Allure of Deceit

by Susan Froetschel

  The compound could be lonely, Zahira warned. She rifled through a drawer, pretending to search for a notepad and pen. She was torn about taking in a stranger, though the compound could use more help. She asked if the girl was intelligent, but he did not know. “Do you think she will like it here?”

  Parsaa nodded. “You are a good influence.”

  More flattery. The offer was tempting. The girl could do chores and help with Arhaan and his birds, giving Aza and Zahira more time with the child.

  If the girl did not work well, she could return to Laashekoh, though that could be a problem. Zahira did not want the girl gossiping about the compound with the villagers. But Zahira could hide her secrets, and Aza and Mohan would do the same. Her husband, engrossed with his mynas, would pay no attention.

  The villagers already resented the girl and would not listen to the ramblings of an orphan.

  Parsaa pressed her. “So what do you think?”

  “You are in a rush to leave this girl. Be truthful, Parsaa. How big of a problem is she?”

  He did not avoid her stare. “She is rough and strange. She keeps secrets. But she is not dangerous.”

  He was in a hurry, and Zahira shrugged. “We all have secrets. Bring her by and I will decide.”

  Heading for the door, he replied that the girl was ready to work that night.

  “So presumptuous!” Zahira protested. She asked what he would have done had she said no. “We are busy here, and need time to prepare!”

  He was embarrassed, and Zahira checked her anger, silently tapping her finger on a counter. The girl could work out, especially if she was not close with other villagers. There were so many tasks associated with the infant, more than Zahira had anticipated. She wondered if the girl would think it odd that Parsaa had not mentioned the child. Zahira could lie and state that she was caring for a friend’s daughter.

  Better to give no details at all. The girl was a servant. Zahira did not have to explain. She followed Parsaa to the door. “So you trust me with a child?”

  “Of course,” Parsaa replied. “Najwa is not so young. The older ones can be difficult to train.”

  She asked if he would trust leaving one of his own children at the compound. He nodded quickly enough.

  “If I take this orphan, you must return in two weeks. If the arrangement does not work, you must take her away.”

  He protested that two weeks was not long. “It’s the best I can offer,” Zahira said coolly. “I do not understand why she is a problem there, but helpful here?”

  He reminded her that the village was still caring for Leila’s sisters. “Their father made no plans for them, and people are uncomfortable about so many girls in the village.”

  She wondered how much he knew about the girl in prison. “Have you heard news of Leila?”

  “The two foreign women know of her.” He bitterly described Leila waiting out her time in the Kandahar prison with support from foreign charities. He opened the door to the dark night sky full of stars, and Zahira stood with him in the cool air.

  “The authorities may trust a woman,” he mused. “You could tell them she does not deserve support.”

  She denied that the foreigners would listen and advised that he not worry. “The charities do what they want. Let Leila get a taste of their foreign ways. Once she wrongs them, the foreign charities will snatch it away. If we antagonize her, she will return for vengeance.”

  He asked if Zahira thought some illness caused Leila and her parents to act as they did.

  “Greed is not an illness.” Dwelling on Leila’s character made her uncomfortable. “It is taught by parents.”

  “If that is her only flaw,” Parsaa said. Parents could suggest their children were better than others and deserved more from life. Parents could complain and blame others, sowing discontent that lasted a lifetime.

  Zahira asked if Parsaa had ever suspected that Leila had criminal tendencies. He leaned against the door and shook his head.

  “Could her sisters repeat her ways?” she pressed.

  He did not know.

  “Think hard,” Zahira urged.

  The sisters were close, he explained. Leila was good to her parents and sisters. “I have tried to remember every conversation, every glance. We missed something. She was her father’s treasure.”

  “So that shaped her character?” Zahira questioned.

  Parsaa thought. “Perhaps. That and how much others admired her beauty. But how does it matter? What could we have done differently?” He admitted to having never imagined that Leila could hurt his oldest son.

  He paused again. “The other girls have done no wrong so far. They are quiet, sad, and seem to understand that their parents brought their troubles on themselves.”

  So far . . . A parent never knew how much could go wrong with a child’s life. Zahira tightened her headscarf and crossed her arms to shield against the chilly night breeze.

  “People like you are unusual.” Parsaa smiled.

  She looked at him with surprise.

  “For staying here. For caring and not wanting more. It’s a good way.”

  “You don’t know what I want.” But she returned his smile. “And it’s not wrong to want more knowledge or family or love or comforts like electricity or water. It’s not the same as wanting money or control.”

  He did not respond. Shivering, she suggested that he bring Najwa inside.

  Parsaa tried to reassure her, suggesting if a problem developed, Zahira should send the caretaker to Laashekoh. His unflustered attitude added to her exasperation. “It is late.” She waved him off. “Bring her to the house.”

  Reaching for her hand, he thanked her. “Your household has fewer people. That means fewer complications.”

  “Never forget that it’s complicated here, too, Parsaa. Two weeks may be too long. . . .”

  He slipped away, and she almost thought about calling him back and telling him that she needed more time to think. She should warn her husband.

  But Parsaa would think of her as flighty, and instead she ran across the courtyard to her home.

  Zahira would listen to the girl’s observations about Parsaa, his wife, his children. Najwa was a reminder of days that the people of ­Laashekoh wanted to forget, and that could be useful.

  CHAPTER 9

  Parsaa climbed the hill and returned to the small clearing where he had left Najwa. The girl waited among the shadows of the tall pines, out of reach from the lights of the compound. She sat on a large rock, her back hunched forward, hands folded and head down as if in prayer. As he approached, she lifted her head, a quick flash of defiance accompanied by a meek voice. “Am I staying here?”

  He was curt. “For a short while.” If the length of her stay was uncertain, Najwa might behave.

  Najwa reached for the small bag containing her meager belongings. “Did you bring my blade?” she asked. Parsaa scolded her, explaining that a sharp weapon was not necessary in the tiny compound, and she murmured that the tool was all she had left from home.

  “You will be safe here,” he said. He promised to bring the peshkabz during another visit.

  Guilt lingered. He had not been forthright with Zahira. Najwa was not dull or dangerous, he was sure. Yet she was more than odd, irritating others by staring, eavesdropping on conversations for no good reason, and balking at answering questions about her family. She seemed older than her years and manipulative. Najwa had displayed few opinions since her arrival and was unusually stoic. Parsaa could not deny that he was abandoning a responsibility and toyed briefly with the idea of bringing her back to the village. Both Zahira and Sofi would think he was foolish.

  Zahira should form her own judgment. She would put Najwa to work, and the two weeks would pass quickly. That could help determine where the girl belonged. The pair approached the main house with smooth walls of yellow clay. The structure resembled a golden shrine in the night except for the noisy cackling of birds. They sensed a newcomer.

  Najw
a asked if more than one family lived in the compound.

  “No, just one,” he said softly. Then he spoke loudly so others would hear. “Zahira is a capable woman, and this is her childhood home. You must do whatever she asks.”

  A silhouette waited in the doorway—still and nothing like the memories of his youth.

  Blacker invited the strongest and smartest boys from nearby villages to train at the compound. When the selected boys were not tending herds or helping their parents in the fields, they headed to the busy compound for training in tracking, climbing, weapons, and hand-to-hand combat. The man observed the boys, testing them on strategy puzzles, strength, and endurance.

  When not studying with her tutors, his daughter sat underneath a canopy of trees on a slope overlooking Blacker’s playing field. As the boys clashed and tumbled on the field, she read from a schoolbook, occasionally lifting her head at a sudden outburst. She was Blacker’s only child, a few years younger than Parsaa. The warlord treasured his daughter, trusting her as an adviser. He purchased furs, embroidered silk clothes, jewelry, horses, and whips with trailing silk cords for her—but more than anything else, she longed for books and an education. She left the compound for long periods to attend a school in the city, already showing a talent for reading, math, history, and three languages.

  Families in nearby villages regarded the girl as odd and warned their sons against whispers or stares cast in her direction. The games and lessons were more relaxed when the girl was not around.

  At night, after the boys returned to their homes, Zahira answered her father’s questions about which ones were intelligent, loyal, and trustworthy. The bond was strong between Blacker and his only child, and the boys had no idea about how much their benefactor relied on the young girl’s assessments.

  During the few occasions when she was not attending school or studying for tests, Zahira helped the house servants prepare and distribute lunch to the group of boys—thick stews along with an unending supply of naan, fresh fruit, and milk. She was aloof, like a mother or an older sister, and once the meal was served, Zahira sat near the boys, nibbling fruit while listening to the boasts and complaints of fatigue. She was quiet—an observer rather than a participant—and for the most part, the boys ignored her. Then one day a boy teased Zahira for serving Parsaa the largest portion of stew. That was the boy’s last day at the compound.

  Zahira took pains to show no preference for Parsaa, but the servants and older boys already noticed her keen interest. Eventually Blacker recognized his daughter’s fascination, too. The man turned his intense gaze on Parsaa, observing and waiting with neither approval nor disapproval. As his daughter so often noted, the boy was quiet, loyal, and kind.

  A few months later, Blacker visited the boy’s parents with a proposition. He saw potential in their son and offered to pay tuition and board at a maktab, or school. Parsaa’s parents were excited, and Blacker gave them fair warning about the long-term nature of the duties. Blacker expected Parsaa, when finished, to return to Laashekoh and help manage and secure the properties.

  The parents had no qualms about entering their son into a lifelong commitment. Young Parsaa enjoyed spending time at the compound, and an education and a guaranteed position meant their son could return to the fields of Laashekoh rather than leave for fighting. After tea, Parsaa’s father accompanied Blacker to the horses. “He should leave immediately.” Blacker issued the quiet order. “Your job is to instill loyalty and gratitude in your son.”

  Parsaa’s father gave his promise. “With Allah as my witness, you have my word.”

  Summer days passed, and Parsaa no longer showed up for training at the compound. Zahira could not bear it any longer. As the boys paired up to practice with swords, she tugged at her father’s sleeve and asked about the boy’s whereabouts. Her father explained that Parsaa had left for school early, and Zahira was furious.

  “You attend school,” Blacker countered. “Why don’t you want the same for him?”

  Fury turned to tears, and her father was stern. “You say you want to become a doctor, and if you’re serious, that means leaving this place.” Later, he suggested that her goals and Parsaa’s duties did not combine for a suitable marriage. Zahira blushed, refusing to respond to the bold suggestion. She had imagined friendship, not marriage, and she wondered which her father detested more—her love for Parsaa or her dream to become a doctor and work outside of Afghanistan.

  Parsaa’s parents had already planned his marriage, her father explained. Besides, he warned that she would not be happy with Parsaa as a husband. “He is a servant, nothing more,” Blacker cautioned his daughter. “If you study medicine, I doubt that you will return to this part of Afghanistan. Parsaa has no reason to leave. But should you return, he will remember our kindness and keep you safe.”

  He took his daughter into his arms. “This land and home will be safe. No one can touch you.”

  Her father was intense, describing every detail of the transaction, as though he suspected that his daughter might not leave Afghanistan.

  Najwa stepped inside the home and Zahira—tall, commanding, beautiful in a deep-blue perahaan tunbaan, a loose tunic and pants in soft, brushed cotton—waited for a reaction. Three yellow kittens tumbled behind her.

  Parsaa hung back, ready to speak—though that may have been wishful thinking on Zahira’s part—when a sudden gust of wind slammed the door on him. Parsaa did not knock, and Zahira was tempted to fling open the door and call out. At least wish him a safe journey back to Laashekoh.

  That was unwise in front of the girl. Every gesture could be misconstrued.

  Zahira could wait for Parsaa to return in two weeks. She turned and assessed the girl. Oversized clothes did not hide Najwa’s large bones and awkwardness. Her cheekbones, wide and flat, pressed her eyes into a squint. Her plain brown hair was dry and dull. Her skin had dry patches.

  Najwa stared at the surrounding walls that rose toward a painted arch, detailed in gold and red paint, bathed in light so late at night, as if she had stepped into a world of magic. The home was grand, its ceilings higher than any in Laashekoh. Zahira expected a stronger reaction. After all, the compound—the large home surrounded by nearly twenty other structures of varying sizes—had been built for the region’s toughest warlord and the top deputies of his militia.

  That was years ago. Zahira had since updated the home and renovated the armory as a small clinic. The barn that once sheltered Blacker’s horses served as her husband’s workshop, with cages for his mynas.

  Other than a small home in the center of the compound for the caretakers, Aza and Mohan, the other structures were closed or used for storage.

  The main home was warm, spacious, and modern. Perhaps the comfortable furniture, ruby-red Afghan rugs, and golden light from lamps intimidated Najwa, and Zahira took that as a good sign. Though the compound was lonely, the girl might want to work hard and stay.

  Zahira was not friendly, though. Blacker had trained his daughter how to manage household staff and newcomers: Never trust them. Offer scant attention, especially in front of others, and make them nervous and unsure, ready to please.

  She barely acknowledged Najwa. Zahira called for the woman who ran the household and curtly ordered Aza to prepare a space for Najwa: “We’ll decide what to do with her in the morning.”

  Aza suggested putting Najwa in one of the smallest huts once used by seasonal help. Zahira was cold. “She may not stay long. Show her the kitchen. She can heat what’s left of the carrot soup and take it back to her quarters.”

  Aza ordered Najwa to pick up her own belongings.

  Zahira turned her back, dismissing them. She hoped that Aza would think up enough tasks for Najwa to do. The girl was probably not capable of cooking fine meals or handling expensive belongings.

  Guests were rare, and Zahira still enjoyed being useful around the house, preparing meals for the small group, helping Aza with the laundry, reviewing the accounts, not to mention feeding, cleaning
, and comforting the child.

  If anything, Aza set the agenda for the compound and supervised Zahira. The younger woman trusted Aza as if she were an older sister.

  Arhaan did not lift a hand to help poor Mohan.

  Aza ordered the girl to wait outside. Once alone with Zahira, Aza asked if Parsaa knew about the child yet. Zahira shook her head, and the older woman frowned. “Once he knows about the child, he’ll be more willing to secure this compound.”

  Zahira did not agree and shook her head.

  “He is still outside. You can tell him tonight.”

  “I’m not ready,” Zahira said.

  “Mohan and I can tell him?” Aza questioned.

  “Not yet.” Zahira was stubborn.

  “The baby will wake soon,” Aza reminded. “Be prepared to quiet her quickly.”

  Zahira hurried toward her bedroom to check on the sleeping child. Her rosy pout and lashes like tiny fans were set against creamy, white skin. Zahira tried, but she still couldn’t think of the child as her daughter.

  The baby was renamed Shareen, after the woman who had died giving birth to Zahira. The name, rarely mentioned when Zahira was a child, should not prompt so many memories, and she hoped those would fade as the child exerted her own personality. One day Zahira might tell Parsaa about the baby. Only if she could be sure that the knowledge would draw him closer to her and the compound.

  Bending over, Zahira picked up the baby. Shareen whimpered but remained asleep as Zahira left the house and moved slowly among the shadows to observe the compound. Privacy was the ultimate luxury at the compound, but so easy to steal.

  Aza was preoccupied with settling Najwa in a squat building with no windows and summarizing the routines that had not changed in years. Breakfast was served just after sunrise and dinner at sunset. Both were served in the kitchen. “For now, this is your space, and you must take care of it. If compound guests arrive, you must give up the space.”

  Najwa stood in the doorway as the older woman lit a lantern with a warning that the hut did not have electricity. “But there’s a fireplace and small stove and wood here. There’s a cistern, so you don’t have to collect your own water. Use it sparingly. The rain is not as plentiful as it used to be.” She handed Najwa a key. “I have the other copy.”