Andrea Busfield - Born Under a Million Shadows

As I finished the story, my mother paused to wipe some strands of her hair away from her face using the back of the hand that still held the knife.

“We have all known suffering,” she said quietly. “This is Afghanistan after all.”

As she turned back to the meat, my brain finally caught up with my mouth and I felt bad. I suddenly realized I’d reminded her of all those things she was trying so hard to forget. It was a stupid mistake to make, and I kicked myself on the way back to my room. Properly. However, after my story, which was more or less true, my mother smiled at Shir Ahmad a little more kindly whenever she saw him, which was great, but it was hardly the breakthrough I’d been waiting for. And she was still spending too much of her time with the woman working across the road.

I decided to seek advice.

“Money,” announced Pir Hederi as he cleaned his teeth with the frayed ends of a twig. “That’s the only thing women want or understand. Money, and maybe gold. They seem to like that too.”

I thought about this idea for a while, but couldn’t imagine Shir Ahmad had a lot of either. He was far too skinny. In Afghanistan, the wealthier a man is, the bigger his belly.

“I think he’s more poor than rich,” I confessed.

“He’s screwed then,” Pir grumbled, patting Dog on the head as he did so. Dog thumped his heavy tail on the floor, then got to his feet and walked over to my side, where he nuzzled his face in my hands. After I’d spent a few weeks working at the shop without trying to rob or further cripple his master, me and Dog got on just fine.

At that moment, Georgie’s 4 × 4 pulled up in front of us. She’d started passing by after work to see if I wanted a lift home, and though it was only a little thing it made my head grow fat with pride. Georgie opened her door but didn’t get out.

“Salaam aleykum, Pir Hederi. How are you? Are you well? How’s your health? Everything fine? Are you good?”

As Pir answered that he was okay, he was well, his health was strong, everything was fine, and he was good, I picked up my schoolbooks, stroked Dog good-bye, and jumped into the car.

“Don’t forget, Fawad!” Pir shouted after me. “Money and gold! Money and gold!” He started cackling the way old people do, then got to his feet and headed back into the shop, Dog padding after him.

“What was that about?” Georgie asked as I settled in beside her.

“Oh, nothing,” I lied. “He’s crazy.” Which was true.

“Fair enough. So how was school today?”

“Pretty good. Our teacher dropped dead from a heart attack.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No, really, it’s true. One minute he was standing in front of us writing Pashto spellings on the board the Americans gave us; the next he was on the ground, completely dead.”

“That’s awful, Fawad. Are you okay?” Georgie reached for my hand.

“Yes. It was quite interesting really. The teacher hit his head on a table when he fell, and there was blood coming out of a cut by the side of his ear. It made a small picture on the floor. It looked like a map of Afghanistan. Don’t you think that’s interesting? Have you ever seen anything like that?”

Georgie shook her head. Her hair was covered by a dark brown shawl that matched the color of her eyes, and I thought she looked more beautiful than ever. I realized then that if I was ever going to marry her I’d have to be very, very rich indeed, possibly the richest man in all of Afghanistan.

“Why do women like money so much?” I asked, turning to look out of the window to hide the red heat I felt breaking out on the tops of my cheeks.

“Who told you they do?” Georgie asked.

“Pir Hederi. He said women only like money or gold.”

“Oh, that’s what he was shouting about.” She smiled. “I think that despite his age Pir may still have a lot to learn about women.”

“Really?” I almost pleaded, hope coming once again for Shir Ahmad’s so-far doomed romance with my mother.

“Yes, really. Although money is useful, there are far more important things in life to wish for, like being healthy or finding true love.”

“Are you saying you could love someone who was poor?”

“Of course I could.” Georgie laughed, flicking her finished cigarette out of the car window.

“What, even a goat herder?”

“Well, maybe not a goat herder,” she confessed. “They tend to be a bit smelly. Like their goats. But really, money isn’t that big a deal. Maybe some women might be attracted to money, gold, and power, but many more will find a good character and personality—and a nice smell—far more important qualities to have in the men they choose to marry. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it’s not important,” I lied again. “It’s just that I was thinking one day you might…”

As my thoughts gathered to speak the words I’d been hiding in my heart for so long, Georgie’s phone rang.

“Sorry, Fawad jan,” she said as she interrupted me to take the call.

“It’s okay,” I lied yet again.

“Hello?”

I heard a man’s voice on the other end of the line. Worse than that, I heard him use the word jan .

“Khalid!” Georgie shouted, her face lighting up in a way I’d never seen before. “Where are you? What? No, I’m nearly home. In fact we’re just turning into the road now. Hey! I see you!”

As Massoud pulled up, Georgie snapped her mobile phone shut and practically jumped out of the car before the wheels had stopped turning. I leaned forward in my seat to find out who she was running to.

In front of the house I could see three large Land Cruisers surrounded by fifteen or more armed guards. Two of the guards stood on the opposite side of the road facing the house, more stood in front of and behind the vehicles, and the rest were gathered around a tall man dressed in a sky blue salwar kameez. He wore a gray waistcoat that matched the color of his pakol .

I thought he was about to either be arrested or start a one-man war.

As Georgie walked up to him, quick and easy as a cat, his face creased into a large, friendly smile. He took her hand and covered it with both of his own before leading her into the house. Our house.

I quickly grabbed my books and mumbled my good-byes to Massoud, disturbed that I might be missing something and upset because Georgie hadn’t even looked back to make sure I was following her. At the sight of this man she’d forgotten all about me, and I suddenly felt small and childish. Even the army of guards surrounding our house ignored me as I walked past them, talking among themselves and lighting up cigarettes now their boss had gone. It was as if I was so small I didn’t even exist. I was a nobody, a tiny little nobody that nobody cared about and nobody saw, which is great if you’re a spy, but I wasn’t a spy, not really. I was just a boy in love with a woman called Georgie.

I entered the yard and saw that the man still had hold of her hand. I felt daggers hit my heart and an anger creep into my stomach. The man seemed to be apologizing for something.

“You have to take more care of me,” I heard Georgie tell him.

“I will. I promise. Just forgive me,” he replied.

His voice was deep and low, and it suited his face, which was strong and framed by thick dark hair, a trim black beard, and heavy eyebrows. He looked like an Afghan film star, and I hated him for it.

Slamming the gate behind me, I broke up their embrace, and Georgie held her now-free hands out to introduce me. The man was called Haji Khalid Khan, and I realized from her actions and in spite of her words that she was in love with a man who was not only very rich but also powerful enough to have a lot of enemies, judging by the number of bodyguards now swarming around our house.