50
Every sound grated on Marjan’s nerves. The whistle of the tea kettle. Slippered footsteps across the tile floor. Zargul clearing
her throat. The blurred bleating of car horns.
But even worse than the noise was the quiet. When she was alone in her room, contained by the four walls, she could almost
hear herself coming apart at the seams. She silenced her phone’s ringer, which Soraya did not appreciate.
I need to know you’re okay, she’d insisted in a text message.
I’m fine. I just don’t feel like talking, Marjan had replied.
Pretending that nothing was awry during the day drained her. She scrubbed, wiped, sliced, scoured, soaked, chopped, swept,
and more without thinking, her limbs moving out of habit, her body accepting of the strain. Almost grateful for it. It made
sense to hurt.
Khanum Zargul and Agha Rasuli hardly paid attention to her, but Leeda seemed to notice something was different about Marjan.
While Marjan fed her a bottle, her small hands batted at Marjan’s face. She watched Marjan even as her small mouth worked
the nipple and drained the formula from her bottle. Marjan stroked her forehead, brushed the silky, chestnut hairs to the
side, and tried to imagine what she would look like in a few years, what kind of girl she would be. Had Marjan’s mother once
held her like this? Had she wondered what the future held in store for her daughter?
Maybe she had always known. Maybe that was why she’d reached for the opium.
Marjan’s pain was acute and angry. Steel wool grinding at the cavity in her chest. If she could have reached for something
to numb it, she would have.
It was the light of the phone that alerted her to the call. Marjan saw his name on the screen. He had texted her three times
already. He wanted to talk. This was his third call.
She answered the call but didn’t say a word.
“Hello? Marjan? Marjan, are you there?”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, there you are,” he said wistfully. Sweetly. “Marjan, oh, I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“What do you want?” she repeated, her voice flat.
“To talk to you. To hear your voice. Marjan, for so long you’ve been the first person I reach out to every day, in the morning,
when I get back from the restaurant . . . and to not speak at all now, that feels like cruelty. Doesn’t it feel that way to
you?”
“Cruelty?” Marjan echoed. Saboor was buoyed by this response.
“Yes, cruelty! I don’t want to let go of you,” he continued. Marjan closed her eyes, hating that she’d been hoping he would
say this, hoping she could continue to feel wanted, yearned for.
“But you did,” she said.
“I’m not ready to give up, Marjan. I think it may just take some time. My family will come around. And in the meantime, there’s
no reason we should deprive ourselves of conversations, of precious time together,” he said. “All the great love stories are
stories of patience and persistence, Marjan. Layla and Majnoon. Romeo and Juliet. Yusuf and Zulaikha. You’ve heard of them,
haven’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Meet me in the park tomorrow night, my love. Let’s discuss this in person. I’ll be waiting for you at seven. Until then,
sweet dreams.”
Marjan hung up the phone without responding to his invitation. His voice, deep and soothing, lingered in her ear, as it always did after they spoke. He was right. Every great love story required a struggle. She thought of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Was she being too hasty?
Marjan didn’t want to think about it anymore. She tapped on an app for videos and clicked on a song. The first one that came
up was a pop song; a young man in a white suit wearing sunglasses nodded his head as strobe lights pulsed around him. Marjan
thumbed through the videos and landed on something slower, a ballad.
My lips on your soft lips . . .
She could not stomach the lyrics.
Marjan flipped to a streaming news channel.
The Afghan National Army is recruiting women for a unique and newly created military position. Recruits must meet requirements but no experience is necessary. Training will be rigorous. The service to our country will be rewarding. Those interested
can contact—
Marjan turned the phone off. This could mean only that there was no end in sight to the fight for the country. She laid her
head down and closed her eyes. There had to be someplace between war and love, somewhere a woman scorned could close her eyes
and rest her head.
The next morning, Marjan rose for her duties. Now more than ever, she needed this salary. If she worked hard enough, she might
eventually be able to rent a place for herself and Hawa. She entered the Rasuli home and saw that the entertaining room was
again a mess of dirty teacups, glasses, and plates. There were empty cans of triple-caffeinated beverages, oversize lettering
on red aluminum. Before she could get started in the kitchen, Zargul handed her a list of groceries and a few bills and sent
her to the market. Marjan went from shop to shop, gathering the meat and vegetables, the bread and the specific brand of chips
that Zargul craved in the afternoon.
She returned to the house, arms heavy with bags, and unloaded the purchases onto the kitchen counter.
Marjan was to prepare rice and beef stew with potatoes.
She checked on Leeda first and, finding her asleep in Zargul’s arms, returned to the kitchen and started to chop two onions.
Tears sprang from her eyes, and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her dress.
As she chopped, she wondered if she should consider meeting Saboor in the park at seven. He had painted so vivid a picture
of their future together that she could see it too, like they’d watched it sitting side by side in a movie theater. Maybe
talking face-to-face would help her decide what to do.
Her eyes burning and her hands shaky, she decided to leave the onions and gather the used dishes from the room downstairs.
“Marjan!”
At the sound of Zargul’s shrill voice, Marjan’s arms jerked and two teacups fell from the tray she was carrying up the stairs.
She shouldn’t have been so easily startled, but she hadn’t gotten much sleep the last few days.
“Why did you do that?” Zargul demanded from the top of the stairs.
“Sorry, when you shouted—”
“I didn’t shout. I was calling your name only to ask if you’d heated up Leeda’s evening bottle,” Zargul replied, her hands
on her hips as if she were a threatened bird puffing its feathers.
“I’m sorry. The milk is on the counter,” Marjan replied. “I’ll get the broom.”
“The broom won’t get it all. You’ve just created more work,” Zargul made sure to mutter loud enough for Marjan to hear her.
Marjan stepped gingerly around the shards of glass, careful not to let the two surviving cups roll off the tray as well. She
was grateful to make it to the kitchen without slicing her foot open. With the broom and dustpan in hand, she returned to
the scene of her crime and began to sweep up the debris. Because she’d been so close to the top, there was glass on almost
every step. When she’d swept everything up, she returned with a wet rag to pick up the glass dust left behind. If Zargul felt
so much as a grain of sand under her foot, she would hear about it.
Agha Rasuli walked through the door to find her crouched at the bottom step. She stood quickly and straightened her headscarf.
“Salaam, good evening. Let me get out of your way,” she said, certain Zargul was waiting upstairs to report the broken cups
to him. Because he’d hired Marjan, every one of her mistakes was weaponized by his wife. Sometimes there was so much friction
between the couple; it was a wonder the house hadn’t yet caught fire.
Marjan realized Agha Rasuli wasn’t stepping past her to go up the stairs, nor had he said anything yet.
“I didn’t expect something like this from you,” Agha Rasuli said. “But clearly I should have.”
Of course, she thought. Zargul must have texted him already.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful next time,” she said.
“Next time? Who else do you have your eyes on?” he asked, stunned by her response.
Marjan’s insides knotted up.
“I should have worried about having guests over in your presence. How did you even . . . You must have gone to great lengths
to get his attention!”
Please, no. Saboor wouldn’t have told Agha Rasuli about their relationship, would he?
“How long was this going on? Not that it even matters. Were you trying to turn my house into some kind of . . . some kind
of . . . brothel? How many of my guests did you entertain?”
Marjan struggled to breathe.
“Agha Rasuli, please. I’ve done nothing of the sort. I would never,” she swore, her voice quavering.
“I felt pity for you. That nurse made it seem like you were some noble person, practically a hero or something. What noble
woman throws herself at strange men?”
“I swear to God I did not—”
“And with my wife and infant daughter in this home! Are you trying to ruin all our names?”
Agha Rasuli’s accusations grew loud enough to summon Zargul.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded. “I’ve just gotten Leeda to sleep and we’ve had enough chaos here today.”
“What chaos?” Agha Rasuli demanded.
“She broke teacups on the stairs. Careful where you step,” she said sharply. “What are you yelling about anyway?”
Marjan took short, deliberate breaths. She needed to speak clearly, and she needed them to believe her.
“After all we’ve done for her, it turns out this woman has been having relations with some of my guests. I’m trying to build
a business and she’s flirting and doing God knows what else to ruin our good name!”
“My God,” Zargul cried. Her hand flew to her mouth. “How did you find out?”
“Please. This is not true!” Marjan’s protest went unnoticed. Her fingers tingled with nervous energy.
“One of my friends asked me if I knew about Marjan and Saboor. Apparently, she’s been having some kind of affair with him.
Can you imagine that?”
Some kind of affair.
The lights flickered.
“It was not like that. He wanted to marry me and I had agreed to marry him. We were supposed to be married Friday.”