Wade (7 page)

“I couldn't agree with you more. This just ain't a place many folks would want to linger.”

It was possible that he'd overdone the hayseed cooperation, for Ahmad gave him a hard stare. “There will be no more warnings.”

“None required.” Wade moved to the door with a rangy stride and reached to pull it open. “But I should tell you that I'll be in and out a lot. You won't be surprised if I'm a tad hard to keep tabs on for the rest of my stay?”

Ahmad's eyes narrowed. He stepped through the doorway with his interpreter trailing after him, then turned back again in the hall. “I think you will find that the Taliban can lay hands on you whenever it pleases.”

“They're sure welcome to try,” Wade returned with his blandest smile.

As he swung the door shut on his visitors, however, his humor vanished. He stood staring at nothing until he could no longer hear their receding footsteps.

C
hloe barely slept at all. Fury that Ahmad would keep her father's death from her churned in her mind. That he'd forced her to remain dependent while he planned to trap her in a marriage of his choosing then steal her inheritance made her long to thwart him. Most of all, she could not stop replaying the moments in the garden with Wade Benedict. He had destroyed her hard-won acceptance of her life, substituting visions of freedom and paradise that must remain forever out of her reach. Because he had presented this bright hope, her future now appeared more bleak. For this she was almost as angry with him as she was with Ahmad.

Morning brought the news that Ahmad was suffering the effects of his overeating the night before and would be at home all day. Chloe worked conscientiously around the house, completing her chores so nothing would prevent her from going to teach if the opportunity arose the following day. It paid off. Ahmad left early, and by midmorning she was at the house of Ismael's mother, Willa, where classes were held once every two weeks or so on a rotating basis
with three other households. Treena had been left at home, as she didn't feel well. Ismael escorted Chloe for a dutiful visit to his widowed mother.

A woman of furious energy and intelligence, Willa had lost her husband to pneumonia and a young daughter to childhood illness, as well as her business. Considering her life over at forty, as few women lived much past that age in this part of the world, she had dedicated what time she had left to the underground women's movement. Besides allowing the school to meet in her sitting room, she kept a small beauty salon in a back closet where the forbidden cosmetics, facials, hair treatments and manicures could be had. Many women enjoyed its services as a comfort in their trials and as a form of secret defiance.

Chloe and the widow exchanged the ritual three kisses on either cheek of greeting, then settled to glasses of tea in silver holders while waiting for the pupils to gather. They spoke in strained voices of recent difficulties among their group, particularly of a woman they both knew who had had a thumbnail amputated for being caught wearing nail polish. After a few moments, Willa reached to stroke her fingertips across Chloe's cheek. “You look tired, my dear. Is all well with you?”

“Not exactly,” Chloe answered with a wan smile before going on to tell her of the many things that were taking place.

The widow stared at her in consternation. “Oh,
Chloe. How we shall miss you when you are no longer with us.”

“I said the American has come for me, not that I would go with him.”

“How can you not? Unless…surely you cannot
wish
to marry the man chosen for you?”

“I have no need for a groom, no love for any man,” she answered firmly.

“So you will defy Ahmad?” Willa's voice was hushed.

“He hasn't yet presented a marriage. As long as he is only considering it, worrying serves no purpose.”

“But once he does present it, you will have no choice. Why not go away while there is time?”

“How can I when I am needed so badly here?” Chloe waved toward the schoolroom.

“Have you thought that it might be kismet? This man who comes may hold your destiny in his hands. It could be you are meant to return to your true home, that you may be of more service there.”

“What are you saying?”

“Think, love. You are of that modern world so different and far away over the sea. You understand it. People there may listen if you tell them what we suffer here.”

“And they may not,” Chloe said shortly. “That world is also run by men who care more for rules and the rights of those in power than for the things endured by women.”

“They are not so hardened to suffering, I think.
Some have good hearts, or so I'm told. Do you not think that in this place called Louisiana, which you speak of from time to time, that you might find men who would become our allies?”

Was it possible? Could someone like Wade Benedict understand or care about their problems or be willing to help her effect a change? What a difference it would make.

Could she really return to Louisiana with a free heart? How she longed to see it again, to discover if it was really the earthly paradise that lingered in her mind. She had pretended to Wade that she barely remembered, but that had been mere self-protection. She could not let him know how often she returned in dreams to that camp on the lake where everything was lush and green, the days golden and long, and her father's love surrounded her like a benediction. If he knew, if the tall American even guessed, he would surely use it against her.

“But the most important fight is here!” she argued, clenching her hands into fists as she sought to banish unwanted images of a placid lake and a man's naked face. “It is here that we must make a stand.”

“Against Ahmad? He will break you. Have you learned so little of the power of the head of the family?”

“I've learned.” Or rather she had learned to pretend, Chloe thought, to bow her head and do as she was told while hating with all her heart.

“Yes. Far better to bend and kiss the stick, then kill quietly while he sleeps.”

Chloe met the other woman's eyes at those whispered words. They were not idle. They both knew one mad old woman who now lived on the streets after sewing her abusive husband into a sheet then beating him to death with a broom, and another younger one who had served hers arsenic after the battering he gave her killed her unborn child. Women could be pushed too far.

“And yet I fear for you,” Ismael's mother went on after a moment. “You play the subservient female, just as we taught you with such care, but it isn't easy for you. Because of where you were born, you are too independent of thought, too fearless and quick to rash action. You will say or do something that will get you killed.”

“Like my mother,” she said, giving voice to the object lesson behind her friend's words.

“Just so. This wealth you have inherited is a gift from Allah. It could be used to aid our cause. It may be that it is meant for this purpose.”

“You really think I should go?” Chloe reached for her mint tea, avoiding the other woman's gaze so her own would not influence the answer. The liquid in the glass reminded her of Wade Benedict's eyes. It also brought back the tea she'd had so often in Louisiana, cold, sweet refreshment served over tinkling cubes of ice. She set her warm glass down again without drinking.

“How can I say?” Willa answered. “You must search your heart, think carefully, and then decide for yourself.”

It wasn't the answer Chloe wanted to hear. This was the morning she was to meet Wade Benedict in the bazaar. If she was to keep that appointment, then there was little time left for making up her mind.

A young girl appeared in the doorway just then. Her smile was shy, though her expression held determination. “Chloe, revered teacher,” she said. “Your humble pupils wait for you.”

It seemed very like an omen. Chloe smiled at Ismael's mother and gave a small shrug. Then she took the smaller girl's hand and walked with her to the classroom.

The lesson, a recitation of the capitals of the cities of Europe, was designed to broaden the horizons of those for whom Hazaristan was the beginning and end of the world. It went smoothly enough, with only a few stumbles over unfamiliar syllables. Looking around her at the earnest, shining faces, Chloe felt a rush of pride and love. They were so intelligent, wanted so much to learn. How any thinking person could dismiss these girl children as worthless, relegating them to a lifetime of nothing except tending babies and the houses of their fathers and husbands, was a fathomless mystery. To help them in any way she could seemed worth any sacrifice. If that made her a martyr as Wade Benedict suggested, then so be it. She was sorry if he was forced to wait again and
go away empty-handed. He would recover, but these young girls might not survive the disappointments in their lives if they were not taught a sense of self-worth now. She had to save them, or at least try. Wade Benedict could save himself.

Then from the front of the widow's house came the chime of a brass gong of the type that had once summoned the elite to dinner during the British Raj. It rang out three times, the mellow notes hanging in the air like the prelude to some composition in a minor key.

Instantly Chloe made a slicing motion with her hand, cutting off the chant of capital cities. Taking up the copy of the Qur'an that lay beside her, she opened it to the prayer that was the opening
sura,
or chapter. She read the first line and the girls, like the perfect automatons the mullahs wanted them to become, followed her lead by chanting after her. Under cover of the sound, Chloe turned her small blackboard so it became a decorative mirror and deposited her lesson plan beneath the noisome chamber pot that sat behind a screen in a corner. By the time the door opened to reveal the police, there was no sign of anything taking place in the room except holy study.

The girls broke off recitation, screaming and hiding their faces as they saw the police with their raised sticks and ferocious glares. A red haze of rage rose in front of Chloe's eyes for the unnecessary use of terror tactics. Controlling it with strong effort, she
spoke soothingly to her pupils then covered her own face and turned to meet this official threat.

“What is this gathering? What are you doing with these girl children?”

The demand came from the largest of the pair, a man wearing the special turban of the hajji, one who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca. “We pray, honored one,” she replied at her most deferential.

“What use is prayer to such as these?” the second policeman asked with a sneer in his voice.

“The better to instruct their future sons. Surely this is a benefit to be desired?”

“It is not for women to instruct.”

“True,” she said gravely. “But may they not offer guidance? You must see that even females such as these children may learn to point out the many blessings of Allah.”

The policemen could not disagree without suggesting that religious instruction in the cradle was useless, but neither could they agree without appearing to condone the interrupted study. They were silent for a moment as they digested the conundrum.

“I warned you that she has the tongue of a serpent.”

It was Ahmad, speaking from the doorway. As Chloe lifted her eyes to meet his, he gave her a hard stare then moved into the room. Without stopping to think, she asked, “You sent these men here?”

He didn't bother to answer her, though a flush of
anger darkened his face. To the police, he said, “Be done with this farce. Send these vermin home.”

“We found no wrongdoing.” The features of the larger policeman mirrored belligerence, perhaps at the suggestion that he took orders from the militia.

“You wouldn't, since she is obviously too sly for you. Leave it to me, then. I know how to deal with her insolence.”

Many of the girls were crying now, frightened by the loud voices and the threat of violence they felt in the air. One or two looked at Chloe with pity in their eyes that made them appear much older than they were. The last thing they needed, any of them, was to be exposed to more unpleasantness. In any case, the chance of learning anything useful today had vanished.

“You are dismissed, my loves,” she said to them with a shooing gesture and valiant attempt at a smile. “Go with my blessing and the memory of all I've tried to tell you.”

The room cleared in seconds. Her stepbrother gave her a snide look, then escorted the policemen to the front door where, Chloe thought, a bribe of the kind that usually oiled transactions in this part of the world was probably passed. From elsewhere in the house came the voice of Ismael's mother talking to the children, offering sweets and reassurance. At least no one had tried to detain them or subject them to the kind of interrogation that could leave scars.

Ahmad appeared in the doorway again within sec
onds. Pausing there, he said, “You are guilty, of course.”

“Of what, please?”

“Don't play games with me. Your bitch of a mother taught you behind my back, and you think to deceive me while you follow her lead. I am not so easily fooled as the police. But you should be grateful to me. I could have had you beaten into this floor. I could have allowed them to take you away to be whipped, or worse.”

She dared lift her eyes to his for long seconds. “Why didn't you then?”

“I have other plans.”

“Such as?” The words were clipped as she set her teeth to prevent them from chattering.

He gave a short laugh, possibly at the idea that he might actually answer such an impertinent question. “Get your burqa. We're going home.”

She was not allowed to take leave of her hostess, nor did they wait for Ismael to be summoned from the
hajra
where he was partaking of tea in solitary state while reading the latest newsmagazines from abroad. Ahmad marched her from the house, then moved off down the street leaving her to trail after him. She glared at his back through the mesh over her eyes, hating him and everything he stood for, despising the swagger of his walk, the set of his shoulders, even the way he wore his turban. It might be futile, but was better than dwelling on what he meant to do to her.

Inside the house, Ahmad snatched the burqa from her as she began to remove it, tossing it aside. Taking her arm in a hard grip, he dragged her through the house to her narrow room with its low cot and black-painted window. He shoved her into its dim confines, then let go of her so she stumbled and nearly fell.

“Remain,” he ordered. “Since you have abused your freedom of movement, this will be your prison.”

Chloe whirled to face him as she regained her balance. “What do you mean?”

“There will be no more visiting, no more teaching. You are confined to this room until I say you may go.”