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Marjan thought every day about ending her conversations with Saboor, not because of anything he’d said or done, but because
in her lucid moments she knew nothing could come of this relationship. How could a perfectly reasonable man like him be even
remotely interested in a woman with a child and a troubled past? None of it made sense.
But Marjan, in her practicality, also needed a good reason to put a stop to this relationship. She found none. In fact, she
found herself drawn to another hard truth. It was incredibly difficult to be an unattached woman in this world that required
women to be claimed by a father, a husband, a son.
Life would be so much easier with a man.
She wanted to be a strong woman, like her beloved aunt and Samia from the shelter and her ancestor and the women she saw crisscrossing
Kabul’s streets with round sunglasses shielding them from the sun and shoulders back as if marching into a great battle. And
like Elizabeth from Pride and Prejudice, self-confident and independent. How did they do it?
Marjan was often exhausted not by the work her body endured but by the load her mind carried—the strategizing and planning
and counting and justifying and debating. She fell into sleep feeling like she’d spent all day dragging the sun across the
sky, knowing tomorrow she’d have to do it all again.
So she found herself slipping further into a surprisingly comfortable place with Saboor and wondered if maybe some women could be strong because they didn’t have to worry about everything alone.
Knowing the night would end with a long, thoughtful phone call made the day’s work tolerable.
Saboor wanted to share things with her. He was interested in her opinions.
During their walks through the city, he reassured her that she was not doing irreparable harm to her daughter, that Hawa was fortunate to be in a place where her intellect could be stimulated and she had other girls to play with.
“I did something today,” Saboor told her on the phone one night. In the dark, it almost felt like he was curled up beside
her, speaking into her ear. “I bought a bunch of children’s books from the shop today and dropped them off at the orphanage.
They won’t allow a perfect stranger to enter, of course, but a very kind teacher took them from me at the gate. You told me
the other day that she’s read through all their books and I thought maybe she could use some more stories.”
“You went all the way out there?” Marjan pictured Hawa holding a new book, reading a story she’d been gifted by a man who
knew her only through Marjan’s stories.
“I did. Ramadan is around the corner. It doesn’t hurt to have a few good deeds to my name.”
“I don’t know what to say. That was very kind of you,” Marjan said.
“Meh. Don’t flatter me too much. On Friday, my sister asked me if I could tell she’d lost weight and God help me I lied to
save my life. Pray for my soul, Marjan.”
“You did the right thing. God is always merciful, but women are not,” Marjan replied with a laugh.
“Ameen! Oh, Marjan,” Saboor said, and Marjan felt her spine tingle to hear him speak her name this way, a quiet act of intimacy.
“Marjan, I have to confess something to you.”
“Another sin? You’ve been busy,” she said, trying to hide her nerves.
“No, nothing like that. It’s just that . . . I realized I can’t imagine going through the day without speaking to you. I was
thinking to myself, what does that mean? What is a man to do with this feeling? It’s insanely simple, of course. But it occurred
to me that I should ask you what you feel.”
Marjan brushed her hair away from her face. What was he saying? She tried to focus, to capture every word.
“Marjan, when I speak to you after a long day, it feels like I’m breaking a fast. I’ve never felt this way before. I want
more than this. I want more with you.”
“Saboor, I . . . I . . .” Marjan stammered. She genuinely didn’t know what to say. She was unprepared for anything like this.
“I’m a complicated person. You know that.”
“I know that. But what you have endured, your husband’s death and escaping a family that would have transferred you to his
brother as if you were chattel, that tells me how strong you are. To want to raise your daughter on your own terms, that’s
true courage.”
Marjan found it hard to breathe past the lump in her throat. It felt unreal to hear these words from a man, from Saboor. She
wished she could share more of her story with him but was nervous she would scare him away.
“Let’s meet tomorrow night,” he said. “Tell me you’ll meet me.”
There was that tingle again. She promised, then barely managed to get any sleep that night. They met at the park again. Marjan
stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep from wringing them. They walked together, their shoulders occasionally touching and
setting off sparks in Marjan’s belly.
“Look at that,” Saboor said, pointing to three boys playing soccer. “Imagine me at this age, still tempted to join them.”
“Why don’t you?” Marjan asked.
“Because they would run circles around me and I prefer not to embarrass myself in front of you,” he said.
Marjan watched the boys, felt transported to that time in her life when she kicked a soccer ball in the dusty alleys of her
neighborhood dressed as a boy. Saboor had been so open with her, telling her about the way his uncle had cheated his father
in a business deal and his self-doubt as he struggled with poetry. What if she shared this small truth with Saboor as a test?
“I used to love playing soccer when I was a child,” she said.
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.” He laughed. “Did your sisters also play?”
“Not exactly,” she replied slowly. “I was very young and played with the boys in the neighborhood.”
Saboor raised a brow. “That must have been quite a sight. A little girl playing with boys!”
“It wasn’t much of a sight, actually. I was a bacha posh when I was a child.”
This stopped Saboor in his tracks.
“Were you? Until what age?” he asked, and Marjan wondered what it meant that they’d stopped walking.
“Until I was thirteen,” she said, watching his face. He seemed amused.
“Were you good?”
“As a bacha posh?”
“As a soccer player.”
Marjan nodded.
“I was pretty good.”
“I bet you were hard to catch. I would have tried, though.”
Marjan looked at the ground to hide the flush creeping up her neck.
“Hey,” Saboor said. He looked around. There was no one nearby in the park, a rare moment of solitude under the tall pines.
He looked at her for a long moment and then smiled slyly before kissing her. His lips only grazed hers, which made the contact
between them all the more electrifying. It was gentle and shocking. Tender and illicit. Marjan felt her body submit to his
touch, she felt her own complicity in this rebellious act. He pulled away, righted himself, and covered his face with a hand.
“Forgive me. I could not resist.”
“Saboor, I . . .” Marjan faltered. What had she allowed? What had she invited? Marjan had never desired a man’s touch before,
but Saboor was unlike any man she’d ever met. She recognized a new kind of danger. She could not go on in this way, this impossible
romance. “I . . . This isn’t proper. I’m terrified Agha Rasuli will find out. Or someone will talk . . .”
“I’m sorry, my sweet. I didn’t mean to make you feel you’re doing something wrong.
And I agree with you. We cannot go on this way,” he said.
He took a deep breath and held her hands in his.
“You and I are adults and we can discuss this maturely. I would like for us to be married. I don’t want to have to steal you away for a few moments here and there. ”
Marjan’s hands would have flown to her face if he weren’t gripping them so tightly. She looked away to hide her smile, this
fizzy feeling inside. She feared her elation would attract God’s attention.
“Be serious, Saboor.”
“I could not be more serious, my love,” he insisted. “Do you not enjoy my company?”
“You know I do,” she said. She wanted more than his company. She wanted to touch his face with her hands, to lean her head
on his shoulder. She thought of the way Zargul greeted her husband, the way she threw her arms around her husband’s neck and
pressed her body against his. Marjan felt that same impulse now. “But I was married before. I have a daughter. What will your
family say?”
“Remember, I was married before as well.” But they both knew it was not the same.
She turned away from him, looked at the small family walking toward them, two small children running ahead of a woman talking
to her husband as she pushed a stroller. It felt like a rendering of something she never could have imagined.
Saboor touched her cheek. She turned ever so slightly to let her face fall into his hand, to let her body crave even more.
To let dreams drive away nightmares.
“What do you say, Marjan?” he asked.