The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

  My husband was used to getting his way. If he wanted Badriya elected, she would be.

  CHAPTER 35

  RAHIMA

  ABDUL KHALIQ AND BADRIYA TRAVELED to Kabul frequently. He hated it. She claimed to enjoy it but we could see that she didn’t. Abdul Khaliq was always tense before they left and even worse by the time they returned.

  Badriya had won the election, mostly thanks to the women’s votes, according to local news. To me and my husband’s two other wives, it seemed unreal that something as important sounding as the parliament would let women vote. Khala Shaima had come by again. I asked her about my family and Bibi Shekiba. She asked me about Badriya and Abdul Khaliq. By this time, my naïveté had been washed away. I knew just what kind of man I was married to and I knew he had done terrible things to people. Jahangir, my son, was starting to look like his father, which frightened me. Sometimes I worried I might grow to dislike him if he did. I cringed when he became angry or frustrated, his shrieks taking on a familiar hostility. But his moods were nothing in comparison to his father’s and he was otherwise very loving and affectionate, pulling my face to his and patting my head as if I were the child and he the parent.

  Khala Shaima’s breathing was more labored today. It could have been the dust in the air, her waning health or my own paranoia. She was the only family that I had left and I often worried about what I would do without her visits. I prayed for her health selfishly.

  “He’s telling her exactly how to vote. She’s got no choice but to follow his orders.”

  I nodded. “You should see how exhausted she looks every time they return from Kabul. She looks completely drained.”

  “But there must be some way, some way for her to vote on her own. He doesn’t go into the parliament, you know. Once she’s in a session, he’s not there to sway her.”

  “I’m sure he’s got ways of knowing or watching every little thing that happens behind those doors.” I pried Jahangir’s small hand open and took away the stone he had found. He had watched his older half brothers playing and now wanted to imitate them. His round eyes lit up when he saw them, his mouth broke into a wide grin and he would pull my face and point for me to look at what he was seeing.

  “Yes, bachem, I see them. You’re going to grow up to be just as big and strong. Just wait.” Sometimes I tried to imagine what he would look like in ten years but my mind couldn’t envision him as anything but the sweet toddler he was. When I tried to picture myself in ten years it was frightening. My hands were already rough and knobby. My back ached at night, partly from carrying Jahangir for nine months and partly from being bent over to wash clothes and scrub floors most days. This home, this life, had aged me. Maybe that was what Parwin had seen, life in ten years. Maybe it was a sight too ugly to bear.

  Everyone needs an escape.

  “Maybe you can go to Kabul with her,” Khala Shaima suggested. She started to cough, a rough cough that rattled her whole body. I put my hand over hers and pushed a glass of water closer to her. “Thank you, dokhtar-jan. Bah! The dust is irritating me more than usual today.”

  I hoped that was all it was.

  “Anyway, what was I saying? Yes, why don’t you see if you can go to Kabul with her?”

  “What am I going to do in Kabul, Khala-jan?”

  “Who knows,” she said vaguely. “But in Kabul you’ll see different things. It’s an education of sorts. See how people live there, see the buildings and see what the parliament is doing. It’s an opportunity for you.”

  The idea was tempting. I wouldn’t have minded seeing what the big city of Kabul looked like. I’d only heard about it through the story of Bibi Shekiba, which I hoped Khala Shaima would continue today. It was as if she read my mind.

  “I know you enjoy hearing about your bibi Shekiba. She lived in Kabul, you know. It’s a different life there.”

  “But you’ve never seen it, have you?”

  “Look at me, Rahima! I’m thankful my ragged bones bring me this far. When I was younger, though . . .” Her voice softened. “I did dream of going to Kabul. I wished a carriage would come down the road, pick me up and take me to see the presidential palace and the shops and the streets and the airport. I wanted to see all the places I had read about.”

  That was her escape, I realized. Where her body couldn’t take her, her mind went.

  “Maybe you could go now?” I suggested. The yearning in her voice made me wish she could go.

  “My time has passed. But think about it. Badriya is going back and forth between here and the city. It shouldn’t be a big deal for her to take you along. Offer to help her.”

  “Help? The only help she needs of me is right here, washing, scrubbing, ironing, rubbing her back even . . .” The list went on and on.

  “I know Badriya’s type. I doubt she can read. I wonder how she’s managing that with her role in the parliament. Let her know you can read and write. That would be a much better way for you to be useful to her.”

  That was true. Badriya had never learned how to read. I’d once seen Hashmat reading her a letter from her family. She listened eagerly as he deciphered the scribble. She wasn’t alone. Most women in our village didn’t know how to read. My sisters and I had only learned thanks to Khala Shaima’s insistence. Rohila and Sitara may not have been getting the same opportunity, I thought, now that Madar-jan had retreated into herself and Khala Shaima’s health was not what it used to be.

  “She can’t read. Neither can Shahnaz. Jameela can read a little bit, I think.”

  “Well, there you go,” she said. She leaned forward and exhaled slowly, her lips pursed. “Talk to her, nicely. I think it would be good for you to see the places your bibi Shekiba saw.”

  The idea excited me even more once she brought up Bibi Shekiba. I had already experienced her double life, living as a boy. I wanted to see the places she’d seen. But I wanted more than she had too. I didn’t want to be a pawn the way she had been, passed from one set of hands to another. I wanted to be bolder. I wanted to make my naseeb, not have it handed to me. But from what my mother had always said, I didn’t know if that was possible.

  “Khala Shaima, do you think you can change your naseeb?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Tell me this, how do you know what your naseeb is?”

  I didn’t have an answer for her. “I don’t know. Madar-jan said it was my naseeb to be married to Abdul Khaliq. And for Shahla to be married to Abdul Sharif and Parwin to be married to Abdul Haidar.”

  “And what about this morning? What did you eat for breakfast?”

  “I ate a piece of bread with tea.”

  “Did someone bring you the bread?”

  “No.” I nearly laughed at the thought of someone bringing something to me. “Of course not! I got it myself.”

  “So maybe this morning it seemed it was your naseeb that you shouldn’t have any breakfast at all. And then what happened?”

  “I changed it?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it was your naseeb all along that you should have the bread and tea. Maybe your naseeb is there but waiting for you to make it happen.”

  “But wouldn’t people say that is blasphemous? To change the naseeb that Allah has for us?”

  “Rahima, you know how deeply I love Allah. You know I bow before God five times a day with all my heart. But you tell me which of those people who say such a thing have spoken with Allah to know what the true naseeb is.”

  That night I lay awake thinking of what Khala Shaima had said. Jahangir breathed softly, tucked in next to me, his small hand on my neck.

  Was it Parwin’s naseeb to die that way, her skin a mess of melted flesh? Or had she missed an opportunity to change things? To realize her actual naseeb? Was it Madar-jan’s naseeb to lie dazed with opium while Rohila and Sitara fended for themselves? Dodged my father’s angry rages on their own?

  It baffled me. I sighed and pulled the blanket over my son’s shoulders. I traced his pink lips with my finger. His face twitched in his sl
eep and the corners of his mouth turned up in a dreamy grin. I smiled.

  I didn’t know what my naseeb was, much less that of my son. But I decided that night I would do whatever I could to make it the best naseeb possible. For both of us. I was not going to miss any opportunities.

  From what Khala Shaima had told me about Bibi Shekiba, she looked for chances to make her own naseeb. I, her great-great-granddaughter, could do the same.

  CHAPTER 36

  SHEKIB

  SHEKIB’S HEART POUNDED; her mouth was dry. Amanullah was again walking through the gardens. Shekib was standing at her post, just a border of shoulder-high shrubs between them. He was walking with the older man again, his friend. Shekib recognized him by his wool hat. They took a seat on a bench and made Shekib’s palms sweat.

  It was naseeb that they should walk through here now, while I am on guard.

  “There are many forces at play here. Your father will have to tread carefully. We are mice in a field of elephants but if we are smart about our moves, we can save ourselves from their heavy feet.”

  “The problem is that we have unrest within our borders and unrest at the borders. Our attention cannot lag or we will be weakened.” Shekib could hear the respect in Amanullah’s voice. He trusted this man.

  “This is true. But the two are linked. A country secure in itself will stand strong against those who eye it hungrily. And those who eye us know that troubles at home make for easy prey.”

  “Our army is weak compared to theirs.”

  “But our will is strong,” he said firmly.

  Amanullah sighed thoughtfully.

  Shekib stiffened at the sound of his breath. She took a step to the right and then two to the left, stirring to make her presence known.

  “Our people know so little of what goes on outside these borders. They are barely aware what happens one province, one village away from their own.”

  Shekib held her breath. She wondered if Amanullah realized it was her. Her back was facing the two men but she kept her head turned just slightly, her right profile to them—if they had bothered to look. They stood and walked back toward the palace. Shekib could not resist the opportunity to look at Amanullah when she was close enough to see the color of his eyes. She twisted at the waist and looked from the corner of her eye.

  He looked back. A nod.

  He looked! He nodded! He saw me!

  Shekib felt her breath quicken. Nearly an hour passed before she realized that Agha Baraan, too, had nodded in her direction, a subtle acknowledgment. She rubbed her moist palms on her uniform pants. She had made contact with Amanullah. He had noticed her and nodded. She had not detected any repulsion in his expression, not an ounce of disgust. Was it possible? Could Amanullah have looked past her disfigurement?

  The afternoon reenergized her. She needed more contact with the palace, with anyone outside the harem. But the guards were insulated, were they not? Shekib considered the situation. She had more freedom than the concubines. She could travel the palace grounds without restriction. She could interact with the servants who came to deliver meals to the harem.

  Karim came to relieve her of her post.

  “You can get some dinner. I think they were going to bring the carts over soon.”

  “I am not that hungry yet, actually. I may just go for a stroll.”

  “Whatever you want. Just keep your eyes open. It’s been weeks and we know nothing.”

  The women were tightlipped. Each guard had her own suspicions but the questions they asked had gotten a spectrum of useless and curious answers.

  Shekib traversed the gardens, passed the statues, the pond, two soldiers talking quietly to each other, eyeing her from afar. She looked out at Dilkhosha Palace, impressive and forbidden. She wanted to see inside but she had no business there. She let her imagination tell her what might be within.

  Maybe there were doves inside, graceful white winged birds that fed on warm palace bread and chirped blessings for the monarch. Or perhaps there were mountains of food, delicacies baked by cooks to tickle the king and queen’s palates.

  Things were so different here in Kabul, in the palace. So many things Shekib had never before heard of, things she had never heard her parents speak of. She wondered if the palace thought of the villages as much as they thought of these other things. Why were they so preoccupied by these Russians, whoever they were, when villages were struggling without water?

  She was so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed Agha Baraan sitting on a bench, sheets of paper in his hand.

  “As-salaam-alaikum,” he said gently.

  Shekib turned sharply. When she realized who it was that had startled her, she turned her shoulders and head so her right faced him.

  “Wa . . . wa-alaikum as-salaam,” she whispered.

  He turned back to his papers, reading thoughtfully.

  Shekib took a step to leave but realized she had walked into a rare opportunity. Here was a link to the palace, a man very close to Amanullah. There were no walls between them, no interferences. She could speak to him, if she could make her voice follow her command.

  “I . . . I guard the harem,” she said simply.

  Baraan looked up, his brown eyes surprised. “Yes, I remember. We saw you earlier today by the courtyard. You have an important position here in the palace.”

  Everybody has a role in the palace.

  “Yes. And it seems you do as well.”

  He chuckled. “That will depend on who you speak with.”

  “What is it that you do?”

  “What do I do? Well, I am an adviser, you could say. I work with one of the viziers. An assistant to the assistant, so to speak.”

  Do palace people always speak in riddles? Shekib wondered, thinking of his earlier conversation with Amanullah. “Are you in the army?” she asked. Her voice no longer trembled. His demeanor, his voice, his words told her he was not a threat.

  “I am not. I work with them but I am not a soldier myself.”

  “I don’t know anything about Kabul.”

  “You are from a village. That is not surprising.”

  There was condescension in his voice but Shekib chose to ignore it.

  “What is your name?”

  She paused before she answered. “Shekib.”

  “Shekib, I see. And the name your parents gave you?”

  “Shekiba.”

  “Shekiba-jan. My name is Agha Baraan. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Is your family nearby?”

  “I have no family.” The words rolled off her tongue before she could reconsider. But it was the truth. Bobo Shahgul and her uncles had made that abundantly clear.

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  Shekib suddenly remembered her plan. If she wanted to change her naseeb, she could not waste an opportunity like this. She tried to recover from her misstep.

  “I mean, I had a family but now I live here. I no longer see my family. But I had many brothers. I am the only daughter in a long line of sons. My aunts all had boys. My grandmother too.”

  Agha Baraan’s lips tightened slightly. He looked away for a moment before returning to Shekib. “Their husbands must be happy.”

  “They were.” She fidgeted; her tongue felt thick with lies. He watched her. She wondered if he had sensed the dishonesty in her voice.

  “Are you content here in the palace?”

  “Yes . . . mostly.” Shekib hesitated. She was not sure how much to say. “The palace is beautiful.”

  “It is. You are in Kabul, in the king’s palace, the heart of Afghanistan. It is here within these walls that history is made.”

  Such grandiose talk, she thought, but she let her expression reveal nothing. “The king’s son.” She could not bring herself to utter his name. “He is an important man?”

  “He is and he is not.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  Baraan raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

  “Because he either is or he isn’t. He ca
nnot be both,” she said bluntly.

  He chuckled again. “You disapprove of contradictions. Well, you are ill prepared for life in the palace then. These walls are home to all that is and is not.”

  Two soldiers walked by and looked at them curiously. Shekib saw one whisper something to the other. She turned away from Agha Baraan abruptly and straightened her back.

  “I need to get back to the harem.”

  She was clumsy and unrefined, Baraan thought, but interesting in an odd way. He wondered how she had gotten her scar and how much of what she had said was true.

  CHAPTER 37

  RAHIMA

  BADRIYA LOOKED SURPRISED.

  “It’s just that you look like it’s bothering you. You’ve been holding your back all day long. I think you’d feel better if you let me rub it.”

  “That’s just what I need. You’re right. I have some oil here. Let me lie down.” She wasted no time leading the way back to her bed, where she stretched out on her side, her back to me. She wiggled her dress up to her neck, looking over to make sure the door was closed.

  I dipped my fingers into the tin of animal fat and started to knead into her back. Rolls of skin hung loosely around her waist.

  “Wooeee wooooeee,” she moaned. I rolled my eyes. She tended to complain about her back only when there was something to be done around the house. Other times, she loved to point out that she was more active than Jameela and even Shahnaz, who were both much younger than her. Just another one of her contradictions.

  She was putting on a good show now, although it wasn’t necessary.

  “Akkkh, you’re young. You have no idea what aches and pains are. Have a couple more children and you’ll see. My back, my knees, even my neck! Every part of me hurts from morning to night. And the road from here to Kabul is long and bumpy. My muscles get so stiff that by the time we get to the city, I can barely straighten my legs.”

  I kneaded harder, knowing she loved the attention. She had brought up Kabul, though, and I searched for a way to broach Khala Shaima’s idea.