Sparks Like Stars Page 8

  When I returned to the sofa, I sat there, fixed as a cushion, until Nia came and sat on the coffee table, one leg crossed over the other.

  “I work at the American embassy,” she explained. “I must go there today, but I will come back very quickly. Do you understand?”

  Tilly popped her head out of the bedroom. She had on a pink bra and turquoise palazzo pants.

  “You’re not seriously thinking of leaving, are you?” she asked Nia, her hands on her hips.

  I tried to understand why Shair had left me with a woman from the American embassy. Was he using me for some sort of a plot?

  “I’ve got to, Mother,” Antonia replied. She slipped on a blazer and walked toward the door. She paused for a beat, looked down at my hand, and then turned to me. “The man who brought you here. Do you know his name?”

  I tucked my hand behind me and did not reply. I’d been wearing the ring with the stones tucked in my palm, but the glint of the band was hard to hide.

  Antonia smiled as if to tell me she wasn’t upset by all that I would not share with her. I could see she didn’t want to leave.

  “I will come back very soon. You will be fine here. My mother likes to talk,” Antonia said softly. “But you don’t have to—”

  “Go if you have to go,” Tilly said, charging across the room in her bra and pants to shoo Nia out the door. “I can almost guarantee we won’t burn the place down while you’re out.”

  Tilly put on a shirt and went to work in the kitchen. She cut orange slices into circles and triangles and arranged the shapes on a plate to create a face, complete with rinds for eyebrows and buckteeth made of two square crackers. I looked up at Tilly in confusion, which seemed to delight her. She shook her shoulders and twirled on her heels.

  She sat down beside me and sucked on an orange wedge. Then she placed one hand over her chest and repeated her name slowly and deliberately. I looked at her splayed fingers, her perfectly round nails, and the pale brown spots on the back of her hand.

  “Tilly,” she said one final time. “Like ‘silly,’ but with a ‘t.’”

  She might as well have handed me a wrench. What was I to do with this name? Never in my life had I addressed an elder by her first name. My parents would have been mortified.

  Music blared in the street. I looked at the window. In the daylight, the curtain did little to hide the unbroken sky. The air carried the faint scent of charred wood and gunpowder. I wondered if Tilly smelled it too, or if the red smoke I’d breathed in that night would stay with me forever.

  I hadn’t seen a single familiar face since the night of the attack. I decided to make a list of all the people I knew. The soldier had said I had no family left. But even if that were true, there were other people. I had teachers and neighbors. There was the seamstress who took in my mother’s dresses. If I could get to one of them—

  That’s where I hit a wall. Tahera had looked at me as if I were a live grenade. What if Shair was right and I was a danger to others too?

  I rested my throbbing head on a pillow.

  I must have fallen asleep because when I woke, the room was silent and Tilly was gone. An empty teacup sat on the coffee table. The thought of being alone in this apartment brought me no comfort. I stepped quietly, slowly, to peer into the bedroom. A yellow quilt covered the bed. There was a single photograph on the dresser, a black-and-white of Antonia, standing in the backseat of an open jeep with her arms folded across her chest and her head tilted back in laughter. The jeep was surrounded by untamed shrubs and a few trees. Antonia wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking at the two men to the right of her, men with dark skin and loudly patterned shawls covering their torsos. One held a large water jug over his shoulder, and both looked quite pleased to be having their picture taken. There was a second photograph of Antonia shaking hands with a man in a suit. They stood in front of a simple palace with tall columns and an American flag flying from the center of its roof.

  I walked down the narrow hallway. The bathroom was empty. Two meters away, I saw a set of steps. I tiptoed toward them and saw that the stairs led up to a half-open door through which sunlight fell.

  I followed the light, hungry for fresh air and the sun’s warmth on my face. I pushed the door open and saw Tilly sitting on a vinyl folding chair. She had her back to the door and her feet propped up on a stack of books and magazines. She’d pulled up her wide pant legs and was sunning the crepelike skin of her thighs. A plume of white smoke drifted upward from her head.

  I walked toward her and saw that she held a stumpy cigarette between two fingers of her right hand. She greeted me with a languid smile.

  “Isn’t this an amazing sky,” she said, stretching her arms out as if to embrace the air around her. Tilly’s silver hair and pale green eyes reminded me of a watercolor painting. She touched the tip of her cigarette to the arm of the chair to extinguish it. She held out a plate with wafers.

  I took one and sat cross-legged on the concrete of the roof to keep out of view.

  Tilly closed her eyes, drinking in the sun’s glow. From the shops below, I heard the tinkling of door chimes and echoes of bargaining. For two weeks, I’d not walked farther than the length of a room. My legs felt unsure of themselves, weak. I stretched them out in front of me.

  I thought Tilly had fallen asleep, so when she spoke, her voice startled me and caused me to sit up straight.

  “You were limping,” she said. “What happened to your foot?”

  I tried to hide my foot from her. She shook her head, disappointed.

  Tahera’s stitches had pulled the edges of my wound together so tightly that the flesh had formed a lumpy ridge. I tried not to walk in the presence of Tilly or Nia, not wanting to draw attention.

  “Maybe not today,” she said, turning to me. “But it will get better. And I’m not just talking about your foot. A foot is just a foot after all. I don’t know what happened to you, but I can see it was beastly, whatever it was. It will get better.”

  She settled back into her chair and gazed at the cloudless sky.

  “What does an old woman know—that’s probably what you’re thinking. I know this old woman isn’t always right. I was never known for making sensible decisions. You can ask Nia and she’ll be the first to agree. But I also know that children are very, very good at taking life’s lemons and making lemonade. I left Nia with plenty of lemons,” Tilly said wistfully. She pumped her small fist in the air. “And just look at her now!”

  I didn’t understand what lemons had to do with anything, but I did understand she was telling me to trust her daughter. I wasn’t ready to do that because her daughter worked for a government and at the moment anything connected to governments made my palms sweat.

  “I haven’t been here long. I flew in just a few weeks ago. Antonia was so surprised to see me, maybe even more surprised than we were to see you,” she exclaimed. “But I missed her. She’s a good person with a great big heart. And the way she knows how to work with all kinds of people—oh—it’s . . . it’s alchemy! She didn’t get that from me, though I did give her a love for the stage and stories. Her father, he was the one who really paid attention to her. He worked for a newspaper. Started reading articles to her before she could walk. Brilliant man though he was . . . well, it’s not right to speak ill of the dead. But he was a bit . . .”

  Tilly folded her arms and made a serious face. It took a great effort to follow her words, and even then I was sure there was much I was missing. Still, it was a welcome distraction.

  “My point is that she’ll do anything she can to help you—to make sure she figures out the problem and gets you to exactly where you need to be. Do you believe in kismet?”

  At first, I didn’t recognize the word.

  “Kismet. Fate. Destiny written in the sand,” she said, twirling a finger in the air. “What will be will be. Have you heard of Marlene Dietrich? I’m sure you haven’t. You’re far too young.”

  Qismat. I understood then, though I
had no idea what or who she was talking about.

  Tilly rose to her feet so effortlessly that she might have been pulled up by an imaginary thread. She began to strut across the roof of the building, leading with one pointed toe and humming a rising and falling melody. She danced her fingers around her calves then up the length of her leg in a movement so sultry, I almost looked away. She circled the small rooftop as a seductive dancer would, rolling her hips with each step and holding the edge of an invisible veil to her face.

  “Aren’t I lovely?” she said, batting her eyes and tracing her torso. She turned her head to the side and pulled her shoulders back, aiming her breasts at the sun. She placed one hand on her lower back and the other behind her tilted head. She slid her left foot so far in front of her right foot that I feared she would fall to the ground.

  I’d never seen an adult behave in such a way.

  “You smiled!” she said accusingly, playfully. “The lady of the moonlight has done her job then.”

  She slinked, catlike, back to her chair and collapsed with a heavy breath before turning to face me. There was a resolve in her expression, a faith that looked big enough to hold the both of us.

  “If you ever feel like talking, you should know I’m very good at listening. I know it doesn’t seem like I would be, but I am,” Tilly said, her voice bright with mischief. I couldn’t follow what she said after that. Like her dancing, her talking spun her in different directions and consumed much energy. She let out a long sigh, leaned over to me, and concluded with: “Pardon my French.”

  If she’d been speaking French, I hadn’t realized. I let my hair fall forward to hide the unbidden tears that streaked my cheeks. I hadn’t meant to smile. I prayed God would forgive me for that moment of lightness. I prayed my family would forgive me. I was so angry at myself.

  And yet, I wanted Tilly to keep talking because Tilly drowned out the perilous thoughts in my head.

  I had spent the last two weeks struggling to metabolize the hard truth that my sister Aryana and I had traded places. While I was alone for the first time in my life, she was no longer a solitary twinkle in the night sky.

  Kismet. Qismat. My story, written in the sand.

  Tilly traced the rim of her glass with a finger. Her eyes weren’t just green. They were all the colors of an old world, unburied, with flecks of gold and copper. She looked impervious, as if she’d never had a bad day in her life. She moved as if she didn’t know her age.

  Though Antonia and Tilly were nothing alike, these two women did something I’d not seen strangers do before. When most adults looked at the world, children blurred and fell away. But Tilly and Nia looked at me as if the rest of the world had fallen away and I was the only person left standing.

  Sometimes it’s when people are silent that you hear them most clearly, Boba had told me.

  In the silences, Antonia had made me a bed and given me space to breathe. And as I sat beside Tilly, she looked over at me with misty eyes that crinkled in the corners.

  I squeezed my eyes shut tight and tried to picture Boba’s face.

  If I was going to survive this qismat alone, I needed to trust someone, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to trust Antonia.

  I twirled the stolen ring on my finger and traced the chiseled faces of the gemstones. The kingdom of Ai-Khanoum, Lady Moon, had been buried twice—once where it had been erected and a second time in the basement of Arg.

  The ring had become a talisman for me, a key to my survival. Against the scarred pink of my palm, the red of the garnet deepened. It was the color of the carpet upon which I’d read stories, the color of my father’s wool sweater, the color of pooled blood. The turquoise body was smooth as the inside of my mother’s wrist. It was the color of heaven-bound minarets with veins the color of shattered evil eyes.

  I had the ancient world wrapped around my finger even as the modern world I lived in curled its cruel fingers tighter around my throat.

  Chapter 12

  Two days later, I emerged from the bathroom, my face still damp. I’d been hot since morning and tried splashing water on my face to cool down. I found Antonia sitting at the small dining table in the corner of the living room, with her ear pressed to the radio. She had the volume so low that I’d not heard it until I opened the door. As soon as she saw me, Antonia shut the radio off.

  “What do they say?” I asked, wishing I could open the window for some air. Antonia paused before turning around. The day before I’d said a few simple phrases. Good morning. No thank you. She did not press for more, which I appreciated.

  “There’s too much static. More noise than talking,” Antonia said, shaking her head. She’d come home for lunch and, presumably, to check on me. “And most of it can’t be trusted anyway. All is quiet today, it seems.”

  She stood and began to pack her bag to return to the embassy. Once she left, I hopped over to the radio and turned it back on. Tilly looked like she might stop me, but then slid onto the sofa instead to observe. I adjusted the dial until the announcer’s voice came through clearly.

  His tone was solemn, authoritative. The People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan, as the official ruling party, would continue to work on behalf of the people to improve infrastructure, resist imperialism, and bring prosperity to all Afghans. Qualified individuals had been appointed to key ministry positions. The party was unified and strong and fully supported by the people of Kabul. The nation’s future never looked as bright as it did in this moment. I could neither stomach listening to it nor bring myself to turn it off.

  The sound reminded me of home and the way my father always had his ear to the ground. He knew most of the announcers personally and would sometimes call them if he thought they hadn’t covered all sides of an issue. These were rarely short conversations. My father had taught me to recognize and see through propaganda, to be suspicious of every statement that did not allow room for debate or question.

  Your Khala Meena is a good example of propaganda. She swears no woman or man in Kabul has ever cooked a better fried eggplant or sautéed squash. And when she says her cooking puts that of your other aunts to shame, what do I always tell her?

  I need to taste it to believe it, I had said. Truly, Khala Meena had not a flicker of humility in the kitchen. She would look pointedly at her guests as they ate, collecting praise as if it were a dinner tax.

  Let people serve you information, he had said mischievously, but never let them serve you your opinion.

  I listened to the radio for another hour but heard no mention of the coup or those who had been killed. The empty talk made my head ache and must have put me to sleep because I woke to hear Antonia’s sharp whispering in the next room.

  “The news, Mom? I said this morning it wasn’t good for her to listen to it.”

  “I’m not a jailer, Nia. I believe in freedom of speech,” Tilly said defensively.

  “This isn’t about freedom of speech,” Antonia replied.

  “I beg your pardon. Freedom to hear speech,” Tilly retorted.

  They entered the living room, which seemed to shrink when they were both in it. This mother and daughter couldn’t even move around the apartment without bumping into each other. My eyelids were heavy and thoughts slow. I’d not slept much the last two nights, and what had started as an itch on my foot had turned into a dull throbbing.

  Tilly noticed me fidgeting and sat beside me on the sofa.

  “Her foot doesn’t look good,” Tilly said, inspecting my wound with her hands clasped behind her back.

  That morning I’d seen yellow pus oozing from the wound. The skin around it had grown hot and tender. Nia came to look for herself and immediately sat down.

  “Damn,” Nia sighed. “It’s infected. She needs antibiotics.”

  “Can’t you take her to a hospital?”

  “No,” I said, my head filled with Shair’s warnings that nowhere in Kabul was safe for me anymore. “No hospital!”

  Antonia chewed her lip.

  �
�Come on, honey. You know all the important people in town. The minister of this and the new head of that. You must know a doctor who can see her,” Tilly coaxed.

  I looked up, alarmed.

  Which important people in town did Antonia know? And why was she meeting with the new regime? Even Afghan schoolchildren knew foreign spies wandered among us, passing themselves off as businessmen or teachers in order to gather information for their colonizing governments. I had a terrible thought then. What if Nia was a spy? What if they were both spies?

  What did they want from me? My heart pounded. I rose, wincing as my right foot touched the ground, and considered running down the steps and asking for help from the bakery owner downstairs. I could slip out the door right now and head into the street, or I could make a run for the rooftop. Neither seemed like a viable path to safety. Feeling defenseless, I hopped and slid to the kitchen and slowly opened drawer after drawer until I found a paring knife. I spun around to see Antonia staring at me.

  “Sweetheart, what are you doing with that knife?” she asked.

  What was I doing with the knife?

  I started to set the knife down but stopped when I saw her eyes dart over to the opposite counter. Was she looking for a bigger knife? Had I been duped by them?

  “Please, sit down. Let’s talk,” Antonia said.

  “What are you two—” Tilly said, appearing in the doorway of the kitchen. She froze when she saw the blade in my hand. “Oh, holy hell. Put the knife down unless you’re planning on attacking an orange.”

  “Why you take me?” I asked. “Are you jasoos?”

  “Jasoos? What’s jasoos? Nia, does she think you’re Jesus?” she asked her daughter. Then she turned to me, exasperated. “She’s not Jesus! She can’t even step into a church without breaking out in hives.”

  “Listen to me. No, I am not jasoos,” Antonia swore, her palms up. “I work at the American embassy. I’m here representing America as a diplomat. I help to build . . . teach English. I took you in because that man said you were not safe in Kabul. I brought you here to keep you safe.”