Companions of Paradise (33 page)

T
hey were to leave in the morning. Mariana stared into space as she sipped her third cup of tea. The sun had already set. It was too late.

After Nur Rahman pounded away toward the city, she and her family had continued their dignified journey toward the vast caravanserai and animal market west of Kabul where Aminullah's men waited to escort them to India.

Perched atop her camel, frantic with nerves, she had hardly noticed the sweet air she breathed, or the clear azure sky above the steep brown hills in front of them. After they passed inside the caravanserai's high gate, she had paid little attention to the huddled camps scattered over the caravanserai's hilly terrain.

A short distance from the main gate, they had found their quarters, a pair of thick, black goat-hair tents that squatted close to the ground, each one boasting half a dozen armed guards.

Other tents stood nearby. A lamb had been tied to one of them.

“The ladies will take one tent, the men will take the other,” Aminullah Khan had announced from the back of his horse, gesturing toward the black tents. “I will entertain you until your departure in the morning. Then I will accompany you as far as the Sher Darwaza pass.”

The morning.
Mariana sighed, adjusting her hopes. Perhaps the horseman had not been Hassan after all. Perhaps he had only turned his head as Hassan would have done…

She looked about her in the gathering darkness. Held up by many poles and wrapped in layers of black goat-hair, the women's tent was comfortable enough, although it was too cold inside for them to remove their poshteens. It also was attractive, with its thickly woven floor coverings, its mattresses and bolsters, its piles of woven saddlebags, and its cheerful little fire in a circle of stones, although Aunt Claire had already complained bitterly about being stuffed into the same ice-cold tent with all the female servants.

Mariana imagined Uncle Adrian with Yar Mohammad and the Mug cook, not to mention Dittoo.

The smell of roasting meat drifted in from outside, along with male voices. Earlier, hearing frightened bleating, Mariana had put her head out of the tent in time to see a man holding the dying lamb up by its hind legs, while the blood from its slit throat drained into the snow.

Now, chopped into pieces and threaded onto skewers, it was to be their dinner.

She was dozing against a bolster when Nur Rahman put his head hesitantly into the tent.

“Tell that boy to come in or go out, but for goodness sake close the flap,” Aunt Claire snapped from her cocoon of quilts, causing Mariana to start awake. “We have a howling draft as it is. Why is
he
in the women's tent? And why is he swathed in—”

Before her aunt could finish, Mariana was on her feet, beckoning him inside.

“I thought I would never find your horseman,” he whispered excitedly. “But there he was, at Haji Khan's house, drinking tea with Munshi Sahib. He—”

“Where is he now?” Mariana demanded, her thoughts whirling. “Is he here?”

“Of course not.” The boy waved a vague arm. “He is at his own camp. Aminullah Khan would have him killed if he tried to visit you here. Aminullah has taken responsibility for your honor.”

His face filled with curiosity. “Who is this man? Why do you want to see him?”

“Wait there.” Without replying, she hurried across the tent floor, found her chaderi, and put it on. “Take me to him.”

A plaintive voice rose from the carpet as she tugged on her boots. “Mariana! Where on earth are you going?”

“I shall be back soon, Aunt Claire,” Mariana called over her shoulder as she and Nur Rahman, identical in their chaderis, left the black tent and started off into the darkness.

“Stop. I must explain first.” Nur Rahman whispered something unintelligible to the trio of guards who sat outside, then motioned for Mariana to follow him.

“We must look as if we are going to that tent over there,” he said quietly, pointing. “They must think we have gone to find other women to shield us while we relieve ourselves outside. There is very little time,” he added, “only enough to wish the man peace before we return.”

Fires glowed in the distance. Tents clustered near them. The boy pointed. “That is his camp.”

A faint glow inside the largest tent told them it was occupied.

Mariana tried to smooth her hair, but it was beyond help after being stuffed into the embroidered cap of her chaderi, with most of its pins gone. Her lips were chapped from the cold.

She ran a nervous hand over her face. Why, in all those months, had she not imagined what she would say to Hassan?

Her stomach lurched as she remembered Harry Fitzgerald.

Someone heard them arrive. “Who is there?” inquired a male voice.

“It is I, Nur Rahman,” called the boy.

“Enter,” the voice replied.

Mariana signaled for Nur Rahman to wait, took a deep breath, lifted the door flap, and entered.

A single oil lamp lit the comfortably arranged tent. Its flame guttered in the draft from the door. Remembering, she bent to remove her boots.

Hassan was already on his feet when she entered. “I have been waiting for you,” he said sharply, stepping toward her across a thick Bokhara carpet. “Where is the lady who sent you to find me?”

He was thinner than she remembered. He looked worn, as if he had recently completed some long and difficult work.

“Speak,” he snapped, gesturing impatiently.

“Oh!” she cried, her hand to her mouth, too flustered to take in that he thought she was Nur Rahman. “Oh, your beautiful hand!”

He stopped short. He bent, and gazed through her cutwork. “It is you,” he said.

He wore an exquisite, unfamiliar scent. Unnerved by his presence, she could only nod.

Nur Rahman's head appeared in the doorway. “Quickly, Khanum,” he urged, “we must return at once.”

Hassan turned, frowning at the interruption. Mariana raised a hand. “A moment, Nur Rahman.”

“No!” The boy shook his head violently. “There is no time. You have left Aminullah Khan's tents without a male escort. If you do not return at once you will cause him dishonor. They kill their own women for making such mistakes,” he added desperately.

Hassan strode across the carpet and jerked the door curtain open, letting in both Nur Rahman and a blast of freezing air. “Where is his camp?” he asked curtly.

Nur Rahman pointed. “Inside the gate. Near the mosque.”

“If it is that far away,” Hassan said decisively, “then you have already been gone too long. You cannot return.”

Not return?
“But I must go back,” Mariana protested. “My aunt and uncle will worry. They will—”

Ignoring her, he pointed outside. “Nur Rahman, you will sleep in that tent over there. My servant Ghulam Ali will give you food.”

Ghulam Ali had survived the journey after all! He had found Hassan, and given him her second letter….

Mariana breathed in, trying to grasp her situation. Hassan's carpeted tent was lovely, with its small quilt-covered table on one side, and its pile of silk bolsters. Nevertheless, she felt a sudden pang of homesickness for her aunt and uncle, for Dittoo and Yar Mohammad. How would they manage without her? They were her family.

“Go,” Hassan snapped.

Nur Rahman did not reply. As he walked out of the tent, a single sob floated behind him.

He had only been trying to protect her. All this time he had treated her with respect, and no one had bothered to tell him the truth.

“Wait,” she called, stumbling after him. “That man is my husband,” she said to his back.

He stopped short. “Your
husband?
Why did you not tell this to Aminullah Khan?”

Already turning back, she did not reply.

She found Hassan bending over a saddlebag, his back to her.

“You must write to your uncle,” he said briskly, as he took out paper, a quill pen, and a bottle of ink, and laid them aside. “Tell him you are safe. Tell him that I have undertaken to escort you to Lahore.” He straightened, frowning. “And take off that dirty chaderi.

“I would have brought the rest of your family with me,” he added, as she pulled off the yards of enveloping cotton and raked her fingers through her tumbled hair, “but it would be disrespectful for them to leave Aminullah Khan.”

He held out the paper and pen. “Write,” he said, then strode from the tent.

When he returned with Nur Rahman, she was folding her letter. He took it from her and handed it to the boy. “Deliver this without your disguise,” he ordered. “Be careful.”

Dearest Uncle Adrian
, the letter said,
My husband Hassan has arrived from India. I am safe with him.

Sadly, we must now part. It was not my intention to desert you at this difficult time, but by calling on Hassan I have somehow broken a Pashtun rule, and now may not return to Aminullah's camp. Furthermore, it would be most unwise for us to interfere with Aminullah's arrangements for you and the servants.

Please forgive me, and give all my love to Aunt Claire. God willing, we will meet again in India.

After Nur Rahman had trotted away, Hassan turned to Mariana and looked silently at her. Something in his tired face made her want to close her eyes.

She must tell him how she felt now, before she lost her courage. She must voice her remorse and hope before it was too late.

“I am
so—
” she began.

He silenced her with a raised hand, then took her arm and guided her to the sandali with its pile of bolsters.

“You did not write,” she said, as she stretched her legs beneath the table, toward the warmth of the brazier.

He did not reply or look at her, but as the shawls across his chest rose and fell, a wave of feeling seemed to come from him, as it had once, long before. It crossed the space between them and washed over her. Her breathing quickened.

“You asked Aminullah Khan for panah,” he said softly, “and brought those whom you love to safety.”

She nodded.

What did he want from her? She would die if he did not…

His eyes flicked away from hers. He reached into his clothes and pulled out a worn, stained paper. It crinkled between his fingers. “Do you remember this?” he asked, smiling.

“I said too much,” she whispered, her face heating. “I did not—”

Beneath his warm, compelling perfume lay the sharp scent of his skin. He put the letter down, and leaned toward her.
“Search out a man,”
he murmured as he reached to open the front of her sheepskin cloak,
“whose own breast has burst from severance, that I may express to him the agony of my love-desire.”

Love-desire.
His eyes on her face, he reached inside her cloak, and, with his damaged hand, drew a slow circle on one of her breasts, then the other.

“And though in my grief I stripped off my feathers and broke my wings, even this could not drive from my head this rough passion of love.”

His eyes were half closed. She took his damaged hand and kissed the stump of his missing finger.

“I love you,” she breathed. “I have loved you from the moment I first saw you.”

As soon as she said those words, she realized they were true.

January 5, 1842

S
he awoke the next morning to see Hassan bending over her, fully dressed but for his boots. He held the gold medallion on its chain.

“I believe this is yours,” he said, holding it out. “I must buy provisions, and a mount for your journey to Lahore,” he added, as he padded to the doorway. “Ghulam Ali and Nur Rahman will look after you until I return, as will my own servants. I will be back, Inshallah, by late morning. When I return, we will prepare to depart.”

After the tent flap fell shut behind him, she closed her eyes.

“Nur Rahman,” she called, “I want tea!”

HASSAN AND Zulmai waited on their horses at the head of a file of eight unburdened mules. “There is no point in going to the city,” Zulmai pointed out. “All the shops will be closed. The British retreat is to take place tomorrow. Everyone is preparing to see the show. We should go instead to one of the forts near the Sher Darwaza. Someone there will be willing to sell us food for our journey.” “Show?” Hassan frowned. “So there is to be shooting.” Zulmai shrugged. “Akbar Khan may have offered the British safe passage, but he will never control the Ghilzais who want revenge for being cheated of their payments. And in any case, the British army is four thousand strong. It is not a merchant kafila. Fighting is an army's life.”

“And what is that large army's condition?”

“From what I hear, they are weak from hunger, but hungry or not, fighting is what they will do. Even if they have shown little courage in the past weeks, they will fight tomorrow. ”

“And they will have no chance at all.”

“None,” Zulmai agreed. “Gunmen are already waiting for them in the Khurd-Kabul pass, and in the Haft Kotal. As the army passes, more men will come, and lie in wait at Tezeen and Jagdalak. But now,” he concluded, clucking to his horse and signaling to the mule drivers, “let us stop talking and go.”

The fort he chose was on a slope overlooking the Kabul River. It was not as impressive as some of the strongholds they had passed on their way to Kabul, but it was substantial enough, with its corner towers and high, irregular walls. Hassan and Zulmai left the road and turned toward it, then stopped a respectful distance from the main entrance, their mules lined up behind them, and waited for someone to take notice of them.

Almost immediately men with jezails appeared on the parapet. Moments later, the tall doors were flung open, and a group of men galloped out.

Their leader was a thickly built man with a startling red beard.

“Peace,” he offered politely, a hand over his heart.

His eyes drifted to Ghyr Khush, then to the unburdened pack mules.

Zulmai returned his greeting. “We are travelers on our way to India. If you have a horse and provisions to spare, we wish to buy them for our journey.”

The red-bearded man gestured invitingly toward the fort's open doorway. “My name is Jamaluddin Khan.” He smiled, displaying several broken teeth. “Welcome to my house.

“For how many people do you need these provisions?” he asked, after he had settled his guests in the male quarters of his fort.

“Forty,” Hassan replied over the rim of his teacup.

The three men sat, shoeless, on the sheet-covered floor of a large, square room that looked onto the fort's main courtyard, where Ghyr Khush, Zulmai's mount, and all eight mules stood tethered to several trees. Teacups, bowls of dried apricots, mulberries, and pistachio nuts were in front of the sitting men. A samovar hissed outside the door.

“And for how many days?” Jamaluddin went on.

“Twenty-one.”

Jamaluddin nodded. “That can easily be arranged. But first,” he said, “you must tell me your stories.”

He turned to Hassan. “What has brought you, an Indian, to Kabul at this dangerous time? How was your journey? How long have you been here? And you, my Tajik friend,” he added, smiling at Zulmai, “how have you come to be sitting in my house with an Indian gentleman?

“When you have finished your stories,” he concluded happily, snapping a pistachio shell for emphasis, “I will tell you mine.”

Two hours later, empty cups and pistachio shells covered the floor. They were still talking.

Jamaluddin tipped his red beard toward the sitting-room window. “You have a lovely horse,” he offered. “It is a long time since I have seen such a beautiful animal.”

His face softened. “I had an Akhal Tekke stallion once. He was tall and proud, and he ran like the wind as it crosses the steppes. His name was Ak Belek, for he had a white stocking on one foreleg.”

He sighed. “I have had many good horses since then, but I have never forgotten Ak Belek.”

“Your compliments,” Hassan replied carefully, “have warmed my heart. But may we now discuss our needs for our journey? Is it possible for you to provide us with rice, beans, tea, and other—”

“But why discuss business so soon?” cried Jamaluddin. “You have only just arrived. The goat was killed at noon. To cook it properly will take time.”

He leaned forward confidentially. “You have no idea how few interesting visitors we have in wintertime. You, of course, are from India,” he added, gesturing in Hassan's direction. “As I am sure you know, people think all Indians are spies for the British.”

“That, of course, is true.” Hassan inclined his head. “For that reason, I am pleased to be traveling with my friend Zulmai.

“When will he cease these formalities,” he whispered, when Jamaluddin's attention was turned elsewhere, “and get to our business?”

“We would be wise,” replied Zulmai, “to wait until after we have eaten.”

“But that will be hours from now.” Hassan hunched his shoulders expressively. “We have been away far too long already.”

“Do not fear.” Zulmai put out a calming hand. “Let him talk himself out. We will eat his food, and then we will be on our way with our mules fully loaded.”

All afternoon the food came—soup, fried meat turnovers, kababs with ovals of tandoori bread. As the sun sank behind the mountains, Jamaluddin was still talking. “This is the best dish of all!” he cried, as he swept a skewer of cubed sheep's liver onto a waiting round of bread in front of Hassan. “You see,” he explained, a finger raised, “each dish must be perfectly flavored, and each must be different.

“Kababs are like Akhal Tekke horses,” he went on. “Each one must have its own character, but each must be of the highest quality, like your lovely mare. What did you say her name was?”

Although his eyes had turned dark, Hassan's well-trained negotiator's body gave no hint of tension. “Her name is Ghyr Khush,” he replied.

HASSAN'S WIRY little servant had brought Mariana's lunch. It was very simple—boiled dal, rice, and bread.

“Hassan Sahib will bring better things to eat when he returns,” he had assured her, stepping aside while another man carried the brazier outside to refill it with hot embers. “You will see what fine food he has, even when he travels!”

When he held the door covering aside to leave her, the air that rushed in had felt icier than ever. The visible sliver of distant sky looked heavy and forbidding.

Nur Rahman had visited a little later. “It will snow soon,” he observed. “I hope Hassan Ali returns before long.

“Many of the kafilas are moving out,” he added. “If they continue to leave here, the caravanserai will be empty by tonight.”

Unsurprisingly, after delivering her letter to her uncle the previous evening, Nur Rahman had rushed to tell Mariana's servants where she had gone. Equally unsurprisingly, Dittoo and Yar Mohammad had arrived at Hassan's tents soon after his departure.

As she sat among the bolsters, finishing her morning tea, two different coughs outside her doorway had signaled their presence.

Yar Mohammad had saluted her gravely, then stood, tall, angular, and barefoot, just inside the doorway. He had worn no poshteen, only a mismatched pair of shawls that lay in graceful folds about his shoulders, giving him the dignity of a king.

Dittoo, bundled into his own sheepskin, had rushed inside and taken up a position across the sandali from Mariana. “I am here to serve you, Bibi,” he announced, straightening his shoulders, and looked meaningfully at her empty teacup. “I see there is work to be done.”

“I, too, Bibi, ask permission to travel with you to Lahore,” Yar Mohammad had added.

When Saboor first came to her, it had been Dittoo who had pushed little balls of rice and dal into his open, hungry mouth.
“Accha bacha
, good boy,” he had crooned, as if he were speaking to his own son.

She had always felt safe with Yar Mohammad.

If Dittoo came with her now, he would again have the pleasure of looking after little Saboor. Yar Mohammad would have the joy of caring for Ghyr Khush

She shook her head. “It is not possible,” she said, aware that her tone held no authority, only sadness. “My uncle and aunt are old, and their journey to India will be difficult. If you come with me, then who will look after them?”

“But they have Adil,” Dittoo wailed. “They do not need another servant.”

“Adil, too, is old and weak. You must serve them in his place. God willing, with both of you to care for them, they will live to see India again. Once they are safe, you will return to my service.

“May God protect you both,” she concluded.

The tall groom bowed his head, his rough turban concealing his expression. “And may Allah protect you, Bibi,” he had returned, in his resonant voice.

Dittoo had wept.

Before he followed the sobbing Dittoo from Hassan's tent, Yar Mohammad had raised his head and looked once at Mariana, his bony face as calm as ever.

With luck, they would all have a safe journey. And whatever happened, at least they were out of that dreadful, stinking cantonment.

Mariana waited uneasily, all afternoon, for Hassan's return. Tense from wondering why he was taking so long, she relaxed hopefully with each approaching footfall, only to feel her body tighten again as the passerby moved on.

There was something unsafe about the camp.

Ghulam Ali called on her after sunset.

Still listening for Hassan's return, she half-heard the story of Ghulam Ali's narrow escape from the Ghilzai nomads on the road to Peshawar, and his joy at discovering Hassan at the tea shop. She nodded at his report of the return journey's high winds, thieves, and lost mules, and his loving description of Hassan Ali's silver-gray mare.

“Yar Mohammad will be the envy of Lahore,” he had declared, his rough voice full of pride. “Everyone will know that he spends his days with the great horse Ghyr Khush.”

At last, she had blurted out the question she had been longing to ask. “Are my aunt and uncle still here? Are Yar Mohammad and Dittoo here?”

“No, Bibi.” Ghulam Ali's white eyebrows rose. “They left just after sunrise this morning.”

Then they were alone. Mariana tugged her poshteen over her shoulders, went to the doorway, and moved the curtain aside.

A raw wind whipped her hair. It was snowing.

“It is good that they have left,” Ghulam Ali declared, “for tomorrow the British will march for Jalalabad.”

Tomorrow.
She looked out into the falling snow, imagining the British with their ragged army and starving camp followers, struggling down the narrow, dangerous road to Jalalabad and India.

But what would happen to her tomorrow? What if Hassan never returned?

A distant line of pack animals trudged away toward the caravanserai's gate. Nur Rahman had been correct. Of all the tents that had been there when she arrived, only three were still visible, huddled together a hundred yards away.

A man emerged from one of them, muffled in shawls. He stopped by the doorway and stared at her.

She backed hastily inside, took off her cloak, and pulled the sandali quilt to her chin. There was nothing to do now, but wait.

“IT HAS begun to snow.” Jamaluddin Khan pointed to the courtyard, where white flakes fell lightly on the backs of the tethered animals. “I am pleased to see that you keep your Ghyr Khush covered with a felt blanket. That is the correct way. And since you cover her in this cold weather, I am sure you also cover her in hot weather, to keep her lean, and her sinews tight and strong.”

“Of course,” Zulmai replied, speaking for his friend. “But since it is late, and snow is falling, perhaps we should make our transaction. We would like to return to our camp tonight.”

“Tonight? But no! It is too late to arrange for your provisions. And where is the sense in going out in this weather? You will certainly lose your way.”

He spread his arms. “You must accept my hospitality tonight!”

“He desires my horse,” Hassan whispered. “That is why he is not letting us go.”

“I agree.” Zulmai offered Hassan a hollow look. “I should have warned you not to bring her.”

Hassan shrugged. “It is only a pity that I did not see it until now.”

He turned to his host. “In exchange for your kind hospitality, Jamaluddin Khan,” he said formally, “and for your offer of provisions for forty men for twenty-one days, I am presenting you with my mare, Ghyr Khush.”

“Ghyr Khush?” Jamaluddin cried, with theatrical dismay. “No, no! I could never accept such a fine gift, such a beautiful gift!”