Parsaa examined the fire, poking at the object with a stick.
“It’s a book,” Sofi murmured. “The one we were reading.”
An old copy of The Historical Geography of Afghanistan. It was too late to rescue the book from the flames.
Najwa did not move and stared off to the side of the room with a strange expression, as if in a satisfied trance. Saddiq placed a bucket of water next to his mother, and she sprinkled drops on the loose bandages. Parsaa crouched next to the girl. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.
She stared at Saddiq and then at Parsaa, before turning her head, trying to hide behind her headscarf. “I meant no harm,” she said softly. “I am awake now.”
The story was strange and short. Najwa insisted she did not know how she found her way into the house, let alone the bedroom. Parsaa asked Sofi to search the girl. His wife complied and found a peshkabz tucked in the roll of one sleeve. The knife’s curved blade was honed to a vicious point and the handle was lapis lazuli. Sofi held it up wordlessly and then handed it over to her husband.
Parsaa told Saddiq to check his brothers. The group waited in silence until he returned and advised his father the other boys were fine and sleeping soundly. His father then sent Saddiq off to wake the family who had been keeping Najwa. Before long, Saddiq returned with Talibah, who was shaken about being woken in the middle of the night. She glared at Najwa, and Parsaa showed her the weapon. She shook her head.
“She must have brought it with her,” Parsaa said.
Bending over, Talibah struck Najwa about the head, shouting that the girl could not be trusted. Parsaa pulled the woman away. Still, Talibah refused to allow Najwa to return to the small room that the family had set aside for her, and Sofi nodded in agreement.
So others could feel secure, Parsaa locked Najwa inside a storage shed, along with plenty of covers, food, water, and a pot so the girl could relieve herself. Sofi promised to change the girl’s bandages in the morning.
When Parsaa returned, Saddiq waited by the dying fire, staring at the thin layers of gray ash. The father placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Try to get some sleep.” The boy looked troubled and turned away without a word.
Parsaa returned to the bedroom, where Sofi was straightening Komal’s covers. His wife’s hand lingered on the child’s soft hair before she joined him under the wool covers.
“Do you think Najwa intended harm?” Sofi whispered.
Parsaa didn’t think so. He wrapped his arms around his wife and reminded her that many women and boys carried knives for work.
“Perhaps Najwa grabbed the book to defend herself? Could she have been after Komal and changed her mind?”
Parsaa murmured that the girl reached for the book and not the child. “She was walking in her sleep.”
Sofi asked about the struggle. “But why didn’t she wake up when you reached for her in the bedroom? Why did she rush to the stove?”
Parsaa couldn’t answer. He agreed that it was strange.
“The girl is sneaky. You must take her away.”
“Soon,” Parsaa promised.
“The village women are angry,” Sofi insisted. “Tomorrow.”
After the disturbance, Parsaa and Sofi did not sleep well. Both awoke long before dawn, and Komal squirmed and whimpered soon afterward. The boys were still asleep, and Parsaa retrieved more wood for the fire, warming the kitchen, while his wife wrapped Komal snugly in a blanket and placed her near the stove.
Cold weather was coming, and the village could not keep a young girl inside a storage shed. Once again, his wife warned him that everyone in the village would soon hear about the girl wandering about at night and entering another family’s bedroom. The village women would expect Parsaa to remove her quickly. If not, every misfortune would be blamed on Najwa.
They would not give her another chance.
The complaints were many. Since her arrival in Laashekoh, the girl had not spoken much, yet she exuded a boldness that was odd for a stranger. Neither the children nor the adults of Laashekoh trusted her or liked her. Most families refused to allow Najwa into their homes. The women prohibited letting her work alongside the older village children or caring for younger ones. They would not let her join them when cooking or washing clothes. Instead, they sent her to work in the fields for long hours alone during the day, and at night she cleaned the heavy cookware and beat rugs.
The girl worked hard and did not complain, though her eyes narrowed with angry judgment. She often lingered behind walls and corners, listening to conversations not intended for her ears. Najwa frightened the other children.
With her awkward ways, she truly seemed to be an orphan. Orphans were expected to work hard and save for the future, and for girls, that meant securing a good marriage, but Najwa lacked both a dowry and pleasant appearance. Slight in build, she was shorter than other girls her age, but she appeared older than her eleven or twelve years. Her hair was dry and uncombed, and her face was marked with blotches and a few old scars. Clenched teeth gave her mouth a stubborn edge, as if she anticipated disagreement. She could not see well and squinted even when directly facing others, as if she could not trust their words.
The commotion in the middle of the night confirmed the village women’s worries. Najwa was trouble. It didn’t matter if she was locked away in the shed, out of sight. Parsaa couldn’t blame the women for wanting a return to normality. The village was burdened by caring for too many girls without parents. Najwa was one problem too many.
Once the fire was blazing, Parsaa reached for his wife’s hand and pulled her to sit with him before she prepared the breakfast. Parsaa went over the options with Sofi, as Komal amused herself by chewing on a rag soaked in goat’s milk.
Najwa was old enough for a marriage contract. The village could send her to live with the groom’s family and wait for marriage. But few families would allow their sons to enter such a partnership—not without knowing more about her family background. Parsaa could provide a suitable amount for a dowry, but planning marriages took time. Families were suspicious about hasty arrangements that involved excessive sums. He should travel alone to make initial arrangements and negotiate as carefully as he would for a daughter. If he brought Najwa along during the first trip, the negotiators would understand that he was desperate.
Besides, her parents might have already promised her to a groom, and it was a crime to provide a girl already promised for marriage to another man. That could be a reason why Najwa was not eager to return to her home and parents. But then she wasn’t keen on cooperating with the residents of Laashekoh.
Regardless of what the girl wanted, Laashekoh was too small to absorb strangers for very long, especially girls with no fathers, uncles, husbands, or brothers to watch over them.
Parsaa had wanted to keep trying to locate the girl’s family. Paul Reichart, the aid worker who had helped return other children from the traffickers to their homes, had promised to investigate. Parsaa had also asked around at the market about families in need of a servant, but with no success. Most villages had plenty of children and did not need another mouth to feed. He thought about taking her to one of the larger towns and paying a fee so that brokers would find her a servant’s position.
Sofi shook her head. “She won’t be easy to place. They will send her back before the next full moon.”
He sighed. “It would be best for all concerned if we found her family.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Sofi chided him softly. She no longer believed Najwa and her claims about not knowing the whereabouts of her own family. Many villagers had questioned her, and all Najwa could say was that she was from Qarya, a small village in northern Ghōr. But that was of little help. Qarya meant “small village,” and even the Americans with their maps could not locate the place. When asked to describe her home, Najwa rambled on about three hills nearby.
Most Afghan villages could count three hills nearby.
Parsaa had long advised village
rs to keep asking questions and listen closely. Najwa had to remember more.
But her stories were vague, the details varying with listeners. She couldn’t describe roads or waterways or markets with specifics. One day, she suggested her parents did not own their own land, and her father had left for long periods to do odd jobs. With another, she explained that her father left and vanished. Her mother worked in fields belonging to a family whose name she could not recall. Then, she talked about a mother near death after bearing too many children. Yes, she had brothers. None had attended school, and all had left to fight in wars.
There were no uncles, she told Sofi.
To the aid worker, she explained that her parents had lived in one village all their lives. With Parsaa, she suggested that her parents had moved about in Ghōr more than once.
When asked if she had already been promised to another family for marriage, all Najwa could say was she did not know.
Sofi interrupted his thoughts. “You have spent far too long searching for a family that may not exist.”
“The girl could be afraid to return.” Parsaa also suspected Najwa knew more about her background. “Perhaps they were cruel.”
His wife was impatient. “She does not show fear.”
“Why would a child lie?” He appealed to his wife. “Why would she act in ways that jeopardize her future?”
“Perhaps they wanted nothing to do with her.”
Women could be hard on other women.
Sofi poured more hot water and leaned close to his ear. “Najwa does not like us. She does not want to be here.”
“We cannot hand our problem to another village,” he said.
“She needs training,” Sofi agreed. “But that is no longer possible here.”
Parsaa asked about Najwa’s skills with chores, and Sofi thought a moment. “As good as one can expect at that age,” she admitted. “Granted, the women have been hard on her lately. But she does what she’s told.”
“Has Najwa stolen others’ belongings?”
Sofi shook her head. “But she should not be near other children.”
He pulled a thread at the edge of the wool carpet. “Think about it,” his wife urged. “The foreign women came. They spoke loudly about offering rewards for finding orphans. And not long afterward, Najwa was in our bedroom. I fear she has picked up dangerous ideas.”
“She would abduct a child?” he asked.
Komal chortled from the corner of the room. The little girl tossed her rag and squirmed to escape the cover. Smiling, Sofi retrieved the toddler and returned to Parsaa’s side. Time alone with her husband was rare with five children in the house and so much work.
Sofi tucked Komal between the two adults and placed her hand so the child could bend and play with the fingers. “I’m not sure she wanted just any child.”
They quietly played with the youngest sister of Leila. Parsaa worried about his wife’s attachment to the little girl for many reasons. Komal’s mother and her older sister, Leila, were serving prison sentences for trafficking, and after the arrests, Leila’s sisters were divided among village families. The years would pass quickly. The child’s mother could leave prison and retrieve her daughters. Raising another woman’s child was like tending a neighbor’s garden, and love did not ensure control.
Early on, Sofi and Parsaa had tried keeping a distance, but the child seemed so cheerful and content to be away from her sisters that it was unthinkable that evil pulsed through her veins. Perhaps Shaitan had overlooked the little one. Baby Komal was easy, watching Sofi as she worked in the fields, laughing and trying to keep up with the boys during the evening. The child did not complain or demand attention. If left alone, she fingered strands of grass or folded and refolded the edge of her perahaan, her eyes wide as if listening intently to conversations she could not understand.
Parsaa had warned his wife that the family had no claim over Komal. Sofi had little to say other than insisting that was not a reason to deny her love.
Other villagers would not approve. Parents wanted their children to know that Leila’s crimes had shamed an entire family. Ostracizing the girls was the best hope for preventing a repeat of wrongdoings in the small village. Parsaa, Sofi, and the boys engaged in playful activities with Komal in the privacy of their own home. Parsaa often wondered if Sofi would love Komal as much when the girl was older.
Sofi interrupted his thoughts. “Najwa might not be a problem in a place with few families, a small home with no children,” she mused.
An idea slipped into his head. Or, perhaps that was his wife’s intention.
He could take Najwa to Zahira’s compound, he explained. The place was too much work for Aza and Mohan, who were getting older and should have had help long ago, and Najwa would be in a remote location with no children or young adults. Four adults could give her assignments and monitor her work. What trouble could she get into? “But only if I can assure Zahira that the girl won’t steal or cause other problems.”
His wife cast a long look at her husband. None of the women of Laashekoh, including Sofi, liked Zahira well. They never offered to include her in village celebrations or activities.
“Mixing two troubles does not make a problem go away,” she said. “Najwa could drive someone mad.”
“What other options do we have?” Parsaa said. “The compound is far enough away. That would satisfy women here. Yet it’s close enough for us to provide guidance and Zahira to reach out for help.”
Sofi was not convinced.
“She could leave today,” he added. “And I could still search for another home.”
There was no other option, and Sofi agreed to pack meals and Najwa’s meager belongings that morning. Zahira could check the girl’s burns.
“It’s the best an orphan girl could hope for.” Parsaa was impatient for Laashekoh to return to normal routines.
PART 2
And spend in the way of Allah and cast not yourselves to perdition with your own hands, and do good [to others]; surely Allah loves the doers of good.
—Koran 2:195
CHAPTER 5
The table was set three days before Canadian Thanksgiving—all that was left to add was a small bouquet, candlelight, and, of course, the meal itself.
Lydia last met her daughter-in-law’s parents at the memorial service that followed much too soon after the wedding. So much time had passed, but she impulsively sent an e-mail, tentatively suggesting the gathering in East Lansing, and the couple surprised her with their eagerness. They also agreed to bring photographs.
The three parents shared a bond. Lydia’s only son had married an only daughter. Michael and Rose each had an independent streak, ready to separate from their parents and find a love that would rival that of their parents. Michael had once admitted to feeling like the odd man out, growing up with parents who had remained the best of friends: “It was lonely at times because both of you were so close.” He wanted nothing more than to follow his parents in finding his own best friend for sharing dreams, secrets, and love.
Sitting in a dark room, with a glass of wine, Lydia remembered so many conversations and jotted notes on what she should share. The memories were bittersweet, and the plans offered a hint of anticipation that she had once felt when waiting to join her husband at the end of the workday or receive a telephone call from her son.
Rose’s parents, Rebecca and Tim, drove from Toronto to spend Monday with Lydia. The turkey was in the oven, the rest of the meal was prepared, and Lydia just had to switch on burners. The sky was perfect, the air crisp as leaves danced about the streets. Lydia had borrowed extra bikes from friends for a quick tour of campus and the small town before tackling final preparations for the meal. The streets were free of traffic, though plenty of people their age were out, taking advantage of one of the year’s last golden days. Trails linked a charming campus with meadows and parks, and the couple expressed pleased surprise over the small-town atmosphere and the solid oaks, maples, hickories, and beec
h arching over the Red Cedar River and Grand River Avenue.
Returning home, they opened champagne and shared tasks of chopping, slicing, spreading, and mashing—and all three admitted their amazement that it wasn’t so hard to talk for hours about memories of two grown children.
Rebecca mentioned that Thanksgiving was Rose’s favorite holiday and Lydia smiled. “Michael’s, too,” she said. “And when Rose told him it was her favorite, Michael said that was when he knew she was the one.”
Tears glistened in their eyes more than once, but there were also plenty of smiles. The dinner was perfect, delicious, the cleanup fast. Tim tended the fire. They piled photograph albums on the coffee table and took turns slowly turning pages that documented their children’s lives. Most of Michael’s shots were outdoors, the boy muddy, climbing trees, or organizing a group of neighborhood children for parades, alien battles, or hiking expeditions. A tiny Rose was featured in modern dance recitals, choral groups, reading competitions with a dreamy attitude that later gave way to a steely determination in graduate school.
More than once, the parents murmured how the two were a perfect couple, lucky to have met one another and enjoyed success. “We should have done this sooner.” Rebecca was abrupt, apologizing to Lydia for not extending their own invitation and not taking a more active interest in the foundation named after the couple.
Lydia understood the reticence and shook her head. “There is no need for an apology. We needed time.” She did not bring up her failure to invite them to participate in the foundation or her resentment. Rebecca and Tim still had each other while she was completely alone. She gently steered the subject in another direction. “I was surprised that Michael and Rose had thought so far ahead about starting such an organization.”
Rebecca and Tim glanced at each other. Tim spoke up. “We were surprised, too, considering Rose’s research—on cultural and social capitalism and abuses of modern charity. She was not keen on charities as a mechanism for funding education, health, and other needed programs.”
Allure of Deceit Page 6