Back to answers that aren’t really answers.I tilt my head, study my hostess again.She’s an attractive woman with wavy black hair cut short to frame her face.There are crinkles next to her dark eyes, lines furrowing her brow.But the effect enhances her beauty, gives an overall sense of strong will and determination.She’s seen some things, lived some experiences, survived some hardships.She’s not about to break now.
Would that be comforting for a young female immigrant such as Sabera, or overwhelming?
I gotta believe the police had to be a tiny bit interested if Sabera hadn’t even returned to work.Unless her fellow chambermaids had provided additional details Aliah either doesn’t know or doesn’t want to share.
“How good is Sabera’s English?”I change tack.
“Excellent.Her mother’s people are from London.Sabera grew up speaking English as well as Dari and Pashto, which are the two most prominent languages in Afghanistan.She’s also a skilled linguist, fluent in many languages, not to mention dialects.”
“In other words, language is not an issue.”
“No.Nor is the culture shock as significant for her as it is for others.Her father taught at the university in Kabul, while her mother was a noted fashion designer.The household was very Westernized.Certainly, her parents were progressive enough to support Sabera pursuing her own studies.Though of course…”
“She grew up in a professional, affluent family.”I fill in the blanks.“Meaning it can’t be the easiest thing to now be living in a run-down apartment while working as a housekeeper.”
“This is not the end; it is the beginning,” Aliah recites.
“Of?”
“Your new life in America.I was a nurse back in Afghanistan.When I first came here, I wasn’t allowed in the medical field.I washed dishes in the back of a restaurant for pennies on the dollar.People think all refugees can do is drive taxis or scrub toilets.No, it’s generally the only thing we’reallowedto do.Do you know how many doctors, lawyers, engineers, and pilots have come over from Afghanistan in the past few years?And yet our professional degrees and licenses are not accepted here.”She shrugs.“We must adapt.It’s not easy, but it’s the only option.And Sabera was committed to making life in this country work.For her daughter, if for nothing else.”
“Where was Sabera last seen?”
“Leaving work.She’d stayed late, missed the employee shuttle, so she was headed to the bus stop.”
“Did she get on?”
“You would have to ask the police that.”
I nod, thinking.“And she has a cell phone?Everyone does now.”
“Yes, with prepaid minutes.”
“Ahh, a woman after my own heart.No one’s tried pinging her GPS?”
“Again, you would have to ask the police.”
“Or her husband?”
“Sure.”Aliah’s skepticism is palpable.
I pause, looking around me at this bountiful spread in a lovely, well-tended apartment with its stunning mix of richly colored tapestries and a comfy sofa set.If Aliah had started out scrubbing pots when she’d first arrived in this country, then she had adapted well indeed.
I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I have a final question, often the most telling.“Why?”I ask, keeping my gaze upon my hostess’s face.
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to find her?The police aren’t interested, her husband isn’t concerned, but you care enough to reach out to a perfect stranger to help your friend.Why?”
“You find people who can’t be found,” Aliah states.
“I find people no one else is looking for.”I don’t know why it’s important for me to make that distinction, but it is.
“Exactly.”Aliah nods.“And no one else is looking.Do you know what it’s like to be an outsider?To watch your entire country disappear?To see your sisters, mothers, daughters be erased?As if they never even existed?That’s now life in Afghanistan.For the second time.It shouldn’t be life here.Sabera deserves better.And so does her daughter.”
I stare into Aliah’s dark, somber eyes.“Okay.”
“You will look for Sabera?I’ll pay you.Just tell me how much.”
