Lipstick in Afghanistan

by Roberta Gately

  “You should go there, Elsa. See it for yourself before they put up another high-rise to make people forget what happened there.”

  Elsa nodded.

  Mike turned and motioned for to her to sit as he took Dave’s carefully prepared meal from the oven.

  “But for now, eat up,” he said with a smile.

  She smiled back and picked up a piece of chicken, eating it slowly and licking her fingers clean. Both of them were hungry, and they tore into the delicious food.

  “How long have you been here in Bamiyan?” Elsa asked.

  “Let’s see, we got here in late September, but we were up north. We saw our fair share of fighting there and when things quieted down, we were deployed here to Bamiyan. Boy, I’ll tell you, the day we arrived, the villagers lined the road and cheered. Wasn’t what we’d been expecting, but it sure was nice.” Mike paused to take another bite. “Dave even took pictures of them that day, to show the folks back home. He hasn’t stopped taking pictures since. His camera’s gonna die.”

  Elsa laughed. “At least he brought a camera. I didn’t even think of it.”

  “So,” Mike said after they had made short work of the food, “tell me about yourself. I already know that you’re a nurse, but not much more.”

  “You first,” she said, too self-conscious to talk about herself.

  “All right, well, I’m the oldest in my family—four of us, all boys. I grew up in North Carolina in a little place called Chatham, where my dad was a bus driver and my mom chased us around.” Mike paused, lost in some long-ago memory.

  “She died when I was about nine. Cancer. It musta been tough for Dad, but he never showed it. Anyway, he raised me and my brothers on his own. He’s a good man, even coached my Little League teams. He was convinced that baseball would take me through life. I was a good player, but there were a thousand other kids out there just like me, and when no college scholarships or minor league offers came, I knew I had to find something else.”

  Mike stood to clean up, and Elsa rose to help.

  “Not tonight,” he said. “You’re my guest. Besides, I was the oldest in a house of boys. If there’s one thing I can do it’s clean, so just have a seat.”

  She sat back down. “So what was the something else?” she asked.

  “Well, I wanted to go to college. I wanted to be an engineer and design roads and bridges, but my dad couldn’t afford the tuition. Bus drivers just don’t make much. Anyway, I joined the army for two years, and once my time was up, I used the tuition assistance program to attend Duke. Got myself an engineering degree, a job offer too good to pass up, and I headed to Dallas to work.”

  Once he’d finished clearing the table, he sat next to her.

  “I don’t get back to North Carolina much. My dad’s still there, still driving a bus and trying to make ends meet. My youngest brother, Adam, is still at home, but John’s in Florida and Matt’s in school in New York.”

  “You’re lucky to have a big family.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am. So what about you? What brought you to Afghanistan? Did you want to save the world?” he asked, his voice soft and his gaze intent.

  “Yeah, actually, something like that.” Elsa nodded, thinking of the newsmagazine she’d held on to for so long. “The Rwandan genocide,” she said. “I saw pictures in a news magazine that just tore me up, and I knew that someday I’d help.”

  Mike seemed to sit straighter. “I remember that. I may have even seen the same pictures—babies and families dead on the roads and in the fields. I remember being riveted by the horror of it.” He shook his head. “I was in college and I just figured they needed soldiers to protect them, more than I could give them anyway, but you… you saw a chance to help, to really do something.”

  He leaned toward Elsa and suddenly her shyness slipped away, and before she knew it, she was telling Mike about her life, about Diana and Margaret and then even about her brother and sister.

  “They’re still in Boston, I think,” she finished, “but Tommy’s got a problem with alcohol and Janice is on drugs, so I’m not even sure if they’re still alive.”

  “Oh, jeez.” He grimaced. “That must be tough.”

  Elsa nodded. She could hardly believe how much she’d told him. It must have been this place, she thought, the intensity here that gave her the courage. At home, she never would have revealed so much—Dirty laundry, her mother would have said, don’t air it in public. But here, it wasn’t dirty laundry, it was just part of who she was.

  Mike leaned forward and brushed back a silky stray hair from her face, his touch soft and fleeting like a summer breeze. The feel of him shot right through her and her heart raced.

  “I’m glad you’re comfortable enough to talk.” Mike looked down at his hands. “I like you, Elsa. I hope it’s okay to say that.”

  “Yeah, it is. I feel the same.” She could feel her cheeks turn red.

  He pulled her closer and kissed her full on the lips. Then he put his arms around her and just held her.

  Elsa sighed. She could feel the heat of his body seeping through his shirt and she nestled closer and whispered, “I’m so glad to have met you, Mike.”

  “I’m glad too, Elsa. I’m glad too.”

  She snuggled into him and inhaled his clean, soapy scent; he had taken a bath too. They might just have been the cleanest people in all of Bamiyan.

  At that moment she heard heavy footsteps approaching the house, and she looked at her watch.

  “Oh no,” she said. “It’s almost ten already. I have to go.”

  Mike kissed her again and, not wanting her to have to deal with the returning soldiers, led her out a side door and back to the jeep for the ride home.

  “I’ll see you soon, Elsa,” he whispered as they pulled up by her gate, his hand lingering on hers.

  They kissed one more time and she got out, slipping quietly through the gate. She hurriedly got ready for bed and replayed the evening over and over in her head before she finally drifted off to sleep.

  19

  Mike Young—even his name is perfect, she thought as she lay in her room the following Friday. Elsa was hopelessly infatuated, but she just couldn’t help herself. She wondered if Amina felt that way about Sidiq. Though he’d told Elsa he planned to speak with her brother, there’d been no more talk from either of them. She reminded herself to ask Hamid if he knew anything.

  She’d decided to give in to Bamiyan’s customs and take Fridays off. She took her time before she rose for her morning cup of coffee on the roof.

  Parween was prodded out of sleep that same morning by the urgent cries of baby Raziq. He was an early riser and he bellowed loudly to announce his needs. She slept alongside him on her little pad, so she reached out and whispered to him, then cuddled closer and planted a kiss on the sweet softness of his face. Raziq reached for Parween’s hair and pulled at it.

  “That’s enough for you, little one,” Parween said as she rose from the pad to collect the goat’s milk for the baby. She perched him on her hip and headed outside into the early morning.

  Rahima, already outside and stoking the morning fire, reached out with a tin of milk for the baby. Parween squatted and sank her feet into the soft ground, offering the milk to Raziq, who devoured it quickly before falling back into the deep, rich sleep that only babies know. Parween smiled and hoped that someday soon she and the children could go on picnics and walks as she and her beloved husband had done.

  As if she sensed her daughter’s longing, Rahima spoke up. “Your friend Elsa is a stranger here. I am certain that she would enjoy spending a day with you.”

  Parween wrapped the baby and tucked him into the clothes basket. “She is probably busy. The clinic is always filled with patients.”

  “It is surely closed today. And if she labors as hard as you say, she’d probably like to do something besides work.”

  “It’s true. I could show her the Buddhas’ caves. I haven’t been there since…” Her voice trailed off and her
gaze fell on the sleeping baby. So much had changed since she’d been there with her dear husband.

  Rahima cleared her throat.

  “I am here to watch the little ones. Go, go!” And she shooed Parween out the door.

  Amina called up to the roof, where Elsa sat with her coffee.

  “You have a visitor,” she announced. Elsa scurried down the old ladder and was pleased to find her new friend waiting. She kissed Parween on each cheek and launched into the copious Afghan greeting.

  Parween smiled. “I am well,” she replied. “If you are not occupied with work this day, I would like to invite you to come with me to see the Buddhas’ caves. They lie above the empty holes where the Buddhas once watched over Bamiyan.” With that last statement, Elsa thought she detected a hint of sadness in her friend’s voice.

  She had seen the caves on the road to the clinic, the great gaping hollows in the mountain fronts that had once housed the revered Buddhas.

  Amina turned and spoke to Elsa.

  “Ahh, you must go. The views are like nothing else you will ever see.”

  Elsa was intrigued.

  “I’d love to go.” She asked Amina if she’d like to accompany them, but the young woman shook her head.

  “I will spend the day at my brother’s house. It is past time for me to visit.”

  Elsa reached into her pocket for her lipstick and held it out to Parween.

  “Oh no, not today. I cannot wear it in public where men might see it, only behind my own walls.”

  “Not even just a bit of color?”

  Parween shook her head. “No, no. Here we can only use it on special days or hidden at home. But it is your custom to wear it. For you, lipstick is as ordinary as a veil is to us. You must wear it.”

  Elsa smiled, self-conscious now. “Well, then I’ll wear it for both of us.” She swiped a bright swath of cherry red across her lips.

  Waving their good-byes, Elsa and Parween set off down the dusty road leading to the Buddha’s mountains. Once there, Elsa gazed up at the magnificent hollows, now just deep, yawning holes in the mountains. Before she’d come to Afghanistan, Elsa had spent hours on the Internet researching Bamiyan, and she’d seen pictures of the great Buddhas on her computer.

  “You can almost see them there, you know?” Elsa said as she looked upward.

  Parween nodded. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the soaring Buddhas that had greeted her on her first day in Bamiyan. She sighed and hurried on.

  “Follow me,” she said. They trudged up the mountain, Elsa struggling to find footholds as she went. The ragged face of the mountain tore at her hands as she pulled herself along, and she strained to keep up. She followed slowly, and it was then that she noticed the sturdy caves that had been carved into the sheets of rock that clung to the mountain. Those caves and hidden crevices had resisted the dynamite and explosions that had made dust of the once magnificent statues.

  They climbed through the cracks and gaps in the side of the mountain and finally stepped onto a narrow, sandy staircase and entered one of the small rooms that had flanked a Buddha.

  Elsa stood in the dusty room, and once her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw the colored scrolls and intricate designs painted on the walls. Though faded, the gentle blues and once vibrant reds brought life to the sand-colored rocks. She reached out to touch the painted walls but caught herself; this place was a kind of museum, all the more precious for its location and survival, despite the cruel weather and even crueler explosions.

  Parween grew quiet as she gazed at the brilliant art. “You see,” she said, “the Taliban weren’t able to destroy everything.”

  Eventually they both pulled themselves away from the unexpected designs and stood to look out on the parched countryside, framed by the sloping valleys and softly rolling peaks of the Hindu Kush mountain range.

  “This is beautiful, no?” Parween whispered.

  Elsa held her breath. The countryside, though beautiful, was littered with the remnants of decades of war.

  “What about all of that?” Elsa pointed to a row of bombed and burned-out tanks, pieces of shrapnel, and discarded rocket launchers scattered about the landscape.

  Her friend thought for a moment. “They remind me that we are finished with war. Inshallah, we are finished with it forever.”

  Elsa nodded. “Inshallah,” she said in agreement as she turned and scanned the countryside, searching for any sign of the soldiers’ house, but wherever it was, it was well hidden.

  “Come.” Parween’s voice interrupted her thoughts and Elsa scurried to follow as her friend left the cave and headed back into the sunshine, then farther up the mountainside. Elsa blinked to adjust to the light and saw that many of the caves seemed to be inhabited. People were scrambling up with water and food and disappearing into the mountain’s crevices. It was like a stone-age apartment house. She turned a questioning glance to Parween.

  “Yes, people live in these caves. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of villagers fled here when the Taliban attacked their villages. Those who have nowhere to go live here still.”

  She explained that the government had recently announced that they did not want people living in these caves, and anyone caught would be thrown in jail—or worse.

  “But these people don’t care what the government says,” Parween explained. “When officials come through Bamiyan, they disappear, become invisible. Only a close inspection would reveal that the caves are still occupied.” She laughed. “The government men will never make the climb to inspect the caves. They are soft men and the climb is hard.”

  “Could I maybe see inside a cave? See what it’s like?” Elsa asked, fascinated with this almost prehistoric way of living.

  Parween searched the landscape for a friend who lived there with her small daughter.

  “Her name,” Parween said, “is Bas-Bibi. She lived beyond Garganatu with her husband and children in a poor village. The village did not care what the Taliban said; they lived as they pleased. Their women never covered their faces and their hair was always spilling from their veils. They dared the Taliban to force them to adhere to the strict rules, and last winter the Taliban arrived to make an example of them.”

  Parween paused, a strange look crossing her face. She took a breath and continued.

  “Just as in Bamiyan, the Taliban wanted only to crush resistance and strike fear into the hearts of the villagers. They marched into the village, set fire to the old homes, burned up the little crops, and killed the livestock. The villagers were afraid that they would be murdered just as their goats had been, and many—including Bas-Bibi, her husband, and their two children—fled to the mountains with only the clothes on their backs. Though they found safety here, they had no protection from the bitter cold and the falling snow, and so they huddled together at the edge of a small cave for warmth.

  “One morning, when Bas-Bibi woke, her husband and youngest child, a tiny girl of four, lay dead next to her. They had frozen to death.” She shook her head.

  “Bas-Bibi and her daughter buried them there in the snow and trudged back to Garganatu, where they stayed only until they could arrange transportation here to Bamiyan. And now they live here,” Parween said as she turned to look at the caves.

  They climbed up higher in search of Bas-Bibi and before long, Parween called out a greeting.

  “As-salaam alaikum, Bas-Bibi. Chetore asti? Khoob asti? Jona jurast?”

  A smiling woman poked her head out of one of the mountain’s small openings and invited Parween and her companion into her little cave. Even with her delight at seeing a friend, Elsa thought Bas-Bibi looked older than she must have been. Her face, covered in the grime and soot that coated the cave, was streaked with lines of worry and defeat. Stray pieces of greasy hair peeked out from her veil, and her threadbare clothes had long since faded. She and Parween greeted one another effusively with kisses and smiles and when they were done, Parween turned and introduced Elsa.

  “Elsa,” Pa
rween said proudly, “comes from Amrika. She is a nurse, helping here in the clinic.”

  Bas-Bibi smiled again, kissed her cheeks, and asked Allah to bless her. Elsa, discomfited by all the attention that was being lavished on her, could only smile in return.

  “This is Sabia,” Parween said as a thin little girl bowed to her. She was covered in a fine layer of dust. “She is, I think, about eight years now.”

  Elsa smiled and a wide grin spread on Sabia’s grimy face.

  Bas-Bibi insisted that they stay for tea, and she sent Sabia to collect water from a nearby mountain stream. While they waited for her return, Elsa had a look around the cave, which was about the size of her own room. Although there were no courtyards, no wells, and no latrines nearby, it was surprisingly cozy.

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” she asked Parween, her voice tinged with surprise.

  “Yes, yes, Bas-Bibi has made it a pleasant home.” Parween explained that Bas-Bibi had been given some essentials from the UN. Sleeping pads, blankets, and cooking utensils lined the wall. A scrap of heavy plastic sheeting covered the dirt floor and a larger scrap covered the entrance to the cave. A small cooking area was set up by the entrance. It was as bare-bones as any stone-age existence had surely been, but in many ways, it was as homey as Parween’s own little dwelling.

  Sabia reappeared with the water, and Bas-Bibi started a small fire at the edge of the cave. Much of the smoke wafted back inside, burning Elsa’s eyes and covering all of them with a layer of soot. That explains the layers of perpetual grime, Elsa thought.

  Bas-Bibi brought the little metal pot of tea to a boil and poured it into sturdy aluminum mugs, and the women sat cross-legged on the cave’s plastic-covered floor, sipping the sweet tea and chatting.