The Taliban Cricket Club (13 page)

“Yes—I just couldn't stand the summers. Remember, we had a beautiful party right in the middle of summer for your father's birthday.” She cried out, “Oh god, I wish I had died with him.” I held her as she wept, sobbing like a child. She stopped and sniffled. “I will be with him soon.”

She sat up and wiped away the tears. “I hope you find that kind of love in your marriage, Rukhsana, like I did in mine. As you know we fell in love at Kabul University, and thankfully our parents supported us. I was never unhappy with your father, except when I became pregnant with Jahan. After two miscarriages, the doctors told me not to try again, but your father was insistent—he was desperate for a son. So I had to conjure him up out of my womb, like a magician. I was so afraid I would die in labor. Jahan was a caesarean, you know.”

“I didn't know.”

“You were only a child then. There are many things a child doesn't know about its parents. I love Jahan, but I was grateful whenever you looked after him—sometimes even holding him was too much of a reminder of the fear and pain I had lived through for him. You were more of a mother to him than I was in those early months.”

I held her hand as she drifted back to sleep, thinking that Shaheen too would expect me to produce a son first, and not a girl child.

Jahan was born just after breakfast, but Father would not let me skip school. I wanted to be there at the very moment of the baby's birth to welcome it into the world. I was exuberant and distracted with the excitement of seeing my baby sibling. When the lunchtime bell rang, I ran out of the school, dodging people, cars, Russian trucks, donkey carts, bicycles, and buses, and was nearly run over as I made my way to the weary white facade of the hospital and down its corridors to the maternity ward. I slowly opened the door of Mother's private room and peeked in. Father stood framed by the window, against a pale blue sky, like a still-life painting, holding a tiny bundle in his arms, a broad smile on his face. I knew immediately that the baby was a boy. Mother was asleep, her face relaxed, with a hint of both a smile and triumph. Grandmother sat beside the bed and raised a finger to her lips. “Let me hold him,” I whispered to Father, “please, Padar
,
please.” Father gave me the baby and I looked down on his pink, round face, the sparse light brown hair plastered against his delicate skull. He was asleep and I kissed his forehead and then his cheeks. “I will look after you, my
braadar,
” I whispered into his ear. “I will always be here for you.” In his sleep, I thought he smiled. “He's going to be a happy person,” I told Father and reluctantly returned the bundle to his arms. From his birth, I felt that Jahan was my baby too.

I
F
I
WAS TO
become Babur, I decided to do it right. I trimmed Shylock's beard to suit a more youthful man, in his late teens, so the hair was sparse but not too sparse to reveal the netting that held the hairs together. It looked worse. I needed help.

I tugged the
lungee
down on my head and wrapped a
patoo,
a heavy scarf, across half my face. I needed to be as anonymous as possible, just another man on the street. I looked in the mirror and saw not a handsome young man but a feminine one. If only I could hide my eyes, harden them into a man's eyes. I slipped on dark glasses. They would have to do. It was time to test the new Babur.

“Where are we going?” Jahan asked me as I stepped out the front door.

“I want to see Noorzia. Come on.”

“Noorzia?”

“My hairdresser in the old days.” I sighed for those lost, pleasurable afternoons. Her salon was on Fifth Street, in Wazir Akbar Khan. I went there every Sunday; Noorzia cut my hair, while an assistant gave me a manicure.

“You're Babur, remember,” he said testily. “You don't need a beauty salon. She'll tell the Talib if she sees you dressed like this.”

“No, she won't, I swear. I trust her. She could help me with this,” I said, tugging at my beard. “I'll only be five minutes. Please.”

“When a woman says five minutes it means an hour,” Jahan said.

I felt buoyant and confident as I stepped out, until I saw Abdul in his sentry box watching the road. He turned toward us when he heard the front door open and close.

“What do we tell him?” I said, having forgotten about him.

“Let's see what he says. He may not notice.”

His one inquisitive eye watched us descend the steps and cross toward him. I walked as stiffly as I could, hiding the sway of my hips. He emerged from his office to stand at the side gate and waited for us.

“I know, I know. I'll sit at the front door until Dr. Hanifa comes,” he said in a testy voice. His eye squinted at me, then he frowned. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” I said, frightened that he had penetrated my disguise so easily with only one eye. “I didn't think you'd notice.”

“I've known you since a baby and know that only you and your brother live in the house with your mother. I'm blind but not stupid.” He glanced to Jahan. “Why is she wearing a man's clothes? If the religious police catch her dressed like a man, they will beat her. You too, probably.”

“It's a long story,” Jahan said.

“So tell me.”

He listened carefully to the horror story from the night before. He thought it over, and Jahan and I held our breath—he could simply betray us now. But we had to trust him, as he was part of our family and would see me coming and going.

“All this happened last night?”

“Yes.”

“Why wasn't I woken? It's my job to guard this gate.”

“You were very tired,” Jahan said diplomatically. “You won't tell anyone?”

“Your family has given me shelter and food, and may paradise shut its doors in my face if I should betray you.” He faced me. “You can't marry a Talib. If my daughter were alive today and a Talib asked to marry her, I would refuse. And if I had to hide her, I would dress her in a man's clothes and send her to stay with my family, as far away as I could.” He pointed at me. “You must leave too.” He opened the gate. “Be very careful.”

“If a letter comes for me from America, keep it carefully.”

“I will.”

“And if you see strangers watching the house, tell us.”

“That's why I'm here. As your guardian.”

As we walked a few paces down the street he poked his head out of the gate and added, “And don't talk. You sound like a girl.”

I thanked God for Abdul.

T
HE SKY WAS A
clear blue, without a cloud, and I believed such skies were good luck. We looked back to see if anyone was following, but people were going about their lives.

From around the corner, three men, talking in low voices, came toward us. They glanced in our direction—and then passed by, continuing their conversation. Jahan and I both exhaled with relief.

“They didn't notice,” I whispered.

“Just don't talk,” Jahan said.

“You're more nervous than I am.”

“I'm not nervous.” His face shone with perspiration. “I'm scared for you and for me if you're discovered. We're both mad.”

“Who isn't? And it won't happen,” I said, and didn't add aloud, “I hope and pray.”

We reached Karte Seh Wat to wait for a bus. A family of nomads, the Kochi, on their way south, herded their sheep and camels along the road. I was suddenly envious of their roving life. They were dusty from the long journey and looked around this ruin with wary eyes; men, women, and children moved tightly together, not wanting to be separated and lost in this strange place. I wished I could be as free as they were to move from place to place as the pastures took me, but I didn't have the courage to be a gypsy.

A crowded bus to Wazir Akbar Khan stopped and Jahan pushed his way onto it. I followed, squeezing past the men, and instinctively making my way to the curtained-off seating for the women at the back.

“Where are you going?” Jahan whispered, pulling me into a vacant seat next to an elderly man. His watery gaze lingered on my beard for what seemed a long moment before turning to stare out the window.

I pretended to doze, lowering my head, so no one could take a closer look at me. Already, I had made a stupid mistake. I had to remember to be a man, and accept his privileged front-of-the-bus position in life. Jahan stood protectively by my side.

The bus roared and wheezed along Asamayi, and bumped around the craters in the road. Stifled by the heat and the press of men around me, I actually did doze off. I started awake in fright when I felt a hand on my knee, kneading it as if it were dough.

“You're a handsome boy,” the elderly man whispered in my ear. “Where do you live?”

I stood quickly, and another man, more my suitor's age, slid into the seat.

“What are you grinning about?” Jahan whispered.

“Men.” And I didn't explain further.

We passed Zambak Square and the ruined buildings on either side. We got off when we reached Sherpur, jostled and pushed by men getting in and out. Reluctantly, they made way for two women, with their
mahrams,
to pass.

“How far to her salon?” Jahan whispered.

“We're going to her home. Her salon's closed.”

The salon had been a palace of warmth and good company and gossip. Always elegant, simmering with laughter and encouragement, Noorzia treated every woman in her chairs like royal beauties. The gilt-framed mirrors of the salon reflected the soft pale pink walls behind our heads and the photographs of European models with sweeping hairstyles. Sometimes, Mother would come with me to have her hair trimmed and her nails painted, and it always felt special, as if Noorzia was family.

I hoped she still lived in the same house. I had been there once before to celebrate the second anniversary of her salon, nearly five years ago. It was a wonderful spring day and she had thrown a brunch for faithful clients, who were also her friends. There were thirty of us and, conscious that only other women would be in attendance, we dressed up especially for the party. I had worn a blue blouse, intricately patterned with gold thread around the neckline and along the edges of the sleeves, and a black silk crepe skirt that fell down to my ankles, and as I moved it swayed over my black high heels with semiprecious stones set in the straps. My
hijab,
woven with gold thread along the borders, was pale gray. But, like the others, to celebrate Noorzia's handiwork, I removed it once I entered the house. The room dazzled with the vibrancy of so many colors. The air was sweetened by our perfumes, and our laughter bubbled like water from a crystal fountain as we nibbled on the food and sipped on sherbet. Where were they now? Only their ghostly laughter still echoed in my memory of that delicious afternoon so long ago.

With no reason to make myself look particularly beautiful in the last few years, I had lost touch with Noorzia too. We made it to her street without incident, and I recognized her house, but no man guarded the open gate. The garden was unkempt, the grass hip high, the rosebushes wild. It was a small house, a single floor, with a sloping roof and closed shutters crudely painted black. I knocked gently and waited. I thought of Mother Nadia—so many terrible things could have happened to Noorzia since I saw her last.

I knocked again, louder this time.

Maybe she had moved, escaped from the country.

Finally, a woman called out, “Who is it?”

“Rukhsana,” I said. And then quickly, “I used to come to your salon?”

“Of course, I remember you. It's been years!”

“I know—I'm sorry.”

“Wait until I've dressed,” Noorzia said.

“I've come with my brother,” I said. “He'll wait outside. I just want to see you for a few minutes.”

She laughed, and I felt such nostalgia at that throaty sound. “You can stay as long as you want.”

“I promise I won't be longer than five minutes,” I said to Jahan.

The door opened slowly, yawning into an empty room. Noorzia hid behind the door. I walked in and heard her suck in her breath. Jahan waited outside.

“You said you were Rukhsana.”

“I am,” I said to Noorzia, who was standing stock-still in her burka.

I had completely forgotten about Babur. “See?” I said, removing the scarf, glasses, and turban.

Noorzia closed the door quickly, not even daring to peer out to the street. She took a step back and studied me.

“Rukhsana,” she finally greeted me, with arms wide open in embrace and laughter in her voice.

“I'll bring your brother tea and something to read.”

She took my arm and pulled me into the next room then and closed the door. She tore off her burka impatiently and tossed it onto a chair. I expected to see a bitter woman with a pallid face, slovenly hair, and melancholy eyes like mine, but she remained my idea of glamour, my movie star. Her cheeks were powdered, her lips brightly carmine, her eyebrows arched as delicately as a sparrow's wing. Her figure was trim and as supple as a dancer's and, even at home, she wore high heels that accentuated her height and shape. Her light brown hair was perfectly groomed, if slightly ruffled by her burka, and she quickly patted the stray hairs back into place. As always, she wore elegant jeans and a pale cream silk blouse. She was a beautiful woman, with smoke gray eyes accentuated by liner, a warm sensual mouth, and lovely cheekbones. Even though she was over forty, she had the exuberance of a woman half her age.

“You look exactly the same,” I said, laughing with her.

She circled me, stroking the beard. “Now, you'll tell me what this is all about while I get tea and biscuits for your brother.” I followed her into the kitchen. “Or would Jahan prefer a Coke?”

“I'm sure he would. He hasn't had one in years.”

“It's warm,” she said, and took a can out of a cupboard and piled biscuits onto a plate. “Here, you give it to him.”