Later, Bambi and I walk to Mati’s.
He’s out on the lawn with his father, who’s in a cushioned wicker chair. Rasoul really is looking better. There’s color in his cheeks, and the wisps of his beard have filled in a little. He’s wearing slacks and a white linen shirt, and when he spots Bambi and me, he grins. He nudges Mati, gesturing to the gate. Mati, chagrined, hops up to open it, his smile like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. He crouches to scratch Bambi behind her ears and she wags her tail like she’s forgotten all about how he spent ages throwing her slobbery ball just this morning.
“Thanks for coming,” he says as he straightens again.
“Thanks for inviting me.” I lower my voice. “Where’s your mother?”
“Inside. Remember? She doesn’t care for dogs.”
“Her loss, I guess.” But really, I’m relieved. I’m willing to be decent, to be here for Mati and Rasoul, but standing beneath Hala’s depreciating gaze as I try to keep my dog (dirty, she said during lunch) from climbing into her husband’s lap to lick his face seems insufferable.
I keep a firm grip on Bambi’s collar while making introductions. She’s thrilled to be here, and if the way Rasoul beams is any indication, he’s just as thrilled to make her acquaintance. He pats her a little awkwardly at first, a flat-palmed tap against her hairy head, but he becomes comfortable quickly. Soon, he’s hunched over her, nose-to-wet-nose, murmuring about what a good dog she is. It’s beguiling, watching a sick man find comfort in an animal he should, by all counts, treat with indifference.
Mati and I sit in the grass near his chair, watching the display with wonder. I’d bring Bambi here every day, even under the threat of Hala’s scorn and my own mother’s disapproval, just to see Rasoul so happy.
“Baba,” Mati says after a while, “will you keep an eye on Bambi for a few minutes? I have something to show Elise.”
Rasoul nods, not bothering to look up from the lovefest he’s lavishing on my dog.
Mati gestures toward the path that leads to the backyard, then pushes up out of the grass. He wanders toward the side of the cottage and I follow, curious. When we’ve rounded the corner, he reaches for my hand and leads me farther into the shade.
“What’s this about?” I ask, delighting in the feel of his palm against mine.
His eyes gleam. He points. At the edge of the cottage, just below the slab-stone chimney, sits a patch of dandelions, heads white with fluff. A slow smile spreads across my face: Where any other person would see weeds—a nuisance—Mati and I see wishes.
“This is the coolest,” I say, moving toward them.
“I knew you’d think so. When my mama finds them she’ll pull them up, but I wanted you to make a wish first. Or many wishes, if you like.”
“I have only one wish,” I tell him in an undertone.
I bend and carefully pick two dandelions. I extend one to him. He takes it, brushing my fingers with his, sending a wake of tingles up my arm.
He steps closer, crowding me in the most wonderful way. He leans in to whisper, “What is your wish, shaahazadi?”
“You,” I say, without hesitation. “You, always.”
He smiles, part wistful, part sorrowful, and I know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, because my emotions are a reflection of his. This, today, us: perfect, but passing.
We blow our dandelions in tandem, sending their seeds to the breeze. He drops his stem onto the grass, then trails his hand down the inside of my arm, over the sheer skin beneath my elbow and the sensitive interior of my wrist. A succession of shivers ripples through me as he folds my palm into his. We watch our wishes drift away.
It is, without a doubt, the most magical moment of my life.
He uses his hold on my hand to twirl me around, until I’m facing him. He takes a step forward, trapping me between the smooth stones of the chimney and the unyielding wall of his chest. I bite my lip, hovering in that dangerous void between laughter and tears. He dips his head, skimming kisses across my throat, and I grapple for his other hand, until our palms are aligned at our sides. I exhale a tremulous breath.
His mouth on my skin …
He makes me boneless.
He finds my ear and murmurs, “Za ta sara meena kwam,” and even without context clues, his meaning is clear.
“I love you, too,” I whisper.
He raises his head, seeks my eyes, lets me sink deep into his. His hands come up to brush my hair back, to cradle my face in their gentle warmth.
Okay, no—this is the most magical moment of my life.
I hook my fingers in the belt loops of his jeans, tugging him closer. I lift up on my toes, and we meet in a kiss, a lazy, sultry, smooth-like-velvet kiss.
It’s the most extraordinary kiss.
And it’s interrupted in the most awful way.
Hala’s voice, aghast, furious. “Matihullah!”
MATI
She jerks away from me,
covering her heart-shaped mouth with a cupped hand.
Her eyes are wide, dilated, horrified, as she turns to face Mama.
I do, too.
I have never seen this combination of emotion on my mama’s face.
She is appalled.
She is agonized.
She is apoplectic.
She lets loose a barrage of Pashto, words that swarm the air like angry wasps.
And then she whirls around and marches to the front yard, where Baba sits.
“Stay here,” I say to the girl who stands trembling before me.
I go after Mama.
She stands over Baba, and her rage is an onslaught.
The poor dog …
Bambi shirks beside Baba’s chair as Mama yells, not in Pashto, but in fragmented English— so everyone will hear, so everyone will understand.
“Promised! He is promised to another.”
He brings dishonor to himself, his people, and Allah.
He brings dishonor to his family. To me! To you!”
For the span of a second, I hate her.
But Mama is not evil, or even unreasonable.
She is reverent and virtuous, and I have willfully disregarded the rules of my faith.
She is bursting with anger, with disappointment,
and I cannot blame her.
“Hala,” Baba says, calm, rational, always.
“He is happy. For now, let him be.”
“He is engaged!”
My lungs seize.
If there were doubts,
they have been razed.
I imagine her, hearing it all, realizing I was not forthcoming.
I picture her face, bewildered, then broken,
and her heart, smashed.…
Because of me.
I am yours. Don’t give myself back to me.
—Rumi
elise
Engaged.
My back hits the cold, hard stone of the chimney, knocking what’s left of my breath away. If I was boneless before, I’m a puddle now.
I strain to listen as his parents have it out.
“He is not to see the girl again.”
“Hala, it will run its course naturally.”
“Always with his head in the clouds. His fantasies will bring trouble—they will bring trouble to us all.”
And then Mati: “She is not fantasy!”
But I am, and so is he. We aren’t real, and we never can be. Not in this town, not in this world. Not that I want to be—not anymore. Hala’s words echo in my ears: Promised! He is promised to another. I’m trying to summon a rational explanation, mentally arguing against what is becoming agonizingly clear. Not only is he leaving, but he’s returning to Afghanistan be with someone else. A Pashtun girl, probably, like Hala wants.
All his talk of his sister’s arranged marriage, how unhappy it makes her, and him, and he’s going to do the same thing. All his talk of soul mates, of love … None of it matters.
Not anymore.
I push off the chimney. Now my spine is stiff with indignation, my features hardened by betrayal. I won’t cower—not while they’re talking about me like I’m a slab of meat a week past good. Throw me away, or hang on to me awhile longer, just for the adventure of it?
God. I am such an idiot.