Focusing less on her own fears and inadequacies, she had started to understand that, yes, there were cultural differences, but the people in the square were fundamentally the same as Australians. They had jobs to do, bills to pay, shopping, cleaning, cooking, children to look after and friends to meet. Within six weeks she had realised she was having real conversations with people. She was starting to find a rhythm and life began to feel comfortable. Throughout these difficult times her anchors had always been Jabril and Zahra, who propped her up when they could see she was faltering while going out of their way to make her feel welcome.
After being in Kabul for six months, Sofia still hadn’t known whether she would be staying past her contract, so Jabril had suggested she take some weeks off to see more of the country. That was when she had travelled to the little village in the Hindu Kush and met Daniel Abiteboul and decided to stay. Two years after making that decision Sofia had found herself lying on her bed, trying to find the courage to ring her father and tell him the thing he probably already knew: she was not coming back.
‘I know that every life is precious everywhere, Dad,’ she had said, as she tried to explain what he would never accept, ‘but somehow it seems like life is more precious here. I don’t know, maybe it’s because death is so much closer. When I’m away I miss Shaahir Square and everything about it.’
‘People are in pain here too, you know,’ he had offered.
‘Yes, I know, Dad.’ How did she tell him it really wasn’t the same for her? ‘Through all of this is their kindnesses and generosity,’ she had added, ‘and their ability to laugh despite all their difficulties. I don’t see that in Sydney.’ Her father didn’t respond. She had tried again, wondering whether she could make anything better, or whether they should just hang up and let the dust settle. ‘Do you remember when I went to Norway on holidays last year and how happy you were that I was away from Kabul? Well, that wasn’t how it felt for me. I’ve got to tell you that every single kilometre I moved deeper into the perfect orderliness of that beautiful, cold, dark country, the more I longed for the heat and chaos of Kabul.’
‘I see.’
No, she had thought, you don’t see. He didn’t want to see and she couldn’t blame him. How she wished it were different. ‘Perhaps it’s as simple as the fact that I’m part of a community here now, Dad. I never really felt that back in Sydney … apart from you,’ she had added too late. The conversation had been as difficult and painful as she had imagined.
* * *
SOFIA CHECKED THE time on her phone and realised that if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for work and her meeting with Daniel.
After pulling on the long, loose black pants known as tunban and a long-sleeved shirt that reached below her butt, she draped a scarf loosely over her hair. Sometimes she replaced the shirt with a dress over pants, but mostly she stuck to a uniform of long black pants or jeans and long shirts, which she layered with the changing seasons. Wearing her long red hair loose wasn’t illegal so no one would arrest her, but as a tall Western woman with such fair skin it would have only drawn unwelcome attention. She could have worn high heels like the young women of Kabul, but traversing the worn cobbles of Shaahir Square every day and Kabul’s crumbling footpaths made that a treacherous option. She didn’t smile at a strange man in the street because it would probably shock him, and she didn’t offer her hand unless someone offered theirs first. Outside the square she felt she had to curb her natural propensity for openness and happiness, and not laugh or talk too loudly. She had also learned to be a little vague about herself if strangers asked too many questions. Everything was about not offending or calling attention to herself while being respectful in her attire and behaviour, which conveyed respect for those she met.
Sofia slipped on her flat shoes and looked in the mirror. Make-up or no make-up? The young women of Kabul were dedicated followers of fashion, keeping up with the latest clothes, hairstyles and make-up looks. It had been one of the things that had surprised Sofia the most when she arrived in Kabul, which also reinforced how much she’d accepted the Western stereotype of Afghan women.
Sofia inspected her naked face. Lipstick and mascara would do for Daniel, she decided. She then added a touch of blush as an afterthought.
Grabbing her bag and laptop off the bed, Sofia was about to leave the apartment when she saw the woollen scarf, freshly laundered and neatly folded on the bedside table. Picking it up, she ran her fingers over the familiar wool. She had been intending to give it back to Daniel. Placing it back on the bedside table, she headed out the door.
6
IN THE COURTYARD the rug from the entrance was hanging over the lowest branch of the pomegranate tree, ready to be beaten to within an inch of its life. The canary cage had been moved out of harm’s way and was sitting on the ground by the gate.
‘Good morning, Behnaz,’ Sofia said in Dari. As soon as Sofia had learned the language Behnaz had stopped trying to speak Amreekawee. Despite Sofia mentioning the word ‘English’ a number of times, the language had steadfastly remained Amreekawee in Behnaz’s mind and learning it, she had said, ‘hurt her brain’.
Behnaz stopped sweeping the courtyard to lean on her broom beside the little pile of litter she had collected from the square earlier that morning. ‘Good morning, Dr Sofia.’
‘I hope you slept well last night, Behnaz.’
‘Not so well,’ she said with an exaggerated sigh. Sofia knew what that meant.
Behnaz happened to be one of Sofia’s patients and had told Sofia more than once – a lot more than once – that she had thought of killing her husband, Kabul’s chief of police, because his snoring had kept her awake for nearly forty years and she’d had enough. Initially, Behnaz had given Sofia a running tally of the number of hours of sleeplessness this represented in the long torment of her marital bed until one day she had watched a pirated video about Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq and discovered that sleep deprivation was a form of torture. It had been Behnaz’s eureka moment and was, as Behnaz liked to tell Sofia, the only useful thing she ever learned from the Amreekawees apart from Amreekawee.
With this new-found information damning her husband’s snoring, Behnaz no longer felt the need to count hours of wakefulness as testimony when torture was far more damning. In the last few months Behnaz had taken to wondering aloud whether torture might be a good line of defence in any possible court case should Chief Wasim be discovered dead in the marital bed. Given that Sofia’s bedroom was above Chief Wasim and Behnaz’s, she could sympathise with her landlady, and at two o’clock in the morning when she had not yet fallen asleep, she too fantasised about killing the chief of police who lay blissfully unaware in the room below.
Rather than share these thoughts with Behnaz, Sofia had advised that, in her not-so-learned opinion, it probably wasn’t a good defence. She had also tactfully suggested things Wasim might like to do to minimise his snoring so Behnaz (and she) could get more sleep, but Behnaz had refused to pass this information on to her husband, claiming that it would have shamed him if he discovered she had spoken to Sofia about such an intimate male problem he didn’t have. Understanding Behnaz’s twisted logic, Sofia could only smile and console herself that at least she had tried. Despite Behnaz’s long-suffering laments and threats, Sofia knew she loved her husband in a coarse and familiar way, and that her words were essentially all habit and bluster.