the note up one sleeve. Leila could not read, but I felt better with it hidden, pricking my skin. I reminded myself that I was an adult. I did not have to explain to her or Saddiq.

  What’s wrong? Your hand is shaking.

  I lifted my chin, but she was still taller than me. No need for concern.

  Let me see what you found, she demanded.

  I took a step back, moving closer to Saddiq, afraid she could grab my arm and insist on seeing the paper. My son was nervous, but he held his ground. Her demand made us stubborn. What I find must be shown only to Parsaa, I insisted.

  She circled the rock, looking around. Where did you find the paper?

  Along the path . . . I didn’t have to tell her anything, but lies were the natural response to her intrusive way.

  It belongs to my father. She reached to tug on my sleeve. Saddiq took a step and blocked her.

  Parsaa can decide. My voice was calm, but inside, I was furious about not leaving something for Mita. It’s not for you, a child, to decide.

  Leila glared at Saddiq, tugging at her headscarf to cover more of her cheek.

  I’ll tell Jahangir about this, she warned, before slipping back into the trees.

  She’s too bossy for a girl, Saddiq whispered. Are you all right? You look sick.

  I shook my head, though I did feel sick inside. The boy gave me a questioning look. What was she talking about?

  Something I found. Nothing important. I can give it to your father.

  Neither of them realized I held two papers. Leila would tell others about the paper, and Saddiq would surely tell Parsaa. All would complain if I didn’t produce some paper, and that certainly could not be the note to Mita.r />
  I thought about producing a blank piece of notebook paper at home, but Parsaa would be suspicious. I tried to convince Saddiq to go ahead, but he refused, waiting by my side. Lifting the rock again was too risky. Leila could have waited, peering from behind any tree. The note could land in the wrong hands, and the questions about who wrote such a note would never end. The hiding place was ruined and I had no way of warning Mita. I had to hide my note, hand the document to Parsaa, and hope Leila did not cross me again. With luck, he’d show no interest in the document and toss it aside. Perhaps I could retrieve it and find a way to give it to Mita.

  And maybe, Allah willing, Parsaa’s reaction would provide a clue about Ali’s death.

  Saddiq waited as I picked through the cumin and gathered more sprigs. Once again, I left a small bouquet behind on the rocks. It was heartbreaking not to leave the note, and I hoped my friend might see the cumin as a message for her not to worry.

  More than once during our time in the cave, Mita had suggested that life for women in rural Afghanistan was a trap. She might guess that I had encountered a predicament and not forgotten my teacher and lessons on how to write a note.

  We started walking back home, and Saddiq was quiet. I hoped that he and Leila would feel foolish mentioning the paper or quarrel to others.

  My life was a prison. The guards were no longer just the men, but neighbors and children, too.

  The fragrance of the stew filled our home and the four boys waited eagerly, hands wrapped around the bowls and noses pointed in the air. I put the pot on the carpet—the warm bread was already there—and my husband dished the stew into the bowls.

  Raisins! The youngest cried gleefully.

  We’re lucky, Parsaa said. Your mother’s the best cook in this village. I could not help but smile. Trust and happiness, an inextricable pair, were slowly, slowly returning to our home.

  I filled our mugs with fresh goat’s milk. Parsaa filled my bowl with mostly carrots, turnips, and broth, with less meat, as I preferred. Our youngest son babbled about finding rocks and playing a game with friends, and the brother just a year older teased him as if he had countless more years of experience.