“Maybe it will give the Americans incentive not to abandon us completely,” I try.“They must want these resources, too.”
“You would think.”
But I hear the doubt in his voice.Feel it, too.In a matter of months, all American troops will be withdrawn.And judging by the stories we hear from the countryside…
With a single swipe of his hand, he sends the pile of pebbles tumbling.
“What is your treasure?”he asks me.
I don’t have to think about it.“Words.”
“Not numbers?”
“No.Books, stories, poems.”
He gives me a sideways glance.“And yet, you study with Professor Ahmadi.”
I shrug.“He’s a brilliant mathematician.”
“He’s an old man with a younger man’s appetites.”He makes a fake coughing sound.“Dokhtar Baaz.”
I understand his less than complimentary label.Professor Ahmadi has a reputation for hiring only pretty young assistants.Not that he’s such a handsome man, but genius can be attractive in its own way.
I flash a smile.“Jealous?”
“Always.Forever.”But his expression is serious.“You should be careful.”
“He’s an excellent teacher,” I state firmly.“And a friend of my father’s.”
“An old man with a younger man’s appetites,” he repeats.
“Jealous,” I chide him.
“Always and forever.”
Later, we go diving into the crisp lake, our loose clothing at first plastering to our limbs, then spreading atop the water like a silvery halo against the dark depths.The foreigners play in the shallows, wearing swim trunks and tiny bikinis that expose their overly pale skin.The baby-rocking aunties and pipe-smoking grandpas shoot frowns of disapproval, but for the younger crowd there are only exchanged grins at the outsiders’ ignorance.We understand the fierceness of the bright sun shimmering overhead.There’s no such thing as gentle beauty in our country.The sun burns, the mountains bite, the wind batters.
And we would have it no other way.
We swim deeper into the lake, until we are bobbing shapes in the distance, bodies modestly covered, my head respectfully wrapped.While beneath the lapping waters, a brush of toes against ankles, fingers dancing down backs, palms sliding around waists.
“Jigarem,” he murmurs the endearment as his hands slip beneath the hem of my shirt, stroke a long line up my ribs.
He touches, I sigh.
He retreats, I protest.
We drift atop the water, playing, not playing, playing, not playing, till our skin is pruned and we know it’s time to return to shore.At the last moment, I tighten my hand around his.I feellike a child again, kneeling at my mother’s bedside, desperate for her to stay.This day is so perfect.And I already know with a terrible sense of dread, we will never have such magic again.
“What kind of fool falls in love when the world is burning?”I murmur.
He regards me seriously.“What kind of fool doesn’t?”
If you are reading this, Zahra, my precious girl, then the worst has happened and I, too, have left my daughter much too soon.
Forgive me.
I love you.Forever and always.
