Words in the Dust

by Trent Reedy

  Meena shook her head. “You’d have a husband who wasn’t disgusted by your appearance.”

  “Yes!” I threw my arms out wide.

  “And how would your life be different then than it is now?”

  “I don’t know! It would be — I mean, I wouldn’t always have to listen to …” She couldn’t expect me to want to stay looking like this, could she? She couldn’t expect me to be happy that I couldn’t have the surgery. “It would be different because I wouldn’t waste my time with your stupid old books!”

  I stormed through the sewing shop and out the door into the street. I wasn’t about to stay around and listen to more of Meena’s crazy talk. My sister and Malehkah needed help getting ready for Zeynab’s party, and I wasn’t going to let them down. It was time to stop with these selfish dreams. It was time to get back to what really mattered.

  Zeynab was sitting on the porch when I came into the compound. She was trying to cool herself with a fan I’d made her from some of the notebook paper the Americans had given me. She wore her pretty pink and purple flowered dress, and blew out an exhausted breath through lips red with lipstick. “Oh, why do we have to do this at the hottest time of year?” She tried to laugh, but she was unconvincing. I shared in her misery. It was nearly sundown, her last night with us, and still the heat blazed and the sand and grit flew on the wind.

  Malehkah came out of the house. “Into the sitting room, both of you.” She hurried us across the courtyard and into the little room where her mother and sister were already waiting. She took the peppers from me, slipping them into her pockets. Then she pushed a wet rag in my face. “Wash up the best you can.” She rushed around, straightening the cushions.

  “But Madar, it’s an oven in here,” said Zeynab.

  “Then that’s the way it will be,” said Farida. “But if you don’t stay inside, your makeup will be full of dust.”

  “Then what will your new family think of you?” said Tayereh.

  The only thing worse than listening to Malehkah yell at us was having her mother and sister around to yell at us even more. Malehkah groaned as she lowered herself to the floor and leaned back against a toshak. “The food is ready. We can all rest for a few minutes.”

  Zeynab slumped on the small couch that Hajji Abdullah had brought over again. The sitting room was as clean as it was going to get in these winds, with wet rags stuffed at the base of the door to keep out the dust. Outside, the wind howled. Then over the sound of the wind came the even louder sound of one of the boys crying. After taking Habib and Khalid with him to Hajji Abdullah’s house for the men’s shirnee-khoree, Baba had decided the boys were too much trouble to have at the men’s parties. Tonight, when the women came over for the shahba-henna, we’d have to look after the little ones.

  “Zulaikha, go check on them. Then bring in the pistachios.” Malehkah sighed and handed me the peppers I had bought. Then she wiped her brow and rubbed her swollen ankles.

  “Bale, Madar.”

  In the house, the boys were sitting on the floor in the main room, their toy soldiers spread out all over. I had tried to keep them busy and moving around all day so that they’d be exhausted and sleep through the party. Now they were arguing over who could play with which men. I didn’t waste time trying to reason with them. From my trunk in the side room, I brought out one of the only good things to come from my wasted trip to Farah. “Here, Khalid.” I handed him one of the metal toy cars. His eyes went wide.

  “This is great! It’s real metal just like Baba’s car!” Khalid put the car on the floor and pushed it around. His lips buzzed, making an engine sound.

  “You’re welcome,” I whispered.

  Habib’s lower lip trembled, but before he started crying again, I handed him his own car. He smiled big at me and then imitated his brother. I had known it would be a good idea to wait to give them some of their presents.

  “You handled that well.” Zeynab had followed me into the house.

  “It’s too hot for you to be running all over the compound. You’ll ruin your makeup,” I called as I entered the kitchen. “Anyway, I think I can find the pistachios by myself.”

  When I returned to the main room with the bowl of nuts, Zeynab hugged me. “Thank you for being so nice and helping with all of this. I …” She fanned her face.

  I squeezed Zeynab close. “You’re my sister. I’d do anything for you.”

  She took my hands in hers. “I can’t believe tonight will be my last night here at home. I’ll miss you so much,” she said. “I promise you can visit my new house all the time. Farah isn’t really that far away. Baba has the car now. Tahir often comes to An Daral to visit his brother, so he’ll bring me here … and … and hey, you’ll be able to get away from Malehkah sometimes when you come to see me. I know that —”

  “Girls! Get out here!” Malehkah’s shrill call came from outside.

  “I love you,” I whispered in Zeynab’s ear.

  We went out of the house hand in hand. From the sound of all the voices coming from inside the sitting room, it was clear that the guests had arrived. They must have all showed up at the same time. When we entered, the sitting room was a whirlwind of chadris and the enthusiastic greetings of excited women. Gulzoma, Jamila, Isma, and the other women of the Abdullah family were there, but they had been joined by Aunt Halima and her daughter Khatira.

  “Zeynab! Zulaikha! Look at you! Oh, you’ve grown up so fast!” Aunt Halima hugged both of us in turn.

  Our cousin Khatira was next. She hugged my sister. “It’s great to see you again! I’m so happy that long trip is finally over!” Then she put her arms around me stiffly before holding me back at arm’s length and frowning at my mouth. “Ooh, that’s too bad. I’d heard that the Americans had offered you surgery to fix your lip.” She pouted. “If only these rural villages had the kind of hospitals that we have in Kabul, I’m sure —”

  “Come along, Khatira,” said Aunt Halima.

  My cousin nodded. “Bale, Madar-jan.”

  “Yes!” Gulzoma spoke loudly so that everyone had to listen. “It is just too bad Zulaikha couldn’t get the surgery. You never can tell with those Americans. They promise to fix up all of Afghanistan and get rid of the Taliban completely. Then they get here and find out it isn’t so easy.” She peered closely at my lip. “I bet they just realized that your mouth was too deformed for even their fancy doctors to fix.”

  “I’m sure that wasn’t the case,” said Aunt Halima.

  “We’ll never know,” Gulzoma answered.

  It was happening all over again. The humiliation. The polite-sounding insults. It was bad enough to hear the hurtful words, but I just wished the party could go smoothly tonight for Zeynab’s sake. I was relieved when Malehkah and Gulzoma began making many introductions and everyone sat down, just like the night of the engagement party.

  “We’re sorry, Zeynab,” Jamila said. “I know everyone was probably expecting dancing tonight, but my brother’s wife and I are getting too old for all that pre-wedding dancing bit.” She leaned back next to Gulzoma. “Besides, there will be plenty of dancing after everybody has cake at the arusi.”

  Gulzoma elbowed Jamila, nodded toward Zeynab, and spoke out, “But you might want to save your energy for the wedding night.”

  All the women laughed at the vulgar joke, except my sister, who only forced a smile.

  For once I welcomed Malehkah’s demands when she told me to go with her to the house and start bringing in the meal. After everyone had washed and begun eating, the conversation began to flow as it had at the shirnee-khoree. Gulzoma had even more stories, but the Abdullah women were also full of questions about Kabul. Aunt Halima seemed happy to answer. The night went on for hours. Eventually I was sent to check on my sleeping brothers and to bring in a tray of sweet cakes and fruit.

  I returned to the sitting room amid the sound of laughter. Gulzoma continued with a story that she told in a very lively way, clapping her hands and almost rolling about where she was
sitting. “Well, the tables had turned, you see. American jets swooped over the skies, bombing everything.” She swooshed her hand around like a plane, the palm wide open. “The Taliban were on the run. And would you believe it, but this same little man, this boy Talib came crawling back to my husband asking for a job?” She burst into a deep bellowing laugh that shook her whole body. The other women were shaking their heads. “… No … no, it’s true,” she said through her laughter. “He asked my husband to give him a job working to help build the American compound at Farah! Oh, good. Bananas!”

  I placed the tray on the dastarkhan, then took a cake to Zeynab. As the other women had stopped listening so they could pick out their treats, Gulzoma frowned, peeling the banana she’d taken with exaggerated movements.

  “What did Hajji Abdullah tell him?” asked Farida when everyone had something.

  Gulzoma threw her hands up in the air, flopping the banana peel all around. “Now you will think my husband told that little Talib to go eat sand. But he’s much smarter than that. My husband gave the man a job serving food to the other workers at lunch time.” She paused and looked around the room with her hands in her lap. Then she burst out, “Then he reported the Talib to the Americans, who brought him in for questioning!”

  “Wah wah! Gulzoma!” Jamila shouted.

  The big lady’s smile seemed genuine at last as she looked around the room, enjoying the cheers, clapping, and laughter. “When the Americans came for him, he was shaking, almost crying.”

  “A man crying, grandmother?” said a small girl.

  “The Taliban were not men.” Gulzoma leaned forward as her voice became quiet. “My husband says he never saw the Talib again.”

  “So my brother Hajji Abdullah is a hero,” Jamila said.

  I never liked Taliban talk. I smoothed out the dastarkhan and straightened some of the dishes.

  “What’s the matter, Zulaikha? Don’t you like the story?” Gulzoma said.

  Malehkah was smiling, but her eyes were somehow still hard, still cold. I had to say the exact right thing. I looked at my sister, who twisted her dress tight in her lap.

  “He and his brother Tahir have talked to the Americans for my father about my surgery.” I was surprised that I had spoken out loud. I risked a glance at Malehkah, who glared at me. I squeezed my hands into tight fists.

  Everyone was quiet again and Gulzoma stared at me. “What did you say, Zulaikha?”

  I swallowed and covered my mouth. I had to keep going. “Jamila-jan said that Hajji Abdullah is a hero. I was agreeing because I am very grateful for his help with the Americans. Their helicopter couldn’t come to Farah, and with the wedding, there was no time to take the trip to their doctor in Kandahar. But if they almost” — I waved my hand in front of my mouth — “fixed this, Hajji Abdullah is as much to thank as the Americans.” Nobody spoke. They all just kept looking at me. I must have said too much. I blinked my eyes, trying to stop the hot tears of embarrassment from falling. “Please thank him for me.” I lowered my head as the first tear fell.

  “Look at the poor dear. She can hardly talk with that mouth. She hasn’t even been fixed and she’s so grateful to my husband that she’s crying with gratitude. Oooh.” Gulzoma clapped her hands, and when I looked up she was beckoning for me to come closer. “Come here and sit by your Gulzoma-jan.”

  As much as I hated the idea of being close to Gulzoma, and as embarrassed as I felt for my big dumb speech, I wasn’t stupid enough to disobey her. I stood up and walked around the circle of women to take a place beside her. She slipped a heavy damp arm around my shoulder and pulled me in to lean against her.

  “You sweet little angel.” She looked up from me to Malehkah. “My husband is such a good man by nature that he often hardly realizes how much he has helped people.” Gulzoma turned to one of the women whose name I had forgotten. “You brought that tambourine, didn’t you?” The woman nodded. “Then let’s make some music! I feel so close to this family already that we just have to dance. Sometimes you can’t help yourself, even if you are full to bursting on such delightful food.” She pulled me against her heavily perfumed body as everyone started singing, laughing, and dancing.

  I looked to Malehkah. She gently nodded her approval. Then her sister elbowed her and laughed. Malehkah turned her attention toward the music, clapping her hands along with the beat of the tambourine. She didn’t seem angry with me for all I had said. That was a relief, but the best part was that my sister’s party had been rescued from dreary awkwardness.

  Women jiggled around like I’d never seen anyone move. They laughed and shook their bodies and even pinched and slapped each other in private places. Gulzoma didn’t dance, but she shook around with the rhythm and sometimes joined in singing the songs. She kept me by her side. Being so close to her, and being packed into a small room in the middle of summer with all those frantic dancing women, made the room very hot.

  The party continued as one by one, each married woman made her way through the chaos to sit on the little couch beside Zeynab. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I knew they were giving her advice about being a wife. This advice must have been the reason Malehkah had insisted on Zeynab wearing so much makeup — to hide her embarrassed blushing at what she heard.

  As soon as one song ended, another began. Once, Gulzoma shook me. “Oh, Zulaikha! You must dance for us!”

  I looked at her with surprise. “I don’t know how. I’ve never —”

  “Ah, you silly little thing!” Gulzoma laughed. “We all learn sometime.”

  Malehkah coughed and nodded toward the space before Zeynab. I stood up. All night I’d watched how smoothly the women danced. They all seemed to know the perfect movements for each song. Some of the women hooted as the music rolled on. At first, I thought they were mocking me, but their smiles seemed sincere. I threw my arm up and out from my side, then spun away, trailing my other arm in an arc over my face. Almost on its own, my foot flew forward and I pointed my toe on the floor. I swayed from side to side with my toe pointed out and my hands above my head.

  Was I doing it right? I didn’t know. Somehow I didn’t care. The singing and clapping took over in the heat. The music and dancing held a power very much like Meena’s poetry, its rhythm calling out to me from across time. Someone had danced before my madar-jan’s wedding. Before the Taliban had outlawed music, she had probably danced as well. The song ended, and although Zeynab wasn’t supposed to show emotion, I saw the happy glimmer of tears in her eyes.

  Finally, when it was very late, Malehkah spoke up. “It is time for the henna.” And so, while she held a dish of mint-green-colored paste, and with a lot of advice from the other women, I painted swirls and flowers all over Zeynab’s hands and feet, trying my best to make my designs as delicate as I could.

  “It tickles.” She giggled. Then she dropped her voice to the quietest whisper. “Thank you for helping to make this night so wonderful.”

  I nodded and touched her shoulder.

  When I finished painting the paste on my sister’s hands and feet, I wrapped them in a glittery scarf that we’d been saving just for tonight. Later, after the Abdullahs had said good night and gone home, I helped Zeynab lie down on a mat with a pillow under her head, and we all settled down to sleep. As I rested close to my sister, the reality set in. This was our last night together. Tomorrow, she would belong to her new husband.

  That thought must have occurred to my sister as well, for soon she shook with tiny sobs. I stroked her hair. In this way, we drifted off to sleep, together.

  The next morning before prayers, Malehkah and I washed off the dried henna to reveal the deep amber and brown swirls on Zeynab’s skin. It looked beautiful, but we couldn’t admire it for long. There was a large breakfast to cook after prayers. Baba didn’t want to give Uncle Ramin a chance to complain about the food.

  After that, most of the hot day was devoted to getting ready for the nikah. We cleaned both the house and the people in it. I swept and scrub
bed the sitting room on my own while Malehkah and Zeynab bathed Khalid and Habib. Later, when the sitting room and house were ready and all of us were washed and dressed in our best, it was time to prepare Zeynab.

  In the side storage room, I helped my sister into the beautiful embroidered green dress that she and I had worked on and dreamed about for years. “Are you nervous?” I zipped up the back of her dress.

  “Hmm. I think maybe there are two kinds of nervous.” Zeynab closed her eyes as I brushed thick white makeup onto her cheeks. “There’s that feeling you get when you are worried about doing something you don’t want to do. Then there’s a happy anxious feeling, when you’re excited because a wonderful and important moment is approaching. I’m happy nervous.”

  “I’m happy too,” I said. Neither of us spoke as I finished putting on her makeup and curled her hair, pinning it up into a pretty crown. Maybe I should have said more, but we’d been so close for so long that we didn’t always need to talk, especially when all that remained to discuss was what we both already knew. This was the end of our time together, and although we’d always dreamed about our weddings, now that Zeynab’s had come, we would miss each other terribly.

  The door opened. Malehkah and all the other women came in. She examined Zeynab and nodded. “Tahir is in the sitting room with the rest of the men. The mullah has arrived.”

  Zeynab squeezed my hand and stepped toward the door. “Should we go?”

  “Just wait.” Malehkah held up her hand. “The mullah will send two witnesses to ask if you are willing to get married. After they take back your answer, your father will sign the papers for you. Then the mullah will lead a prayer and the nikah will be over.”

  “You mean they don’t even need her to be there?” Khatira asked.

  Malehkah’s mother and sister laughed. Aunt Halima hugged her daughter. Malehkah scowled. “I wasn’t present for mine.” She shrugged. “It’s tradition.” Zeynab frowned. When Malehkah saw her disappointed look, she went on. “There’ll be plenty to do at the arusi in Hajji Abdullah’s house. Gulzoma says she’s even hired two bands, one for the men and one for the women’s party.” She sighed. “Should be quite a show.”