by John Wray
Fingers gripped her sometime later and pulled her stiffened legs straight and pushed her gently down onto her back. Her bindings were unfastened and her wrists were wrapped in medicated gauze. She heard a slurring low-pitched voice and saw the woman high above her. The woman might have been speaking Pashto or Arabic or Urdu or some language of her own invention. She repeated what she’d said and still the words were drained of meaning. Her jaw was swollen so severely that her lips seemed not to open when she spoke. She lisped the words again and bobbed her head and filled a chipped green glass with barley tea.
The tea had been sweetened with both cream and honey and Aden realized as she sipped it that she must have had a fever. Days had been lost, perhaps weeks. She drained the glass and set it on the floor and the woman grunted softly and refilled it. It was warm and indescribably delicious. She thanked the woman in Pashto and in Arabic to no effect at all.
When the second glass was empty she rolled back the gauze on her wrists and saw that the cuts from the wire were scabbed over. The cloth she was wrapped in was clean and smelled of bleach and of cedar. It was precisely the smell that her father’s shirts had had when she’d been small and she knew this was impossible and as she had this thought she started sobbing. The woman said something urgently in her hideous slack-tongued voice and as Aden tried to answer her the room began to turn. There was no need to guess what the woman was saying. Her bony hands were trembling as she pulled Aden upright and gave her more tea.
—Ziar, she heard herself saying. —Ziar Khan. Do you know him?
The woman’s eyes seemed to widen.
—You know him, little mother. I can see that you know him. I need you to give him a message. To tell him I’m here.
The woman gave a warbling moan and stared down at the floor. Aden took her wrist and gripped it. She jerked her arm away and rocked in place and spoke in gibberish. Aden covered her ears with her hands and lay back down and pictured Ziar coming. She closed her eyes and saw him. He was coming in his pickup with a gun across his knees.
A day and night passed and the door did not open. She drank what she was given and slept in brief snatches and let the woman lead her to the bucket. The high white walls began to seem familiar, to kindle some dim memory, but the boundary between her past and what she’d dreamed had been erased. Her last reliable memory was of standing in her bare feet in the freezing Kabul River. Nothing since made sense to her at all.
* * *
By the time they came for her she’d recovered enough to know why the room seemed familiar. Two men in skullcaps and cream-colored jackets unbolted the door and entered like courtiers or handmaidens bearing gold-embroidered silks for her to wear. She knew by then whose house it was and whose elegant hands had touched her in her delirium and what the lisping woman lived in fear of. The men displayed the clothes without fanfare and laid them in two neat piles on the cleanest of the cushions and left the room again without a word. The woman kept still until the door was shut, then rose and gestured mutely to the squares of folded cloth. The smile she gave was terrible to see.
The men returned for her within the hour. Whereas before they had stared at her unabashedly they now averted their eyes and spoke only in whispers, as though she were a priceless relic in some temple. They requested in careful English that she accompany them and waited humbly for her answer before leading her outside. They guided her by gesture only, never by touch. She followed them through the low iron doorframe, catching her headscarf momentarily, and panic seized them that her hair might be exposed. They begged her to pay more attention.
She stepped dazedly into the full light of day, holding the scarf in place with her right hand, still hoping to find the garden she’d envisioned. She saw a cinder-block enclosure, a gravel-lined courtyard, a reticulated gate of painted steel. She saw the tile-roofed outbuilding where she’d waited with the Arab jihadis in their T-shirts and sneakers a lifetime before. The pebbles she walked on were pale green and speckled, like magpie’s eggs, and the gate was a sun-beaten blue. She’d missed such details on her first visit because of the darkness and because she’d been a child then and a fool. But there was no residue of that child left within her, not anymore, and neither was she frightened or confused. She was a woman and the opposite of frightened. She was eager. She walked ahead of her retainers and they fell in line behind.
She found him as he’d been that first night, alone in his chamber with his legs crossed beneath him, his henna-tipped beard all but brushing the floor. His eyes were half shut and his thin lips moved subtly, as though he were in conference with angels. His yellow eyes came open as the door behind her closed.
—Now I know, he said. —And I am satisfied.
—You don’t know anything.
—I said you had some quality. A quality that set you apart. He smiled. —You’ll not dispute the point, I hope. It would not be ladylike.
—Go to hell.
—I’m acquainted with this practice, of course. This girl-as-boy practice. We too have this tradition. But I had no knowledge of it from your country. He nodded to himself. —I took you simply for a boy, one of rare faith and surpassing beauty. You were a wonder to us all, Aden Sawyer Grace. A sign of God’s forbearance and His favor. To some of us you are a wonder still.
—I don’t care what I am to you.
—You’ve never worn hijab before, that much is evident. He ran his tongue along his teeth. —How do you find your clothes?
—I want to see Ziar.
He nodded and appraised her for a time.
—Naghma did a fine job with you, I must admit. But even she cannot work miracles.
—Naghma?
He raised his eyebrows. —By now I would have thought you’d be first friends. Pardon my English. Fast friends. Is this the expression?
—Who is she?
—Naghma Benafsha Gul is the most senior of my wives.
—How many do you have?
—A worthy question, Aden Grace. Worthy and apposite. He wound the red tip of his beard around the knuckles of his thumb. —I now have two.
In the silence that fell she could hear children shouting to each other and the hum of the air-conditioning unit and the nearby keening of a muezzin. These sounds came so abruptly that they seemed conjured out of nothing by his answer. But she knew that the sounds had preceded her there and that they would continue after she had passed away. The sounds had always been there and the room had always been there. The platform he sat on was higher than before, the kilim more luxurious and intricately figured. She saw fountains and lilies like those in her dream. A silver antenna taken from a car or from a radio lay at his feet. Its presence confused her.
—You’ve been ill, said the man. —You must still be quite weak. I give you my permission to be seated.
—I can stand.
—We’ll be in this room a long time, child. Days on end possibly. You’d be well-advised to save what strength you have.
She blinked at him, trying to follow, then turned and looked behind her. Her escorts were gone. There was only the platform and the brick walls and the cold fluorescent light.
—You think I’m a liar, she said. —You think that’s all I am.
—I think you’re a deceiver, Aden Grace, and a consummate one. He pointed at her with a liver-spotted finger. —Look at you now. Dressed as a new bride should be, perfumed and wrapped in silk from head to foot. You are beautiful, my dear. Your boyishness is stripped away completely. And yet it was so wonderfully convincing.
—I’m a whore, she said. —I’ve been with men already.
—I assumed as much, the man said comfortably. —And so did Ziar Khan.
She wavered for an instant. —But Ziar didn’t take me.
—What’s that, my dear?
—Ziar didn’t take me as his wife.
—Ziar was a proud man, Aden Grace. A man in his prime. I, on the other hand— He pursed his lips. —Old age has its compensations, as you may yet discover. One may pr
ofit, for example, from the scruples of the young.
—I’d rather die, she said.
—Beg pardon? said the man, holding a cupped hand to his ear.
—I’d rather die.
—Nonsense. God charges not any soul except with what it can bear. To its credit belongs what it has earned: upon it falls the burden of what it has deserved. He brought his fingertips together. —You won’t refuse what you deserve, I trust?
She felt her legs lock under her. —He loves me.
—Who does? The All-Merciful? The man sighed. —Perhaps so. Yet here you stand, forsaken, in this room.
—Ziar, she said.
—What’s that, my dear?
—Ziar won’t let you do this.
—My precious child! the man said, shaking his head. —Who do you think it was that brought you to me?
She stood for what seemed a great while with her legs locked beneath her and her blurring vision focused on the kilim. He watched her in silence, holding the tip of his tongue between his teeth. It was possible that this was all he wanted. She imagined herself growing old in his house, in his room, in his elegant presence, forgetting her transgressions and her English and her childhood and her name.
—Raise your eyes to mine, Aden Grace. You have my permission.
She did as she was told. She found what she’d expected to find in his face but still it appalled her. He was making no effort to hide what he wanted. She tried and failed to turn her head away.
—Do you remember the last time we sat here together, when you were calling yourself Suleyman Al-Na’ama? Do you remember what it was that we discussed?
She shook her head slowly.
—I asked you what had brought you to the Faith. You gave quite a long answer. You said some things were beautiful in this world our God created. He cleared his throat primly. —You said other things were depraved.
—I never said—
—I have a fine memory, you see, though my hair has gone white. He made a wide and sweeping gesture, taking in all the room. —Tell me, Aden Grace Sawyer, before we proceed. Might not some of His creations be both?
She gave no answer but he bobbed his head regardless. Her expression and her silence seemed to satisfy him fully. He sat back on his heels and ran his palm over the lilies and the fountains and the stars and the rosettes.
—You yourself are both, he said at last. —Come here.
She opened her mouth to speak and heard no sound at all. She shook her head and found herself obeying. Obeying this man who was all that now remained. There was nothing outside, nothing left, of that much she was certain. There was only this chamber with its freshly tiled floor and the hum of the ventilator and the old man on the platform and her body and her clothes. The weakness had passed and her brocaded slippers slid forward and her body seemed to have no form or weight. She came to him shyly. The silk gasped and whispered. She heard the rustling of the costly cloth and knew it was exquisite, a voluptuousness surpassing even her most self-indulgent dreams. The man on the platform knew it also and gathered the raw blue silk into his fist and pulled her closer. Her slippers knocked against the platform’s wooden baseboard. He was no longer smiling. His breath smelled of tobacco and turned milk and cloves.
—Show me.
He made a gesture and she bowed her head and felt herself bend forward. Her last fear had left her. He relaxed his hold and she reached down and gathered the silk of her gown at its hem and raised it to her chin. She heard the air catch in his throat. The noise of it resounded off the high white walls like music. He gestured again and she lifted her underdress and now his breath came hissing through his teeth. He let her loose and hooked his thumbs into the stockings she wore and rolled them down to just above her knees. The hand that had passed so tenderly across her forehead in her delirium now took hold of her so fiercely that she cried out from the pain. He ordered her to lower her eyes and when she refused he snatched up the antenna and brought it down across her forehead like a switch. The pain was severe but not unwelcome and when she brought a hand to her cheek the switch came down again across her fingers and her chin.
—Look at me, no one’s daughter. Look at me, little blessing. Little godsend. Little wife.
Tears were standing in her eyes as she obeyed him. The pain was such that there was room for nothing else. All thought reduced to a line. She knew only that she was bleeding and there wasn’t any blood.
—Little wife, said the man. —Say to me: Yes, my husband.
—Yes, my husband.
—Repeat it, my wife. And do not look away.
—Yes, my husband.
He nodded. —Now ask my forgiveness.
—Forgive me, my husband.
—For what?
—I don’t know.
—For what?
—I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
—That is so, said the man. —You have much yet to learn, Aden Grace. He took her hand and ran the switch across her upturned palm. —But you needn’t worry. I have much to teach.
—Yes, my husband.
—Take this off, he said, lowering the switch to her hips.
She thanked him and pushed down her stockings. The light started pulsing. She stepped out of the stockings and kicked them away. The antenna twitched like a cat’s tail in his fingers as he watched her. She asked herself what the difference might be between the man who now observed her and the man in that sunlit cave so long ago and she told herself there wasn’t any difference. Not from this moment forward. She imagined that vaulted white room as a cave of some kind and herself as a martyr for a cause she had yet to discover. She prayed that she might learn the cause before she ceased to be.
—Raise your garment again. Quickly now. Lift it higher.
She did as she was told. He set the switch aside.
—I ask to see your body before seeing your bare head. You may think this strange.
—No, my husband.
—Of course you do, child. You have no understanding.
She watched him bring his fingers languorously to his lips. His eyes grew distant.
—The hair of the girl is the most private part. It is for this that you wear the hijab. It is the most precious part. The most secret. His eyes found hers again. —This is my personal belief. Others may disagree.
She looked at him and said nothing.
—Remove it, he told her. —Uncover your head.
She undid the silk. She was eager to do it. It was diaphanous and lovely and it crackled in her fingers. She held it out for his appraisal, gathered neatly in her palms. Her hair was parted like a schoolboy’s and it stood up in the back. He reached out to touch it. His eyes were hooded and his small creased mouth hung open. She parted her hands until the silk was taut between them. His eyes rolled upward like a mystic’s and he said something too breathlessly to hear. She leaned close to him and asked him to repeat it.
—I’m asking His forbearance, he said in a voice leached of feeling. —I’m asking His forgiveness for what I intend to do.
—You’re forgiven, she said, and passed the fabric twice around his neck.
Such was his ecstasy that she was behind him before he understood her purpose and by then her foot was braced against his back. He thrashed with more power than she’d have thought possible and it took all her strength and skill to keep behind him. She feared the silk might tear but it was excellently made. She imagined his eyes wide and bulging in surprise and spittle gathering on his lips but she saw nothing but the reddening of flesh along his nape. She wished that she could see his eyes and begged God’s pardon for the thought. She brought her full weight to bear on the trench of his spine and arched her back as she’d been taught by her instructors at the Mountain and felt his body give a sudden kick.
—All right, Aden, she said softly. —All right, Aden. It’s all right.
She heard the spirit leave his body clearly. A small bright fluid note as from a bell. His left hand closed around her wrist an
d dug its nails into her skin and that was all. She counted slowly down from ten, as she’d been taught, before letting go of the silk. His forehead met the platform with no sound that she could hear.
A span of minutes or of seconds passed in which colored bands of light obscured her vision and it took all of her resolve to keep from falling. She thought of Decker but Decker was a memory now and nothing more. She thought of Ziar and felt certain he’d been killed. Anything else was unthinkable. She repeated his name as the room turned around her. Her blood seemed to thicken. She hadn’t considered what would happen once the cat-eyed man was dead.
She was still standing naked over the body with her arms held out to either side when she became aware of footfalls on the gravel. She crossed the room in her bare feet and listened at the door. A man said something and laughed and another man hissed at him in Pashto to keep quiet. They slipped out of their sandals and came closer and knelt on the doorstep. She could feel them on the far side of the boards. A flickering shroud of blue and silver draped itself across her sight and she rested her fingers on a crossbeam of the door to keep her balance. By the time the shroud had lifted the two men seemed to have gone.
She lost no time now in stripping the body and dressing herself in its clothes. Her legs were too long but she tied the shalwar as low as she could and hid the bareness of her hips beneath the tails of the kameez. She found a bowl of tepid water and drank her fill and used the dregs to clean the powder from her face. She put on the old man’s headscarf and arranged it with painstaking care. The smell of him was strong enough that she began to retch and she closed her eyes and let the retch run through her. The men were listening at the doorstep or the men had gone away. The future is the province not of man but the Unseen.
A call to prayer was sounding as she stepped into the light. The whitewashed wall, the gravel yard, the freshly painted gate. The call was coming from a modest tin-roofed mosque outside the compound. The yard was deserted. She crossed it without hesitation and entered the nearest outbuilding and left its door open behind her.