On Fragile Waves
Dedication
Part 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part 2
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Afterword
Bibliography
Acknowledgments 1
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
About-the-author
Copyright
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Guide
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
For those who have lost
PART
ONE
Chapter One
Once there was } a daughter
Once there wasn’t
tak
daz daz daz daz daz
grumb bamp
shrak born during
tak
damb tas tas tas tas tas
war
when time is no time at all and everything must be said in the breath between
mortar ──────────────── fire
We will call her Firuzeh her father said
slapping her back until she purpled and wailed
because she will either be a rock or victorious
and besides, a name is cheaper than a sword
Her first word was gola
I ask you, what is the difference between war and
not-war when there is no music
Two years later came Nour
slick and shiny
in a long unsatisfied scream
and everyone was hungrier.
When Firuzeh was six, fire fell again from the sky
ghrumbghrumbghrumb
A city of smoke pitched its tents over Kabul. A long loud time. Amrika on every lip.
Then Abay turned on the radio
and on the fragile waves they heard
a dambura strumming a milk-and-sugar song.
It’s over, thank God, said Atay, and went to work.
Listen said Abay bring me your clothes to pack and I will tell you the story of Rostam and Rakhsh.
At least sit still, Nour, and don’t tear down the laundry
At least sit
Nour—please—
Rostam was rash and brave like you, light of my eyes, and when the time came to find him a steed, every horse buckled under his warrior’s weight.
So they ran the best horses of Kabul past him, the swiftest and most beautiful, and just like your Atay feels the engine of a Corolla throbbing through the hood and knows how well it runs, you could feel the proud heartbeat of these horses.
God knows stabling horses wasn’t a dangerous job then;
no one threatened the Kabuli stable keepers who paraded their horses for this prince.
We should have stayed servants—but your father is proud.
Anyhow—
Rostam cut from the herd a beautiful colt spotted like rose petals on saffron,
like the silk flowers from Chicken Street on a wedding taxi.
He tossed his lasso around its neck and asked the price of the horse.
If you are Rostam, said the herdsman, its price is nothing less than this country—go forth and defend it.
So Rostam and Rakhsh traveled forth seeking adventure
as we are all about to do
and Rakhsh kept Rostam safe, as your Atay and I will keep you safe.
Rakhsh guarded Rostam while he slept. First he killed a lion that crept up in the night. In the morning Rostam discovered shreds of lion in his horse’s teeth and on his horse’s hooves.
Then Rakhsh kicked Rostam awake when a dragon approached.
Once.
Twice.
Both times Rostam saw nothing. He threatened to kill the useless son of a donkey if he was woken up again.
The third time, Rostam saw the dragon and slew it, and praised Rakhsh—how he praised him, light of my eyes.
Deeply did Rostam love Rakhsh, as much as a mother loves her son.
They rode together for many years and countless farsang, until treachery—
but that is another story.
We will ride a bus to Jalalabad tonight, just as Rostam rode Rakhsh to challenge the White Div. In Jalalabad we will change buses the way Persian warriors changed horses and ride to Pakistan. It will be like a story.
I need you to be good
I need you to be quiet
I need you to not pull Firuzeh’s hair, Nour
I pass our Quran over you, so you are blessed. Kiss it. Now you. No, it will stay here, to protect our home while we are gone.
Put on your shoes.
Chapter Three
The ripped vinyl of the seat caught Firuzeh’s skirt as she shifted to peek out of the minibus window. Nour’s elbow dug into her side.
Atay, are we in Pakistan yet?
Not yet, Nour.
How much longer?
A little while.
You said that when we were on the bus.
It’s still true. Don’t kick.
You liked the plush German bus, didn’t you? And the trucks that bumped up and down but had beautiful eyes on their back gates and flowers and lions on their sides?
Yes, Abay.
I didn’t. They hurt my bum. Firuzeh has more bum, that’s why hers doesn’t hurt.
I liked the sheep on the truck. It was soft.
This one’s too crowded. Everyone smells.
You smell, Nour.
Just a little longer, Nour jan. A few more minutes and we’ll be at the border.
Will there be police, Atay?
Enough. I need to remember four hundred things today. Ask your mother.
Will the police stop us, Abay?
What a question.
Are we going to get in trouble?
Do you want to know something? For a few afghanis you can cross the border into Pakistan unhindered. That is how day workers flow in and out with a little more money in their pockets. The tide of adventurers—that’s what we are—flows in and does not return. It is not dangerous at all, Firuzeh, not like what Bibinegar had to do.
What did Bibinegar have to do?
She had to win back her husband Khastehkhomar from a demoness and stay alive.
And did she?
If you’re going to tell stories in front of everyone—Atay rubbed his eyes—at least do it properly. From the beginning. The snake.
All right. One day among days a woodcutter found a snake in his bundle, thick as your Atay’s arm. He almost died of fear right there, but the snake said, I will not harm you if you marry me to your daughter. Bibinegar was a brave girl and agreed. On their wedding night, when the guests were gone, the snake flung off his skin and became a beautiful young man, Khastehkhomar. And they lived very happily together.
But the women had to gossip and say idle, foolish things. Atay sighed. Isn’t that always so?
Abay said: If Firuzeh married a snake who was also a man, wouldn’t you try to make him less snake and more man?
If that snake tried his nonsense with my daughter, I’d have beaten him to death.
Or taken her and fled the country.
Abay, is that why we had to leave?
Listen to the story, Nour.
Firuzeh eats too much and won’t let me win at walnuts—who’d want her?
Why not ask him how to destroy his skin, Bibinegar’s mother said. To make him stay. So Bibinegar asked Khastehkhomar, and he said, if you must know, you can burn it in a fire of onion skins and garlic peels. But if you do that, I will leave you forever. And Bibinegar told her mother all this.
That old woman probably wept, wrung her hands, tore her hair, said shame! and all those things that mothers-in-law do. Of course that silly girl bent under all that pressure. Of course the skin was burned.
Did you want to tell this story, husband?
Please, go on.
Khastehkhomar smelled the smoke from afar and knew what had happened. He came to his wife and said, so you’ve done it. Now I must leave you. She wept and said, Is there no other way? And Khastehkhomar said, Only if you walk until you wear out seven pairs of iron shoes to reach Mount Qaf, where my relatives the peris live, which is where I am going. So Bibinegar—
Enough. They’re asleep.
No . . . I’m—not . . .
You say this man is trustworthy?
As trustworthy as any of them. He’s gotten six men to Australia.
Where’s Australia?
I don’t know. But it’s safe, he said. The children will go to good schools. No one will attack me in the street, or leave threatening letters, or insult you.
The right question to ask a smuggler like that, one of the other passengers interjected, is—how many men did he fail to get to Australia?
I did not ask him that.
Then God help you.
You speak from experience?
I had a Herati cousin headed to Germany through Iran. Haven’t heard from him in months. They found some boys dead in a cargo container, but he wasn’t among them. The smuggler has left Herat, for who-knows-where. And you, you have a wife and children—
Quiet, please. Don’t wake them. They don’t need to be frightened.
How else do children learn?
Firuzeh cracked her eyes open. In front of her, wedged among tightly corded bundles, a chukar swayed in
its wire cage, staring, its black pupil ringed in brown then red. Destined for battle. To claw and draw blood and finally be eaten. Now and then a jolt of the minibus knocked a querulous note from its throat.
And she, and she—
Was Rostam on his speckled steed, riding into unknown lands.
Was Bibinegar in iron shoes, gone to Mount Qaf, where wonders were.
Was as disobedient as snake-shouldered Zahhak when she pinched her brother and made him wail, or so Abay often said.
Goodbye to Homaira, goodbye to Sheringol, goodbye to the dry, sweet smell of the classroom where she learned her lessons, where the harried teacher always called on someone else, never mind that Firuzeh leaned almost on tiptoe from her desk, vibrating with answers.
Goodbye to home and the creaking, clanging front gate, and the steaming vats of breakfast pulses by the road, and the men sitting in wheelbarrows, waiting for work.
Goodbye to the mountains sharp with snow.
Atay gestured toward a stranger. Agha, do you know how much longer . . .
Only an hour or so to the border. Where are you going?
Peshawar.
Where in Peshawar?
I don’t know. I have a name, a phone number—
Fool, the stranger said amiably. A name and a phone number, a name and a phone number, all the way to Australia—is that how you’ll go? God protect you.
Abay said: My husband is no fool.
A long, sad look. Then the stranger proffered a pocketful of dried mulberries. For the children, he said, and turned to face the front, and from then until Peshawar he did not speak again.
Chapter Four
Firuzeh was sleepy and stumbling when they reached the compound in Peshawar. A door opened; lamplight flared. A paper cutout of a man, smelling of garlic and cigarettes, rippled out to greet them.
A pleasure to meet you, a pleasure. I am Abdullah Khan. What are you waiting for? he said to the driver of the dingy car they had come in.
You said two thousand rupees.
Come back for it tomorrow.
But—
Am I not good for my word?
The driver retreated. Abdullah Khan threw his arm around Atay’s shoulders. Come in, welcome.
Up the stairs. Three narrow beds in a dark and musty room. On the windowsill, a brown stick clawed upward from its pot.
You’ll wait here, Abdullah Khan said. Until we have your documents and tickets ready.
How long? Abay said, her eyes measuring the room.
We don’t know. But don’t worry, we’ll take care of it. He applied a lighter to a cigarette. The rent is modest, one hundred fifty rupees a night.
But we already paid twenty thousand dollars in Kabul—
Hearing a mouse’s noise, Firuzeh popped her head out the door. Down the dim hall, a plump-cheeked girl peered out of another doorway.