Allure of Deceit (14 page)

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.

Najwa 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.”