Farishta Page 29

  “Didn’t the library have your book?” asked Krishna, turning back to look at Rahim before we pulled into a stream of traffic and were immediately trapped in an animal-vehicle gridlock.

  Rahim shook his head at Krishna and then glanced over at me with an apologetic grin. “No, Krishna, someone else had already checked out the book I wanted.”

  I rolled my eyes at his little white lie and resumed our conversation, this time in Dari. “Rahim-jan, you must be careful when you meet with Nilofar. Someone is going to see you and tell her parents.”

  “I know it is dangerous for us to be together,” he said with pleading eyes, “but I must see her. We will not stop seeing each other. Soon I will leave for France, and she will be forced to marry that old Hazara merchant. May he be deprived of Allah’s blessings forever!”

  There was nothing I could say or do to comfort my distraught young friend or to convince him to be more careful.

  “You are the only person I can talk to about this, Farishta-jan. Even my own mother does not understand how I could love a Hazara woman.”

  I believe I had shed more tears since arriving in Afghanistan than I had in the past two decades. Initially, I’d been embarrassed by my crying jags, which I feared the soldiers and terps would perceive as weakness on my part—but now I didn’t care. I had bottled up my emotions for far too long, and it felt good to let them out.

  Rahim had been around me long enough to know when the spigot was about to open. “Farishta-jan! I am sorry to upset you,” he whispered, so as not to attract the attention of the two Gurkhas in the front seat. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  I smiled at him, wiped my eyes with my head scarf, and tried to think of something reassuring to say.

  “It’s not you, Rahim. It’s everything.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  October 31, 2005

  Just after sunset the day before Mark’s departure, my vehicle and a follow car pulled up to the gates of the PRT following an exhausting eight-hour round-trip to Sar-e Pol. I was still recovering from jet leg after my return from Dad’s funeral and I hated making these marathon drives wearing body armor, but the colonel had asked me to make the trip on behalf of the PRT to meet with a distraught provincial governor.

  Tonight was the Romanians’ party, and I wanted to have at least a few moments with Mark before he and the rest of the Gurkhas departed in the morning.

  Although it was almost dark when we arrived, I could see Nilofar standing under a security light, arguing with the Afghan guards. Her head scarf was thrown back.

  “Angela, I must speak with you,” she called out when she saw me. “I’ve been waiting here for an hour, and the guards have been threatening to summon the police if I don’t go away.”

  I signed her in and brought her with me to the dining hall, which was about to close. “Let’s get some supper and we can talk,” I said, handing her a tray.

  “Where is Rahim?” she asked with an urgency I had never heard before. “I have been trying to call him on his cell phone, but he doesn’t answer.”

  “He’s in Kabul with Professor Mongibeaux. He left yesterday afternoon. Perhaps his phone is broken.”

  “Angela, men have come to my parents’ house to threaten me again. They said I must not try to prevent the marriage of their cousin to a young girl from Chemtal. She is only twelve years old! She is threatening to kill herself if her parents force her to marry this man. My parents have told me to stop interfering, but how can I do nothing? ”

  “Nilofar, you can’t solve the problems of every young woman who comes to you. You must understand that each time you help these girls avoid forced marriages you are angering some very powerful people.” I envied her courage, but I was terrified that something might happen to her.

  “I know this, Angela, but I must do it! Soon I will be forced into marriage myself, and then I will be the prisoner of my husband—forever. Until that time, I will continue to help others, because I know that no one is going to help me.”

  “Nilofar, you know there’s nothing I can do,” I said as I looked into her angry but innocent eyes. “I’m begging you to stop this before you get hurt.”

  She was defiant. Clenching her jaw, she muttered, “If they want to stop me, they’re going to have to kill me.”

  Herphone began to buzz. “My brother is here to pick me up,” she said with a sudden smile, as though this life and death conversation had never taken place. “I will call you tomorrow, Angela. Tell Rahim to get his phone fixed.”

  I walked her to the gate, watched her drive away with her brother, and went upstairs, hoping to be able to forget everyone’s troubles except my own for just a few hours.

  All the younger officers were looking forward with great anticipation to this evening’s party because the new Swedish contingent that had just arrived in camp was coed. I was no longer the only woman at the PRT, and they would finally have women their age to dance with.

  The electric outlets in the atrium were not working that night, but the Romanians, with their flair for the dramatic, had loaded their CD player with fresh batteries and placed flickering tapers in glass bottles on every flat surface in the room. The atrium glowed in the soft buttery candlelight.

  I was anxious to see Mark, even if he only came for a few minutes.

  The colonel had just poured me a glass of wine when Mark appeared in the doorway scanning the room. I raised my glass in a friendly salute and tried to appear blasé as he approached. It was impossible. I swallowed hard and was overcome by the reality that he would be leaving in the morning. He walked quickly in my direction.

  The colonel greeted him, but his eyes never left mine.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Colonel,” Mark said with a polite nod.

  “Angela?” He stood in front of my chair, took my wineglass, and set it on the table next to me. “May I have this dance? ”

  “You want to dance? ”

  “Yes, with you,” Mark said as he took my hand. The colonel and the chief of staff next to him rose to their feet as I stood and was led by Mark to the center of the atrium.

  I noticed he wasn’t the only one with this idea. The Romanians had replaced their polka with a slow Eastern European tango and immediately claimed the most attractive female Swedish soldiers for themselves, leaving the other young officers to battle for the attention of the remaining few women.

  As the warm strains of violins and concertinas filled the air with that most sensuous of all dances, Mark slid his hand around my waist and pressed his fingers into the small of my back. Tipping me like a glass of champagne and throwing me slightly off balance, he began to lead me in slow-motion circles around the room.

  “This is a tango, isn’t it? ”

  “It is,” he replied, pulling me closer.

  “I don’t know how to tango, Mark.”

  “I do,” he said as he skillfully changed direction, tightening his grip and leaving no daylight between us. I was barely breathing.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to come tonight,” I whispered as his lips brushed against my hair.

  “This I would not miss,” he replied as he led me into another slow turn. “I’ve given my successor enough reading material to keep him busy until at least midnight.”

  “I’m going to miss you terribly, Mark.”

  “And I you,” he said, guiding me between the Romanians, who were clinging tightly to their Swedish partners.

  My pulse was racing, but tonight it was for a good cause.

  “Angela, we have so little time left,” he murmured. “Let’s go outside.” He took my hand and led me to the balcony.

  We walked to the far corner, and Mark brought my fingers to his lips.

  “You know that I’ll only be in Basra for six months,” he said, sounding desperate to get this information out as quickly as possible. “I want you to know that I’ve asked for an assignment near London when I leave Iraq.”

  “Mark, that’s wonderful,” I said, shivering
in the frigid night air. He put his arms around me and I reciprocated. It didn’t really matter anymore who saw us.

  “You know, when I first saw you in Smythe’s office last December, I thought you were his secretary,” he said, laughing, “but I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

  “And I thought you were one of the rudest people I’d ever met.”

  “How could I have known it was you that Smythe was referring to when he told me a female American diplomat was being sent to Mazār? You have no idea what was going through my head, Angela, when I followed him out of his office and we were formally introduced.”

  I reached up to touch his face, and he placed his warm hand over mine.

  “When did you first change your mind about me?” he asked, stroking my hand.

  “I’m not sure when it began, Mark,” I said. “Perhaps when I first saw you dancing.”

  “You mean tonight? ” he asked, looking confused.

  “No, last summer at Ahmad’s wedding,” I replied, laughing.

  “The interpreter’s wedding? But the men and women were in separate rooms.”

  “Nilofar showed me a hole in the curtain where the women could spy on the men without being seen. She wanted me to see Rahim, but there you were in your uniform at the center of a crowd of singing, shouting men. Nilofar had to drag me away.”

  “Violating yet another taboo, eh, Angela?” He laughed. “You’ll never learn, will you?”

  “It was worth it, Mark.”

  We kissed, this time long and deep.

  Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of “blueys,” the pale blue onionskin airmail letters that had been used for decades by British forces for personal correspondence when on deployment. These handwritten letters were a vanishing tradition that was rapidly being replaced by e-blueys, but Mark didn’t trust e-mail.

  “I meant to give these to you yesterday,” he said, pressing them into my hand. “I’ve included my military postal address. Will you write to me while I’m in Basra?”

  “Every day, Mark.”

  We remained in our corner of the balcony, planning our reunion in London, until Sergeant Major announced that the colonel was going to bed and the party was over.

  The other officers on the balcony collected their beer cans, stubbed out their cigarettes, and gave us a few moments alone to say our final farewell.

  FIFTY-SIX

  November 2, 2005

  I had survived my first day without Mark and was already counting the days until we would meet in London. It was almost midnight. I was snuggled in bed under three blankets, rereading some of my favorite Rumi poems and thinking about Mark, when the cell phone began to vibrate on my desk. Late-night calls still got my adrenaline pumping. By the time I threw off the covers and my bare feet hit the floor, my heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

  Calm down, Angela, I told myself. Maybe it’s Marty calling to say you got promoted. It’s almost lunchtime in D.C. Or it’s Mark since he’s not flying out of Kabul until tomorrow morning.

  “Hello, this is Angela Morgan.”

  “Farishta-jan, please you must help us!” Rahim’s voice was frantic and pleading.

  “Rahim, where are you? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m in a taxi with Nilofar. We are almost at the PRT. Please, Farishta, I beg you—tell the guards to let us in. Nilofar is bleeding ba . . .”

  “Rahim!” I screamed. “Rahim!” His cell phone had gone dead.

  In three minutes, I was at the gate, wrapped in my robe. One of the officers on my floor had come running when he heard me calling Rahim’s name. He notified the duty ops officer, who had ordered the guards to open the gates and admit the taxi. Rahim lifted Nilofar carefully from the backseat and carried her limp and bloody form into the dispensary, where the camp doctor, also in his robe, was waiting for them with a medic.

  “What happened to her, Rahim?”

  “She was attacked by three men, sent by a warlord who accused her of interfering with his plans to marry a twelve-year-old girl. They took Nilofar from the university as she was leaving class. No one did anything to stop them.”

  “I mean what did they do to her, Rahim?” the doctor demanded sharply as he began to cut away her blood-soaked clothing. Rahim turned away and began to sob. “They beat her. They tried to rape her, but when they saw that she was already bleeding . . . that it was her time of month, that she was . . . unclean to men, they . . . they violated her with a . . . a . . . a Kalashnikov rifle,” he said, burying his hands in his face.

  “Jesus Christ,” muttered the doctor. “Angela, get Rahim out of here while I try to stop the bleeding. We’ve got to get this girl to a hospital fast.”

  “Not the hospital in Mazār, sir, please,” begged Rahim. “They will find her and kill her.”

  “Sergeant, tell the duty ops officer we’ll need our ambulance and two escort vehicles, ready to go to the Forward Support Base in ten minutes. Tell him to have the FSB inform the doctors at the field hospital that we’re bringing the girl. They have blood supplies.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the medic as he rushed out the door.

  I led Rahim into the frigid night air. “Where are her parents? Why didn’t they come with her? ”

  “Her father wouldn’t let her in when the men left her on the street in front of her house. He said that she had shamed her family by her actions and that no one would ever marry her now because she had allowed herself to be violated. She called me on her cell phone before she fainted. I came with a taxi and found her still lying in the street. I didn’t know where else to take her.”

  We went back into the dispensary, where the medic was inserting an IV into Nilofar’s arm.

  “The Jordanian doctors at the field hospital will be able to help her, Rahim,” the doctor assured him.

  “Will she die, Doctor?”

  “She is young and strong and she’s a fighter, Rahim. She won’t die.”

  As I wrapped my arms around Rahim, he buried his face in my hair and wept uncontrollably.

  Nilofar was quickly stabilized at the field hospital. The young surgeon said her wounds would heal but warned that she might never be able to have children. Two days later, I escorted her on a military flight to Kabul, where she could recover from her wounds and her surgery.

  She and Rahim had a tearful farewell at the Mazār airport. She would remain sheltered inside the compound of an international NGO for several weeks until they could locate a country that would give her asylum and a temporary residence visa. Nilofar could not return to Mazār. It was dangerous for her even to remain very long in Kabul.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  November 4, 2005

  I spent my first day in Kabul with Nilofar, who was still drowsy from pain medication. Just before sundown, I returned to the embassy and, after an early dinner, settled in for an evening in my hooch with a favorite mystery novel and a glass of sherry for company.

  It was hard to concentrate on the book. I was still worried about Nilofar and was also agonizing over my own encouragement of her recklessness. Perhaps I could have prevented this tragedy if my warnings to her had been more forceful.

  And then there was Mark, who was constantly on my mind. I reviewed to the point of obsession every detail of our last evening at the Romanian party. Was it only five days ago? I was worried about his being in Iraq even though I knew he had a desk job and would rarely go outside the wire. I was also making plans for our reunion in London.

  My phone rang at six P.M. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Morgan, this is the guard at Post One. You have a visitor, who must be signed in before I can admit him. I’ll start filling out the paperwork and have it ready for your signature.” He hung up before I could ask who it was.

  Switching off my phone, I wondered who could be coming to see me so late in the day.

  I stepped into the guard shack expecting to see Rahim, who I knew was trying to get down to Kabul to see Nilofar. I thought I was dreaming. Mark was handing his NAT
O ID card to the guard.

  “Hello, Angela,” he said in a voice that told me he wasn’t certain I’d be happy to see him.

  “Mark, I thought you left for Basra three days ago,” I said, choking on my own words and grabbing the sleeve of his uniform to make sure he was real.

  “I was, I mean we were, but the plane had engine trouble. We’re now expected to leave tomorrow. I didn’t know you were in Kabul until I called the PRT this afternoon and asked to speak with you. Sergeant Major said you had brought Nilofar here. What happened?”

  “She was attacked and badly hurt, but she’s stable now. She’s in seclusion until a host country can be found for her. It’s not safe for her to stay in Afghanistan.”

  His face darkened. “I knew it,” he said, growing suddenly angry. The guard handed him a visitors badge and waved him through the metal detector.

  “You knew what? ” I asked, surprised at his tone.

  “That you shouldn’t have encouraged them to continue seeing each other,” he said as I led him into the walled embassy compound.

  “What are you talking about, Mark? This had nothing to do with Rahim. Nilofar was attacked because she was defying one of the warlords.”

  “You could have stopped her,” he said, grabbing my arm. “What if that had been you? ”

  “Mark,” I said, taking his face in my hands, “look at me. It wasn’t me. I’m fine, and Nilofar will be fine. It was Rahim who rescued her.”

  He nodded without speaking.

  “Why didn’t you call me earlier to say you were still in Kabul? ” I asked.

  “I couldn’t bear to say good-bye to you again, especially over the phone.”

  “Are you angry with me, Mark? ”

  He reached for my hand. “No, I just want you out of here as soon as possible and safely assigned to your embassy in London so I won’t have to worry about you anymore.”