A Fort of Nine Towers (49 page)

We walked all the way to the main road to take a taxi. My sisters were complaining that they could not see through the small netted peepholes of their
burqas
. But there was nothing that I could do for them except try to keep them from walking into other people or falling into holes in the pavement. We took a taxi to Mandawee, the main bazaar in Kabul.

There you can find anything. It is always crowded. Before the Taliban came to Kabul, it was full of all kinds of people: men, women, children, poor, rich, young, and old from all over Afghanistan. Now there were mostly men with turbans and long
shalwar kamiz
. They all looked like they were Taliban, but they were only normal people who just dressed like Taliban. It was safer that way. Occasionally, I could see some women with bright blue
burqas
.

My mother and sisters went into a shop that sold women’s underwear. I never liked buying those kinds of things for them. One of my sisters tripped going up the steps into the shop when her
burqa
got caught under her foot. My other sister walked into her, and they both fell sideways onto a pile of underclothes. It was hard for them to get up, because they could not see what they were doing.

The shop was dark. There was no electricity, and only a faint light filtered through the overhanging roofs of the bazaar. A few other women were in the shop already. My mother could not see what was
for sale. She pulled up the front of her
burqa
. My sisters did the same. Three other women who were already there did the same as well, once they saw my mother do it.

When the other women heard my mother talking Pashto to my sisters, they started speaking to her in Pashto as well. They were from southern Afghanistan, talking in a way that was loud and a little bit coarse.

The shopkeeper respectfully asked my mother and the others to cover their faces. He seemed a very nice and educated man. But women were not allowed to show their faces to an unknown man. If the Taliban saw that, they would beat the women on their ankles with the cables or whips they always carried with them and slap the shopkeeper.

One of the other women, who was older, said, “Don’t worry. My son is a Talib. He will protect us.” We all thought she was joking. My mother, sisters, and the other women smiled.

Not even five minutes later, a Talib came along the narrow street of the bazaar, looking into all the shops. When he saw my mother and the others with their
burqa
fronts raised, he marched into the dark shop and started whipping the women’s ankles with a thick cable. The women yelled and tried to jump out of the way.

The Talib was shouting in Pashto, “Cover your faces, you silly women,” as he swung the whip.

My mother and sisters followed his orders. The others did the same, except for the older one who had spoken to my mother.

Instead, she picked up a teacup from the shopkeeper’s table and threw it at the Talib. The cup hit the ground and smashed into pieces. She picked another cup and threw it at him. This one hit him in the chest. The Talib was stunned. So was I, as I wondered whether any woman had ever hit a Talib or thrown anything at one before.

Then the old woman picked up a teapot and threw that at the Talib, too. The tea had been made only a few minutes earlier. It was very hot. The pot shattered, and the fresh-boiled tea scalded him. He began shrieking and holding his clothes out from his skin to lessen the pain.

The shopkeeper quickly started collecting all the other cups from
the table. He could see that the older woman was looking for something else to throw. He was afraid all his cups would be smashed. In a harsh voice the woman barked at the Talib, “Go home and behave yourself. Have I brought you up for such a day to whip me on the ankles with a cable? You son of a dog!” she yelled, making a bad reference to his father.

“Mother! What are you doing here?” the Talib asked as he was still holding his sopping
kamiz
away from his chest. He gazed at her with wide eyes.

The shopkeeper, who was fearfully holding the tray of cups, slowly put them back on the table.

She picked up another cup and threw it at her son. The cup hit him on his right arm as he turned around to avoid it, then fell on the ground in pieces.

“Don’t you see what I’m doing?” the woman said. She picked up an extra-large red bra and showed it to her son. She was a solidly built village woman. “I’m buying this. Could you buy this for me if I sent you?” she said.

“Put it away, Mother,” the Talib said. He was shy and covered his eyes with his right hand.

She reached for another cup, but the shopkeeper had picked up the tray again before she could get one. Instead, she grabbed a package of bras and threw it at her son. It was heavy and landed at her son’s feet.

“Get out of here,” the woman said. “I’ll teach you tonight how to behave.”

The Talib turned around to walk out. The shopkeeper said, “Excuse me. Excuse me.” The Talib turned around to see what the shopkeeper wanted.

“Your mother has broken three cups and a teapot,” the shopkeeper said. “Somebody has to pay for them.”

“How much?” the Talib said, annoyed.

The shopkeeper told him the price, and the Talib paid without any bargaining. He did not even look at his mother or the other women. All the women’s
burqas
were pulled up again as he walked out. He did not tell them to cover their faces.

The old woman apologized for the inconvenience that was caused by her son. The other women told her that she was a brave woman, and she was very happy to hear that.

My mother quickly became very good friends with her. For the rest of that day, my mother followed her around to all the other shops so nobody could beat her or my sisters if they needed to pull up their
burqas
while they were buying things.

After shopping for several hours, we had lunch in a restaurant and invited the old woman to join us as our guest, which she was happy to do. She had many funny stories, and we laughed like we were having a picnic with an old friend.

My mother gave her our home address and asked her to come and visit us sometime. She said she would, but she never did.

Grandfather

W
e all came home from our shopping trip very happy. When we got there, we found Grandfather sipping tea in our sitting room. I ran to him and kissed his hands, and he kissed my forehead and congratulated me for starting university. I was so happy having my grandfather next to me, sipping tea and patting my head like in the old days.

He had brought some gifts for me to celebrate my first day. He gave me three expensive notebooks and his collection of the
Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud
. I have no idea how he had saved those books all those years, or where he had been keeping them. Perhaps years ago he had lent them to a friend who lived where the fighting or the Taliban had never reached. I was too happy when I saw them to ask. “Now is the right time for you to have them, Gorbachev,” he said.

“
Tashekur, Baba
,” I replied, as I gave him a long, heartfelt hug, upsetting his tea onto the carpet. I was thankful not just for the books, but to have him with us. It pushed my disappointment with the university to the back of my mind.

It was only forty minutes by bike to Makroyan, where he lived with my aunt, but I was not allowed to go. My father was afraid to let
me go anywhere alone. Whenever I walked out of the courtyard, somebody called after me, either my mother or my father, asking me where I was going. Nobody was worried about my sisters, because it was not possible for them to go anywhere; but after all the things that had happened to me, they were always worried about me.

Grandfather was slowly becoming an old man. It was hard for him to walk all the way from Makroyan the way he once had, and he found the bus tiring. Sometimes he wanted to visit us, but he had no money for a taxi. He was too proud to ask anybody for any. We did not have a phone to call him. Afghanistan did not have much of a phone system anymore. It had all been destroyed in the fighting between the factions. Now, whenever he came to visit us, one of my uncles would accompany him.

One of my sisters brought me a cup, and I poured more tea for Grandfather and some for myself. It felt like the old days, but I could read a deep sadness in Grandfather’s eyes, though he tried to hide it.

I knew he did not want to ruin my first day of university. He did not know that I was already bitterly disappointed, and I did not want to spoil his happiness for me by showing it.

I was looking for a right and quiet moment to ask him what was troubling him, but nobody wanted to leave us alone. It had been a month since we had last seen him, and everybody had been missing him.

Night fell and covered everything with its black coat. My grandfather went out to the courtyard and sat on one of the low, wooden platforms scattered around where my father had once washed carpets. He was gazing at the star-filled, moonless sky. He did not notice me at first when I came out and sat next to him. He was lost in his thoughts. I sat there for a long time before I spoke.

“You are hiding something from me,” I said finally. “What is it inside that keeps burning you? Why don’t you take it out and share it with me?” I asked.

He looked into my eyes for a full minute. I could feel his discomfort through his eyes, which got watery. Then he looked at the stars again.

“I have kept that fire for a month inside me. If I take that fire out,
its flames will burn everyone,” he said with his head pointed toward the sky. “It will make you sadder than others,” he said. He got up and walked back into the house.

We ate dinner together. My father made some of his jokes, and everyone laughed. I kept looking at Grandfather. His mouth made the gesture of a smile, but not his eyes.

After dinner as we were drinking tea, Grandfather said, “I have unpleasant news for everyone.” We all looked at him. He was quiet for a moment and then said, “I have been receiving a letter every morning since a month ago. In the letter someone is threatening me and my sons with death if I don’t sell my house to him. He is working with the government, and he is a powerful Talib.”

We were all very quiet. Nobody knew how to break the silence as we tried to understand what might happen to our home, the place where we expected to return. Finally my father said, “How do you receive these letters?”

“Somebody is sliding them under the door around three in the morning. When I wake up for morning prayers, I find them. Each one is the same, the same writing, the same words. It has come every day for a month,” Grandfather calmly said.

“Have you told anyone else yet?” my father asked.

“No, not yet,” Grandfather said.

“While you are here tonight, will he slip another letter under the door?” I asked, deeply concerned about my aunt alone in the apartment in Makroyan without Grandfather with her.

“No. Two days ago I wrote him a letter, and left it for him under the door before morning prayers. I asked him to show me his face. Yesterday I met him. He is a dangerous man. He likes our house, what is left of it, and he wants to buy the land and rebuild. He will choose a price for it. He said he would tell me the price tomorrow,” Grandfather said.

“We are definitely not going to sell him the house,” my father said. “Let him dream about it. I’m sure he can do nothing.”

“He can do anything he wants. He is not afraid of anyone. He
would destroy whatever comes into his path. He may kill one of us if I say ‘No,’ ” Grandfather said.

I noticed that my uncle’s face had gone pale.

“May I go with you and see him tomorrow?” my father asked forcefully.

“No, he doesn’t want to see any of you. He said that if I tell any of my sons, he will kill me. But I’m telling you, and you’ll all keep your father’s secret,” he said as he looked into everybody’s eyes. We did not know what to say.

“Do you want to sell him the house, then?” my father asked, more quietly.

“I want to talk to him and solve this problem peacefully, but if he gets serious and stubborn, then I don’t know. He is one of those Taliban from the border. They capture a village and torture people and club them to death, then afterward ask the young boys to do the same to their parents. They tell the young boys that this will make a man of them.

“I don’t want the same thing to happen to my sons, my grandsons, and my granddaughters. I don’t want to see my daughters-in-law in widows’ clothes. I don’t want to ruin my family. Money is the dirt on our hands; it comes and goes. We may have some money again, and we will buy a better house,” Grandfather said. He said all this with a calm voice.

No one talked after him and there were several minutes of silence. He asked for a blanket, which he wrapped around himself, then went back out into the courtyard and lay down; he fell asleep on the platform where we had been sitting earlier, even though the night had turned cool.

The rest of us sat inside; no one said anything for a long time. Finally, my uncle spoke.

“I went to the old house about six weeks ago. I had to know if any of my wife’s gold was still there. I mean, how long are we going to go on living like this?” His voice was filled with frustration.