by Gwen Florio
She’d wanted to ask after Liv, but didn’t dare. They’d been taken away separately, Liv pulled from her while someone wrapped her leg in a rough tourniquet, and then her water had broken and the voices around her gained a new urgency. After, when the Amriki came with their demands disguised as questions, she’d feigned frailty, had given them only the false name in the barest of whispers. Zema num Zainab dai. Adding, her voice gone hoarse—kondaa. Widow.
Which was true. She turned her head to the wall.
Now, as Arsalan trained his attention upon her other breast—oh, he was a greedy one, her son!—she fought the lingering grogginess from the drugs they’d given her. It would not take the Amriki long to match the pregnant beggar at the bombing site with Face the Future’s pregnant interpreter. They would seek her just as vigilantly as Nur Muhammed’s men—especially if Liv had already given her away. Because they’d question Liv, too.
No.
As before, when her thoughts traveled this panicked path, they stopped there, at Farida’s recognition of something steely within her friend, something unseen by Martin. Liv would not give her away. But nor could she help her.
Arsalan’s mouth slipped from her breast. His eyes closed in contentment. His breathing eased. Farida’s arms tightened around him. For this brief moment, her child was safe. But within hours she’d be discharged, loosed defenseless into the world, beyond the hospital’s protective walls, a death sentence in one form or another, as the medic had rightly known.
“My poor baby,” she murmured. Just as she whispered before she’d stolen the device that was to have provided her escape. But Gul, believing he was saving her, had taken that route instead, and now she was trapped.
Gul. A sob escaped. She turned her head into the pillow with its stiff cotton case smelling of bleach. Her son must never see her cry. Her only hope was that they would let him live. She would face her inevitable death as bravely as Gul had his own.
* * *
Midnight, and Farida lay awake, clinging to her son, savoring her final hours of safety with him.
The ward lay in near darkness but for the blinking lights of the various machines. Only their faint beeping, and the scraping of a cleaning woman’s twiggy broom, disturbed the silence.
Farida saw the woman, bent over her task, her green burqa dragging along the hospital’s floor tiles, and thought of her old game—at least I am not a lowly sweeper—with bitter regret. What she would give at this moment to trade places with the woman!
The woman stopped beside the bed. The broom fell from her hand.
“Hssst. Farida.”
Farida cringed. Was it possible that Nur Muhammed’s men had sent a woman to steal her back to them? She opened her mouth to scream.
A strong hand clamped over it. “We don’t have much time. Give me your baby.”
Strength flooded Farida. She twisted away from the woman, clutching Arsalan tighter. This stranger would not take her baby. Never.
“Don’t be stupid. I’m going to hold him while you get out of bed.”
Farida stilled. The woman removed her hand, slowly, ready to slap it back down again if Farida made a sound.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“We do not have time for this. I knew your husband when he was but a boy, when he was the only person in the world to treat me with kindness at a time when I was surrounded by hatred. And, later, the women of his family—those same women who hated me so—saw to it that I did not die. Now I repay that debt. Take this and give me the baby.” She thrust a burqa toward Farida.
Farida pushed herself up. Pain radiated like fire from the cruel incision in her abdomen, the one through which Arsalan had escaped into the world, roaring his displeasure. She inched the burqa down over her head and eased from the bed, her leg now competing with her midsection in intensities of agony.
“Good. Come now. We must leave this hospital, and then go a little farther besides. They will remember a woman with a baby who hailed a cab in front of the hospital. We cannot risk it. Do you think you can walk so far?”
Once, many months before, a lifetime ago, there had been doubts about Farida’s ability to walk a great distance, to withstand pain. She had proved them all wrong, those doubters, and won her husband’s love and, even more important, his respect.
Now she would do this thing for her son. And, as before, for herself.
She brought her face close to the other woman’s to look her in the eye, through the mesh of their respective burqas, blue cloth brushing green.
“I know I can.”
She shoved a foot before her. One. Then the other. Two.
And so Farida counted her steps out of the Amriki hospital, into the unexpected future.
Thirty-Nine
PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER 2002
Liv jumped at the sound of knuckles against door.
“Almost ready, Mrs. Stoellner?”
She flattened her hand against her chest, willing her slamming heartbeat into submission. “A few more minutes.”
She leaned so close that her breath fogged the mirror in the shiny American bathroom, all gleaming white tile and polished hardware. In her twenty-four hours on U.S. soil, she’d already taken a shower and two baths. She rubbed her good arm against the mirror—the other had gone from a cast to a sling during her remaining time in Afghanistan—and studied the crew-cut woman who stared back. Pale hair, pale skin. Livid scar.
The female agent they’d finally assigned her had brought an assortment of cosmetics. “You’ll want to look your best. Not so washed-out. And there’s plenty of concealer. I got the medical kind for . . .” She touched her finger to the side of her own mouth and grimaced in something Liv supposed was meant to be empathy, despite the obvious suspicion she and the other agents radiated around Liv. “Nobody will be able to tell.”
A container of mousse sat beside the cosmetics. Liv squirted some into her palm and rubbed her hands together and ran them through the lengthening stubble on her head until it stood up in tiny spikes. She located the tube of black eyeliner in the mess on the table. She drew thick lines above and beneath her lashes the way Mrs. Khan had taught her, finishing with a satisfying swoop. And some mascara. Lots. There. Her eyes flashed with new prominence, dark, dangerous. Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. Liv looked for another tube. Found three. The lipsticks the agent had brought were light, tasteful. Liv layered one atop the other, giving her mouth an angry sheen.
The scar tugged one end of her lips down in a new wry look that Liv quite liked. She picked up the concealer. “Total coverage,” the label boasted. “Lasts all day.” Liv let it fall. She was going to live with the scar the rest of her life. Might as well get used to it.
“Ready.”
The door opened. “Oh. Oh, my. Maybe some adjustments . . .”
Liv brushed past the agent. “Let’s get this over with.”
She knew the drill, of course. How many times had she seen it on television, the movies? The victim terrified or resolute or even mutinous, take your pick. Ready, aim, fire. A barrage of shots.
Liv lifted her chin. The cameras flashed, the air alive with the sound of shutters. “Mrs. Stoellner, Mrs. Stoellner!”
She let the scar pull her mouth down, down, until the mob quieted.
“I use my maiden name professionally.” A voice scraped over jagged stones. “Laurensen.”
And just like that, she was in it, reciting the answers she’d spent hours rehearsing with her handlers. “Shattered,” she said. “You know it’s always a possibility. But nothing prepares you.”
Beside her, the agent pointed to one raised hand, then another.
“How do I feel about the U.S. mission in Afghanistan? I worked for a nonprofit. We had nothing to do with the military mission. We just wanted to help Afghan women. Who need all the help they can get.”
Thinking, with each word, of Farida. Her cool, even responses, no matter how nonsensical the question. And these queries were inane, on and
on, almost as ridiculous as those during the endless questionings following the attack. Was she getting counseling? Of course. Liv saw no point in mentioning that she’d terminated the sessions. What would she do now? Go back to her old job, of course. If they’d have her. A bit of a joke, as much humor as she could tastefully inject. The college had contacted her almost immediately, panting at the opportunity for such public magnanimity after the death of one of its own and the grievous injury of another. Liv would work toward her doctorate while teaching courses on the lives of women in war zones, a plan arranged after she reminded Clayton Williams—that idiotic Gray Man, his newly panicked demeanor at odds with the contrived blandness—that her husband, not she, had signed the confidentiality agreement.
How did it feel to be back on American soil? The hot showers were divine. Liv wondered if she’d gone too far. Even though it was the truth.
“Would you go back? To Afghanistan? Would you go?”
The question rose above the shouted incoherence of the others. Liv searched for its origin. There, in front, stood a woman younger than the others, hair spiked like her own, eyes that saw through her. The others had pasted expressions of sympathy on their faces. This woman’s whole demeanor called bullshit. Would she go back? A gauntlet thrown down.
Liv looked over the heads of the crowd. The accordion divider in the agency conference room blurred. She saw the peaks of the Hindu Kush, the mud houses in the city below. The people staggering with their loads of bricks, or of household belongings as they fled yet another conflict, bent beneath the weight of decades, of whole centuries, of war. Saw the way they shrugged aside those burdens, stood straight and defiant, secure in their certainty that although they as individuals might not survive, their people would. Saw the women. The women.
The room went silent, an alertness mirroring Liv’s own. Fingers twitched above shutter releases. Scent of blood.
“Ms. Laurensen.” The woman in the front row knew she’d hit home. She launched another body blow. “Do you hate her? The woman whose husband killed yours?”
Liv remembered the way Farida twined their fingers together before a particularly difficult interview. How, that day in the market, she’d pulled Liv to safety, screaming imprecations at the wolf pack of men. The mingled shame and fury on her face when Liv had discovered her in Martin’s arms. The same fury Liv herself had felt. But not for Farida. Never for Farida.
“You play a role,” Farida had said to her. “You learn to lie. You become stone. You become ice.”
Liv let the cold seep into her. “I hate anyone who kills innocent people. Or who stands by while they suffer.”
The woman lifted her hand for yet another question. The agent beside Liv stepped forward. “That’s all for today. Mrs. Stoellner—ah, Ms. Laurensen—still tires easily. Let’s let her heal.”
A chorus of shouted “thank-yous” sounded. The veneer of politesse. Not from Liv’s interrogator, though. She tipped her head in a nod toward Liv. This round to you, she seemed to say. For now.
Liv turned away. You are stone. You are ice. This begins now.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So very many people to thank.
Agent Richard Curtis and Atria editor Loan Le, who saw the book that lay within the pages of my manuscript, and Judy Sternlight of Judy Sternlight Literary Services for helping me get that manuscript to the place that caught their attention.
The team at Simon & Schuster/Atria—publisher Judith Curr, associate publisher Suzanne Donahue, subrights director Lisa Keim, art director Albert Tang, art designer Patti Ratchford, production editor Steve Breslin, copy editor Cynthia Merman, and interior designer Amy Trombat.
The Denver Post, whose editors in the terrible days after 9/11 sent teams of reporters and photojournalists to the places that had spawned the attacks. Still can’t believe they fell for the memo that aimed to prove I could handle myself in Afghanistan.
Daler Rahkimov and Mirwais Mohmand, whose work as interpreters helped reveal the subtleties in the situations we encountered, and whose friendship eased the stress of those days. Special thanks to Ayaz and Shabab Naqvi and their family, who became dear friends.
Deborah Kruger, whose 360 Xochi Quetzal residency on the shores of Lake Chapala in Jalisco, Mexico, provided a precious month to give this book one last shot.
Two critique groups: the Badass Women’s Writers—Theresa Alan, Andrea Catalano, Orly Konig Lopez, Kate Moretti, Ella Olsen, Jamie Raintree, and Aimie Trumbly Runyan—and Creel: Stephen Paul Dark, Matthew LaPlante, Camilla Mortensen, Bill Oram, and Alex Sakariassen. Each supplied in equal measure suggestions that bettered the book, and support during the days of doubt.
Kathy Best, for key scheduling help for writing.
Tears-in-my-eyes gratitude to Scott, who from the first believed.
And finally and most especially to Razia and her daughters Rahima and Hakima.
Silent Hearts
Gwen Florio
Reading Group Guide
This reading group guide for Silent Hearts includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
Introduction
For fans of A Thousand Splendid Suns comes a stirring novel set in Afghanistan about two women—an American aid worker and her local interpreter—who form an unexpected friendship despite their utterly different life experiences and the ever-increasing violence that surrounds them in Kabul.
In 2001, Kabul is suddenly a place of possibility as people fling off years of repressive Taliban rule. This hopeful chaos brings together American aid worker Liv Stoellner and Farida Basra, an educated Pakistani woman still adjusting to her arranged marriage to Gul, the son of an Afghan strongman whose family spent years of exile in Pakistan before returning to Kabul.
Both Liv and her husband take positions at an NGO that helps Afghan women recover from the Taliban years. They see the move as a reboot—Martin for his moribund academic career, Liv for their marriage. But for Farida and Gul, the move to Kabul is fraught, severing all ties with Farida’s family and her former world, and forcing Gul to confront a chapter in his life he’d desperately tried to erase.
The two women, brought together by Farida’s work as an interpreter, form a nascent friendship based on their growing mutual love for Afghanistan, though Liv remains unaware that Farida is reporting information about the Americans’ activities to Gul’s family, who have ties to the black market.
As the bond between Farida and Liv deepens, war-scarred Kabul acts in different ways upon them, as well as their husbands. Silent Hearts is an absorbing, complex portrayal of two very different but equally resilient women caught in the conflict of a war that will test them in ways they never imagined.
Topics & Questions for Discussion
1. Discuss Farida’s and Gul’s different upbringings. Why do Farida and Gul oppose marriage to each other? Why can’t they refuse?
2. What’s the state of Liv and Martin’s marriage when we first meet them? What once brought them together, and what threatens to push them apart?
3. The novel depicts the moment the characters learn about the September 11 attacks. How does this event impact Farida and Gul’s lives? Liv and Martin’s lives?
4. What happens during the covert trip from Peshawar to Jalalabad that makes Gul and, to some extent, his mother see and treat Farida differently? What does the scene tell you about Farida’s character?
5. Gul recalls the last time he and his family were in Kabul. What do you learn from this backstory? How does this inform your understanding of his character?
6. “Children ran about, anchoring crude kites that dipped and swirled in a sky hazy with woodsmoke”. What does Liv presume to see, and how does Mrs. Khan change her perspective? How did you feel as you read this scene?
7. W
hy does Martin withhold the letter from Mrs. Khan? Are you surprised by this action, given what you know of Martin’s character?
8. When Liv visits an Afghani wife with Farida, how does she inadvertently offend the woman? What other events show that Liv is out of place in Kabul?
9. What does Nur Muhammed plan to do to address the increased presence of America in Afghanistan? How might his previous experience with the Russians have influenced his plan?
10. What does Liv discover when she meets the Australian reporter at the Face the Future function? How does she react? What is the list that she makes?
11. Discuss the market scene. In what ways does it impact Liv and Martin’s relationship? How did you feel about their reactions?
12. After Liv and Hamidullah come across Farida and Martin, what decision does Farida make? Why?
13. How does Gul feel when he learns about Farida’s alleged infidelity? How does Farida convince Gul that she has always been faithful?
14. What is the meaning of the name Arsalan? Why did Farida choose that name?
15. What do you imagine happens to Farida after the novel closes? And to Liv?
Enhance Your Book Club
1. The night before Farida leaves for her new life with Gul, her sister, Alia, gives her one last piece of advice. Do you agree with the advice? Discuss the thematic significance of the advice throughout the book.
2. Reflect on a friendship—your own or that of someone close to you—that had formed regardless of different backgrounds.
3. Read novels that focus on women caught in times of war, like A Thousand Splendid Suns and A House Without Windows. Discuss how the authors portray the female characters and the roles they play within the story.