02_Coyote in Provence (11 page)

The last to enter the room was Haji, Darya’s uncle and Husna’s husband. He was the head male of the family and his word was law. One of the children carried a copper basin and an elaborately decorated pot filled with water for each member to use to wash their hands. In this compound, nothing had changed for centuries.

Haji greeted Darya in the traditional manner. “
Salaam
” he said, shaking her hand. He sat down on the cushion reserved for him, looking around to make sure that all of the family was present. It was unnecessary as everyone from the smallest baby to Husna would always be where they were expected to be and do what they were expected to do. No one did anything to offend Haji. His autocratic rule of his family was legendary and yet was typical of most Afghan families.

Servants brought in one dish after another: grilled lamb kebabs; Afghanistan’s national dish,
quabili palao
with meat and stock topped with fried raisins, slivered carrots and pistachios; rice with meatballs; dumplings; tandoori chicken; salad;
naan
and
lavash
breads; an onion based stew with beef, yogurt and spices; and stuffed grape leaves. Chutney and pickled fruits accompanied the dishes with dessert consisting of
gosh e feel
, thin fried pastries covered with powdered sugar and ground pistachios. They ate communal style, passing the food and eating with the fingers of their right hand. Each time a platter was empty another dish quickly replaced it. Darya knew this was one place she didn’t need to have her food tested for poisonous substances.

After dinner everyone left for their respective homes located within the compound and Haji went into his office. Husna and Darya sat and talked. Soon all of the dishes had been cleared and they were the only ones in the room. Darya’s aunt began to speak.

“Darya, there are things I must tell you. I have cancer and not long to live.”

“No, that can’t be!” Darya exclaimed, her hand unconsciously rising to her chest as if to ward off the thought. “You look so good. Surely there’s a mistake. What makes you think that?”

“Three doctors have told me I have a type of cancer that is incurable. No, don’t cry,” she said as she leaned over and brushed a tear from Darya’s cheek. “I have made my peace with Allah. Haji knows but refuses to accept it. He even had me flown to Paris in hopes a doctor there could help. That specialist told me the same thing. It is inoperable and incurable. Haji prays to Allah for me to be cured, but it’s no use. I need you to do something for me, but no one must know about it. It is really important to me. Will you?”

“Of course, Husna, whatever you need. Would you like to come to the United States and see doctors there? Father still teaches at Harvard and knows many doctors.”

“No, Darya, this has nothing to do with my health. Just listen to me and don’t interrupt. When I was married my mother gave me a great deal of jewelry that had been in our family for many generations. I was her only daughter. She told she knew I was marrying a wealthy man, but there may come a time when I would need it. That time has arrived.”

“Husna, I’m sorry to interrupt, but does my father know about your health? He has said nothing to me.”

“No. Please, just listen to me. You know that Haji is a very wealthy businessman. Do you know where that wealth comes from?”

Darya took a deep breath and looked fully at her aunt before she answered. “I am sorry to say this, but I have heard rumors that although he has many legitimate businesses, most of his wealth comes from the opium trade.”

“Yes, the rumors are true. In fact, the opium production is at a record high level this year. I didn’t know about it when I married him and when I found out about it, it was too late for me to do anything, not that I could have anyway. I love Haji very much and he loves me. Our marriage was arranged and I was only fifteen years old when I married him. He treats me well. He has never laid a hand on me, which, is very rare in our country. Haji had college professors come to the house to teach me.

“And something else. My mother would not allow my clitoris to be removed when I was born, even though it was traditional among the Muslim faithful in this country. Haji accepted that and even supported me when I refused to allow our daughters be victims of female genital mutilation.”

“I am very much aware of the practice of female genital mutilation in the Afghan society,” Darya responded. In fact, I did my master’s thesis on it and even wrote a book about it, which by the way, was not well received in this country. It’s a barbaric practice that must be stopped.”

“Yes,” Husna said. “But it’s still done in almost all of the traditional Muslim homes. Our country, as well as our religion, is ruled by men and for centuries, it has been associated with female sexual purity. But that’s not the reason I wanted to talk to you, although I hope it shows you that your uncle is a good man. I have seen what opium does to people and while I can’t do anything about his involvement, I have been doing something that makes me feel a little better about my life.”

“What is that? It sounds very intriguing, whatever it is.”

Husna looked around to see if anyone had entered the room while they had been talking. The servants were in the kitchen, cleaning up from the meal. She leaned forward, getting closer to Darya.

“For the last year I have been paying to support an orphanage on the outskirts of town. My driver’s family finds young girls, usually on the streets of Kabul, and takes them there. He sells my jewelry to pay for their care at the orphanage. No one knows, not even my daughters. These little girls will break your heart. They have been badly abused and some of them have even been tortured. Their parents put them on the streets because they couldn’t feed them, or because they were girls, or they’re orphans because their parents have been killed in the war. It is so sad. Why Allah allows this, I don’t know.”

“You must have people who live there and take care of the girls. How many of them are there?”

“Right now there are around fifteen, but it varies. Some of them die from the abuse they have suffered. There is a little graveyard behind the building. No one would claim the bodies anyway. Haji is leaving on a business trip tomorrow and will be gone for several days. I would like you to come back here tomorrow and my driver will take us to the orphanage. Because of my failing health, I won’t be able to go out of the house much longer. The pain is getting very bad. Please Darya, I need your help. Can you come tomorrow?”

Yes. I will find a way to do this for you, no matter what appointments I have to cancel. What time do you want me here?”

“The little girls take naps in the afternoon. I’d rather you see them when they are active. Come around ten in the morning. It shouldn’t take more than two hours. Now it’s time for you to go. My strength is leaving and I don’t want you to see me like that. Until tomorrow,” she said, grimacing.

She rang a bell and immediately a large woman stepped into the room. “Fahima, I am ready to go to my room. Please help me.” The strong woman supported her as she stood up.

Darya went into the nearby room to get Lou. “I’m ready to go. Please call the driver and tell him we will be waiting for him at the front door.”

The drive back to the hotel from her aunt’s home seemed much longer to Darya. She was still trying to absorb everything her aunt had told her and having a difficult time doing it. She didn’t know how she was going to be able to talk with her parents and not tell them.

When she got back in her hotel suite, she told Tela that she would have to represent her at the morning meetings scheduled for the next day; that she had pressing family business which took priority.

Her mind was whirling as she got in bed. After a sleepless hour, she got out of bed and found the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for her many months ago. Although she took them with her when she traveled, she’d never needed them before. Given everything that had happened tonight and not knowing what to expect tomorrow, she was glad she’d thought to bring them.

CHAPTER 17

The next morning Darya got into the limousine feeling rested after a good night’s sleep. As was always the case when Darya traveled overseas, Lou accompanied her. He was her senior bodyguard. When they returned to California, one of her other bodyguards would accompany her, giving Lou some time off.

She looked out the window of the limousine and what she saw reminded her of news reports she’d seen of war-torn third world countries. She was well aware of the toll the years of unrest had taken on the city, but in the light of day it was even more horrific than what she had seen last night. Every time she came back, it seemed to have regressed another hundred years.

Her reverie was broken by the uniformed armed guard motioning her driver into the compound. She told him to pull over to the side of the large parking area and wait there until she returned. Her aunt and her driver were already in her aunt’s car waiting for Darya.

“I’m sorry Husna, but I need to bring my bodyguard with me.”

“Of course. That will be fine. We have plenty of room. This is my driver, Gul. I have no secrets from him and he is to be trusted.”

Gul drove eastward. The farther they got from the wealthy district where her aunt lived, the more appalling the living conditions. Tent camps and shanties made of nothing more than tar paper held together with salvaged lumber stood side by side. Dust swirled everywhere. It looked like something out of a dystopian novel. Darya shook her head, not believing the depth of the abject poverty and suffering she was witnessing.

Darya knew that the wealthy transferred a lot of their money out of Afghanistan. Even her aunt and uncle had recently bought a large home in Dubai. This was a country where the “haves” were very wealthy and the “have-nots” were beyond poor, simply existing from day to day.

Gul spoke to her aunt in rapid Pashto as they pulled off the road onto a dirt track. Just ahead in the swirling dust, Darya could see a flat-roofed mud house with a wing on each side of the central part of the building. Gul pulled up to the front door and stopped the car. Lou got out and opened the back door. “Wait,” Husna said, “Gul thinks it would be better if your guard stayed in the car. He’s afraid he will scare the little girls. There is nothing to fear here. Gul will be with us and he is armed. You will be safe.”

“Yes
,
that will be fine with me.”

The door to the mud house was opened by an elderly Muslim woman just as Gul prepared to knock. She motioned for them to enter.

“Husna,” Darya said, “how often do you come? She doesn’t seem to know you.”

“This is only my second time. I can’t risk having Haji find out about it.”

Nothing in Darya’s life prepared her for what she saw when she stepped through the door. There were about fifteen young girls assembled in a large open room. All of them had suffered horrible physical losses. Many of them were missing limbs and eyes. Burns and scars were the norm. Darya felt warm tears in her eyes and fought the nausea that rose in her throat.

“Husna, this is far beyond what you told me. These children are filthy. They have caked mud on them and open running sores. Is there no medical care for them here?”

“You speak like someone from the United States. There is no running water here or electricity. The two women Gul hired are family members of his. It is very difficult for them to get water from the well for cooking and drinking, much less cleaning the girls up. Because they are only girls, a place like this would never be allowed in the parts of Kabul that have utility services.”

“But Husna, how will they ever heal without medical treatment and things like clean running water?”

”Right now we are trying to keep them alive by feeding them. That’s about all we can do. I am happy they are off the streets, but so much more needs to be done. We’ll talk more about them when we get back to my house.”

Darya, Gul and Husna toured the house, Gul doing the talking. With their burkhas and veils, Darya and Husna were unrecognizable. He told the women working there that Darya and Husna were rich benefactors who might want to help. There was a large room in the center of the house where the girls spent most of their time. A fire pit was in back of the house where the cooking was done. On either side of the main room were large rooms with filthy mattresses covering the floor. An outhouse was located a few yards from the back of the house. That was it. No washer, no dryer, no refrigerator, no stove and no bathroom with a toilet and sink. This was a house where the only thing that mattered was survival.

On the drive back to the compound, everyone was silent. Darya was having trouble processing what she had just seen. She wasn’t ready to talk about it in front of Lou. Although she trusted him with her life, literally, he was only human. If it were known that the wife of Haji Massoud was sponsoring an orphanage for little girls, that knowledge could be worth a lot of money, most likely as blackmail paid by Haji. Even though Lou was an American, and a trusted member of her staff, she thought it best not to speak about what she had seen in his presence.

After they returned to the compound, Darya told Lou to go into a nearby room while she spoke with her aunt. She joined her aunt in the small room off of the main hall and was surprised to see Gul there as well. Domestic help and family members rarely mingle in Afghanistan.

“Sit down, Darya. I am very tired, so this will be short. I can see that you’re surprised that I invited Gul to join us. It’s essential that you two know one another. The doctors have given me another month or two, at best. I know better. My time here is coming to an end.” She stopped and took a drink of water from a glass at her side.

“Darya, I want this to be my legacy even though no one here will know about it. You have a plane and you are a pilot. Immigration and customs officials here are paid off regularly for all kinds of things. If they were paid well, they would not notice the little girls.

“Gul and I have done some research. His nephew is very good with a computer. We’ve learned that there are private airports people can fly into in various parts of the world where immigrations and customs inspections are barely conducted. If these people were given money, they might overlook little girls. My dream is to get them to the United States and have them adopted. Of course, they would need some form of ID. That is my dream, Darya. Now I need you to go. I am very tired. Think about what I have said. When will you be back here?”