The Afghan Wife

2. The Visit

2

The Visit

Mahmoud scowled at her when he came home, slamming the door behind him.

‘Your haramzadeh cousin is coming to see me tonight,’ he said with a sneer. She looked down at the floor and tried to keep her face impassive. Calling her cousin a bastard was insulting, but she knew there was worse to come. It was his little game; he liked using foul language in front of her and watching intently for the slightest change in her expression. If she didn’t react he’d pounce and call her a w***e who loved dirty talk.

‘He’s a s**t-eating child of a dog like the rest of your family.’ His spittle sprayed across her hair as he said the disgusting words.

She didn’t respond.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me why he’s coming?’ Mahmoud mocked. ‘Maybe he needs my help.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps he needs to get out of town.’

Zahra kept her eyes lowered, not sure of how much Mahmoud knew. After she’d brought him a beer and a wet cloth for his hands and face, she went back to the kitchen. She quickly coiled her hair into a tight knot at the back of her neck, then added spices, carrots, sultanas and almonds to the steamed rice. She could hear Mahmoud interrogating Ahmad in the living room, asking him what he’d learned, getting him to count to twenty and say his letters. The child was tired and as usual he made mistakes. Each time he did, his father banged a book on a small table and Ahmad whimpered fearfully. She went into the living room and took Ahmad by the hand.

‘I’ll give him his meal in the kitchen,’ she said firmly.

‘He’s an i***t mummy’s boy,’ Mahmoud said in disgust. ‘Take him out of my sight.’

Zahra kept Ahmad with her and he soon recovered, telling her in whispers about his day. She spooned rice into his dish and gave him one of the minced lamb kabobs she was making for the adults. Mahmoud called for another beer. He ignored her when she put it next to him. He was intent on reading the evening paper and the room was full of smoke from his foul-smelling cigarette. After she’d fed her son, she took him to the tiny bathroom, washed him and helped him into his pyjamas. She told him that cousin Firzun was coming and that he’d have to go to bed early. She left him in the bedroom turning the pages of his book about trucks. If there was going to be any violence between the men, she wanted Ahmad out of the way. She emptied the overflowing ashtray and put plates and spoons ready on a cloth she’d spread on the floor.

As soon as her cousin arrived, Zahra settled Ahmad for the night then retreated to the kitchen. She heard Firzun greet her husband. After she’d brought him a beer and a warm cloth for his hands and face, she went back into the kitchen, held the door ajar slightly and listened as Firzun started to talk. She could see the men in profile as they sat opposite each other on the floor. Mahmoud leaned aggressively towards her cousin, but Firzun was his usual solid and defiant self. They looked similar now that Firzun had grown a beard. Zahra picked up a large platter of salad and a basket of bread, nudged the door open and laid the food on the floor cloth. The men ignored her as she put salad on their plates.

‘It’s time to go, Mahmoud. I’ve organised the passports,’ Firzun began.

Zahra caught her breath. Passports?

‘So you’re on the run again. You botched that job at the Soviet consulate, didn’t you?’ Mahmoud sneered. ‘You can clear off across the border to Iran on your own. I’ve got a wife and a child to think of.’

He flicked his hand at Zahra, waving her back to the kitchen.

Zahra felt a rush of anger towards both men—why hadn’t Firzun told her they were going to Iran? She’d thought they might head for Kabul or another big city. She’d thought Mahmoud knew nothing about Firzun’s activities, but she’d been wrong.

‘We can get out as a family,’ Firzun said.

Zahra moved nearer to the kitchen door and opened it further.

‘You!’ Mahmood jabbed his finger a Firzun. ‘You …’ he spat a foul insult in her cousin’s face, and she was surprised her cousin didn’t hit him, ‘… and your stupid revolutionary ideas.’

‘I’m fighting for democracy!’ Firzun raised his voice.

‘Anything that’s going, you just jump on the bandwagon. I know all about you helping those rich friends of yours in Iran. Well, they got rid of the shah. Now they don’t like the religious mob and the Ayatollah Khomeini and you’re right there in the front line … you … you bloody stupid anarchist. You’re a waste of space. Why don’t you get a proper job?’

‘I’ve got a job,’ Firzun spat. ‘But when the commies take over here, you won’t have one. You’ll have to live on Zahra’s money. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’

Mahmoud started to get up.

‘Settle down,’ Firzun said calmly. ‘I’ve got you a teaching job at Tehran University.’

Zahra frowned—that had to be a lie. Firzun had told her that Mahmoud was a third rate engineer and a worse teacher. Why would a prestigious school like Tehran University offer him a job?

‘Forget it, I’m not going,’ Mahmoud said, stuffing bread into his mouth.

Firzun reached into his pocket and laid out photographs on the floor in front her husband like a winning hand of cards.

‘You’re in all of these. You’re lucky you haven’t been arrested like some of the others,’ Firzun said.

‘You bastard!’ Mahmoud said angrily.

He grabbed a photograph, crumpled it in his hand and threw it across the room.

‘You’re on the commies’ list, Mahmoud. Get out while you can.’ Firzun smiled insolently at Mahmoud as he put the photos in his shirt pocket and tapped it.

Zahra picked up the dishes of rice and meat and held the door open with her foot. She kept her eyes lowered as she knelt and served the food onto their plates. She wouldn’t give her husband the satisfaction of seeing fear in them.

Back in the kitchen she ate her own food standing up and squinting through the crack in the door as she listened to Firzun’s plans.

‘We leave on Thursday. One small bag each, that’s all.’

‘I’m not going! You’re an anarchist and a liar!’

Firzun leaned forward. ‘Listen, Mahmoud, they know we met in your room at the university,’ he said testily. ‘You’re in this up to your neck like me. I paid you well, didn’t I? They’ll get you sooner or later.’

Mahmoud balled his fists. Would he hit her cousin as he sat there smirking? He wouldn’t dare, she thought. He knows he’d come off worse like last time. But she hadn’t known that Firzun had manipulated him with money.

‘I’ll tell them it was you!’ Mahmoud shouted, his voice rising a pitch. ‘You dragged me into this. I’m not a fighter!’

Only in your own home, Zahra thought.

‘You do that. I’ll be in Tehran by then.’ Firzun shrugged. ‘Face it, you’ve got no choice. I’ve arranged Iranian papers, they’re good copies. We’ll pick them up after we cross the border.’ Firzun started to eat.

Back in the kitchen, Zahra’s alarm grew. Passports, visas, forged papers? Wouldn’t they be arrested? Now Firzun was saying something about a refugee camp if the papers weren’t right. Then she caught her breath. He was talking about Nasim and her husband Rashid, his wealthy friends—names from her own past. He’d organised for everyone to stay in their house. The house where she’d heard about her mother’s death ten years ago. The house where she’d first seen Karim Konari. Her heart contracted and for an instant she was seventeen again.

She’d never forget seeing Karim for the first time as he stood in the doorway of Nasim’s huge salon, scanning the room. Was he still as handsome and urbane with easy manners and American-style clothes? If she saw him again, would she still feel that overwhelming rush of … what was it? Love? Infatuation? The thought of him still made her feel weak inside. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the bittersweet memories as she opened the kitchen door and walked quietly into the living room. The men ignored her. She collected the plates, made the coffee, and later stood near the door to wish her cousin goodnight. When her husband flung it open, she smelled wood smoke.

‘Leave the house when you hear the azan-e mahgreb, Mahmoud. Wait by the side of the mosque in Salaam Street,’ Firzun shook their hands. ‘Dress warmly.’

As he clattered down the concrete stairs, Zahra shivered involuntarily. The azan-e mahgreb—the sunset prayer call—on Thursday! She felt desperate. How could she pack up her life in such a short time? Mahmoud slammed the door shut. She stood back as he performed the nightly ritual, locking, testing, bolting.

‘Did Firzun say we’re leaving on Thursday?’ she asked when he’d finished.

She knew she would regret saying anything to him. He turned sharply, grabbed her arms, and squeezed them hard above her elbows. He shook her violently, his jagged nails biting into her flesh.

‘This is how your respectable family repays me for taking you off their hands.’ His spittle hit her face. ‘Your useless cousin’s dragged me into one of his botched plans. Now we’re on the run!’

Her head hit the wall when he threw her back against it, cursing loudly. He slapped her hard across the face. With another curse he stomped away. She massaged her face, trying to soothe the stinging flesh. Her neck felt sore where it had snapped back. Once again her thick knot of hair had saved her skull. Her arms ached and stung from the pressure of his fingers. She clenched her fists, hating him, wishing him dead. She stood in the kitchen and waited till he’d used the bathroom and she’d heard him close the bedroom door. Tomorrow, she thought miserably, she had to see the school principal and come up with a convincing lie for quitting the job she loved.

Fatima Gul, principal of Herat Girls College, wasn’t pleased but bowed to the inevitable.

‘We all have to do what our husbands say,’ she sighed.

She believed Zahra’s carefully constructed lie about going to Kabul to stay with Mahmoud’s sister. Although Fatima pressed her for a return date, she couldn’t give one. She hated lying to the woman who was her boss and her friend. She was one of the few people who knew how Mahmoud treated her.

Her students were dismayed when she told them. She hid her distress from them and said that no one was indispensable. She set them a writing task and let her mind wander. How would they manage in Iran without her income? It was bound to be more expensive there. Mahmoud always gambled his salary away each month. She had very little faith in Firzun’s promise of a job for her husband. Her salary paid for rent and food, Ahmad’s kindergarten fees, and for Ayshe to clean the house and mind Ahmad sometimes. She’d even managed to put some in the bank. She expected Mahmoud would have emptied the account by now.

That evening he ordered her to pack their personal things in boxes.

‘Another family’s moving in on Saturday,’ he announced.

She bit back the angry response that if things went wrong they’d have nowhere to live. The following evening he reluctantly gave her half of the money from the bank to sew into her clothes.

‘They won’t search a woman,’ he said. But who were ‘they’? The communists or the lawless mountain gangs—the Mujahadeen?

‘Why Iran?’ she ventured. ‘There’s been a revolution; it’s an Islamic State now with Sharia law!’

Mahmoud clenched his fists and she backed away from him. ‘Shut up, stupid woman! They have Sharia law to control women like you!’

She said nothing; protesting to Mahmoud was a waste of time and she didn’t want to be hurt again.

That night she lay awake next to her snoring husband and allowed herself to think about Karim Konari, the man she’d met briefly when she was a gauche schoolgirl of seventeen. Firzun had reluctantly allowed her to come to one of his political meetings at his friends’ house. She’d been clutching a glass of Coca Cola, wondering how she could drink it without spilling all the ice, when she’d noticed Karim standing in the doorway. In the intervening years she’d gone over and over the same scene in her head—she knew by heart every word, every nuance. Like a favourite fairy story, it had sustained her through all her troubles.

She could still see him clearly in his jeans and dark polo shirt with his lightly tanned olive skin, but his eyes … they were the colour of honey, with thick dark lashes. He was taller than her cousin and he looked slightly older. As she’d watched, he’d pushed his longish dark brown hair back with his right hand. There was much to admire—his determined jaw line, his sculptured lips. He’d smiled straight at her and her heart had lunged. He was coming over to speak to her!

‘Hello Maryam,’ he’d said, extending his hand to the young woman sitting next to her. Zahra had looked down at the carpet—he hadn’t even noticed her.

‘Hi Karim,’ Maryam had answered. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘I’ve just got back from the States.’ He’d smiled briefly at Zahra as he sat down. ‘My parents have a house at Martha’s Vineyard.’

His voice was cultured, as if he’d been to an expensive school. Parents with a house in a vineyard, how exotic! Zahra had glanced at him, trying not to stare.

‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’ he’d said to Maryam as he smiled at Zahra.

Maryam obliged and Zahra had hastily put her glass on the floor. She remembered his handshake, warm and firm. When he’d leaned forward slightly, she’d caught a scent of fresh linen and almonds.

‘Oh,’ he’d laughed, ‘your tiny hand is frozen!’

‘I’m so sorry, the glass is full of ice,’ she’d replied, the words tripping over each other.

‘She didn’t get it, she’s probably never seen an opera.’ She recalled Maryam’s broad smile. ‘She’s Firzun’s cousin from Afghanistan.’

At the time Zahra had had no idea what they were talking about.

Karim had then smiled directly at her again. His teeth were even and white. ‘Afghanistan’s a long way from here, Zahra.’ Her name had sounded warm on his lips. ‘Welcome to Iran.’

She’d felt as if all the breath had left her body, but she’d managed an awkward nod. He’d asked if the man wearing the Ché Guevara tee shirt was her cousin. When she’d nodded again, he’d raised his eyebrows and remarked, ‘That’s odd; Nasim said he was an anti-communist.’

Now, ten years later, she understood what he’d meant, but then she’d frowned and said hesitantly, ‘You mean he looks like the man on the tee shirt?’

‘Give her a break, Karim,’ Maryam had chided.

She’d felt as if they were sharing a private joke, then Karim had leaned forward slightly and patted her hand. She’d never forget the thrill that had run through her body.

‘Look up Marxist ideology when you get back to school,’ he’d said kindly.

Lying on the edge of the thin mattress, next to her odious husband, a tear rolled down her face, then another and another. Karim Konari had paid the airfare for the cousins to come back to Afghanistan after they’d buried her mother. He’d sent the tickets via Rashid, Firzun’s friend. ‘Karim can afford it,’ Firzun had said when she’d questioned the gesture. ‘He’s from one of the richest families in Tehran.’

She’d written to Karim and thanked him, entrusting the letter with her cousin when he’d returned to Iran. But although she’d watched for the post every day, he’d never replied.

Thoughts of Karim still haunted her as she travelled on the bus for her last day at the school. She doubted that after all this time he would remember her even if they did meet again. He was probably married with a family by now, and in his early thirties, she thought. She sighed—not to mention, she was married and damaged goods at that. She was no longer the wide-eyed virgin she’d been then, and the shame of being a beaten wife hung heavy in her heart. She would never be able to look Karim in the face without him knowing all her dark secrets, all the humiliations she’d suffered in her marriage. As she walked across the school yard, smiling at her students, she hoped Karim had left Iran for good and that she would never see him again.

She came home early on her last day, laden with parting gifts. Her special gift from the tearful girls was a green cashmere scarf.

‘I’ll always think of you when I wear it,’ she told them, knowing in her heart that it was the only gift she could take with her.

There was a bright yellow parka for Ahmad and countless handkerchiefs and cards. The good wishes from her students and colleagues echoed round her head as she cleared up from their last hasty meal. ‘Khodafez! God protect you on your journey, Zahra Khanoum.’

She double-checked that she had all she needed for herself and Ahmad in her travel bag. She had also packed a bag for Mahmoud and put it next to hers near the front door of the apartment.

‘Make sure you and the boy are ready on time. I have to rest,’ Mahmoud ordered as he opened the bedroom door. Ahmad, still wearing his new yellow parka, followed her round, peppering her with questions. In the kitchen, she doused the fuel stove and swept up the dust. She got Ahmad to help her wrap the dishes in tea towels and carry them into the living room. She buried all her cards and gifts under the dishes, then stopped and looked round for the last time.

Mahmoud had torn all the pictures and photographs off the walls in a frenzy the previous night, then dumped them in a corner, breaking and splintering the glass. The room looked drab again, like the first time she’d seen it. She’d had so many plans for the dreary little flat when she first married him. But within days they’d been dashed. There wasn’t a wall he hadn’t thrown her against. Her gaze settled on the closed bedroom door. She recalled her wedding night and all the other nights with a shudder. He was even more violent in the bedroom.

She didn’t want to go. But could life be any worse? Maybe she could divorce him in Tehran and get a job. It was a big cosmopolitan city. Perhaps Nasim and Rashid could help. Then she remembered the Ayatollah Khomeini and the Sharia law he had introduced. She’d read in an American magazine about the draconian restrictions on women in Iran. She shuddered; she had more freedom here in Afghanistan under the local communist government. In Iran she would be trapped forever with no one to help her.