Sparks Like Stars Page 4

  Boba shut the safe and gave each of the three dials one quick spin. He sealed off the compartment again, and we retraced our steps back up the stairs, floorboards again creaking and groaning. Once we were in the kitchen, my father kissed the top of my head and touched Neelab’s chin.

  “Sahib!” a soldier called out from the doorway. He pulled his feet together and drew his shoulders back.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “The president is asking for you. Urgently, sir.”

  My father nodded.

  “History lesson is over for now, girls,” Boba said with a wan smile. His eyes looked heavy with shadows, even in the bright light of the kitchen. There were lines etched into his forehead and a heaviness in his step. It occurred to me that I’d not seen my father sleep in days. “Promise you’ll stay out of trouble.”

  We nodded obediently and drifted into the gardens to look for our brothers. The high walls of the palace gave the illusion of privacy, even when there were probably a hundred people spread over the eighty-three acres of grounds and buildings. As we walked, I let my fanned fingers graze over the shrubs and took in the bright scent of the orange trees. One rosebush had gone into early bloom, and Neelab, an amateur botanist, wanted to touch the velvety petals.

  Uniformed soldiers were posted beneath an arched portico of Dilkhusha, my favorite building in all of the palace. The soaring wooden doors creaked open, and President Daoud Khan emerged. With their faces partially hidden by olive-colored caps and their pant legs tucked into thick-soled boots, the soldiers stood at attention. The president, flanked by three advisers, walked with his hands clasped behind him and his body angled forward, as if a strong wind blew at his back. He walked a few meters away from the palace before turning on his heel and pacing in the opposite direction.

  Neelab and I crouched down. Shrouded from view by the dense rosebushes, we watched and listened.

  “Sir, give the word and I’ll order the soldiers to round up the prisoners and do away with them tonight.”

  Neelab’s face went slack, her eyes fixed on her grandfather. I held her elbow because she looked like she might topple over.

  “So another crop of white flags will grow out of the earth?” a second adviser barked. “Creating martyrs out of dissidents is like taking a blade to an itch.”

  My father emerged from a side door and joined the conversation that had clearly been going on for days.

  “Respectfully, we are in the very quandary I predicted when the construction of the prison began. We build large schools in hopes they will fill with children. We build grand masjids in hopes they will fill with believers. We built Pol-e-charkhi, a prison large enough to fit thousands of people. Did we really intend for those cells to sit vacant?”

  “We don’t have time for philosophy,” one adviser retorted. “What’s to be done? Moscow says if we allow them to increase and gather, those fingers become a fist.”

  The president stopped abruptly, clapping his hands against the sides of his legs. Neelab and I flinched at the sound.

  “No one kills a single prisoner without my word!” he declared.

  “Moscow will not be pleased if—”

  “We did not wrest free of the British to be ruled by Moscow,” my father insisted.

  “Enough!” Daoud Khan roared.

  The adviser lowered his head and relaxed his shoulders. I’d never seen the president’s jowls quiver with anger. By the expression on Neelab’s face, I doubted she had either.

  “He is right. Moscow has mistaken our hospitality and gratitude for weakness. I am not under their control. This nation is not under their control!” he grumbled. “The Politburo needs to take a step back or they will put us all in danger.”

  Neelab motioned for us to leave. As she turned, she let out a yelp. Two scarlet drops slid down her forearm from where a thorn had pierced her skin. Knowing the sight of blood made her light-headed, I quickly pressed the hem of my black shirt to her arm. When I lifted my shirt from her arm, the blood was gone.

  But Neelab did not look relieved. Instead, she looked betrayed by the soft blooms.

  “Come,” I said to distract her. “Let us find the boys.”

  We spotted our mothers at the fountain. Faheem was pitched over the circular concrete edge, his hand splashing in the bubbling water and a bare foot dangling in the air. I heard my brother’s corkscrew laughter, the giggles that rose and fell and drew more attention than the muezzin’s azaan at prayer time.

  The palace had been desperate for lightness lately. The walls seemed to be bending inward. Neelab stared at the fountain.

  “Sitara,” she started quietly. “Do you think the people of Ai-Khanoum escaped? Or do you think they were buried with all those treasures?”

  I’d known Neelab so long, it was as if our lives were plaited together. Sometimes I imagined she was God’s way of making amends for reclaiming my older sister before I could meet her. I could tell from the lilt of her voice that Neelab was terrified. We were fluent in the cutting conversations of politics, but what we’d just heard chilled us both.

  “It was a long time ago, Neelab. Maybe they went back to Greece or went searching for some other land,” I offered. She was not assuaged by my theory.

  “There must have been children in Ai-Khanoum,” Neelab said somberly.

  I found myself saying things I didn’t even believe because I wanted to rally her spirits.

  “I didn’t see any toys or small rings in the crate. I bet they were too busy carving stone into columns to think of having children.”

  Neelab looked skeptical.

  “Come,” I said brightly, pulling at her hand. “Let’s sneak up on our mothers. With all the wives and foreigners present last night, maybe we’ll catch a bit of juicy gossip.”

  We stepped forward in synchrony, as we always had, except that I dared to look back. The wooden doors were once again closed. The president, his advisers, and their tall shadows had all disappeared and the garden was once again serene.

  Faheem was crouched behind a wheelbarrow in a game of hide-and-seek, his flattened palms pressed over his eyes, his chestnut hair catching the afternoon sun. A note of glee escaped his parted lips.

  “Where is my little boy? Wherever might he be?” my mother sang out. But her voice was tinged with melancholy. Perhaps she was lamenting, as all parents do, the truth my brother had yet to learn—that closing his eyes would not make him invisible to those determined to find him.

  Chapter 5

  April 27, 1978

  After that day it was as if the palace was a purse and someone had pulled its strings. Arg became a dark and suffocating chamber. I overheard my parents debate whether it would be best for us to leave. But then a commander increased the number of armored tanks stationed outside the palace’s high walls and the bolstered security reassured Boba.

  President Daoud’s family had been sequestered in the sunroom of Dilkhusha. When I heard someone call Rostam’s name across the lawn, I wondered if my friends had tried to slip away and pay me a visit. Hours later, there was still no sign of them. I huffed to think I had to wait for the storm to pass before I could rejoin Neelab and Rostam.

  My mother gave me little room to wander, ordering me to stay close by. I felt like a prisoner in a place that had always been my playground. We were still across from the presidential library, so I could at least find an escape on those rich shelves.

  My mother kept mainly to the bedroom with my brother. Faheem had been complaining of a stomachache since the night before. She’d been spooning warm fennel tea into his mouth while he tried to bury his face in his chest. I was seven years old when he was born. I remember curling myself around Madar’s growing belly and feeling my brother’s sharp kicks. Excited as I was to meet this new sibling, I also worried that he might siphon off all my parents’ attentions.

  But once he was born, I was so smitten by his tiny fingers and powdery smell that I didn’t resent him one bit. And Madar’s lap somehow had room fo
r both of us, the curious anatomy of a mother’s love.

  I would press my head to her chest and hear the rhythmic thumping of her heart, as if a clock sat caged in her chest. I listened for it anytime I lay next to her, pushing away gnawing thoughts of hearts subject to the limits of time.

  At noon, the hilltop cannon boomed as it always did. Though the morning had dragged, the hour had still snuck up on me. I was starting to feel hungry and wondered if I should help prepare something for Madar and Faheem. My father was tied up in discussions that didn’t seem to be going anywhere because he still hadn’t emerged with any good news.

  I peeked into the bedroom and saw that my mother had fallen asleep curled around Faheem. Not wanting to wake them, I walked softly toward the kitchen. I stopped when I heard the familiar voices of the kitchen staff speaking in panicked whispers.

  “You can’t be serious! Why would they do this?”

  “I just saw it with my own eyes. Those tanks outside have just turned their guns on the palace. We are under siege!”

  I walked into the kitchen.

  “Why would the tanks point their guns at us?” I asked. “And what do you mean we’re under siege?”

  The two men had their hands on the counter, their faces grim. They were unfazed that I’d overheard their conversation.

  “Find your mother, little girl,” one man said, barely looking at me. “Stay with her. This is not a time for play.”

  Startled by the edge in his voice, I left without asking for food. I wanted to report to my mother what I had just learned and gauge her reaction. I wanted even more to find my father. He would be able to fix whatever it was that had gone so terribly wrong. Though I couldn’t name it, I had a sense that something ominous was happening.

  I shook my mother’s shoulder. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, since she hadn’t gotten much the night before. But once I had unloaded the news on her, she blinked away the haze. She made me repeat what I’d said and promise that I had not misheard. She composed herself and reassured me, but I’d already seen the flash of panic on her face.

  “Everything will be fine. I must find your father,” she said, blinking rapidly.

  As if summoned, Boba appeared in the doorway. He was unshaven and sullen, his sleeves rolled up.

  “Sulaiman—” my mother said.

  My father squeezed my shoulder and walked across the room, sinking into the chair as if he were carrying his weight in stones.

  “The winds have changed direction,” he said.

  “Speak clearly,” my mother said, her voice trembling.

  I sat by Faheem, whose stomach seemed to have settled just as the rest of the palace was beginning to retch. I had my arms around him and my chin on his head when I heard what sounded like coins rattling in a giant tin can.

  “Get down!” my mother shrieked. In one swift move, she and my father grabbed us, covering our bodies with their own. We crouched on the floor, the four of us, paralyzed. Even Faheem seemed too stunned to cry. After a few moments, the gunfire ceased and we peeled away from one another. The room was untouched. We were unharmed, though I didn’t feel intact.

  My father stood and went into the hallway.

  “I see one of the guards,” he said, looking back at my mother. “Let me find out what’s happening.”

  “But, Sulaiman!”

  I saw hesitation in my father, and it made him almost unrecognizable. He cupped his hand around his forehead as if his thoughts might otherwise swirl out of his skull. He shook his head and knelt in front of us.

  “We will find a peaceful end to this situation. We must.”

  My mother groaned softly, for she knew what that meant. Any and all talks happened with my father’s mediation.

  Not long after Father left our room, I heard a horrific sound. The sky threatened to split as jets flew low over the palace, spraying artillery on the grounds. I couldn’t hear my own shrieks through the explosions. We stayed put, too nervous to move. My father returned to us, whispering to my mother that a faction of the army had indeed turned on the president.

  The conversations I’d overheard in the last two weeks echoed in my head. Grievances and doubts abounded, from the families of the political prisoners to the university students. Some thought President Daoud’s visit to the United States had turned him into a pawn of the Americans. Others demanded that he take an even stronger stand against Moscow. And away from the stoic first lady’s ears, women debated whether the president had too much pride to see the regime through the unrest.

  Boba had spoken sharply with President Daoud.

  You won’t fix this problem by culling dissidents, he had warned. The Americans hold our right hand, the Soviets our left. Mark my words, neither will let go of its grip even if they see us torn to shreds.

  Kaka Daoud, Boba, and the circle of advisers stayed locked in a wood-paneled conference room. The kitchen was deserted, though I doubt anyone had much of an appetite anyway. Day stretched into night. Boba lumbered back to our room at a late hour, his eyes bloodshot. He smelled of tea, alcohol, and cigarette smoke.

  “Boba, are they going to hurt us?” I asked, doing my best not to cry. I could not stop my chin from quivering.

  “No, no, my darling girl,” Boba replied, his voice a low rasp. “They are our own people. Just as quickly as they turned left, they can turn right. All will be fine.”

  My mother’s eyeliner smudged as she wiped away tears before they reached her cheeks. I caught her mouthing prayers, her knuckles blanched as she held my father’s hand. We remained knotted together in one small room. Terrified and exhausted, the dozens of people contained in the palace by mutinous soldiers drifted to sleep in tufted chairs, in four-poster beds, and with their backs up against embossed wallpaper.

  I looked for small signs that we were not facing the end of the world, holding on tight to my freshly spun theory that if the sun and moon kept their rituals, my world would remain intact.

  Perhaps it was a need to confirm the existence of the moon that woke me from my fitful slumber that night. It might have been my peculiar dream. I’d been back in the palace gardens watching my father play hide-and-seek with President Daoud, and Neelab was high-stepping into the fountain to toss Ai-Khanoum coins into the water.

  Whatever the cause, I woke abruptly. I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t keep my eyes closed. I was thirsty too.

  Faheem shifted next to me. I held my breath, not wanting to wake him. He made a short, tranquil hum before his breathing fell into a somnolent rhythm. I wanted to touch his face but when my fingers neared his cheek, the dark line of his eyelashes fluttered, and I pulled away.

  My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I could make out the shapes of the furniture. I sat up. My mother was asleep in the bed just a few feet away. My father sat upright in the chair, snoring softly with his glasses in his hand. To see him resting brought me relief.

  Boba often found me awake, reading, when I was meant to be asleep. Instead of becoming angry, he would tuck me in and sing a song by Ahmad Zahir, the wild-haired crooner enchanting the radio waves and house parties.

  While I slumber, you are open-eyed

  I am naïve but you are ever wise

  I lie in rest, and yet you travail

  Your glimmering love set to prevail.

  When the clouds in the sky break away

  Wink, my Star, and light the day

  Boba had an important job to do, my mother would explain as she knelt at our bedside, rubbing Faheem’s back and stroking my hair. She’d looked weary too, and maybe that was because her job was no less vital than his.

  Now my mother lay on her side, her hands tucked under her face. Her chest rose and fell like waves rippling across a lake. She looked beautiful even in her sleep—her perfectly straight nose, her round eyes, her hair in dark rivulets. The pendant she wore, the golden name of God, dangled in the hollow between her collarbones.

  I put both feet on the floor and tiptoed to the door.

&n
bsp; I stepped quietly into the hallway and came face to face with the French doors of the library. Moonlight fell through the window. I entered the room and walked over to the bookshelf to touch the spines of the president’s books, some linen, some glossy, until I pulled out The Book of Fixed Stars and turned to the page I had bookmarked. I walked with it to the window, trying to glean a story from the scattered stars.

  It was the month of Taurus, so I searched the sky for the mythical bull. But a noise on the lawn drew my attention to a cluster of uniformed soldiers. An army truck, its headlights dark, rolled into the long driveway that led to the main palace’s entrance. At the sound of footsteps in the hallway behind me, my stomach contracted. I pressed my back to the window and wondered who, besides me, was sleepless.

  As I listened, I heard more than one set of footsteps. They started and stopped in unison. I held my breath, wondering if I was foolish to be afraid. These could be soldiers who guarded the palace day in and day out. Surely, they could overpower the handful of bad apples who had turned against us.

  A series of sharp pops erupted, crackling through the night. I looked outside and saw soldiers dashing toward the palace. My palms were sweaty. Maybe the soldiers had come to tell the president of some breaking news. Surely, they would wake Boba too. If my parents woke to find me missing, they would worry. I took a couple of steps toward the library door.

  There was a sudden explosion of gunshots, shrieks and shouts, and slamming doors. More gunshots rang through the palace halls. I ducked behind the curtain, pressing my back to the window. My throat swelled with a trapped scream.

  I peeked out from behind the curtain. I had closed the door to our bedroom behind me and for a merciful split second, I was convinced that would be enough, that I had hidden my family from danger.

  But I hadn’t.

  The door to the bedroom flew open across the hall. I caught sight of my father—his shirt untucked and his glasses askew. I wanted to call his name, but I was frozen where I stood.