The Pearl that Broke Its Shell

by Nadia Hashimi

  She’s done something.

  “How should I know?” she said defiantly. “They asked me who was on night duty tonight and I gave them an answer. I had better check on Khanum Fatima. There’s a soldier waiting outside, Shekib. He’ll escort you to the palace. I’m sure it’s not a big deal.”

  Shekib was sure that it was.

  But she said nothing, staring at the back of Ghafoor’s bobbing head as she scampered down the hall, putting distance between them as quickly as she could.

  The others watched her leave and then turned to Shekib. She said nothing but rose and walked to the door. As Ghafoor had promised, outside stood a soldier. A baby’s face in a man’s uniform. He looked nervous in the brisk dawn air. He motioned for her to follow, turning back once to steal a glance at her face.

  He walked her to the palace’s heavy front doors, intricately carved and oddly inviting even at this moment. He opened the door and led her in, down one long hallway with ornate patterns on the walls, gilded pedestal tables and richly embroidered chairs. Shekib noticed her surroundings with vague interest.

  “In this room,” he announced, and cracked the door open enough for her to enter. He stayed back and looked thankful that his duties ended there.

  Shekib entered, remembering to keep her back straight and her eyes focused. Weariness was blurring her judgment as well as her vision.

  In the room, King Habibullah paced behind a handsome wood-carved desk, his fingers pulling at the fringes of his beard. Two men sat anxiously in armchairs to his left, opposites of each other. One was heavyset and short, the other tall and lanky. Had Shekib been less nervous, she might have noticed how ridiculous they looked as a pair. They looked up at Shekib, their lips tightening.

  “You!” King Habibullah called out. He had stopped pacing abruptly, his blue chappan flapping as he whirled to a stop.

  “As-salaam-alaikum, Your Highness,” she said in a hush, keeping her head bowed and her eyes downcast.

  “As-salaam-alaikum, eh? As if nothing has happened? Do you know the meaning of the words, you idiot?”

  “I apologize, esteemed sir. I meant no disrespect—”

  “Don’t patronize me, guard! You are here to answer questions, to speak up for your actions—or inaction, as it appears! It was you who was on guard tonight, when a man somehow managed to evade your attention and enter my harem!”

  A conversation began to take shape in Shekib’s mind. She could imagine Ghafoor standing in this very room, not too long ago, painting a picture of an idle guard, passively allowing a man to violate the king’s sanctuary, to indulge in his private stock of women.

  “Dear king, I was on guard tonight but I saw no one enter.”

  “You saw no one enter? But someone did enter, didn’t he!” His face was the color of the carpets on the floor. A blue vein pulsed across his forehead like a lightning bolt. He fell into his chair and looked at his two counselors expectantly.

  “Guard, did you see someone leave the harem tonight?” The thinner man rose to his feet and spoke up.

  Shekib did not have much time to consider her answer. “No, sir.”

  “And you saw no one enter?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are these the kinds of guards we have for my harem!” The king exploded, his fist rattling the table with a thunderous clap. “We might as well have brought donkeys!”

  “Guard, explain to our dear king what happened tonight. Was there a man in the harem?” the lanky man demanded.

  Shekib searched for the right answer, her hands trembling at her sides. She was afraid to move. They took turns shouting questions at her.

  “Answer!”

  “I . . . I did not see—”

  “Don’t tell us what you did not see! Tell us what happened!”

  “Tonight we found a hat in one of the chambers.” Shekib was not sure how to phrase such a finding. It was a sensitive matter and the wrong words could be dangerous. They were waiting for her to continue. “There was no one there but the hat . . . the hat suggested that someone . . . a person had been there. We asked but—”

  “Whose chambers were you in?” the king asked, his eyes slits. He spoke slowly and precisely.

  “We were in Khanum . . . Khanum Benafsha’s chambers,” she answered, her eyes cemented to the marble floor. Benafsha had shamed the palace with her iniquity but Shekib still felt reluctant to expose her. She pictured Benafsha back at the harem, prostrated, her face wet with misery.

  Why did you do this? Why did you bring this upon us?

  “Benafsha.” Habibullah turned his back and faced the window. Heavy burgundy drapes framed his silhouette. “That vixen.”

  “Have you seen anyone before? Coming in and out of the harem?”

  What did you tell them, Ghafoor?

  “I . . . I have not.”

  “This was the first time you learned of this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Three men brooded. Shekib could hear their measured breaths.

  “You. You believe this happened once?”

  “I . . . I . . . believe so.”

  “And who was it guarding the harem tonight?”

  “I was, sir.”

  “You are a liar. We have heard differently. Ghafoor has already told us that you saw this man before! And you kept it from everyone until tonight!” the short man shouted.

  “With respect, agha-sahib, I had not seen—”

  “Liar!”

  Ghafoor, you scoundrel! You fed me to the lions!

  It was clear now. Her word against Ghafoor’s, and they were taking Ghafoor’s. Shekib was not a bystander. She was a guilty party.

  “Did you know of Benafsha’s activities? Did she ask you to cover up for her?”

  “No, sir! I had no—”

  “What about the man? Who is he? Did he bribe you?”

  “Please, dearest king, I had nothing to do—”

  He barely heard anything she said. He was more interested in how this made him look.

  “Know this, guard! An offense this grave does not go unpunished. My name has been besmirched. One look at your face and it is obvious you are damned! Have her locked up! And Benafsha too! We’ll make swift examples of them both.”

  CHAPTER 42

  SHEKIB

  “WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DO SUCH A THING?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  The room was dark and smelled of rotted meat. The stench reminded Shekib of cholera, of mourning and loneliness.

  Benafsha’s face had changed. Shekib was struck by the difference. Just eight hours ago, she had been the most striking woman in the harem. How quickly her face had grayed! Her hair was stringy and her green eyes looked defeated and bloodshot.

  One of the king’s most prized concubines. A life of luxury by any standards. The choicest foods, clothes. What had driven her to take all these for granted?

  An hour passed in silence. Shekib wanted to ask her about Agha Baraan. She was sure it was him. The hat. The rose petal. But why? He was Amanullah’s friend. Why would a man like him commit such an act against his friend’s family, especially when his father was the most powerful man in Afghanistan?

  “I am sorry you are here.”

  Shekib looked up. “So am I.”

  She thought of Amanullah. What would he think when he heard of the night’s events? How disappointed he would be in her! She wasn’t much of a guard, according to the palace. What made her think she could be much of a wife? Benafsha had ruined everything. She looked at the girl with disgust and pity. Then there was Ghafoor, that split-tongued viper. She had set Shekib up, saving herself. No wonder she had run off. Coward.

  The dank room was unfamiliar but the rest of the experience was not. Angry fingers had often pointed at Shekiba.

  On the king’s orders, Shekib had been led away—through the hallways, through the kitchen and into the small room where the cooks once kept cured meats and vegetables. The room smelled of flesh and earth. Shekib closed her eye
s and imagined her father’s house. Her mind floated to those bare walls, her brother’s shirt thrown across a chair as if he would run through the door looking for it. Her sister’s amulet on the table. Her father, sitting in the corner clicking the beads of his tasbeh while he stared through the window onto fallow fields, a fallow home.

  Shekib stood up and began to pace. The walls were tight but light crept in, framing the door with a yellow glow. The palace had electricity courtesy of a foreign company commissioned by the king. All of Afghanistan twinkled by lanterns but the palace shone, a beacon for the rest of the country.

  The king must have his way. How much it must burn him that another man has had his way with his precious Benafsha. She’s pretty, I suppose. If she doesn’t show her teeth when she smiles. All pushed together, her teeth look like chickens climbing over one another in a crowded coop.

  Benafsha had her head between her knees. Shekib couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep.

  “What do you think they’re going to do with us?” Shekib asked quietly.

  Benafsha shoulders lifted and fell with a deep breath.

  “How long do you think we’ll have to be in here?”

  Benafsha looked up. Her eyes were flat with resignation. “You really don’t know?”

  Shekib shook her head.

  “When the crime is adultery, the punishment is sangsaar. I will be stoned.”

  CHAPTER 43

  RAHIMA

  THE LARGE AUDITORIUM, a room larger than any I’d ever seen, held hundreds of parliamentarians. Their chairs were arranged in rows that went from one side of the room to the other, leather chairs behind a row of desks. Each member had a microphone and a bottle of water.

  Badriya’s and mine sat in the center of the room, sharing our row with Hamida and Sufia. In the front of the room sat a man with a neatly trimmed mustache and salt-and-pepper hair. He listened, nodding his head from time to time.

  The men intimidated me. Some of them were my husband’s age, gray haired with beards that nearly touched their chests. Others were younger, their faces shaved and their clothes different from what the men in my village wore. Pants, button-down shirts, jackets.

  As we broke for lunch during the first week, Hamida had asked me what I thought so far. I was nervous to tell her, afraid I would sound stupid. And I worried that if they saw me reading and writing, they would realize how basic my knowledge was.

  “They come from where?” I asked, astounded by the accents I was hearing.

  “What do you mean?” She looked to see where I was pointing.

  “I mean, I’ve never seen men dressed like . . . dressed like that.” I pointed with my head to a man wearing brown pants and a military-style vest over a white shirt.

  “That’s what you’ll see in Kabul, Rahima-jan,” Hamida said, proudly. “This parliament is where every corner of Afghanistan comes together.”

  “Comes together?” Sufia scoffed. “More like this is where Afghanistan comes apart!”

  Hamida laughed. A man one row away turned around and shot her a look. He shook his head and leaned over to mutter something to the man seated next to him, sharing his disapproval.

  The session was called to order. I tried to look around without anyone noticing. Badriya picked up a pen and held it to the blank paper before her as she watched the speaker. She was playing the part.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the matter of the president’s cabinet members will now be introduced. Seven people have been nominated by the president. It is up to this parliament to approve or reject the nominations.”

  “Badriya, are we going to see the president?” I whispered. It was hard to believe I might come face-to-face with our nation’s most powerful man.

  “No, you fool! This is the parliament. He does his work and we do ours! Why should he come here?”

  “We’ll talk about the candidates one by one. I’ll call on you to ask whatever questions you may have. We need to decide if these individuals are suited for the job. And if they’ll help take our country in the right direction. First up is Ashrafullah Fawzali, nominated for position of minister of justice.”

  The speaker went on to talk about Fawzali’s background, his home province and his role in training the police force.

  A woman parliamentarian sat in the seat beside me. I heard her huff, frustrated. I watched her from the corner of my eye, slouched back in her chair and shaking her head. As the candidates’ virtues and experience were extolled by a man who had taken the floor, she became more and more displeased, fidgeting in her seat and tapping her pen.

  The next candidate was introduced, someone equally distressing to her. She raised her hand to speak but the director looked past her. She waved her hand more dramatically.

  “Excuse me, but I would like to say something about this candidate,” she said, leaning forward and speaking into her microphone. “Excuse me!”

  “Khanum, the time for the discussion of this candidate is up. We’re getting close to ending today’s session. Thank you all, please return for tomorrow’s voting. The parliament is dismissed.”

  “Of course it is! God forbid we actually talk about these candidates!” the woman hissed.

  “Who is she?” I asked Badriya.

  “The one next to you? Oh, that’s Zamarud Barakati. She’s trouble. Make sure you stay away from her,” Badriya leaned forward to tell me. “She’s one of those you don’t want to get mixed up with.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s a troublemaker. You see what she did today? Always interrupting things. That woman’s lucky they haven’t condemned her to sangsaar.”

  Stoning. I shuddered and thought of Bibi Shekiba.

  As far as I had seen, Zamarud hadn’t done anything that several other parliamentarians hadn’t done. Just like the men, she had raised her hand and asked to speak. But I could see many people didn’t appreciate hearing from her. Several men had rolled their eyes or waved their hand in annoyance to hear her ask for the floor’s attention.

  “She pushes her ideas too much. People don’t want to listen to her all the time.” We were walking out the security checkpoint by this time. Our driver saw us coming and went to turn the car on. Our guard was already with him. Zamarud walked angrily past us, her own security guards struggling to keep up.

  She reminded me of Khala Shaima, the only woman I’d known who would speak up to men outside her own family. I wondered what Khala Shaima would have thought of Zamarud. Picturing the two of them in the same room made me smile. They could have the entire parliament up in arms.

  But what I saw in that first day was just the beginning. The parliament was a fiery mix of personalities and politics. There were so many women there, but only a few of them spoke during the sessions. And there was only one Zamarud.

  As the discussion of the cabinet nominations went on, Zamarud became more and more agitated. She was given opportunity to speak and took the floor like a storm, questioning the intentions and honesty of the candidates. She implied that the candidates had been chosen for reasons other than their qualifications, since one was the president’s brother-in-law while another was the president’s childhood friend. And there was no diversity, she said critically. They were all from one sect of the Afghan population. Afghanistan needed to represent all of its many colors, Zamarud insisted, or it would fall apart. Again.

  On the fifth day of sessions, we took our seats. I missed my son more today and saw his round cheeks and almond eyes when I closed my eyes. I wondered if he was walking at this moment, one hand tightly gripping Jameela’s. I wanted to hear his voice, the tiny sound of “maada”; he was still unable to roll his tongue to produce the proper “madar.”

  Zamarud’s voice brought me back.

  “It’s imperative that we think of the future of this country. We Afghans have become complacent, letting almost anyone take on these positions of power and influence. Let’s think about it carefully and then decide.”

  “Khanum, I
believe it would be wise for you to consider before you speak. There are many people here and you’re not thinking—”

  “I’m not thinking? I’m thinking about it a great deal! It’s you and the rest of you that need to start thinking. I’m going to speak my mind right now.”

  Badriya looked over at me. Waves of anger were rippling through the room. The men were leaning over and complaining to their neighbors. Hamida and Sufia looked over at Zamarud nervously.

  “From what I have seen, the nominations that have been presented thus far have been of men who worked alongside the most sinister characters in our country’s recent history. The money in their pockets comes from drugs, from alliances with warlords and mercenaries. They have the blood of their fellow Afghans on their hands.

  “And there are candidates who are family members, getting special treatment from those in the highest position.”

  It was obvious she was talking about the president’s brother-in-law, who traveled between Kabul and other cities like Dubai, Paris, London and Islamabad, importing and exporting goods. He had built a successful trade business and a life of luxury for his family. But everyone knew his business didn’t account for all of his income.

  “We must watch who we place in these official positions. They should be there for the right reasons, for the development and protection of our beloved Afghanistan. We have suffered enough in the hands of others in the last decades. Our people deserve to have right-minded individuals in power. I wonder, as do so many others, how it is that some of our nominees have been able to amass a fortune when our people go hungry. How is it that they are able to live lavishly when they are engaged in simple businesses? We all know the answer. We know that there are sources of money that are not talked of, that are not openly discussed. Bribes. Nepotism. Drugs. These practices will bring our country down.”

  The room began to talk. Zamarud continued, louder.

  “I will not stand for this. I will not approve the election of such people, brothers and cousins taking under the table what rightfully belongs to our country. Are we to sit here quietly and let them suck the blood of the Afghan people? Getting fat off of government money?”