‘It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you … Behnaz.’
With such high praise her landlady’s face had lit up. It would take some time for Sofia to understand that Behnaz viewed life as a singularly unrewarding thick and murky soup one was forced to wade through. Laughing, being happy, making jokes were not part of the recipe. Behnaz’s smile was such a rare occurrence that Jabril had looked genuinely shocked.
‘I also want to thank you and your wife for organising all this for me, Dr Aziz.’
‘Jabril. You should call me Jabril.’
Sofia had been wondering what she should call her boss. She knew from the refugee that you normally referred to people by their title because a title opened doors and showed respect. People would be offended if you didn’t use their title.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, please. I lived in Boston long enough to find this normal.’
With the niceties finished they were down to the serious business of money. ‘Pay two thousand afghanis on Sunday and I clean. No men.’
‘I assure you, Behnaz, that Dr Sofia is not interested in bringing men here, although I believe you will not object to my presence from time to time as the need might arise?’
From the look on Behnaz’s face it looked like she might very well object to Dr Jabril’s presence.
‘I clean and shop on Monday. You cook. This is what Zahra arrange.’
‘Thank you, that will be fine, but there’s no need for you to clean or shop for me.’
‘Yes, clean. Okay, no shop. You still pay two thousand afghanis.’
‘Of course.’
‘I clean tomorrow.’
‘Really, there’s no need for you to clean tomorrow.’
‘Is Monday. I clean Monday.’
With all the rules and financial arrangements agreed to and her authority firmly established, Behnaz had left.
‘She is a very nice woman,’ Jabril had offered as they listened to her footsteps descending the stairs. Sofia didn’t think Jabril sounded too convinced of that. ‘My wife tells me her life has been hard. You’ll also find Behnaz’s husband, Chief Wasim, very nice, but you may also notice that although my friend might be the chief of police for all of Kabul, he is not always the chief of police in his own home.’ Jabril laughed at his joke. ‘These things don’t matter though. What matters is that you’re safe and happy in your new home.
‘This afternoon I’ll show you the surgery before taking you to meet my wife, who has invited you to dinner.’
* * *
JABRIL AND ZAHRA’S home, which was close to the square, was an extravagant two-storey affair with windows painted mauve flanked by bright green shutters, and a high white concrete wall with a large metal door shielding the courtyard from the street. Entering the home, they had ascended a curved staircase that led to a room so large it could have been the foyer of a small hotel.
With handmade silk and woollen Afghan rugs scattered across a white tiled floor, the room had a number of white leather lounges and matching poufs, while the ornate gold and marble coffee tables and brass side tables were heavy with vases of Afghan roses, bowls of sugared almonds, dried fruits and books. The wall directly opposite where they had entered boasted two impressively large arched floor to ceiling windows, regally framed by red velvet curtains tied back with elaborate gold tassels. Through an archway to the side Sofia saw a deeply carved baroque dining table with a set of high-backed velvet chairs matching the curtains. Over the table, which must have sat twenty people, were three enormous crystal chandeliers.
The walls of the lounge room were covered with rich tapestries threaded through with gold, interspersed with coloured family photos showing a young Jabril and Zahra and a boy and girl at various ages. Old black and white and ancient sepia photos of an Afghanistan that no longer existed filled what wall space was left. Sofia had stopped in front of one of the photos.
‘Where is this?’ she asked.
‘Ah,’ said Jabril, coming to stand beside her. ‘This is the Kherqa-ye Sharif in Kandahar where the cloak of Prophet Mohammad – peace be upon him – is kept. And this,’ he had said, turning to one of the photos of the children, ‘is our son, Jaweed, and our daughter, Salmar, who are both living overseas. Of course, they are much older now.’
Jabril had been about to say more when they heard a voice behind them.
‘Ah, you’re here.’
Sofia had turned to see a tall, slender woman walking toward her. With raven black hair, golden-brown eyes artfully smudged with kohl, and lips painted a brilliant magenta, Zahra was striking in a tight green silk dress. At the end of a pair of long legs were two perfectly manicured feet resting in impossibly high gold sandals. Sofia’s heart sank. Against this woman she looked, and felt, like a peasant in her suitcase-crushed trousers, sensible walking boots and khaki jumper. She had just received her first lesson in middle-class etiquette: Afghans are particular about their appearance. Sadly, the refugee hadn’t mentioned anything about dress codes in private homes and on social occasions.
‘My wife, Zahra,’ Jabril had said proudly. Sofia guessed that Zahra was as tall as her, but in her heels she stood at least two inches taller than Sofia and six inches taller than her husband.
‘Welcome, Dr Raso,’ Zahra had said warmly, taking Sofia’s hand as she leaned in to kiss her three times. ‘May I call you Sofia and you can call me Zahra?’
‘Perfect.’
‘I can’t tell you how much we’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I hope you enjoy your time here with us in Shaahir Square.’
5
AFTER HER SHOWER, Sofia was in her bedroom getting ready for work when her phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, she felt a familiar rush of guilt.
‘I’ve done it again, haven’t I, Dad? I’m sorry. I should’ve rung.’
They had an agreement: whenever there was a bombing in Kabul, Sofia would make contact to let him know she was safe.
‘Well, you’re obviously okay. That’s all I need to know.’
Sometimes she wished he wouldn’t be so understanding. It only made her feel worse.
‘So did you hear the news about Michelle? She’s getting married.’
Sofia searched for the right response. Why the hell would Michelle, who went through life blowing up social norms, bother getting married? ‘That’s wonderful news, Dad,’ she said, summoning up an enthusiasm she didn’t feel.
When Sofia was twelve years old she had watched her mother’s body wasting away and the light in her father’s eyes fading. Michelle had been eight at the time, and it seemed to Sofia that when they lost their mother they had lost her too. From a vivacious child, Michelle had grown into a girl without a smile. At ten years old she was truanting from school; at fourteen she had a pierced nose, an eyebrow ring and tattoos and was snorting cocaine; by sixteen she had left school, and at eighteen she was dealing and living on the streets. As Sofia’s sister’s behaviour tore holes in her father’s battered heart, she tried to mend them by becoming a more perfect daughter, which only seemed to infuriate Michelle further until the two sisters found themselves caught in a vicious cycle that neither of them knew how to stop.