When the Moon Is Low (6 page)
I returned the following day, curiosity getting the best of me. Defiant, I sat beneath the tree for a few moments when I heard a voice.
“Salaam.”
My back straightened and my face reddened with the affirmation that I’d overstepped my limits. I was suddenly ashamed and scared. I stood up, blurted
salaam
in reply without looking up, and scampered back into the house.
THESE WERE AWKWARD DAYS FOR ME. FOR TWO WEEKS, KOKOGUL
had hinted cheerfully that a well-to-do family wanted to pay us a visit. They had a son, a handsome young man who was likely to follow in his father’s accomplished footsteps. My father had met the young man’s father, Agha Firooz, in the course of official business, here and there. Agha Firooz now saw potential in forming a union with my father, who had inherited Boba-
jan
’s influence in the community. Aspirations of local prosperity and influence brought Agha Firooz’s wife to our door.
I felt anxious. Like any other girl, I’d dreamed of having suitors,
of having my family turn down a few persistent families before we settled on one that was good enough. The courtship was enticing, the feeling of being wanted by an entire family, not to mention the lavish celebrations and gifts that came with engagements.
But something didn’t feel right about this. The interest felt conniving and mercantile. KokoGul approached me on a Friday, while my father was at
Jumaa
prayers. She was wearing a freshly pressed dress and her most delicate
chador,
mauve chiffon with lace trim one shade deeper. She hummed cheerfully as she entered the kitchen where I was making a snack of flatbread and walnuts.
“Agha Firooz’s wife and daughter are stopping by this afternoon. Why don’t you go brush your hair back and wear something nice—maybe your purple dress? When they come, you can bring tea and the salted biscuits. No sweets, mind you! I don’t know exactly what this visit is about but we don’t want to embarrass ourselves.”
Sweets were given to a suitor’s family as an affirmative signal, a nod of agreement to give the daughter’s hand in marriage. It would be shamefully forward to serve candied almonds or chocolates to guests on the first visit.
“If you hear me call out for
tea,
then it means I want you to bring it into the room and serve the guests. And that’s all you’ll do. This is not their chance to strip you down and see it all; it’s just to give them a little taste. You’ll set the cups down, offer the biscuits, and then politely go back to the kitchen. Now, if you hear me call out for more
biscuits,
have one of your sisters bring the tray in. Do not enter the room at all.”
It was a game of strategy, and KokoGul didn’t want to show her hand until she knew what her opponents were holding.
My appetite spoiled, I went off to make myself presentable. I rummaged through my wardrobe, trying to imagine a way to escape this orchestrated visit and not sure why I was diffident about something every girl should want. I wanted to disappear into the orchard.
At the knock on the gate, Najiba ran outside to welcome our visitors.
She led them through our modest courtyard and garden. KokoGul waited at the main door, eager to receive them. I watched from the upstairs window as the two women folded their embroidered shawls and draped them over their arms, almost synchronously. KokoGul and the women kissed cheeks and exchanged pleasantries before she led them into our parlor. I tiptoed to the upstairs landing to eavesdrop.
Agha Firooz’s wife was a short, stout woman with gray hair and an inauspicious mole over her left eyebrow. Her lower lip puckered out in an unintentional look of displeasure. Her eyes roamed about, taking stock of our home and measuring it against her own. KokoGul led our guests to the hand-carved sofa Boba-
jan
had given my parents as a wedding gift.
Agha Firooz’s daughter shared her mother’s comportment but was very different physically. She stood six inches taller and measured half her mother’s width. Heavy, penciled-in brows arched over kohl-rimmed eyes, and her bright fuchsia lipstick matched her dress perfectly. She almost looked pretty until I saw her smile politely at KokoGul. Even from my hidden view, her teeth looked jagged and unsightly. I felt my stomach reel at her smile, though I wasn’t sure why I had such a visceral response.
I knew KokoGul well enough that I could imagine her sizing up Agha Firooz’s daughter and deciding how I would compare to her. Her eyes moved quickly, as did those of Agha Firooz’s wife, as she calculated what the family would think when they saw me. Far from stunning, I did have my mother’s fair, even skin and her dark hair. I knew KokoGul was already calculating the effects of Agha Firooz and Padar-
jan
joining forces. If my father helped Agha Firooz expand his textile commerce into new areas, both would surely reap the benefits. KokoGul was restless, her mind spending money she eagerly anticipated.
“Fereiba-
jan,
please bring some
tea
in for our dear guests! You ladies must be parched, traveling in this weather. It’s been quite warm the last few days, hasn’t it?” KokoGul said with great poise.
I made my way down the creaky steps and went to the kitchen. I arranged KokoGul’s china teacups and plates onto a silver tray and brought them into the parlor. My face burned as I felt all eyes on me. I kept my gaze on the tray, gripping the handles so tightly my knuckles blanched.
“
Salaam,
” I said softly as I set a cup of tea before Agha Firooz’s wife.
“
Wa-alaikum,
dear girl,” she echoed with a greedy smile. I let my
chador
fall across my cheek, hiding my flushed face. Doing my best not to tremble, I placed the second cup in front of her daughter and then held the tray of biscuits out to them. Agha Firooz’s daughter grinned as she plucked two from the plate. Up close, her smile again sent shivers through my body, but this time I was conscious of why.
She had the same gap-toothed grin as the lewd boy from the market.
Had I not already set the teacups down, I’m sure they would have rattled right off the tray. I kept my head lowered and made a quick escape from the parlor. I could hear Agha Firooz’s wife casually suggesting to KokoGul that I join them for tea. KokoGul waved off the suggestion and began to extol my virtues. Najiba was in the kitchen gulping down a glass of water—ever neutral, ever oblivious to what was going on around her.
“Najiba, can you stay here and listen out for Madar-
jan
? Wait a few minutes and then refill their teacups, please. My head is spinning and I need to lie down.”
Najiba looked at me as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Okay, Ferei,” she replied affectionately.
I kissed her cheek and went out the back door of the kitchen, creeping up the stairs as noiselessly as I could.
I leaned against the upstairs wall, my heart pounding. I prayed Agha Firooz’s emissaries would soon take their leave.
COURTSHIP AND GIFTS LOST THEIR ROMANTIC APPEAL AS I WAS
slapped with the reality of marriage. I could not imagine becoming part of Agha Firooz’s family. How could I tell Padar-
jan
how I felt? Through KokoGul’s oblique comments I learned that Padar-
jan
was exploring Agha Firooz’s business propositions. I couldn’t confess my worries to my sisters or my brother. I had much to hash out and no one to talk with.
KokoGul eagerly anticipated a second call from Agha Firooz’s wife. A respectable courtship was a slow, deliberately coy dance between two families. KokoGul rehearsed for that call, her chance to feign surprise and hesitation. With me, she was especially lenient in the next few weeks. I was excused from many of my duties around the house, a pampering that made me feel more suspicious than grateful.
“Fereiba-
jan,
do not bother with the pots today. Too much scrubbing will roughen your soft hands. Let your sister help you,” she called out. I put the washcloth down and turned my palms up. Years of hand-washing the family’s clothes, sifting dry rice, and scrubbing
burnt cookware had callused my fingers. I wiped my hands dry. The orchard called.
As I neared the mulberry tree, the sandaled legs abruptly stopped swinging. I did my best to steal a glance at his face, but the rest of him was hidden, as usual, by the foliage. He could see me from his vantage, which I thought very unfair but dared not protest. I had to consider my modesty.
“Salaam.”
A cautious greeting.
“
Salaam,
” I returned. I breathed easier in the silence that followed. I was more comfortable in this unknown, protected by the orchard walls. I waited as my neighbor pondered his next words. There was, today, a tranquil tension between us.
“You haven’t brought a book today.”
“I haven’t felt much like reading lately,” I confessed.
“Something troubles you.”
How much could I reveal? But I was lonely. Not one person in my family knew how I felt. Not one person knew why. My distress was trapped in my throat like something I could neither choke down nor spit out.
“I come to the orchard when there’s something I want to avoid. Or when there’s something I want to think about . . . something private.” His voice dropped off at the end. I kept my eyes on the grass. I didn’t want to see his face or any other part of him. In this moment, the unsure rises and falls of his voice were all that I needed.
“My father loves the orchard enough to do his dawn prayers here. He believes his prayers nourish the trees, but it’s probably the other way around,” I said. “He empties his heart to these trees, to their branches and roots, and in return they sweeten his mouth with their fruits. In the afternoons, the orchard is mine. My siblings are too afraid to come this far out into the trees.”
“Some people fear what they cannot see.”
“I have seen and there’s nothing to fear here. It’s beyond this orchard that frightens me.” Again, there was a pause.
“You were reading Ibrahim Khalil last time.”
I was surprised. Indeed, I had been. My reading skills had improved tremendously, and I was now studying the writings of contemporary Afghan poets.
“Yes, actually.”
“Why?”
Why? A question that I couldn’t eloquently answer. There was something powerful about the clarity and conciseness of the lyrics. How amazing to condense the profoundest of thoughts into a few lines, to boil them down and mold them into an enchanting rhyming package. I loved picking those packages apart, like unwrapping a gift meant only for me and deciphering the lines.
“He is a compass,” I explained, finally. “There are days when I sleep and wake with a dilemma. I can think and think on it and not know up from down. But more than once, I’ve read his words and then . . . I don’t know how to say it. It’s almost as if he has written answers to questions I never asked him.”
“Hmm.”
Did he think me ridiculous?
“That’s how I see it,” I added. I felt my face blush.
“Can I tell you one of my favorites?”
I nodded. He cleared his throat and began to recite. I recognized the poem as one I’d bookmarked and underlined.
As you tread to the temple of your supreme pursuit
A hundred peaks may hinder your route
With the hatchet of persistence, conquer each
And bring your aspirations within your reach
Yes,
I thought, looking at the skyline and seeing the hundred mountain peaks that separated Kabul from the rest of the world. There was quiet as the simple words made the distance between us
thin and meaningless. The verse he’d chosen made me feel he knew every thought I’d dare not share with others. He had put a gentle arm around me. It was my first experience with intimacy, both rousing and frightening.
“That is a beautiful poem,” I said finally. “Thank you.” I wished him a good day and slowly returned to the house, feeling my throat thicken and not wanting to cry in his presence. I’d revealed enough today.
I ran back into the house, passing KokoGul on my way up the stairs. She was hemming a skirt and barely looked up.
“Fall and break your leg and see who will carry you around. Act your age!”
A FEW DAYS LATER, KOKOGUL RECEIVED THE CALL SHE’D BEEN
awaiting. The Firoozes had made their intentions clear and official. KokoGul was delighted, as if she herself were being courted instead of me.
“I knew. I knew they would take one look at my daughter’s face and see the loveliest
aroos
a mother could want for her son! That woman would be lucky to have you as her daughter-in-law and they know it now. You’re far more beautiful than anyone in their family, and our family has a good name. Your padar is as well respected as Boba-
jan
was, may God give him eternal peace. Agha Firooz will have to show
us
that
they
are worthy of our daughter. And we won’t make it easy . . . no, no, no. I’ll make that woman call on our home so many times, she won’t be able to dance at your wedding for the calluses she’ll have on her feet; I don’t care how much money they have.”
I knew that wasn’t true. She’d estimated, in the days after their first visit, just how much the fabric of their dresses had cost. She’d taken stock of the stitching and the design, commenting that only Kabul’s most capable seamstress could have crafted a dress that made such a stocky figure seem womanly.
I was relieved to hear KokoGul’s plan for the day of their return. She and I both wanted me out of sight for their second visit.
“Your sisters will bring the tea and biscuits. They saw you last time—let’s let their mouths water a bit.”
“Madar-
jan,
a girl should have multiple
khastgaar,
shouldn’t she? You’ve said many times that one
khastgaar
attracts a second suitor and a third. That would look better for us, wouldn’t it? Maybe you should turn this family away.”
