Lipstick in Afghanistan

by Roberta Gately

  “Mama, he is Mariam’s infant but it is best if I take him as my own. She delivered him before she died.”

  Rahima opened her mouth wide in surprise, and then a smile settled on her lips as she stroked Parween’s hair. “You are a good girl. He is a gift from Allah.” She planted a kiss on Parween’s cheek and on the infant’s head. “What name will you give to him?”

  “Raziq, Mama. Don’t you think it fits him?”

  “I do,” Rahima answered. “It is a good name.”

  Zahra watched her mother and grandmother with this new baby, and she eyed the infant warily. At just three years old, she was used to being the baby in the house, the center of attention. She toddled over and pinched Raziq until he howled, and Parween bent to her.

  “He is your brother. Someday, he will decide your fate and arrange your marriage. You should be good to him.”

  Zahra shrieked in protest and ran off.

  “Ahh.” Rahima laughed. “She is your daughter.”

  16

  Though it seemed an eternity had passed since the soldiers’ invitation, Sunday had finally come. Elsa lingered over her lipsticks before choosing a soft plum tint, and just before six o’clock, she announced to Amina that she was going to the UN office for dinner and meetings with Johann. “I’ll walk with you,” Amina replied.

  “No need. It’s just around the corner. I won’t be gone too long.” In truth, she wanted to share the news of the soldiers with Amina, but she decided to wait—she wanted to be certain that the soldiers didn’t mind if she told.

  Amina hesitated, not sure how to respond, and before she could broach the subject again Elsa strode through the gate. She tucked herself unseen into the outside corner of her house and waited. Lieutenant Martin had been right; hers was the last house on a seldom-traveled road. No one would see her. Within minutes, she heard the approaching jeep come to a halt, and she peered out to see the front passenger door open. A hand motioned for her to get in. She jumped inside and heard the lieutenant’s calm voice.

  “Evening, Miss Murphy.” He turned the jeep and headed back along the dusty lane.

  “Oh, please call me Elsa.”

  “Well then, I hope you’ll call me Dave.” He stepped on the gas and maneuvered the jeep along the rocky lanes and over a wobbly bridge that quivered when they passed. She peered at the clusters of mud houses, smoke curling from small cooking fires, children shrieking and running about, a small neighborhood almost. Before long, they left behind the well-worn paths and small houses and came to what at first appeared to be a deep, impenetrable grove of trees. But as they got closer, Elsa saw that there was a small gap between the trees, big enough for a jeep but too small to be seen from a distance.

  Elsa watched astonished as Dave deftly guided the jeep through. “I thought this was some sort of forest.”

  “That’s precisely what the previous owner wanted people to think. A Hazara commander once owned this place, and he wanted it hidden and well protected. It’s been so well concealed that most people in Bamiyan don’t even know it’s here.”

  The road narrowed and the jeep slowed as gates appeared through the heavy brush. They were clanked open and then shut loudly once they’d passed. After a few minutes, they passed through a second set of gates, and the jeep finally ground to a halt at the entrance to the soldiers’ quarters. Nestled on a mountaintop, the house had a commanding view of the valley and the surrounding area. In the gathering dusk, she could just make out the Buddha hollows off in the distance.

  Elsa got out of the jeep and waited as Dave took his flashlight and pointed the beam to light her way. Before her was a fortress, a castle-like building made of heavy stone and ringed by barbed wire and gun and rocket turrets. With Dave in the lead, she crossed a kind of moat, a ramp over a deep ditch, and stepped into a house ablaze with electric lights. A large American flag hung in the entryway and boxes of ammunition, sandbags, and rifles were scattered across the floor. She heard the unmistakable sounds of a television newscast, of water running, and of something sizzling on a stove.

  She’d stepped back into the twenty-first century.

  American voices filled the air, and Elsa was suddenly surrounded by camouflage-clad men. Dave made the introductions just as a tall, graying, distinguished-looking man made his way into the room, held out his hand and greeted her in a clear Boston accent.

  “Miss Murphy, good to meet you,” he said warmly. “I’m Major Doyle, but more commonly, I’m called the Chief. Please”—he motioned toward a chair—“have a seat.”

  “Please call me Elsa.”

  The Chief directed another soldier to get her a drink, and she was served an ice-cold Diet Coke and ushered to a soft chair. She sank into the plush cushions and curled her fingers around the smooth, wet glass.

  She sighed. Heaven.

  The Chief said that he had only recently learned that she was there.

  “To tell you the truth, I was goddamn pissed off that my intel had failed. I shoulda known an American was here. It’s our job to know this stuff and for—what was it, more than a month?—that information didn’t get to me.” He shook his head. “Somebody’s going to answer for that.”

  She’d only just met him, but already she didn’t want to be that person.

  “I assume you’ve heard about Pierre Dubois and the Taliban, or maybe they were bandits—we’ll probably never know for sure. But his death underlines that this is a dangerous place, no doubt about it. That’s why it was so important for me to know you were here, in case you got into any trouble.”

  The Chief paused, and it seemed to Elsa as if he was letting his words take hold.

  “I thought his replacement would be another Frenchman,” he continued.

  “It was terrible about Pierre,” Elsa replied sadly. “But if the soldiers never noticed me, that’s a good thing. It must mean I’m fitting in now and hardly worth a second glance.”

  The Chief scowled. “Not likely. The soldier who reported you to me said he saw a woman wearing sunglasses and lipstick, said she screamed foreigner. Do you have a bodyguard? A weapon?”

  Elsa shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that.”

  This time he grunted his disapproval. “You should be protected, Miss Murphy—Elsa. You’re an American, a soft target here.”

  “But I’m an aid worker,” she said. “I was nervous when I first arrived.” She tried to downplay the almost overwhelming fear she’d felt after Pierre’s death. “But I’m here to help. People know that now, and that’s what will keep me safe.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” The Chief rolled his eyes. “That won’t keep you safe, not a bit. There is real danger here, and always where you least expect it. Bamiyan may seem safe but there is trouble even here. Understand?”

  Trouble? Here in Bamiyan? she thought, but she nodded.

  “You have to be on the alert, Elsa, but know that we’ll take care of you too. I wanted you to come tonight so that everyone here could get to know you in case we need to extract you quickly.”

  “What does that mean?” Elsa asked. “Extract?”

  “Well, you’re an American, and this is an active war zone. Obviously, I can’t share any details with you but we are here for a reason and we have not sat idle. We have reason to believe that there are active Taliban and al-Qaeda forces about, and there is always the possibility that they might set their sights on you. I wanted my men to get a good look at you, and if the situation warrants a hasty rescue, we’ll know you, and we’ll get you out quickly.”

  “It’s hard to think of Bamiyan as a war zone.” Her mouth grew dry, and she sipped from the glass.

  The Chief’s brow wrinkled. “If you need to get word to us for any reason, you can leave a message for us at our drop site. There’s a small music store in the bazaar. The glass front is covered with cassette labels and pictures of tape players. There’s usually some Indian music playing inside. You can’t miss it. Just ask for Majid and tell him that you have a message for Dave. Majid will ho
ld it for us.”

  “I’ll remember that, though I hope I won’t need it.”

  “Well, we hope so too, but we have to be prepared. And we’d like to be sure that you’re prepared, as well.”

  With that, the somber mood lifted, and Elsa sat down and joined them for spaghetti with meatballs, warm crusty bread, and more Diet Coke. Life’s ordinary pleasures had never seemed as extraordinary as they did here.

  She glanced around and was disappointed to see that her mystery soldier was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he’s been assigned somewhere else, she thought sadly before joining the conversation. She told the soldiers about her own living conditions and they sniggered at the description of her mud room, her latrine, and her bath. They’d rigged up real hot-water showers, toilets, a washing machine, and a kitchen, and they’d built real beds. They had the benefit of a generator that allowed them to create this little oasis.

  After dinner, she joined them in front of the television, where they watched the news. The news. It was surreal to be sitting there surrounded by American soldiers watching television.

  Elsa looked at her watch; it was almost ten o’clock.

  “It’s late. I have to get back.” Her voice hinted at the disappointment she felt. After hasty “good nights,” Dave spirited her back home.

  “See you soon, Elsa,” he said.

  “Thanks, Dave.”

  She jumped out of the jeep and walked quickly into her own compound. Amina was nowhere to be seen; Elsa thought she must have gone to bed already.

  She felt a little like Cinderella after the ball, and she definitely didn’t feel like heating water for a bath, so she pulled on her nightgown and curled up on her sleeping pad to read by her lantern. But her head was spinning.

  She thought of the soldiers’ luxuries, and though she’d enjoyed her evening, she was comfortable now in her little house and little room. She still wished for a bed and a real bath sometimes, but it had been long enough since she’d had either that her longing for them had diminished. As she lay thinking of how accustomed she’d grown to her life there, a determined scorpion scurried toward her. She took her book and brought it down hard on the deadly pest. She smiled as she blew out her lantern and lay back to sleep.

  17

  In the weeks since his arrival, Raziq had been a sweet baby, cooing and smiling, and despite Zahra’s protests, he brought joy into Uncle Abdullah’s compound.

  But he needed care and attention, and Parween rose at his first cry to feed him. The family’s goat provided his milk and Parween mixed it with the fancy foreign formula she found in the bazaar. Whether it was the goat or the formula Parween couldn’t say, but as the days passed the baby seemed to thrive.

  Zahra, glum at the baby’s arrival, was coaxed into helping her mother care for him. “Be my little helper, sweet one, and sit by him while I heat the water for his formula.”

  Zahra sat by him and stroked his face till he smiled. “Mama, look, I made him smile.” And she giggled with her power over this tiny thing.

  While she was feeding the baby, Parween stoked yesterday’s fire to life and prepared tea. “Zahra, help Mama. Get the dishes and set them out.” She sighed when Zahra scrambled to follow her orders.

  Parween watched her sadly. Though she was barely three years old, her life was already laid out before her—marriage, babies, cleaning.

  The cycle would continue after all.

  * * *

  Though Rahima was no longer young, she had returned to work for the tailor one or two days a week and still helped Parween with the babies and chores. With the addition of baby Raziq, life seemed to be steadying for the little family until Parween took a good look at Uncle Abdullah, the family’s revered patriarch and protector. They lived in a place where men didn’t often live beyond age forty, and Abdullah was elderly at fifty-five. There was no denying that his endless energy had been sapped by war, by the Taliban, and by his family’s heartbreaks. He remained a kind and truly gentle man despite his misfortunes.

  Yet with all of his family responsibilities, Abdullah had long neglected his own health. He’d been coughing for as long as Parween could remember, but they’d overlooked it until the morning Parween saw that he’d been coughing up blood.

  “Uncle, what is this?” She pointed to the blood. “You are sick. What is wrong with you?” Her stomach clenched at the words, at the possibility that he might be ill, really ill.

  “I am fine, little one. I’ve been coughing like that for years. Do not worry about me. I have many years left.”

  “Uncle, you are sick. You have to go to the clinic. Please. I’ll go with you.” But Abdullah was reluctant, and only after a full afternoon of coaxing did he finally agree to go to the clinic the following day. Rahima stayed home with the children.

  “Now, Mama,” Parween instructed her mother that evening, “the goat’s milk must be mixed with this powder and warm water. He likes to take his time eating and I let Zahra help.” She took a breath as if she was planning to continue, but Rahima interrupted.

  “Parween, I have raised four children. I can do this.”

  The following morning, Parween and Abdullah made the short trek to the hospital, where they joined hundreds of others waiting to be seen. People were hollering in the hopes of being noticed and taken from the line.

  Uncle Abdullah, appalled at the ruckus required to be chosen, turned to Parween. “Ah, there are so many waiting, I won’t get in. We’ll come back another time.” And he turned to leave.

  She knew full well that if he left, he would never return. “Uncle Abdullah, please stay. Let me look for help. Don’t go yet.”

  Just then, she saw the nurse who had helped Mariam. The woman was hurrying through the gate, headed for the hospital. Parween rushed after her and in clear, soft English, said, “Miss, sorry, miss. I am thanking you for Mariam, for the help. You remember me and my friend Mariam?”

  Elsa smiled when she saw Parween and stuck out her hand.

  “Salaam alaikum, chetore asti? Khoob asti? Jona jurast?”

  “Miss, please to speak Inglisi. It will help me.” Parween smiled.

  “Please, call me Elsa. How is the baby?” Elsa asked her. “How are you managing? Is there anything I can do?”

  “I am here today with my uncle, a very good man,” Parween replied, choosing her words carefully. “He is sick, coughing blood, but there are too many people waiting and I fear he will not be seen.” Parween went on to describe Uncle Abdullah’s weakness and persistent bloody cough, and Elsa nodded in understanding.

  “Please, bring him in here,” she said, and she pointed to the emergency room. “I can see him there.”

  After much coaxing from Parween, Abdullah’s once impressive figure graced the entrance of the emergency room. Elsa motioned for him to sit and introduced herself.

  Parween introduced Uncle Abdullah and offered to interpret. Through Elsa’s probing questions, Parween learned that her uncle had been told long ago that he had tuberculosis and had even been treated, but when he’d returned to Bamiyan, there had been no treatment available. Since he’d felt well, he never thought of it again until Elsa asked.

  Elsa took out her stethoscope and listened intently to Abdullah’s heart and lungs, and when she was finished, she sighed and sat back.

  “Without an X-ray, which we can’t do here, I can’t be absolutely certain, but your uncle’s symptoms—his bloody cough, his fatigue—are classic signs of TB. It seems likely that it never went away, and since there is still no treatment here in Bamiyan, he will have to go to Kabul for the medicine. Even then, I suspect that it has advanced and has eaten away at his lungs. I’m sorry I don’t have better news.”

  Parween felt weak and her shoulders sagged with this new worry.

  “It is bad then? There is no mistake?”

  “Well, I can’t do an X-ray, but his symptoms and his history suggest that it may be very serious.”

  She paused, seeing the horror on Parween’s face.
<
br />   “I’m sorry to use that word but he is very ill. I know that you suffered at the loss of your friend. I don’t want to see you lose your uncle as well. He really needs treatment.”

  Parween closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath. She turned to Abdullah and told him that he still had TB, and it was very bad. He seemed to shrink a little with the news, but he quickly pulled himself up and spoke animatedly to Parween. She turned to Elsa.

  “He says he cannot leave us to go to Kabul. He is very grateful for your help and would like you to come to dinner at our home.”

  Elsa hesitated. “Does he understand that the TB will only worsen if it is not treated?”

  Parween spoke to Abdullah again and turned to Elsa. “He says that Allah has always taken care of him and, inshallah, God willing, he shall again. He also wants to know when you will come for dinner.”

  Elsa smiled. “I would like to come, but I don’t know where you live.”

  “Do not worry,” Parween replied. “I will come for you next week, and in the meantime, I will speak to my uncle. Perhaps I can convince him to go to Kabul.”

  She and her uncle departed with copious thanks, endless blessings, and a renewed promise of dinner.

  Throughout the week that followed, though her days were consumed by work, Elsa often found herself wondering about Parween and her uncle and hoping that he would make the decision to travel to Kabul for treatment. She hoped too that they’d remember the dinner invitation, but with all of their worries, she wasn’t counting on it.

  When she told Hamid about it, he frowned.

  “Do not expect them to come for you. Under the Taliban, it was illegal to share tea with a foreigner, and though the Taliban no longer rule, old habits stay on. People still fear the Taliban, more so since the bus explosion, and they may be afraid, too, of your foreign ways, Elsa. Remember, this is Bamiyan, not Kabul.”

  Even though she’d had the same thoughts, Elsa was disappointed. She wanted to get to know the people here, yet maybe he was right. Maybe they just weren’t ready for her.