The Secret Sky: A Novel of Forbidden Love in Afghanistan (14 page)

“No . . . ,” I say in agreement. “A man of God would not sell himself for all of this.” My eyes slide to Mullah Latif’s watch again, and I wonder if this man I’m talking to is a real man of God.

FATIMA

I pull my body up off the mat in complete darkness. I know everyone is finally sleeping by the sound of their breathing. I’ve been awake, thinking of Sami and waiting for the darkest part of the evening before I go. I take the letter I wrote earlier out of my pillowcase and lay it on the place my head will never rest again. I start to crawl out of our sleeping area. Hands first, slowly feeling my way through to ensure I make no noise by hitting anything or anyone. I feel calmer than I have in days. I know I’m doing the right thing.

I slow my breathing, and I feel a pulsating drum in my temples as I try not to make a sound. My arms still throb, but I can tell they are healing.

I touch the rough carpet with my fingertips, feeling the stiffness from the years of sand and dirt that have seeped between its weaving, as I creep to the door. I finally take a deep breath as I make my way outside. I’m relieved to be out of the small room and in the open air, but I know I can still be caught.

The moon’s gleam provides more light as I walk to our storage room to retrieve the clothes I wrapped in an old sheet along with one of Afifa’s undershirts so I don’t forget the smell of my little sister, my father’s old rag and a book of poems Bibi gave me when she saw my reading was stronger than Zohra’s. I pause for a moment and think of my favorite poem in there. The one that says “This is love: to fly toward a secret sky.” And that is what I’m doing. I’m flying, flying toward a secret sky to meet Samiullah, to meet my love.

I slowly unlatch the door and cringe at the squeaking sound as I pull it open. As I walk into the room, my vision weakens in the space covered by darkness and hidden from the moon’s rays. I quickly look for the sack I hid under a bag of
quroot
from last year. When I finally feel the clumpy bag of
quroot,
I yank at it in order to reach my clothes, but it won’t move. This can’t be happening. Not now! My heart begins to race as I pull harder. But my newfound energy makes me drop the bag of solid yogurt balls on the dirt floor, setting off a rumbling noise. In the silence of the night, it sounds like I dropped dozens of bells in the still air. I’m frozen. Afraid to move. I stand there paralyzed for a minute, and when I don’t hear anyone, I grab my bag and run. I’m running like I’ve never run before. Not even as a child racing my friends, racing Sami.

Perspiration makes my feet slip in my sandals, but I don’t stop to take them off. Belatedly, I wonder if Sami will be there. What if he’s not? I decide not to think about that. He said he would. And Sami has never broken a promise to me.

As I get closer to the rock, I turn around and see I am still alone. No one is chasing me. No one can see me. The only noise comes from the panting of my own mouth. My family is probably still sleeping, unaware that I’m gone.

My poor
baba,
he will be heartbroken. No matter how angry and disappointed he is with me, I know he loves me. But my mother will wish she had killed me when she had the chance. And my siblings, they will be confused. The boys will understand that I’m gone but not know why. I don’t think little Afo will fully comprehend my absence and will probably expect me to come back before the sun sets—she’ll sit waiting, like she always does.

I shake my head. I can’t think of this now. Or else I won’t go through with it. I chose to do this. I’d rather be afraid of a future of uncertainty than one of beatings and isolation. The last few days have been more miserable than I could have imagined, with my father ignoring me completely and my mother beating me and calling me a whore. When I saw my life unfolding like that before my eyes, I decided my survival was more important than my family’s honor. I know it’s selfish, but I’m hoping that once I’m gone, the villagers will forget. That my family will eventually be better off with me gone. Most villagers will likely feel sorry enough to leave them alone.

When I reach the rock, I find Sami leaning his head on the hard surface, sleeping with his hands wrapped around his body, keeping himself warm in the chilly morning hour. He looks so comfortable, as if he is in the confines of his home with nothing to worry about. Across from him sits a bicycle with a bag tied to the front and an extension added to the back.

The more I stare at him, the more real this is becoming. We are leaving this place forever. I feel a lump form in my throat.

“Fatima . . .” Sami’s voice comes out softly. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me.” I look at him as he fumbles himself awake.

“So I’m not dreaming? This is real?” he says.

“I’m scared, Sami. I’m really scared” is all I can answer, feeling my eyes moisten.

“I know. Me too. But I’m glad you came.” He smiles, revealing those twinkling eyes I was afraid of losing forever. “And I have a perfect plan. But we should start to go now. Before the sun comes up and our families notice we’re gone.” He looks at his wrist, now adorned with a watch I’ve never seen before.

“You have a watch?”

“I traded my cousin Daoud my fishing pole for it,” he says, smiling, still with sleepy eyes. “Do you like it?” He lifts his hand up to show me.

“It looks like a plastic bangle,” I respond, grinning, and Sami returns the smile.

He gets up and walks over to his bicycle, unzips the front of his blue bag, and pulls out a
chadari.
“For the first part of the plan, I brought my sister’s
chadari.
You both are about the same height, and I figured you would trip less over this one than the other ones in my house.”

I’ve always hated these coverings, but I know it’s necessary for us to hide, and what better way than by covering myself in the blue fabric that most women in our villages wear, especially if they are traveling long distances. He then pulls out a
pakol,
the thick-rimmed, flat and ring-shaped hat most men wear if not wearing a turban.

“And here is my
chadari.
” He places the hat on his head and tilts it down so it covers his brow.

I pull the
chadari
on and cover my body.

I can barely breathe. It feels like I’m in a heavy bag that encloses me from head to toe. I gasp, searching for the air that will keep me from fainting.

We start to walk, Sami rolling the bicycle next to him. The farther we go, the harder it is for me to breathe, trapped in that sheet of fabric. The steaming heat makes it worse. It’s as if there are coals surrounding my feet, raising the temperature around my body. Beads of sweat soak my clothes and slowly evaporate in the confined space, fusing with the air, making it even thicker. The only ventilation comes from the little holes pricked through the cloth. The holes are meant to help me see, but the truth is they don’t help much. The dark fabric is blinding. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I have to keep it on.

The troubles with the
chadari
are nothing compared to the troubles in my mind. I can’t stop thinking of my family.

“How are you doing?” Sami asks after a while.

“I’m okay,” I lie. If I talk about how I feel, I know I will break down and change my mind. “You?”

“I’m okay too,” he says, holding on to his bicycle’s handles. He’s walking next to it, and I’m trailing behind. We go back to our silence with only the sounds of the wheels hitting rocks, our feet crushing the ground and the occasional desert critters scrambling, startled by our presence.

The pulsing sound of my heart is faint compared to the deafening noises it made this morning, but it still races when I think of all that happened and what may happen.

•   •   •

We haven’t talked much since this morning, except for when we’re going downhill and Sami tells me to sit on the bicycle extension, making it faster for us to get to our destination. We walk most of the time, since it’s the easier option. It would be too difficult for him to pedal both of us. We’ve only stopped once so far, to drink some water from the bottle he had placed in the front basket and eat some old bread he kept in a plastic bag next to it.

He did explain that we were heading to a village to see a man he trusted who would help us. A man he said had saved him and made him believe again in God’s true greatness. A man he said would marry us.

The more Sami speaks, the more I find it hard to. It’s all happening so fast, and I haven’t been able to come to terms with what is going on. I keep thinking of my family, which makes my eyes well up. I feel the sobs building in my chest and try to swallow as many of them as possible, hiding my crying from Sami. It makes me almost grateful for the repulsive
chadari
; it hides both my body and my heart.

We walk so much that my calves are numb and the heels of my feet crack and sting. With all my perspiration, the wounds on my arms begin to itch. I focus on the pain. The irrepressible itching, the prickling stings and the ripping skin. Thinking of this helps take my mind off all that has happened in the last few days and the unpredictable future that awaits us down this road.

We pass one rocky mountain after another, and it makes me wonder how Sami can tell where we’re going. But we keep walking. We have yet to see another soul, and I’m grateful.

“We’re almost there.” Sami breaks our silence. “Maybe another thirty minutes. We should be passing a small village to our east before we get to his town. But don’t worry, we likely won’t see any of the villagers; they don’t tend to come out to the main path unless they’re heading to town.”

“
Tashakur.
” I thank him and suddenly feel scared again. I’d almost forgotten about my fears when I started focusing on the physicality of the situation. But I don’t want to pass strangers—I’m afraid of seeing my father in the crowds or Sami’s family members or, worse, someone who will figure out we are unmarried and traveling together. I’m even scared to have a moment to sit and talk with Sami. I’m frightened of what I’ll say, what I’ll want to do once we’re married. I feel confused, as if the world has turned upside down, and I don’t know if I’ll ever feel stable again.

As we get closer to town, we pass by some shops. Men are sitting outside of them, some sipping tea and others fiddling with prayer beads. But even through my fabric lens, I notice all eyes are on us.

“Sami. Sami, do you think they know?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down.

“No, they don’t know,” he whispers back. “They stare at everyone who rides into town. They mean no harm. But if you would feel more comfortable, why don’t you sit on the back of the bicycle, and I can pedal. We’re on flat land now. It’ll be easy, and we’ll get there faster.”

I sit on the metal backing and hold on to the handles he has fitted for me. I tuck my
chadari
in to make sure it won’t get caught in the wheels, and Sami starts to pedal. I can barely make out what the town looks like, but I’m amazed at the size and how close the homes and the shops are to one another. There are even black roads that are flat and smooth, making it simple to ride on. The town is so massive; I wonder how many people live in it. There must be hundreds!

We’re winding through some back roads when Sami slows down. The area seems quieter than the one we rode through before. He eventually slows to a stop. “We’re here.”

I climb off the back and wait as he pushes the bicycle to a building and leans it against the wall. He knocks on the door of the room before opening it. He looks around, then tells me to come in. I quickly step into the artificial safety of a room with walls and a ceiling protecting me from the outside world.

“You can take the
chadari
off and relax.” Sami brings in the bag of the remaining bread and the water. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait! Where are you going?” I don’t want him to leave me in this strange place by myself.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be close by. You’ll be fine, I promise,” he says, and I believe him, but it doesn’t stop the feeling of anxiety that is echoing through my body.

“Okay,” I say. He looks at me and smiles before closing the door behind him. I promptly peel the sweat-ridden blue fabric off my body and throw it down next to me. I thought it would feel liberating to take it off, but I don’t feel free, I just feel vulnerable. Although I can breathe again, I miss the protection. No one knows who I am when I’m wearing the
chadari,
but now people can see my face, my features and my ethnicity. Whoever Sami has brought us to will know he’s a Pashtun boy and I’m a Hazara girl, and he won’t approve. How can he if our families don’t?

I suddenly want to drape that horrible blue
chadari
back over my face and body.

I want to feel safe again. I wonder if I ever will.

RASHID

“I said, WHERE is she?” Mullah Latif yells at the old peasant again. His children call out, “Baba, Baba!” waiting for their protector to do something. But he can’t. He’s surrounded by all of us. He is helpless.

“Mossuma, take the children into the sleeping room,” he says. The woman just stares at him like a frightened child herself. “Quickly!” he yells at her. She finally begins to move the crying children in the direction of one of their filthy rooms, but Latif stops them.

“No. They’re not going anywhere,” Latif yells as he taps Mohammad’s nose with the muzzle of his pistol. The old man flinches as the steel hits his face. Latif is maniacal right now. You can tell he’s enjoying every second. Psychopathic eyes that seem familiar to me somehow. “I want them to stay as I talk to their
baba.
” Sarcasm fills Latif’s voice. His gang of thugs gathers the crying children and wife, making them kneel on the dirt facing Mohammad as they continue to wail.

“Please don’t do this in front of my children. I beg of you, please,” Mohammad says faintly.

“What was that? I can’t hear you. What is Baba saying?” Latif cups his ear. “Can you say it louder, Baba, so we can all hear?” He starts walking around, surveying the buildings, kicking the dried mud, letting bits of dirt fly in the air before turning again to Mohammad. “So no wall to protect your women from the eyes of strangers, huh? Could this be a reason why your daughter grew up craving the attention of men? It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise the one she gave herself to is your neighbor.”

“My daughter didn’t give herself to anyone,” Mohammad says through gritted teeth. I can tell his blood is boiling, but he is impotent and weak right now, outnumbered by Latif’s men and weapons.

“Then
where
is she?” Latif strikes Mohammad’s face so hard that spit flies out. The children start crying more.

“I told you, I don’t know!” Mohammad answers. “I’m just relieved she’s not with your disgusting men!”

Latif slaps him again. “Well, where could she have gone? If she’s not with
my
filthy men! Are there other men she likes to meet on a regular basis?” he says with a smirk. Mohammad steps closer, the desire to hurt Latif written all over his face. Latif just laughs and waves his pistol, like a mother would raise her finger to a child. “No, no, no . . . Now, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Would it?” he says, laughing.

“What do you want from us? We have nothing. This land doesn’t even belong to us—”

“I know who your landlords are,” Latif starts yelling again. “I know everything about you and your dirty family!”

“Then what do you want from us?”

“It’s not what I WANT. It’s what I NEED.” He starts to bring his voice down. “What I need to do is make an example of your daughter, or else we will have more girls thinking it’s okay to be with a boy out of wedlock. What I need to do is show the village what happens when you are scum. What I need to do is have a public execution of your dirty little girl so everyone can see and enjoy justice being served. You see, it’s not that I want to do it, but I need to,” he says with a sneer, exposing his crooked yellow teeth. It repulses even me. He seems to enjoy the idea of death more than justice—I am a bit thrown. I didn’t think he would really want to kill her. Maybe it’s better that she’s not here right now.

“Please leave my daughter alone,” Mohammad begins to plead. “She’s not a bad girl, no matter what you have heard. She is to marry soon. She is of no harm to anyone. Please . . . please . . . leave her alone.”

“She’s not a bad girl? That’s not what I heard.” Latif turns and stares at me. Although my face is masked with my scarf, I suddenly feel exposed. “
Rashid, rasa!
Come here, my boy!” I cautiously walk to Latif, avoiding Mohammad’s eyes. “Take off that stupid scarf,” Latif demands. I shake my head. I don’t want Mohammad and his family to see me. “Don’t be a
qussy
!” Latif curses as he rips off my scarf, exposing me.

“Rashid?” Mohammad says with disbelief. I feel a pang of shame.

“Rashid here has told us everything.” Latif starts to speak again. “He was obviously worried about his village and the women in his family. The example your daughter is setting is dangerous for everyone, and we have to fix it. Isn’t that right, Rashid?”

I nod, but I’m unable to look up.

“Rashid, my boy, please tell them this is wrong. Tell them the truth about my daughter. You’ve known her since you were children. Please!” Mohammad starts to plead with me now. I avert my gaze even more. “Rashid, you know this isn’t right. You know it’s not. This is not what God wants.”

“What God wants?” His words fill me with rage. “What do you know of what God wants?” How dare he tell
me
what God wants! A man who shares the blood of the monsters that killed my family! “What your daughter and my cousin did was wrong. What they have done is an insult to our religion and our culture, and they deserve to be punished!”

“They don’t deserve death,” he continues to plead. I turn my eyes away. “You are sentencing both my daughter and your cousin to death. Can you tell me that is what God wants?”

The truth is, I don’t know if God would want them to die. But I know I don’t want to spend another second arguing it with the old man. “She’s obviously not here. Can we go?” I ask Latif.

“We’re not going anywhere yet,” Latif responds. “Not until we get what we came here for.”

“But she’s not here. What else can we do?” I am now turning my frustrations on Latif.

“Well . . . if we can’t have one daughter, we can always take the other.” Latif turns his attention to Fatima’s little sister, who can’t be more than three years old. She is cute for a little Hazara baby. The little girl is grasping her mother, wide-eyed and afraid. Her gaze is set on a gunman not far from them, leaning against a mud wall picking his teeth with dirty fingernails.

“No! Please don’t do this!” Mohammad drops to his knees, no longer able to hold himself up. The same way I remember my father dropping to his knees, trying to save us. I suddenly see flashes of that horrible day. My mother’s screams, my father’s pleas, me lying on the floor in my sister’s blood, pretending to be dead.

“Please, she is an innocent child!” Mohammad yells, bringing me back to today.

“Then maybe we should keep her innocent.” Latif walks over to the little girl, who immediately starts crying as she sees him approaching. “It’s okay, my darling. Come here to your
kaka.
I want to talk to you with your
baba.
” She digs her face into her mother’s thigh. Latif sticks his gun to the mother’s temple before he begins speaking again. “It’s okay, little angel. Even your mother wants you to come with me, right, Madar Jaan? Right?” He jabs the woman’s head with more force. She looks at her husband for guidance, but all he can do is sit there, paralyzed and afraid.

I have no idea what Latif’s plan is right now. But maybe he is using her to get Mohammad to tell the truth about where his filthy other daughter is.

“Yes,” the woman finally says. “It’s okay, my
azizam.
Go with Kaka so he can take you to your
baba.
” The child wipes her face on her mother’s skirt before she takes Latif’s hand. This doesn’t feel right. He shouldn’t be touching this baby who wobbles with every step as she comes near. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and her face is still moist with tears.

She tries to run to her father, but Latif yanks on her arm, and she winces in pain without making noise. “No, no, my dear. Not yet.” He kneels down to face her. She looks frightened and confused. “You see, your
baba
has to make a decision right now. It’s a hard decision, but he needs to do it.”

Latif shifts his attention back to Mohammad and begins to speak in Pashto instead of Dari. “
Pakhto ghagaygay?
” He asks the old man if he speaks the language. Mohammad nods his head. “What about the rest of them?”

“No, I’m the only one in our family who understands Pashto,” he says, keeping his focus on the little girl, whose eyes dart back and forth from her father to Latif and to her mother, who is quietly sobbing.

“Good,” Latif says. “Then we can make this your sole decision. I will give you three options. Option number one, tell me where your whore of a daughter is.”

“I told you, she is not a whore, and I don’t know where Fatima went!” Mohammad yells out in exhaustion and defeat.

“Okay, then that leaves you options two and three. Option two, we take this little one with us until you can present your other daughter. And don’t worry, we will take good care of her.” He strokes her damp cheek and then kisses it. “Oh, salty! Her tears taste so salty.” Latif smirks at his men, who begin to laugh. It seems as though I’m the only one who doesn’t find this funny. This disgusting creature calls himself a mullah?

He turns his attention back to the little girl and speaks in Dari again, “Don’t be scared, my little sugar cube. Kaka Latif and your
baba
will work this out soon. Don’t cry anymore. Okay?” She nods her little head, bouncing her short red hair.

Latif looks back at Mohammad, speaking in Pashto again. “Are you ready for option number three?” He waits for a response. There is none. “Okay, I’ll tell you whether you’re ready or not. Option number three is that we kill this little one in the place of your other whore. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

“Please stop! Please!” Mohammad begs, covering his face with his hands. It looks like he is trying to prevent his child from seeing his tears. His wife is frantic and keeps yelling and asking what is going on. But he holds his hands in front of his face and continues his quiet sobbing.

Latif can’t be serious about this. He won’t kill an innocent baby. He can’t. There is nothing justifiable in the eyes of God about that.

“What’s the matter? Like you said, she is innocent. We would be doing her a favor. Letting her die innocent, before she follows your other daughter’s footsteps. We should all be lucky enough to go to our graves so innocent and pure.”

“Please. Please!” Mohammad starts screaming. This causes more tears from his family and more laughter among Latif’s men, who are now holding their guns to everyone’s heads. I can’t believe what I am witnessing. These guys are worse than thugs—they’re animals. But I’m too afraid to say anything. The baby is huffing and swallowing her tears in fright, still holding the Latif’s filthy hand, unaware of what is going on.

“Rashid, my boy. Come here.” Latif yells out to me. I don’t want to go to him, but I’m frightened about what he’ll do if I don’t. So I hesitantly go closer.

“Please, Rashid, please help us! Please, Rashid!” Mohammad starts yelling. His eyes spark with hope at the sight of me.

“Rashid, it doesn’t look like your neighbor wants us to take his little girl. I don’t think he trusts us,” Latif says, looking at me. “And since you were the righteous one to bring this to our attention, I want to give you the honor of performing God’s glory and helping us serve justice.”

What! No. I can’t. I won’t. “But . . . but . . . she’s a baby. She wasn’t the one who committed the crime.” I turn my eyes to Mohammad, who is still looking at me through his tears.

“Are you questioning me?” Latif says. I turn and see the anger on his face.

“No . . . no . . . no, that’s not what I am trying to do.” I’m afraid now of what he’ll do to me if I don’t do what he asks. I look around and see all the men holding their weapons with their eyes on me as well.

“Good. Then take this and do it.” He hands me the pistol. My hands are trembling, and I can barely hold the cold metal. “Now place it on her forehead and shoot!”

“Please . . . please . . . God, please . . . ,” I hear Mohammad mutter. “This can’t be real . . . this can’t be real.”

I try to walk toward the little girl. My feet stagger forward and then back. I notice her brown eyes, full of fear and confusion. They’re big and round, like my sister’s used to be. My hand starts to quiver uncontrollably, and I think I’m about to drop the pistol.

“Give me that.” Latif snatches the gun back. “With the way you’re holding it, you’ll kill all of us.” He puts the gun away and into his holster. “Besides, I’ve changed my mind.”

Oh, thank God. I start breathing normally again. I look at Mohammad who is smiling and starts saying, “Thank you. Thank you!”

Latif then squats back down behind the baby. He strokes her bright red hair and looks as though he is about to hug her from behind. But that’s when those demented eyes return. The eyes of Satan. And before I can make out what is about to happen, he twists her neck and her lifeless little body drops to the ground. “Can’t waste precious bullets on her, now, can we?” He turns to his men, laughing. But all I can see is the little girl lying there as if she’s sleeping.