Allure of Deceit (28 page)

The man's children tried to ask questions, but Saddiq's answers were curt so he did not have to think up lies. He clung onto his part of the rail with one hand and his
pakol
with the other. Thara stared out at the road and didn't talk at all.

The children fell silent too. The family had offered hospitality, and he should be more gracious. He was ashamed, but not for long. Kandahar was in sight before they were ready for the midday meal.

The highway sliced through the middle of the city, and the traffic was like a slow-moving wall. As the driver slowed, his wife called back to ask where the two boys were headed. Not knowing names of neighborhoods or streets, Saddiq insisted that the family should not go out of its way and could drop the boys off near the market area. The man drove directly to the market, and Saddiq and Thara climbed down from the truck into the startling jumble of stalls, carts, tents, and honking vehicles.

But they did not forget to thank the family profusely, and as the truck drove away, Thara and Saddiq returned the children's cheery waves.

At the market's edge, women covered completely in pale gray-blue squatted, leaning against a wall, surrounded by groups of children. He had heard about
burqas
, but had never seen the strange clothing in Laashekoh. The women pleaded for coins. “I am a widow!” cried one woman. “I cannot feed my nine children,” another insisted. The younger children, thin and some deformed, were silent and held out their palms. Older ones begged alone, their eyes blank and unfocused.

Most people rushing to the market ignored the outstretched hands. It was easy for Saddiq to shake his head and deny coins to the faceless figures. But the children's faces haunted him. One vendor stopped to distribute old, wrinkled grapes, which the children immediately stuffed into their mouths. Saddiq wondered why the foreign women had traveled to Laashekoh, asking for children, when so many prospects lined the streets near the market of Kandahar. Or did the children have a reason to avoid orphanages?

Thara pulled at his sleeve. “They think you are pulling out a coin,” she said under her breath. “And if you are taunting them, they will chase us down.”

He jerked his head the other way and quickened his pace.

“There are many thieves here,” she warned. “We must look as if we carry no money, yet know what we're doing.” She was nervous.

“If anyone asks, say we are headed home,” he suggested. “Our parents are waiting.”

His reminder annoyed her. “You can head home, but I have no parents or home. I am no better than these children who must beg.”

Exhausted, she was distraught about not having an opportunity to stop near a stream and clean the dirt away from her face and hands before entering the city. She suggested searching for the orphanage first, but Saddiq could not rest until he found the child, and he worried that Thara might not help if she found a place to stay. “We must help the orphan first,” he said.

“But she's not an orphan,” Thara countered. “Leila is alive!”

Refusing to argue or delay, Saddiq strode through the market as Thara trailed behind. He approached a group of vendors who were not busy with customers, and asked about the prison. One man teased Saddiq while the others eyed him with suspicion.

“Who do you know there?” asked one man, and Saddiq explained a distant relative was in the prison with an infant.

“Knowing someone there is a step to going there yourself,” another vendor interrupted.

“It's not a place for children,” said another man, more kindly.

“Where are your parents?” snapped another. “Street children are not good for business. Move along!”

“We are not street children!” Thara shouted. Then she amazed Saddiq by acting nothing like a girl, grabbing his arm, and charging through the crowds to another section of the market.

The place felt dangerous. Saddiq had never seen such crowds before, a group that shuffled past the colorful displays of fruit, fabrics, farm animals, and household goods. Most men ignored them and a few leered, and he was embarrassed that Thara was better at negotiating the large market. He had never felt so lost.

“Let me try,” she ordered Saddiq. Plucking a few coins from her pouch, Thara purchased two sticks threaded with grilled lamb. For the benefit of older boys lingering nearby, she made a point of showing the pouch had been emptied. The seller handed over the sticks of hot meat, each wrapped in warm naan. Clutching the naan tight, she removed the stick, tossing it in a nearby bin, and took a large bite. Only then, keeping her voice gruff, she asked for directions to Samosa Prison. The man frowned but pointed back in the direction they had just traveled, explaining the prison was at the city's edge on the highway.

They had passed the prison on their way into town. “It's only three kilometers away,” the man added. “You cannot miss it.” He then asked if they were strangers to Kandahar.

Thara shook her head and stepped back so that Saddiq could take over. “We have family here,” he said.

“Your parents are in the prison?” the man inquired.

“A cousin.” Saddiq was curt, in a hurry. The vendor cautioned them. “Don't carry your valuables inside. The guards will search and make you empty your pockets. They then have trouble finding your belongings when you're ready to leave.”

Thara started to ask the man a question, but Saddiq didn't wait. Moments later, she ran to catch up. “There is more than one orphanage in the city, and one is nearby!” She admitted that the city frightened her, too. “We could find a safe place to stay, and they would give us advice about the infant.”

He kept walking. “We can take care of ourselves. The baby cannot.”

“Wouldn't it be better to find a place to sleep before retrieving the baby?” she asked.

“The market is not the place to ask about an orphanage,” he insisted.

Frustrated, Thara pointed out the vendor could tell they were not from Kandahar. She also feared the older street children searching for runaways and newcomers to rob. “We need a place to stay. The orphanage could help us collect the baby. Leila will not trust me, and if something happened to the child, she would never forgive us.”

Her warnings made him nervous. Thara didn't want to see her sister. Convincing the prison guards and mother to hand the baby over might not go so well, especially if Leila learned that Saddiq wanted the child. His family had exposed her trafficking ring. Entering and leaving the prison would not be easy, and an orphanage would probably be the same. Saddiq doubted whether the directors would allow Saddiq and Thara to come and go as they pleased, and they certainly would not let him walk away with a baby.

He was torn. Thara's heart was set on finding an orphanage. Yet he needed her help. Only Thara could convince Leila to hand the child over. He wanted to reach the prison before Thara lost her nerve.

“You're right,” he admitted. “Leila may ask if you have a place to stay. Tell her you have found a good home for the child. She doesn't have to know that it is Laashekoh. You were very smart with the vendors and must do the same with Leila.” Thara shook her head. “You must try,” he urged. “Do not mention the baby. Wait for her to talk about the child and plead for your help.”

She asked what would happen if Leila refused to plead and hand over the child. Saddiq thought about pooling their money to bribe a guard, but kept the idea to himself. He urged Thara to have faith.

They walked to the prison in silence. Thara was the only person Saddiq knew in Kandahar, yet she was a stranger like the other people on the streets. He did not want to stay in Kandahar, and she would not return to Laashekoh. He had not traveled so far to return empty-handed. “Trust me,” was all he could say.

Bicycles, cars, trucks, and a few pedestrians moved at a mix of speeds. Thara and Saddiq walked along the side of the highway, passing the prison once and then returning to pass again. The building was massive. Concrete slab walls, topped with metal fencing and razor wire, surrounded the building. Only the rooftop was visible from the street. The doors were dented and blue, and a large metal pole stretched across the front gate.

The place was designed to intimidate. Neither child was in a hurry to approach the guards. They ducked behind a building to exchange the belt containing their money. “Could they could keep me inside?” Thara murmured as she handed the belt to Saddiq.

Saddiq told her no, but he wasn't sure.

They waited for other visitors to proceed through the gates. A driver of a truck pulled close and spoke with the guards. The large metal pole lifted, and the doors opened, allowing the man to pass. A few individuals passed in and out of a smaller blue door. Some joked with the guards, and others passed by silently.

“Let us find out more.” He approached a woman who had just left the prison and waited near the entrance, scanning the cars passing by on the highway. Though dressed in fine clothes, she was friendly and direct. The guards were polite to her.

Thara caught up as Saddiq explained that they were two brothers who wanted to visit a sister held in the prison. The woman's smile was gentle. “A sister? But you can't enter without your parents.”

After traveling so far, he was not sure what to do next.

Thara spoke up. “Could we send a message to her?”

A large car, boxy and shiny, pulled close. The woman told the children she could help and then signaled the driver to pull over and wait. She opened a fine leather pouch to extract a pen and notebook, handing them over.

Saddiq was embarrassed. “I do not write well enough yet,” he confessed. The woman looked at Thara, who admitted she could not read or write at all.

The woman understood. “Tell me what to say.”

The stranger was so fast, so kind. Saddiq was flustered, but Thara dictated slowly, smiling as she admired the neat, looping strokes. “Your sibling is in Kandahar and tried to visit.” Thara glanced at Saddiq. “There is nothing more to say.”

“Very nice,” the woman said. “How do I sign it?”

“One name is enough,” Saddiq spoke up. He used Thamer, and hoped Leila would realize who tried to visit. The woman folded the note once, and then asked for the recipient's name. “Leila of ­Laashekoh,” Thara said.

The prison guards would read the note, and the woman promised to request that it be delivered immediately.

“We could wait,” Saddiq suggested, but the woman shook her head and explained that the rules were strict and there could be no response. They should return and check each day. He was crestfallen, and the woman asked if the children lived nearby.

Thara spoke up, asking where they could find an orphanage.

The woman was surprised. “Why, are you orphans?”

Thara shook her head wearily and started crying. She couldn't speak.

“No, we are not.” Saddiq reached for Thara's hand. “But her . . . his mother is in jail.”

Thara glared at him, and the woman looked back and forth between the two. “But you're brothers.”

Saddiq was embarrassed. “Half-brothers?” he mumbled.

The woman was not angry. She placed her hand lightly on Thara's shoulder and directed Saddiq to hand the note to the guards. “My name is Fatima,” she directed. “Tell them you are with me.”

Worrying that the woman might walk away with Thara, Saddiq ran to the guardhouse. He already had an idea—offering to pay one of the beggars in the street to pretend to be Thara's parent. He glanced back to check on Thara. The woman crouched low and asked questions. Saddiq wanted to hurry back to listen and prompt Thara.

The guard ordered the boy to wait and picked up the telephone. Saddiq wondered if he was in trouble, but then the man gave a friendly wave to the woman. Turning to check on Thara, Saddiq was relieved to see the two approaching. Thara seemed happy, no longer anxious about finding an orphanage. “Saddiq, we have a place to stay tonight.
Madadgar
knows of a center that cares for children of women in this prison.” Thara stared up at the woman, her eyes full of hope and trust.