The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  “I knew this is what you needed. A little piece of civilization and all is right with the world, yes?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but I was famished.”

  Najeela picked delicately at her meal. “May I ask about you? Is your boyfriend in Boston?”

  Abby cringed at the question. Eric was the last person she wanted to think about or speak about. “Well, I don’t have a boyfriend, at least not now.” She bent to her meal, hoping that might end Najeela’s line of questioning, but Najeela was intent on her probe.

  “Ah, but you did have someone? You’re so pretty, Abby, with your buttery hair and pale skin. You must be very popular.”

  Abby laughed. “I actually thought I’d be engaged by now, but things didn’t work out, so here I am.”

  “Tell me about him,” Najeela murmured.

  Abby felt her heart beat faster at the mere thought of Eric. She shook off the still-raw memory and looked at Najeela.

  “My last boyfriend was Eric,” she said, hating the sound of his name, hating that he was here smack in the middle of her new life. Najeela’s eyes sparkled at the hint of a romantic tale, but Abby, eager to steer the conversation away from herself, added quickly, “But that’s finished now.”

  “But what of the others?” Najeela leaned in. “In America, women have many boyfriends, yes?”

  “Oh, Najeela, I don’t want to talk about old boyfriends, not today.”

  “One more, Abby, just tell me about one more. I’ve only had one boyfriend. I envy you your freedom to have as many as you’d like.”

  Abby laughed. “Believe me, it’s not as exciting as it sounds to you, and I’ve really only had two serious boyfriends.”

  A pout sprang to Najeela’s lips. “Still more than me.”

  “All right,” Abby murmured, “one more.” She folded her arms. “In college, I was engaged.” She stroked the spot on her finger where her diamond had once been. “I broke it off when he decided to leave school. I was younger then and much more impatient, and I thought he was just lazy.”

  Najeela frowned. “Where is he now, this lazy one?”

  “Not where I expected—he’s very successful these days, he’s a well-known attorney in Louisiana. And no one would describe him as lazy.”

  “Is he wealthy?” Najeela asked, her eyes wide.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then you must take him back.”

  Abby laughed. “I don’t think he’d take me back. Besides, he has a wife and children now. I only told you about him to show that I am the queen of poor judgment where men are concerned. So, that’s it. Enough about me. What about you? You said you have a boyfriend?”

  Najeela’s face flushed pink through her olive skin. “Oh, I do have someone, but he is my secret, at least for now.”

  “Your secret? After the secrets I just spilled to you? It’s only fair to tell me more.”

  Najeela pushed her plate away. “I would love to tell you, Abby, but first, you must swear to keep my confidence.”

  Abby stopped eating. Najeela was suddenly so serious. “Of course I will.”

  “I am in love and I hope to marry this man, but my father would not approve because he is European. You see, though I am technically an Afghan refugee, I’ve never set foot inside that country, and to tell you the truth, I have no desire to do so.” She settled herself back in her seat. “My parents were well-off, and they escaped from Afghanistan to Paris during the Soviet invasion. I was born in Paris and went to school there. I expected to spend my life wandering around Europe, but after your soldiers liberated Afghanistan, my father was determined to return, to become a diplomat, and perhaps someday to be president.”

  Abby’s eyes grew wide. “President?”

  “That’s not so far-reaching as it might sound. Hamid Karzai is my father’s friend, and my father would like nothing more than to follow him into office.”

  “Wow,” Abby said, impressed more than she thought possible.

  “Well, for me, it is not such good news. I am expected to wear the veil, and as a dutiful Afghan daughter to go joyfully into an arranged marriage.”

  “Oh, no.” Abby reached out to give Najeela’s hand a squeeze. “Surely you can speak with him?”

  “No, I can’t, at least not yet.”

  Abby sighed. “Men are always the cause of our troubles, aren’t they? We should work on that, you and I.”

  Najeela smiled. “I am so glad you are here, a new friend, a good friend. And what of your last man—Eric, you called him? Will you someday reunite and marry, do you think?”

  Abby’s mind flooded with memories of Eric. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat. “No. There’s no chance. It’s done.” Her voice was firm, her resolve to rid herself of Eric less so.

  “Ah, then you need to meet someone new. And I may have just the man for you. A journalist is coming to do a story on the UN for a big American newspaper. He’s won some big prize, the . . . Pulitzer, I think. Does that sound familiar?” Najeela smiled, seeming quite pleased with her news. “Anyway, the UN wants him to write about you. I don’t have all the details, but he’ll be here in a few days, I think.”

  Abby groaned. She wanted to object, but she’d only just arrived. It was too soon to assert herself, and besides, maybe the journalist wouldn’t come at all, and if he did, he’d probably want even less to do with her than she did with him. Eager to guide the conversation away from herself and now this reporter, Abby asked, “What of your boyfriend? Where is he?”

  Najeela smiled. “Ah, Lars—he is my favorite subject, the reason I smile, and the reason I breathe. But, alas, he is in Switzerland where he has an office. He has one in Paris as well.” Najeela spoke quickly, hardly taking a breath between sentences. “He is the most wonderful man, I think, in the whole world. He is very well respected—why, even the UN loves him! He donates generously, and in return they have given him permanent diplomatic status.” Najeela’s fingers toyed with her scarf. “Can you tell that I am in love?” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Someday soon, he and I will tell my parents and the world that we are in love and intend to marry, but for now, for the sake of my father’s honor, I must be silent.”

  For all of her seeming intolerance to the plight of the beggars, and even Hana and Mohammed, Najeela, Abby thought, was much like her—a young woman just hoping that her dreams worked out.

  “Perhaps soon, you will come for dinner with my family. It would be good for them to see that women are capable on their own.”

  Abby smiled. “I don’t know, Najeela. If I’m your example, you might be in trouble.”

  “They will like you very much, just as I do. My mother, especially. She is a professor at the Medical College, a respected teacher by day, but in the evening she becomes another subservient Afghan wife, veil and all. And my father, a quiet and distinguished diplomat at the UN, becomes a veritable beast at home. He rules with an iron fist and demands absolute submission from my mother and I.”

  “Oh, Najeela, I’m sure he loves you.”

  “He does. They both do. That much is certain, but the truth is I am a source of great sadness for them both. You see, I am an only child, a daughter in a nation where only sons matter.”

  “But you must matter to them, and I’m sure they’re proud of you. Look at you—here, working for the UN.”

  “I am here in Pakistan, the last place on earth I want to be, only because it makes my father appear to be forward-thinking. The same for my mother and her job. He would like nothing better than to lock us both up at home, but he wants to appear a man of the future.” Najeela sat forward. “What of you, Abby? Surely Pakistan wasn’t in your plans?”

  Abby nodded. Pakistan hadn’t been in her vocabulary, never mind her plans. She’d never even heard of the place until bin Laden’s death. But things had changed, she was here now, and her old bucket list would need readjusting. She’d already had to erase married by twenty-five, honeymoon in Paris, and two childr
en by thirty. She had to agree with Najeela. Pakistan was the last place on earth she’d ever expected to be.

  Abby placed her hand over Najeela’s. “You know what? We’re both here now. Let’s make the most of it. I want to see the world and live an exciting life, and this is my first stop. It may not be Paris, but I am with the UN.”

  “Oh Abby, you are my good friend already.” Najeela smiled widely, her sadness evaporating as quickly as the heat of the green tea that sat before them. “Come,” she said, folding her napkin and resting it on the table. “Let’s shop. We can find some beautiful clothes for you today.”

  Abby smiled. No use in resisting. Najeela seemed the type of woman who always got her way.

  Chapter 4

  Abby’s first week flew by in a haze of vaccine statistics and UN reports. She spent her days huddled in front of the computer compiling and analyzing numbers of vaccinations administered at the camp, then cross-checking those numbers with expected UN outcomes. The work was almost mind-numbing, leaving her to wonder if Najeela was right after all—this UN post did seem dull, not the exciting work she’d somehow envisioned. She hadn’t even been back to the clinic at Safar. She’d left the house and her little office only once, and that was to accompany Najeela to the main UN office for introductions. There, she’d met Najeela’s father, a quiet, almost obsequious man. He’d bowed slightly when he met Abby, and she’d smiled in reply, remembering Najeela’s description of his ghastly behavior at home.

  He seemed mousy almost, not at all the tyrant Najeela had described. His mild manner reminded her of her own father, a retired dentist, who’d never raised his voice or even his brows at Abby. She’d been the only child, a change-of-life baby born to already aging parents who’d doted on her. When she’d called her parents to say she was going to Pakistan, she could almost see her mother’s eyes glazing over. “Pakistan?” she’d said, her voice muffled and distant. “Doesn’t the UN have anything for you in New York, dear?”

  Abby had chuckled. “No, Mom, they don’t. But this job in Pakistan will be good for me,” she said, trying to convince herself it was the right move after a string of questionable decisions. “It will give me a chance to see the world, and who knows? Maybe the UN will like me well enough to find something for me in New York.”

  Her mother had sighed so heavily, the phone crackled with static.

  But the truth was, Abby had taken the position to save herself, to get out of Boston, to get away from everything. Now she was determined to make the most of it. The only sticking point so far were the events in Geneva, and the unrelenting images—the hideous fall, the twisted body, the frightening man, the dazzling cuff bracelet—that still haunted Abby’s days as well as her nights. And always the questions at the back of her mind—she’d seen something, that much was certain, but had it been a murder or an accident? And either way, where had the body disappeared to?

  Determined to put it all behind her, Abby shook the images off and chewed away the last bits of her nail polish. For the next five and a half months, there’d be no manicures, no hairdresser either, not to mention no television, no malls. On the other hand, she thought with a wry grin, she could buy blood if she needed it. If she kept her sense of humor, she’d get through this, and without the distractions of home she could devote herself entirely to her job and the UN.

  That said, Abby still faced some predicaments here. Hana, for one, remained as prickly as ever. Her shoulders sagged deeper and her scowl intensified as the days wore on. She had the posture of someone expecting bad news, someone prepared for the worst. At a loss what to do, Abby turned to Najeela.

  “Her son is missing, like the children you saw at Safar.” Najeela delivered the news matter-of-factly, as if announcing the price of bread.

  “Missing? How do you mean?”

  “Well, missing is probably not the correct term. Sold is the appropriate word, I guess.” Najeela folded her arms across her chest. “Her husband,” she said, “sold the boy to an Arab who came through Pakistan in search of future camel jockeys. Hana’s husband sold him without consulting her, and she’s been in mourning since.”

  “Camel jockey?”

  “It’s precisely that. Rich Arabs buy young boys to ride on the backs of camels. In the West, you race horses. In the East, many race camels.”

  Abby couldn’t quite make sense of it. “But where is her boy now? Why can’t she just get him back?”

  “Her husband died,” Najeela replied, her words flat and emotionless. “He was the only one who knew where the boy was sent.”

  Abby wanted to shake Najeela, to make her feel something, but she seemed incapable, at least where Hana was concerned. “When did her husband die?” Abby asked, her voice soft.

  “Last year. He was hit by a truck. But they said he’d been drinking, his own fault really.”

  “So, she has no way of knowing where her child is? Can’t we . . . can’t the UN do something to help?”

  “No, this sort of thing happens. The children, usually refugee children, disappear. He may be in Saudi Arabia or Kuwait by now, but there’s no way to find him. Her only hope will be if the boy finds her, but if he’s illiterate as she is, he’s probably lost to her forever.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Abby murmured, suddenly seeing in her mind the set of Hana’s shoulders and her relentless frown. She was waiting for bad news. “What about the UNICEF tent where the pictures of the missing are posted? Can Hana post a picture of her son?”

  “She may have already.” Najeela sat back and folded her arms. “I know you won’t let go of this, that it troubles you more than it should. So, let’s take action to clear your mind. Would you like to ask her or just go to the tent to see for yourself?”

  Abby felt her own shoulders relax. Najeela was just busy, not as uncaring as she sometimes seemed. “Well, I’d like to go to the camp today anyway. Can you get away to join me and show me around the tent?”

  “Of course. I’ll go to the UN office later. Come, get your things.”

  Abby headed back along the hallway, passing a hunched-over Hana in the kitchen. Abby paused, wondering if she should stop and tell Hana that she knew, that she understood, but she swallowed the urge and hurried on to her room to get her bag and notebooks.

  The car crawled along Peshawar’s congested streets, the clamorous sounds of the city muted behind the car’s heavy windows. Najeela leaned back. “I wish we were in Paris, don’t you? I could really show you around, Abby. Promise me that you’ll come with me after your assignment here. I think I could convince my father that you would be a perfect chaperone.”

  “Paris is definitely on my list.” Abby smiled in spite of herself. She needed to throw herself into this new life—no Eric, no crowded commuter train, no lines at the bank, nothing to sidetrack her from what mattered.

  Once at the camp, Najeela breezed through the front gate, waving and smiling as though she were at a party. Abby followed dutifully and quietly, even her footfalls silent as they trudged along the camp’s main road before arriving at a collection of large tents that almost looked like buildings.

  “This tent”—Najeela motioned to a large tent with the UN logo on the side—“is the Protection Tent.”

  “What does that mean?” Abby asked, intrigued.

  “Remember, last week you asked about the lost children? Well, in times of war, children and women are easy prey for people who would exploit them, use them for bad things.”

  “Bad things?”

  “The women and even children are taken, they say—I have no personal knowledge of this—but it is said they are taken for sex. I know,” Najeela said in response to Abby’s horrified expression, “it is terrible. Here in the tent, they try to track those who are missing. Families can put up pictures and information so that if someone comes in and knows where that person is, they can inform the family. Come”—Najeela lifted the front flap of the tent—“in here you can see the pictures and read the stories for yourself.”

  Ab
by stepped into the tent, and once she’d blinked away the remnants of the sun’s glare, her gaze was drawn to the large poster boards that lined every available space. There were hundreds, maybe even thousands, of pictures of women and children, all missing. Abby’s heart sank; there was so much misfortune here. She began to read the short bits of information that accompanied most pictures. A photo of a smiling young girl drew her. She had long, dark eyelashes and a head of shiny black hair. Abby smiled at the photo as she read—she could almost feel this child’s energy. She was six years old and had disappeared almost two years ago from a small village just beyond Peshawar. Abby pointed at the picture and turned to Najeela. “Two years, she’s been gone two years? Does anyone search for these children?”

  “No, there is no funding for a search. The hope is that people will come in and recognize a woman or child. Sometimes, the woman has run away, the children too. Things are not always as they seem.”

  Abby frowned. “Where would they run to? There’s nothing here.”

  “Ah, more than one woman has run away to marry someone other than the one her family has chosen. I’ve thought of it myself. People do what they have to do. Some of these women here on the wall probably hired themselves out as maids in Europe or Kuwait, and then they just seem to disappear.”

  “But what of the children? They wouldn’t run away. Look at this little face. She’s a baby.”

  “I know that it is terrible to see. I’m not trying to minimize the tragedy, just to explain it.”

  “I’m sorry, Najeela. I didn’t mean to sound accusing.” Abby turned back to the wall and continued to look at the faces of the missing. There were hundreds of photos of women, some partially hidden by veils, but all were young and all were pretty. The stories under the pictures told little—first and last names, and the village or camp from which they’d disappeared. As unnerving as it was, Abby couldn’t pull herself away, and she continued along the wall, peering closely at the photos until they blurred together, an endless wall of misery.