Veiled Freedom (29 page)

Thunder rattled the aerie where he crouched, slashes of lightning echoing the chaos of his thoughts, though no drop of rain had yet tamed the city's dust. Under his sandals, a chunk of concrete broke away, falling into the night's abyss, but he didn't retreat from the shattered edge. Was not the manner of his death already fixed around his neck at birth? And tonight, if Allah willed, he would record his declaration of shaheed, receive into his hands the replacement weapon.

Receive as well the confirmation that was his promised reward.

No, Allah's pleasure and mercy were the only rewards for which a man dared hope. Still, to know!

He turned from the opening to the darkness beyond which broken steps wound down flight after flight to the street. He'd been waiting for hours. Had there been a problem with the necessary materials to replace those tossed so senselessly away? The camera for taping? Or some more serious delay?

Feet sounded on the stairs, paused outside the ruined chamber. A narrow beam of light flickered across the cracked walls, then winked out before a shadow stepped into the room.

“Where have you been? I was on the point of leaving.”

“There has been another change.” Footsteps crossed the room. He'd never seen the newcomer in daylight, knew him only as a voice in the dark, on the phone. An irregular bulge above wide shoulders was a turban wrapped across the other man's face.

“Then you do not know.”

“The time and place, no. But the season is now fixed.”

“But that is so far distant. An eternity away.” His body was shaking with the intensity of his distress, his hands clenched tight at his sides to contain it. “And what about the other?”

“Not yet. We are searching. It has not been so long. These matters take time. Inquiries must be made.”

He twisted around angrily. “Perhaps I should go to search for myself if I am not needed here.”

“No!” Hard fingers bit into his upper arm. “If you leave, do you think we would trust your word to return? We have the matter in hand. And resources beyond any you could summon. I have given my oath that it will be done. It is a holy matter. Do you doubt me?”

“No, of course not. It is just . . . I wish to see with my own eyes, to know before—” He bit off his words, got out with difficulty, “What am I to do then in all this time?”

The clap of thunder broke close enough the hand dropped from his arm with an involuntary gasp. He held his breath. For that single instant, a flash of lightning had reached through the broken walls, casting into sharp relief features no longer masked.

As night flowed back, he let his breath out quietly. It would be prudent to keep to himself that he'd recognize that stark profile anywhere, should he see it again. He heard the movements of the turban being yanked back into place, felt hidden eyes probing him in the darkness.

Then the voice answered with bored incredulity, “Do? What does any man do? Breathe, eat, sleep, work, live. I will contact you when the time and place are known. Until then do not seek me out. But do not deceive yourself. We will know of your every movement.”

The first raindrops had begun to fall as he left the ruined building and hurried in the night. At this late hour, not even the generators of the wealthy offered scattered light, and he was grateful for continued flashes overhead to mark his way.

For the reprieve, he was not sure whether to be grateful or bitter. The time stretched out endlessly before him, yet so terrifyingly brief. What was he to do to fill the hours so that his thoughts did not spiral down into madness again?

Breathe. Eat. Sleep. Work.

Live!

In the end Jamil couldn't leave the book alone. What if someone found it there? So was the excuse he gave himself. By daylight, the memory of its words didn't ring with such effrontery. And anything was better than his present nights. On the third day he went discreetly looking. He found the book under an unpruned rose briar that climbed the wall beside the mechanics shed, the cover slightly damp because it had drizzled in the night but dry inside.

This time he stayed away from tales of Isa, leafing patiently through the pages until he found the words Ameera had first shown him:
“Husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies.”

A good teaching. Though the Quran gave a man great power over his family, Jamil's father had not been a harsh man, raising his voice but rarely his hand. Still, Jamil knew the statistics from his medical training, had seen in Ameera's work injustices that could not be denied. Could it be true that unkindness could nullify prayers as easily as careless ablutions?

These epistles as they were called seemed to be to the hadith, a collection of Muhammad's teachings gathered by the apostle's most faithful followers, what the
injil
, the gospel stories of Isa's life and teaching, were to the Quran, Muhammad's direct revelations from Allah. Though he knew the individual English words, there were sections over which Jamil puzzled, especially those written by the disciple called Paul, his discussions of doctrine and teaching as intricate and circumambulating as the greatest Islamic scholars.

But his commands were brief, many, and unambiguous. Nor were these instructions for brushing one's teeth or arranging one's feet the proper way.

Put off falsehood and speak truthfully. . . . He who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work. . . . Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice.

To pray, refrain from immorality, obey government, help the poor, work hard, and avoid greed—all good teachings. But others were harder.

Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing.

“It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.

And over and over in many forms—live in peace with each other, be kind and compassionate to each other, love one another.

Then there it was again:

Forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

“Farah, have you seen Soraya at all today?”

The Tajik girl shook her head as she lifted the box in her arms to the back of the cargo truck.

“Then would you mind checking around to see if anyone else has heard anything? Maybe Soraya said something to them.”

“Fatima will know. I will go find her.”

“No, I already spoke with Fatima when she came in this morning. She has no idea why Soraya hasn't returned from the weekend. If I'd been thinking, I'd have asked her to check around for me when she gets home.”

Amy wasn't sure just when she'd found out Fatima was a relative of Soraya's. Maybe when she'd stepped out the gate for a delivery of propane heaters just as the same youth who accompanied the teacher on school days escorted Soraya off a city bus down at the corner. Her cousin, Hasim, Soraya explained as the boy climbed aboard, and Fatima's brother, whose chores would seem to include escort duty for female family members.

Amy, who'd been wondering if it was appropriate to suggest Jamil's services, was relieved to learn Soraya wasn't crossing the city alone. The whiff of nepotism troubled her not in the least. If foreigners hired fixers, for ordinary Afghans, relationships were the grease that made society's wheels turn, someone inevitably having a “cousin” or “brother” or “uncle” who just happened to have or do exactly what you needed.

In fact, Amy was counting on Soraya to come up with at least a couple more teachers from among her acquaintances and possibly other personnel as well. Amy cast an impatient glance up and down the street. Morning classes were over, Fatima gone already with Hasim, the noon meal cleared away. A buzz of activity centered now around Rasheed's elderly cargo truck pulled up to the pedestrian gate.

More than a hundred children were registered for this afternoon's launch of their feeding and literacy outreach. Soraya had agreed to oversee the reading class until permanent teachers were hired. Jamil would drive and handle crowd control as well as documenting the event with the video camera.

The Welayat women too had pitched in. Roya and two others would go along to serve. But all had helped with food preparation and were now hoisting heavy pots, five-gallon water containers, and other supplies into the truck bed. Even Aryana had ventured out to deposit a load of drink mix cans, her toddler in one arm. In return each would earn their first small wage.

Only Soraya was missing. Several times now the Afghan woman's Thursday and Friday visits home had extended to an afternoon during the week as well. Amy hadn't objected since Soraya always requested leave first and worked long and hard, even into the evenings, when she was here. But now it was halfway through Sunday, well into the Afghan work week, and Soraya still wasn't back from her weekend. Nor was she answering her cell phone.

A screech of air brakes drew Amy's hopeful gaze. But a bus drawing up at the corner disgorged only a man in an Afghan security uniform.

Amy's attention moved on to a large jinga truck idling just up from the bus stop that hadn't been there a few minutes earlier. Wildly painted with intricate patterns and stylized scenes, Afghanistan's jinga or jingle trucks derived their name from chimes and bells and clanging tin strips strung along the vehicle's underbelly to frighten away jinn or just for decoration, depending on the piety of the owner. In a society where art and color and music held so many constraints, the jinga trucks seemed to Amy a delightful rebellion of Afghan creativity. A pride of peacocks spreading their tails on this one's wooden sides might have stepped down from an ancient Persian tapestry.

Unfortunately, it happened to be blocking her team's exit. Amy turned back to the cargo truck. “Jamil?”

But her driver had followed Amy's gaze and was already starting toward the truck. By the time he returned, the loading was finished, blue burqas that were Roya and her team sitting among the pots in the truck bed, the others drifting back inside the compound. Behind Jamil, the jinga truck was backing up around the corner where the street was wider.

“We'll just have to go without Soraya. We can at least do the feeding. I'd ask you to take Soraya's place, but you need to be free to run the video camera. And keep an eye out for trouble.”

From the men,
Amy didn't add aloud. New Hope's program, like so many others, was geared to the most needy and neglected of this society. But even during registration, there'd been trouble with neighborhood men who figured if there were to be handouts, they should be first in line. Another plus for the literacy class as the men were less likely to stand around through ABC's.

“I will teach.”

Amy whirled around, surprised. Farah had been herding children back through the gate, her burqa flipped up over her head so Amy could see her young, eager face. Farah could have understood only Soraya's name in the other two's English conversation, but Amy didn't ask how the girl knew of their dilemma. Soraya's AWOL status was public knowledge.

“But you're not a teacher, Farah. You're just learning to read yourself.”

“I can teach what I have already learned.” The girl's eyes were pleading. “I will teach the first letters and tell your story of paradise. Please, I know I can do it.”

“Well, I guess it can't hurt to try.” Amy pulled out a key. “Why don't you get the story box. It's sitting just inside my room by the wall.”

Jamil turned his back as Farah scurried up the cobblestone path.

Amy eyed him. “What is it? Do you think I shouldn't let her try?”

“That is not for me to say. I was only thinking—” as Jamil turned around, Amy saw that it was a half smile, not a frown, that curved his mouth—“this woman Farah is very like a sister of mine.”

One more personal tidbit from Amy's companion. “You have a sister Farah's age?”

“No, she was small, in her first years of school, though she would now perhaps be this woman's age. But she too believed there was nothing she could not do, though she was female.”