“Since then that mulberry tree and every other mulberry tree has borne fruit that stains the color of the blood that united those two hearts, a stain that nothing can wash away.”
Asad had listened intently but, when Boba-jan finished his story, looked disappointed to have no one to blame for his permanently stained shirt. With a huff, he picked it up from the floor near me.
“It’s old anyway. I have better shirts.”
I WAS THINKING OF BOBA-JAN’S STORY AS I STROLLED THROUGH the bazaar a year later in search of plump dates for our iftar. There was a lightness to my step as I was eager to get home and share my good news. I’d been awarded the second-highest marks on a mathematics exam. Loud enough for all to hear, my teacher had announced, “Fereiba, nearly perfect score, second only to Latifa. Very good.”
I knew Boba-jan’s eyes would twinkle with pride in that way that spoke more than words. I wanted to get the dates and make it home early enough to see my grandfather.
Sheragha owned a store packed with barrels of spices and dried goods: whole walnuts, fragrant cardamom, rock salt, brilliant turmeric powder, and fiery peppers. Though I found his store to be the most colorful and pleasing to the senses, Sheragha seemed less taken by it. He walked with a slow and heavy step. The width of two men, his forehead glistened with sweat even in the frigid cold of winter. I was rarely successful haggling down this particular vendor, but today he seemed to be in a generous mood. I kept my head bowed and took the sack of dates from him, careful not to brush against Sheragha’s thick, hairy fingers.
Before I headed home, I adjusted the chador on my head and counted the coins I had in my pouch. KokoGul would be impressed. Content with my own triumph, I didn’t notice the shadow following me into the narrow side street. Two coins fell from my hands into the dusty road. I crouched to pick them up when I heard footsteps and words so filthy my face burned red. The coins slipped through my fingers as I leaped to my feet and turned. Just inches from me stood one of the leering boys from the marketplace. I took a step back and scowled. His long hair hung over his forehead. His eyes were dark and closely placed. He smirked, baring a yellow, gap-toothed sneer.
“Where are you off to? Why not stay awhile? I’ve got some nakhod in my pocket. Go ahead and take some,” he said, sneering as he held his pant pocket open enough for a few dried chickpeas to fall out.
“Be-tarbia!” Brute, I yelled. I turned and fled, willing the warped leather of my old sandals to hold together as I hurried to the main road. The boy laughed behind me.
I exploded into the kitchen, sweating. KokoGul was cutting chunks of raw meat and tossing them into a pot of sizzling onions.
“Oh, dokhtar!” She called out, shooting me a look of surprise and warning. She pointed the tip of her knife at the corner of the kitchen where a bundle sat against the wall, wrapped in a coarse green blanket. KokoGul was making yogurt and it needed absolute stillness for the culture to take. “You have the grace of an elephant.”
“Forgive me,” I panted.
“What’s going on? You look wild.”
I was too embarrassed to recount what had happened.
“I was afraid I would be late to help with dinner.”
“You are too late. It’s almost ready. Wash up and make a salad at least. My back is beginning to ache. Did you bring the khormaa?” she asked, remembering the task she had given me in the morning.
“I did.” I pulled the sack of dates from among my school supplies and handed her the change that remained. She counted the coins, short the few that I had left behind in my hasty escape.
“They look fresh. Whose store did you go to?”
“Sheragha. His mood was even worse than usual,” I said, hoping to explain how much money had gone toward the dates. KokoGul clucked her tongue and put the sack to the side.