“And do you girls think he will be successful in this bold mission?” my father asked.
Neelab shook her head.
“Faheem told him to give up,” she said. “Everyone knows the pigeons who call Arg home cannot be trained.”
“Wise observation, Neelab-jan. Now, I can’t imagine you two came here to discuss the temperament of pigeons.”
Since my father respected straight talk, I placed both my hands on his desk and looked him in the eye.
“Boba, we want to see the treasures from Ai-Khanoum! You all kept the party off-limits to us, and now they’re going to be shipped off to the museum.”
“I see,” Boba said. He set his pen down gingerly and moved a glossy magazine aside so he could rest his elbows on the desk. “First of all, what do you girls know about Ai-Khanoum?”
“It was an old city in the north of Afghanistan when it was a kingdom of Greeks and Afghans, nestled at the crossing of two rivers,” Neelab recited dutifully.
“And King Zahir Shah stumbled upon it during a hunting trip,” I added.
“I was getting to that,” Neelab insisted, shooting me a look. She derived just as much pleasure from impressing my father as I did. I pressed my lips together and nodded, a silent apology.
Boba reached into his vest pocket and extracted his silver pocket watch with the image of a horse’s head on the case. The watch was a gift from my mother, one she had hoped would inspire him to come home from his work at a reasonable hour. He pursed his lips and rapped his fingers on his desk.
“Let’s go,” Boba said, rising from his chair. “You two have just as much right as anyone else to see what’s left of the great kingdom.”
We followed my father down the narrow stairs that led to the kitchen. We walked past the cook and his two assistants. The sweet smell of chopped cilantro mixed with the sting of diced onions. One of the assistants wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve, then brought his knife back to the marble cutting board. My father greeted them all by name. They paused in their work and issued cheerful replies, the chef putting a hand over his heart in a show of respect.
“Through here, girls.”
On the opposite side of the kitchen was a narrow hallway that ended with a door. My father opened the door and pulled at a chain that hung from the ceiling. I hesitated. We had ventured all over the palace and its gardens, even entering areas forbidden to others when soldiers had their backs turned. But intrepid as we were, we had never been below the palace. It was uncomfortably dark and had far too many hidden corners.
“The basement lighting isn’t great, so watch your step.” He looked over his shoulder at me and touched my head. If he sensed my nervousness, he did not acknowledge it. I glanced back at Neelab, whose hand gripped the banister as she strained to see ahead.
“You go first,” she whispered awkwardly. “Since it was your idea.”
Neelab was a year older than me, but she was not nearly as bold. Sensing a chance to outdo her, I pulled my shoulders back and followed Boba.
We couldn’t see much under the weak light of a single bulb. We descended the plank steps slowly. Each footfall elicited a creak of protest. At the bottom of the stairs, the expansive basement was cordoned off into sections with heavy braided ropes and folding dividers. To the left were stacks of cardboard boxes. A few feet away, enormous aluminum cooking pots and frying pans were haphazardly arranged on a metal rack. I spotted two old Russian radios on an end table. To my right, stacks of framed paintings leaned against the wall, along with mirrors and a few rolled-up carpets. I stayed close to my father and kept an eye on the lopsided boxes, which seemed ready to shape-shift in the thin light.
Behind the stacks of kitchen supplies and a divider painted in green and gold, Boba led us toward a narrow alcove. I could almost touch both sides of it with my outstretched arms. Another rolled carpet, thick as a tree trunk, was propped against the far corner of the space, and a stack of wooden crates sat opposite it.
“I know you won’t run off talking about this, but I still want you both to promise to be discreet about what you’re going to see. Look away, girls.”
My father must have felt my stare over his shoulder, but he said nothing. I couldn’t look away without knowing what I was looking away from. I watched as Boba pressed his hand against the wall until his fingers caught on a small latch. He turned the latch clockwise, and we heard a soft click. With a pull, the lower part of the wall suddenly became a door. Inside was a hollow space and a second door with a metal handle and three dials with numbers from 1 to 99. The dials were inches apart from one another and arranged in a triangular configuration. Boba turned the dial to the left first, slowly adjusting the knob until the notch above it pointed to 63. Then he set the top dial to 27. Once he’d spun the bottom dial to a number hidden behind his jacket sleeve, he pulled the handle downward. Between the sheets of metal, the teeth of the cams clicked into alignment and released the hasp.
Neelab and I both jumped at the heavy footsteps overhead.
“You weren’t scared of the kitchen staff a moment ago. No need to be scared of them now,” Boba chided without looking up.
With a quiet pop, the door opened, and Neelab and I peered into the dark interior of the enormous safe. It was almost as tall as me. My father stepped into it with his back hunched and retrieved the same crate we’d seen at the party. Neelab grabbed my hand, an electric thrill passing through our intertwined fingers as Boba lifted the top off the crate and pulled out the first velvet-lined box.
One by one, he showed us pieces we’d not been able to see the night before. His penlight illuminated a plaster medallion, an intaglio, and a collection of bronze coins. He let us bring our faces close enough to them that I saw grains of sand on their surfaces and could trace the curves made by third-century carving tools.
“The archaeologists found the remains of a royal palace in Ai-Khanoum, a building with tall columns, storerooms, a library, pools, and fountains. It was home to architects and doctors, tradesmen and politicians. Think of how long ago this was and how much those people had managed to build.”
I recognized the box that held the ring well before my father opened the clasp. This was the only piece we’d glimpsed last night. Neelab let out a dainty ooh. My best friend was the kind of daughter mothers wanted, one who would wear prim dresses and pearls. She could sit for hours without making a peep and didn’t go home with muddy knees, as I did.
While Neelab was mesmerized by the gold and the stones, I was stunned by the ring’s ability to outlive anyone who had worn it.
“This piece is exquisite,” Boba admired. The turquoise shone richly against the lustrous gold. “Just imagine that two thousand years ago, a craftsman made this ring by hand with nothing more than a hammer and a flame. The design comes from Greece, but the gold and turquoise are Afghan. Such intricate settings. As if the craftsman knew his work would become evidence of a lost civilization.”
“Maybe he did know,” I suggested.
“It’s unlikely. People cannot imagine their civilization will not endure forever. Pride is blinding.”
“Why will this all be put into the museum? Why not display it here in the palace?” Neelab asked.
“Because it’s part of Afghanistan’s history and history belongs to the people.”