Farishta (38 page)

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Krishna said with downcast eyes as he allowed the weight of the vest to settle on my shoulders. Pulling the Velcro straps tight across my chest, I hoisted myself awkwardly into the backseat of the vehicle.

“Thank you, Krishna.” I was ashamed to admit even to myself that I missed Fuzzy more than I missed my own father. The mental picture I had of Dad expiring peacefully at home, his TV droning in the background, attended by his private nurses, contrasted starkly with my last images of the young freckled Fuzzy, laughing at Rahim’s stories, then grabbing his rifle with split-second reflexes to defend the rest of us against our attacker.

“We dropped Rahim at the university on the way to the airport,” Krishna announced as we turned onto the main road. “He said he had to get a book from the library. I hope you won’t mind if we stop to pick him up on the way back to the PRT.”

“Of course, I don’t mind.” It would be so good to see Rahim again, although I knew exactly what was meant by that “book.”

We drove into town with the windows rolled up and the heater blasting. By late October, the afternoon air was chilly despite the cloudless blue sky. Rahim was waving enthusiastically as we pulled up to the main gate of Balkh University. He did not have a book in his hand and, of course, he had no body armor.

“Farishta-
jan,
” he shouted as he bounded into the vehicle. “Welcome back! It is good to see you. I hope you and your family are not too sad, and I hope that the funeral for your father was well attended.”

I thought of Bill and me sitting with Dad’s five doddering neighbors in the wooden pews of our local church, listening politely as Father Perez droned his way through the requiem mass. “Yes,” I said, “it was very well attended. Thanks, Rahim.”

“Didn’t the library have your book?” asked Krishna, turning back to look at Rahim before we pulled into a stream of traffic and were immediately trapped in an animal-vehicle gridlock.

Rahim shook his head at Krishna and then glanced over at me with an apologetic grin. “No, Krishna, someone else had already checked out the book I wanted.”

I rolled my eyes at his little white lie and resumed our conversation, this time in Dari. “Rahim
-jan,
you must be careful when you meet with Nilofar. Someone is going to see you and tell her parents.”

“I know it is dangerous for us to be together,” he said with pleading eyes, “but I must see her. We will not stop seeing each other. Soon I will leave for France, and she will be forced to marry that old Hazara merchant. May he be deprived of Allah’s blessings forever!”

There was nothing I could say or do to comfort my distraught young friend or to convince him to be more careful.

“You are the only person I can talk to about this, Farishta-
jan
. Even my own mother does not understand how I could love a Hazara woman.”

I believe I had shed more tears since arriving in Afghanistan than I had in the past two decades. Initially, I’d been embarrassed by my crying jags, which I feared the soldiers and terps would perceive as weakness on my part—but now I didn’t care. I had bottled up my emotions for far too long, and it felt good to let them out.

Rahim had been around me long enough to know when the spigot was about to open. “Farishta-
jan
! I am sorry to upset you,” he whispered, so as not to attract the attention of the two Gurkhas in the front seat. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

I smiled at him, wiped my eyes with my head scarf, and tried to think of something reassuring to say.

“It’s not you, Rahim. It’s everything.”

Just after sunset the day before Mark’s departure, my vehicle and a follow car pulled up to the gates of the PRT following an exhausting eight-hour round-trip to Sar-e Pol. I was still recovering from jet leg after my return from Dad’s funeral and I hated making these marathon drives wearing body armor, but the colonel had asked me to make the trip on behalf of the PRT to meet with a distraught provincial governor.

Tonight was the Romanians’ party, and I wanted to have at least a few moments with Mark before he and the rest of the Gurkhas departed in the morning.

Although it was almost dark when we arrived, I could see Nilofar standing under a security light, arguing with the Afghan guards. Her head scarf was thrown back.

“Angela, I must speak with you,” she called out when she saw me. “I’ve been waiting here for an hour, and the guards have been threatening to summon the police if I don’t go away.”

I signed her in and brought her with me to the dining hall, which was about to close. “Let’s get some supper and we can talk,” I said, handing her a tray.

“Where is Rahim?” she asked with an urgency I had never heard before. “I have been trying to call him on his cell phone, but he doesn’t answer.”

“He’s in Kabul with Professor Mongibeaux. He left yesterday afternoon. Perhaps his phone is broken.”

“Angela, men have come to my parents’ house to threaten me again. They said I must not try to prevent the marriage of their cousin to a young girl from Chemtal. She is only twelve years old! She is threatening to kill herself if her parents force her to marry this man. My parents have told me to stop interfering, but how can I do nothing? ”

“Nilofar, you can’t solve the problems of every young woman who comes to you. You must understand that each time you help these girls avoid forced marriages you are angering some very powerful people.” I envied her courage, but I was terrified that something might happen to her.

“I know this, Angela, but I must do it! Soon I will be forced into marriage myself, and then I will be the prisoner of my husband—forever. Until that time, I will continue to help others, because I know that no one is going to help me.”

“Nilofar, you know there’s nothing I can do,” I said as I looked into her angry but innocent eyes. “I’m begging you to stop this before you get hurt.”

She was defiant. Clenching her jaw, she muttered, “If they want to stop me, they’re going to have to kill me.”

Herphone began to buzz. “My brother is here to pick me up,” she said with a sudden smile, as though this life and death conversation had never taken place. “I will call you tomorrow, Angela. Tell Rahim to get his phone fixed.”

I walked her to the gate, watched her drive away with her brother, and went upstairs, hoping to be able to forget everyone’s troubles except my own for just a few hours.

All the younger officers were looking forward with great anticipation to this evening’s party because the new Swedish contingent that had just arrived in camp was coed. I was no longer the only woman at the PRT, and they would finally have women their age to dance with.

The electric outlets in the atrium were not working that night, but the Romanians, with their flair for the dramatic, had loaded their CD player with fresh batteries and placed flickering tapers in glass bottles on every flat surface in the room. The atrium glowed in the soft buttery candlelight.

I was anxious to see Mark, even if he only came for a few minutes.

The colonel had just poured me a glass of wine when Mark appeared in the doorway scanning the room. I raised my glass in a friendly salute and tried to appear blasé as he approached. It was impossible. I swallowed hard and was overcome by the reality that he would be leaving in the morning. He walked quickly in my direction.

The colonel greeted him, but his eyes never left mine.

“If you’ll excuse me, Colonel,” Mark said with a polite nod.

“Angela?” He stood in front of my chair, took my wineglass, and set it on the table next to me. “May I have this dance? ”

“You want to dance? ”

“Yes, with you,” Mark said as he took my hand. The colonel and the chief of staff next to him rose to their feet as I stood and was led by Mark to the center of the atrium.

I noticed he wasn’t the only one with this idea. The Romanians had replaced their polka with a slow Eastern European tango and immediately claimed the most attractive female Swedish soldiers for themselves, leaving the other young officers to battle for the attention of the remaining few women.

As the warm strains of violins and concertinas filled the air with that most sensuous of all dances, Mark slid his hand around my waist and pressed his fingers into the small of my back. Tipping me like a glass of champagne and throwing me slightly off balance, he began to lead me in slow-motion circles around the room.

“This is a tango, isn’t it? ”

“It is,” he replied, pulling me closer.

“I don’t know how to tango, Mark.”

“I do,” he said as he skillfully changed direction, tightening his grip and leaving no daylight between us. I was barely breathing.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to come tonight,” I whispered as his lips brushed against my hair.

“This I would not miss,” he replied as he led me into another slow turn. “I’ve given my successor enough reading material to keep him busy until at least midnight.”

“I’m going to miss you terribly, Mark.”

“And I you,” he said, guiding me between the Romanians, who were clinging tightly to their Swedish partners.

My pulse was racing, but tonight it was for a good cause.

“Angela, we have so little time left,” he murmured. “Let’s go outside.” He took my hand and led me to the balcony.

We walked to the far corner, and Mark brought my fingers to his lips.

“You know that I’ll only be in Basra for six months,” he said, sounding desperate to get this information out as quickly as possible. “I want you to know that I’ve asked for an assignment near London when I leave Iraq.”

“Mark, that’s wonderful,” I said, shivering in the frigid night air. He put his arms around me and I reciprocated. It didn’t really matter anymore who saw us.

“You know, when I first saw you in Smythe’s office last December, I thought you were his secretary,” he said, laughing, “but I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

“And I thought you were one of the rudest people I’d ever met.”

“How could I have known it was you that Smythe was referring to when he told me a female American diplomat was being sent to Mazār? You have no idea what was going through my head, Angela, when I followed him out of his office and we were formally introduced.”

I reached up to touch his face, and he placed his warm hand over mine.

“When did you first change your mind about me?” he asked, stroking my hand.

“I’m not sure when it began, Mark,” I said. “Perhaps when I first saw you dancing.”

“You mean tonight? ” he asked, looking confused.

“No, last summer at Ahmad’s wedding,” I replied, laughing.

“The interpreter’s wedding? But the men and women were in separate rooms.”

“Nilofar showed me a hole in the curtain where the women could spy on the men without being seen. She wanted me to see Rahim, but there you were in your uniform at the center of a crowd of singing, shouting men. Nilofar had to drag me away.”

“Violating yet another taboo, eh, Angela?” He laughed. “You’ll never learn, will you?”

“It was worth it, Mark.”

We kissed, this time long and deep.

Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of “blueys,” the pale blue onionskin airmail letters that had been used for decades by British forces for personal correspondence when on deployment. These handwritten letters were a vanishing tradition that was rapidly being replaced by e-blueys, but Mark didn’t trust e-mail.

“I meant to give these to you yesterday,” he said, pressing them into my hand. “I’ve included my military postal address. Will you write to me while I’m in Basra?”

“Every day, Mark.”

We remained in our corner of the balcony, planning our reunion in London, until Sergeant Major announced that the colonel was going to bed and the party was over.

The other officers on the balcony collected their beer cans, stubbed out their cigarettes, and gave us a few moments alone to say our final farewell.

I had survived my first day without Mark and was already counting the days until we would meet in London. It was almost midnight. I was snuggled in bed under three blankets, rereading some of my favorite Rumi poems and thinking about Mark, when the cell phone began to vibrate on my desk. Late-night calls still got my adrenaline pumping. By the time I threw off the covers and my bare feet hit the floor, my heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

Calm down, Angela,
I told myself.
Maybe it’s Marty calling to say you got promoted. It’s almost lunchtime in D.C. Or it’s Mark since he’s not flying out of Kabul until tomorrow morning.

“Hello, this is Angela Morgan.”

“Farishta-
jan,
please you must help us!” Rahim’s voice was frantic and pleading.