That much resolved:
“Are there any personal items left in this townhouse?”I speak up, because the good detective never answered that question.
“No.”
“So most likely, Sabera is no longer staying here.Nor is she at the warehouse where two people were beaten to death with a hammer, nor is she at home.So what’s next?Because hiding out here made sense, especially to lick her wounds.But now… Where would a strange woman in an even stranger land go next?”
Detective Marc is unconcerned.“One way or another, I think that’ll become clear.”
“How so?”
“Because in her own words, she’s the sword.Sounds to me like I just need to follow the trail of dead bodies.Whatever’s going on here”—he skewers me with a look—“clearly it’s not over yet.”
CHAPTER 21
THE RATS STARE AT US.We jolt awake during the night to discover them mere inches from our sleeping bodies, beady eyes fixed upon our noses, chins, ears.Even Isaad has taken to wrapping his head for bedtime.If he finds its hot and uncomfortable, he’s wise enough not to utter a word.
Then there’s the smell.Human sweat, raw sewage, soiled diapers.This “temporary” camp was meant to hold a couple thousand.Now swelled ten times past that point, it’s like a septic wound, ready to burst.
Isaad announces my pregnancy the moment we arrive.I’m self-conscious, but quickly relent.A refugee camp is less a way station than a dumping ground for desperate humanity.There’s screaming all night long.Innocent people caught in the grips of vicious nightmares.Young men caught up in explosive violence.Young women caught by callous predators.
As a pregnant female, I’m entitled to protective custody.Which is to say, Isaad and I are moved into a secured sectionwithin a larger gated compound, where we are closer to the police and new arrivals.Once upon a time, a family was entitled to their own little structure, but due to overcrowding, those standards have long since passed.We share the single-room unit with a family of six, one set of parents and four small children who greet our arrival with rounded shoulders and terrified eyes.A threadbare blanket hangs as a makeshift curtain down half the space in a pitiful attempt at privacy.
Our first night, after spending an entire day standing in line to receive a single ration of food, Isaad hands half to me.Then, after thirty seconds of staring at his own meager portion of cold rice drowned in greasy curry, he hands over his bowl to the father of the family.
“It is not for us,” Isaad states gruffly.“We are Afghan, not Indian.This food will only hurt our stomachs.”
The four children fall upon it gratefully, their parents gazing at us in quiet exhaustion.
And I think, not for the first time in the past few weeks, that there’s more to my husband than meets the eye.
A woman can give her body.It’s not so hard after all.The things men want, the demands they feel are so important.It costs us everything, but it costs us nothing, because a clever female, a strong female, can meet basic expectations, while keeping everything of value to herself.
In the beginning, it enraged Isaad.Our first night, when he made it clear he was my husband ineveryway possible.And I lay there, not thinking of lakes, or hot summer days, or those moments where once I could see an entire future in one man’s eyes…
I thought of none of those things.
I felt nothing.
In the end, my “husband” rolled away in a huff of rage.We were on the road.Limited to sleeping awkwardly in a cheap hotel or cramped car.But as we grew closer to the border, still not having been blown up by an IED or shot by a Taliban soldier, Isaad’s attentions grew more frequent, more urgent, more… creative.
Things of which I had no idea.Persistence that invited rather than commanded and was therefore even more threatening to my determination to remain aloof.
Which seemed to make him all the more determined on the subject.
By the time we arrived at the border, Isaad’s resources had run dry.I volunteered the contents tucked inside the single volume I had plucked from my father’s library—books may be priceless, but when making my selection I knew cash would matter most, hence my father’s “safe book.”Next up, having been allowed to cross into Pakistan and now desperate for entry into a designated camp, I produced my mother’s necklace.It took a bit more haggling, as the officials had been bribed with many heirlooms by now, but fortunately, I’d picked the pendant with equal care.Ironically, the necklace was my mother’s least favorite, as it featured stones from my uncles’ mines.The impressive size and exquisite color of the watermelon tourmalines, however, made it an exceptional piece—and a final homage to a place and people that were no more.
We were finally granted entrance only to spend even more hours standing in line, where despite our more than generous offerings, uniformed guards stared at us in open disdain.
I waited for my husband to explode into a show of vanity and self-importance.But at each checkpoint, in front of bored officials and heavily armed police, he remained a study in devoted familyman.He murmured reassuring words in my ear.He requested our safe passage.He begged for the life of my baby.
Day after day, line after line, obstacle after obstacle.
Professor Ahmadi, the once notorious Dokhtar Baaz, put his own future on the line to fight for my unborn child.
I learned perhaps there’s more to life than pretty lakes and hot summer days after all.
The family sharing our cabin is kind.They have already been at this refugee camp for six months.They have relatives in Australia.They hope someone, anyone, might approve their paperwork sooner versus later so they can continue on to their loved ones.
