Allure of Deceit (5 page)

“But the agreement was with you, Parsaa? Before 1995?”

“A village is not about one man,” he said softly. Questions about the land in Laashekoh made him nervous. The woman already seemed to know the answers though none of the villagers, even his wife, knew of the true arrangements.

Bacha continued posing questions as Pir stood, pacing back and forth, gazing toward the river and mountains.

“My friend likes you very much, and our organization would like to help this village. We receive many donations, and a major donor has taken notice of our work.” She paused, as if realizing the explanation might be too much, too fast. “We could do more. So many families were displaced by the war—especially children.”

“We have been fortunate,” Parsaa said. “Allah willing.” He wanted the questions to stop, but he also wanted the women to understand. Laashekoh did not need help.

“We are in need of local partners. You could help us, and we would pay you. The donors want Afghans involved in the decision making.” She reached inside her pack and extracted papers. Forms for a partnership. “All you need to do is sign. We would handle most matters in the city. We would run ideas by you. Or, not bother you much at all.”

Parsaa shook his head. The village would not sign the forms. “Orphans are a family responsibility. Aunts and uncles in the village provide care and spiritual guidance.”

Another sharp question came from Pir, the older woman. Bacha spoke more gently, asking if the village had help returning the children from the trafficking operation. He told her about the soldiers at the outpost, and she asked about Paul Reichart, an aid worker.

“He's from GlobalConnect,” Bacha said flatly. She asked if Paul had handled property matters for the children or village.

“He helped return children to their families.” Parsaa was curt and hid his puzzlement. “There was no property.”

She pleaded with him, explaining her group had access to funding, too. “Has Paul told you how much money is available for villages like yours?”

Parsaa pointed out that the villagers did not discuss money with Paul. Bacha glanced at her colleague and spoke softly. Then she shook her head. “You are making a mistake.”

“It should not be easy for Afghan families to give up their children.” Parsaa stood and asked if the women worked with Paul.

“Not yet,” Bacha said, adding that they were trying to arrange a meeting with him. He was supposed to provide contacts. “But he doesn't want others working in this area.” In the meantime, the women were assisting children of women serving prison sentences. “One of the women is from Laashekoh,” she added. “Leila?”

At hearing the name, the other villagers were no longer restless and listened closely. Sofi, his wife, made a small choking noise, and leaned against Karimah. Leila, the daughter of his dearest and lifelong friend who had since died. Her delayed marriage had disrupted the village. A woman whose beauty was destroyed overnight with an acid attack even as her marriage contract was under negotiation. She, along with her parents and husband, had helped organize a trafficking ring, shipping children to Pakistan.

Leila had also shoved his oldest son off a cliff the night before Ali was supposed to leave for school.

Parsaa didn't stop the woman, though he didn't want to listen.

“She has an attorney who advises her, and they have welcomed our support. Leila's attorney advised us that there were too many girls here for a small village to handle.”

The woman referred to “girls,” not Leila's sisters who were being raised by village families. A relief. Sofi would be panicked about losing Komal, the youngest of the sisters. But Leila had already been convicted and was in prison. She had no claim and couldn't know how the villagers felt about her sisters. Parsaa didn't understand her need for an attorney. He wanted to shout, explain how Leila deserved no assistance or comfort, but instead he moved close to Bacha and kept his voice low. Only Ahmed, Sofi, and Karimah could hear. “Have you spoken with Leila?”

Bacha was eager and did not wait for Pir. “Do you know her? We are not allowed near her. Not yet. Her attorney describes her as a hero. She was trying to rescue the children and give them a better future.”

“You cannot believe all that you hear.” Parsaa's laugh was harsh. “Her attorney should look into her other crimes.”

“Many donors want to help her.” Bacha looked around. “They would help here, too, but only if you let them.”

Laashekoh would have nothing to do with groups that supported Leila, and Parsaa offered a warning. “Leila is young, but she is treacherous. The attorney, anyone else who deals with her, should be careful.”

Pir's pale eyes sharpened as Bacha translated. “My friend claims you don't want the children hearing us talk about Leila,” Bacha said. “Do others in the village feel the same about her?”

Karimah spoke up. “If anything, he is too kind. She is evil, and we do not speak her name.”

The visitors were stubborn. “Villages often find it too easy to blame a young woman,” Bacha said. “Refusing to talk buries truth.”

Parsaa leaned in close. “The American soldiers investigated and that is why she is in prison. You can check on this.”

“But the Americans are not here anymore, are they? We heard her story and only wanted to help the girls she described.”

“She did not tell you her entire story,” Parsaa retorted.

“Perhaps men are too impatient to listen.”

He was weary of twisting words back and forth and refused to prove her point with harsh words. The best response for fools was silence. The conversation stalled, and Parsaa explained that he needed to return to harvesting wheat. Bacha asked if the village would sell them vegetables. She explained the orphanage's policy—to rely on Afghans for as many supplies as possible. “We pay well,” she added.

Ahmed offered carrots, cauliflower, potatoes, and other root crops and asked how many crates they needed.

“The pilot always worries about overloading the helicopter.” Bacha sighed. “And we have one more stop nearby before returning to the city.”

The helicopter had an empty seat, and it was decided that three crates of vegetables could safely fill the empty space. Older boys ran to fill the crates before showing them to the women. Letting loose a happy noise, Pir pulled a sweet potato from a pile and tucked it into her bag.

“Her dinner tonight!” Bacha announced. Parsaa and Ahmed, followed by boys lugging the crates, accompanied the women to the waiting helicopter. As the group approached, the young pilot, the man who had attempted to take pictures, looked upset by the additional load. He did not argue, though, and stacked the crates on the one empty seat, binding them in place with thick straps.

The women then thanked the village men and children, exchanging farewells as if all were close friends. The engine roared, and the helicopter lifted, hesitated, and then banked toward the north with a chugging roar.

Ahmed bantered with the boys as they climbed the hill. Once the village gate was in sight, the boys raced ahead. “I hope the women don't return,” the younger man said.

Parsaa agreed but offered no other comment. His goals had once seemed so simple, so reasonable—providing for his family with a comfortable home and harvests, encouraging others in the village to do the same, while keeping Laashekoh secure. For too many, home, food, and safety no longer offered enough.

There would be more visitors, and he wondered, how long would Laashekoh say no? He often sensed that others, even his own wife and children, wanted more. The worst part was that deep inside he yearned for more, too. Not more money or success with farming. Not more friends or another woman.

Perhaps it was less change. Or at least, the power of knowing what the future held.

He shook his head. He was not old enough for such vague fears. Like the steady shift of the sun, the water pouring down the mountainside, the lines on a human face, nothing on earth had real permanence. Parsaa kept his worries to himself. No need to worry Ahmed. Strangers would pass through the village quickly, spreading ideas like dust whipped by the swirling helicopter blades.

CHAPTER 3

Only two people knew who owned the property surrounding Laashekoh.

Parsaa had an urge to talk with Zahira, a friend since childhood, and tell her about the visitors. Her home at the canyon's end was centered amid the stretches of land owned by Laashekoh. Her father had been one of the region's fiercest warlords, cultivating a reputation for ruthlessness and swift justice. The man was brutal but knew how to apply a kind word for lasting influence. Blacker built his militia by offering protection to the most desperate of refugees, families who longed for homes and safety. He had invited groups of refugees, including Parsaa's father, to build small villages and farm the best land. Blacker allowed villagers to keep most of their harvests, and in exchange, the families raised their sons to train in his militia and respond to any command from the man.

It was a small price to pay. The sense of permanency and security was priceless.

But Blacker was long dead. His militia disbanded, many of the lieutenants had scattered, looking for new battles with foreign fighters. Zahira, his only child, remained at the compound after a life of contradictions. Her father claimed to fight for Afghan traditions, but he surrounded his daughter with western comforts. She had left Afghanistan to study medicine, but she saw few patients and lived as a hermit. The warlord who expected unquestioning obedience from his deputies had cherished his daughter as an adviser, treating her as equal.

Happiness eluded her because Zahira had always wanted more. Parsaa had known her father well and regretted that the old memories were not part of their friendship.

The walk along the river and the descent into the canyon took about two hours. Parsaa paused at the compound's edge. He wanted to speak with Zahira alone and would not approach the house until he was sure that her husband was inside his workshop at the far end of the compound.

The compound had about twenty buildings, most in disrepair. Only a few lights gleamed from the main house, though Zahira's husband, Arhaan, could be anywhere. The blind man had no use for light. Others could not be sure if he was working or prowling the grounds.

Over the years, Arhaan spent more time in his workshop, one wall of which was lined with cages for his mynas. The man ate and slept there and devoted the rest of his hours to studying the birds, taking each for long walks, and training them to converse. The mynas studied the man and every twitch of his mouth.

Parsaa was grateful to arrive at night and not see the overgrown fields, the faded carvings, walls in need of patching, and other reminders of how time and weather wore at the compound.

The place was quiet except for a plaintive mewing. A cat with a swollen belly waited outside the main house. The door opened and the desperate creature stumbled inside.

Parsaa waited, listening for sounds of the blind husband. Once, Parsaa had envied Arhaan and regretted his own marriage, arranged when he was a child, but only for a short while. Over the years, he had come to appreciate his parents' wisdom. Parsaa was not so foolish to talk about such feelings with one woman or the other. The tightest connection for families was loyalty. His relationship with his wife was better for not talking much about the meetings with Zahira.

If anything, the years and secrets had strained the friendship with Zahira. He was content with his life and marriage, and she was not.

After sundown, Zahira let the mother cat inside. Ready to give birth, the old yellow cat headed for a worn blanket in a dark corner to wait out the contractions alone. One by one, four kittens slipped out into the world. Zahira tried reading by the fire, but the cries made it hard to concentrate. Ignoring glares from the anxious mother, Zahira approached the blanket to watch the activity. As expected, the first kitten was toughest, and each one born afterward was smaller and weaker than its predecessor.

Zahira kept the cat to irritate her husband, and she would keep the yellow kittens, too.

The mother cat was spent after giving birth but had enough energy to twist away from the desperate pink mouths of her two smallest kittens. Impatient with their ineptitude, she blocked them from getting near her belly. One squirming kitten squealed with fear.

The cat was livid about another creature witnessing the indignities associated with giving birth. Zahira had seen such hostility from women before. Crouching, Zahira slowly reached for the unwanted offspring, gently placing them closer to the swollen teats. Irritated, the mother swatted at Zahira's hand, and the firstborn kitten moved on to another teat, filling its stomach and ignoring mews from the neglected pair. Zahira tried again—one managed to get a taste, enough to know what it was missing—and the provoked mother hissed.

Zahira chided the old cat and rearranged the kittens. “It's up to you,” she said, then hurried to her bedroom. There, she checked the baby girl, who was sleeping in a basket, before climbing into her own bed nearby.