Spirit of a Mountain Wolf (17 page)

Amina gently asked him to consider whether he should give up the search. “I hardly see you anymore,” she said. “And Sakina misses you.”

Javaid sighed. Some nights he came home so late after work Sakina was already asleep, and the nights he visited Amina’s bed, he fell asleep too soon in her arms.

“What if he only comes onto the street at night?” he said.

Amina stared at him sadly. “You still have Sakina. Do not neglect her.”

Javaid sat on the bed and pulled Amina to sit beside him. “There is something I need to tell you.” He blew out an audible breath. “When I was a boy, a teacher in the madrasah did something indecent to me.” Amina’s eyes widened. “Yes, it is why I found it difficult when we were first married.”

“I wondered,” she whispered.

“I always felt weak for not putting up a fight. Nadeem said I should put a stop to it. He would have, I suppose.” Javaid looked down at his hands. “Anyway, I left the mountains as soon as I could. I felt I wasn’t a mountain man like Nadeem. He thought I was a coward for living in the city.” He looked at Amina. “So please understand, I have to find Razaq—not just for me or for Nadeem, but for Razaq, to save him from what happened to me.”

Amina put a hand on either side of his face. “I do not think you are a coward. What happened to you isn’t who you are.”

Javaid smiled sadly. “I know that now, but I didn’t know it when I needed to.”

Javaid took to leaving earlier in the mornings. He spent the time asking in shops on the way to work. He even tried the local carpet factories on his day off.

“Your nephew would be too old for this kind of intricate work,” said the last factory manager he saw.

He showed Javaid into the shed. Young boys not much older than Sakina sat cross-legged at a loom, cutting and tying knots. Their hands blurred, they moved so fast. A man stood nearby holding a pattern sheet.

“This is not a forced labor place, you understand,” the man said quickly when he saw Javaid’s face. “Ji, these boys are only six or so, but their fingers make the best knots. Also they are earning for their families. We let them play soccer in the afternoons and teach them some letters and numbers.” He waggled his head. “It is a good arrangement.”

None of the boys looked up, so Javaid couldn’t tell if they were ill treated.

The manager watched him. “If your nephew is on the streets, janab, he will be working in the scrap yards.”

Mrs. Mumtaz was very pleased with Razaq. She ordered Bilal to buy pastries from the bakery for his lunch. “I am getting good reports about you, mountain wolf. You keep this up and you will eat very well indeed.”

Most of the time, the customers only wanted ordinary massages, and Razaq didn’t have to say “whatever you want.” More men were coming to the house. Many would have a massage in the late afternoon and then watch the girls dance in the evening. Razaq hoped that if any of the men he massaged danced with Tahira later, he had put them in a gentle mood.

He had almost forgotten how “whatever” felt when a middle-aged customer was shown into his room. The man stood transfixed, staring at Razaq’s eyes and brown hair flopping onto his forehead. “What do you do?” he said.

Razaq’s heart dipped. “Massages, janab.” He caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth, hoping that was the end of it, hoping his tone sounded as if that was all he did.

“And what else?” the man asked softly.

Razaq hesitated. If he refused, maybe the man would just leave. But maybe he would complain to Mrs. Mumtaz, and maybe she would cut Tahira’s face because Razaq had refused a customer.

“Whatever you want.” Razaq said the hated words, and the man pulled off his qameez and untied his shalwar.

“Then massage me everywhere until I feel I can fly.” He grabbed Razaq’s wrist. “And I mean everywhere, boy.”

When Sunni had come back that morning in the white house, he had taught Razaq how to make customers feel as if they could conquer the world. The man moaned. “You do this better than the girls,” he said. It struck horror into Razaq’s heart. What had he become?

Mrs. Mumtaz was even more pleased. “I am told you have a talent.” Her kohl-colored eyes flashed at him with interest. “Tonight you can dance with the girls.”

By six o’clock, the Mirasi, the musicians, had arrived with their tabla and harmonium. Razaq could hear their music when Mrs. Mumtaz came to his room with an outfit.

“I want you to wear this,” she said.

Razaq saw the bright green and blue fabric. It sparkled. “What is it?”

“You’ll find out. I’ll expect you in a few minutes.”

Razaq unfolded the clothes and dropped them on the floor as if they were aflame. The shalwar had splits down the sides, and the top wasn’t a shirt but a short silk vest. All his middle would show. He stepped back as far as he could from the clothes. She was trying to turn him into a lakhtai, a dancer boy. Danyal had worn something like this in the white house, but he was only young.

He heard Mrs. Mumtaz calling him. He sighed and picked up the shalwar and pulled it on. It was tight and his backside stuck out. He was sure his legs and maybe part of his buttock would be seen when he danced.

His door flew open. “What are you doing?” It was Mrs. Mumtaz. When she saw him, she smiled. “So, now we have a true mountain prince. We should call you Akbar, the Great.”

She opened a kohl box in her hand and lined his eyes with the black powder. Razaq was miserable. If his father saw him like this, he’d kill him. He certainly wouldn’t recognize him. Razaq didn’t recognize himself.

“A jao, come.” Mrs. Mumtaz motioned quickly with her hand. “Let me show off my prize. Just act normally, you’ll soon get used to playing a crowd.”

She swept him into the music room. There were customers arriving and others already sitting on cushions around the walls. Hookah pipes stood in the corners. A few girls were dancing. Tahira was one of them. When she twirled, she saw Razaq. He was not surprised by the horrified look on her face.

“Dance!” Mrs. Mumtaz hissed at him. She smiled at the men in the room.

The men began clapping. Razaq danced a mixture of mountain folk dance and the moves Pretty had taught him in Mr. Malik’s house. “Charming,” one man said, and Mrs. Mumtaz’s smile grew wider, even though Razaq knew his dancing was halfhearted.

He tried to edge closer to Tahira, to explain. Would she want anything to do with him now? Then he saw Neelma in the hallway, watching him with the stillness of a fox on her face, and he thought better of putting Tahira in danger.

When a man asked Razaq if he could visit his room, Tahira was still dancing. Razaq’s only consolation was that he may have saved her a customer.

The nights Razaq danced, he had to do more “whatevers.” When his mind and body complained, he thought of poor Tahira having to do this every night. He tried to think of the mountains instead of what he was doing: how Machay Sar looked with snow covering its peak. How the leopards ran free up there, although he had only ever seen one. He was eleven, it had been Eid-ul-Fitr the week before and his father had given him the gun. They trekked together to the foothills of the highest mountain and found the huge tracks.

“A young leopard,” his father said, “only a few years old.”

Then Razaq caught a glimpse of it balanced on a rock, looking back at them. “There it is.” He lifted his rifle. “Should we take it, Abu ji? The fur looks warm.”

His father pushed the gun barrel down. “Many would, beta, but leopard killing must stop. The leopard is too beautiful to take for ourselves. It needs to run free. If one gives itself to us, then we can have its pelt for the winter.”

Razaq understood: if the leopard should die of natural causes and they found its body, then the pelt would be theirs. That day, they hunted a goral, a goat antelope. It was Razaq’s first kill.

Bilal came to Razaq’s door one day before lunch. Razaq had just woken up. “Get up,” Bilal said. “Mrs. M has allowed you to come to the bazaar with me.” He grinned. “She must be very pleased with you.” Then his grin disappeared. “But if you run off, I will find you and kill you for she will never trust me again.”

He raised his eyebrows and Razaq inclined his head. As he got out of bed, Bilal cuffed him playfully over the head. “We will have chai before the jobs Mrs. M has given me to do. Then you can help carry everything. You have to be back before your customers come in the afternoon.”

Razaq used the bucket, then washed his face, smoothed down his hair. How long was it since he had been outside, other than on the roof? Was it months? He had lost count.

“A jao.” Bilal held the door open.

As they went into the hallway and headed outside, Razaq caught sight of Neelma watching them from the courtyard where the kitchen was. As they walked onto the gali, Razaq said, “Mrs. Mumtaz knows we are going?”

“Ji, why are you worried?”

“I saw Neelma watching us.”

Bilal glanced at Razaq. “You need to be careful. She is throwing her heart at you.”

“Why not you? You are older, and you are handsome.”

A dark look came over Bilal’s face. “She will have no happiness from me.”

Razaq grinned at him. “Why not? Has Mrs. Mumtaz forbidden you also?”

“I have been cut.”

Razaq stood still.
Cut
? He tried to keep his eyes from Bilal’s shalwar, but all he could think of was Mrs. Mumtaz grabbing him the first night he came. Bilal stopped for him to catch up, but Razaq couldn’t ask what he wanted. Bilal took him to a teashop and they sat while the chai came.

“What did you mean?” Razaq finally asked.

“Just what I said. Do not upset Mrs. M or you may find out for yourself sooner or later.”

“Why did she do it?”

Bilal pursed his lips. “I just got too old. I didn’t like being here—she thought I would give her trouble.”

Razaq’s breath caught in his throat. “How old were you?”

“Thirteen. When my mustache began growing, five years ago. She thought I’d be more useful this way. Some customers even like it.”

Razaq tried not to stare, but he felt the fear, could feel the knife as if it had happened to him. He would have to make sure that Mrs. Mumtaz didn’t find out how old he was. He thought of the rams his father had kept for breeding, and the few that he had castrated to keep for meat. That was all he and Bilal were to Mrs. Mumtaz: lumps of meat.

Being in the bazaar, almost free, no longer held any thrill. Bilal was giving him a warning, he knew. They went to numerous shops. Bilal had a list; each shopkeeper took it and loaded household items into plastic bags for the boys to carry. Razaq suspected that Bilal couldn’t read. His own reading was sketchy, but he could make out most things if given time. He could see that Bilal had no option but to keep living this life that had been given him—not by his parents or by God, but by Mrs. Mumtaz. Anger rose inside him at the thought. What right did adults like her have to change children’s lives from their God-given path?

Razaq found the anger gave him a feeling he had forgotten: of being alive, still himself. Maybe the imagined freedom of being in the gali and bazaar had helped after all.

When they returned, he went up on the roof, hoping Tahira had noticed him go. He sat and stared out over the part of the city that he could see—Qila Fort on the northern side of the bazaars—and heard the squeals from girls playing a game in the school. Somewhere nearby was Moti Bazaar where his uncle worked. Razaq wiped a hand over his eyes. What was the use of thinking of his uncle? He wouldn’t want to know his nephew now. He was a bucket that had been left outside in the rain—tarnished, with holes in it; a bucket his mother would have thrown away.