Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

He walked into the washroom and let out a trickle of water from the faucet. He let it run over his hands and between his fingers. He brought his palms to his face and held them there.

Get some sleep, Madar- jan had said. Get some sleep.

Saleem slipped out of his pants and shirt and slid under his bedsheet. He stared at the ceiling, traced its cracks in the dark, and tried to block out all he’d seen. But it all came back. The bride, her dress stained with her father’s blood. Her brother, shot in the leg but alive and yelling as they’d shoved him into a car to be taken to the hospital. Two others had been lucky, bullets just grazing their arms.

Lucky, Saleem thought, was relative.

It was forty-five minutes of chaos. A few cool heads had taken control and shouted out orders. Someone took the inconsolable bride into a back room. Her new husband, paralyzed with fear during the mayhem, felt his own body for bullet wounds that were not there. One of the shooters had aimed directly at him and fired, but the gun had jammed.

Lucky.

Saleem found himself whispering his prayers, as if his father’s hands were on his shoulders, turning him away from the windows and bringing him to the ground. He touched the lifeless watch on his wrist, absent of the soft ticking that once lulled him to sleep.

Kamal’s father had driven them home, filling them in on what had happened. Three men had burst into the house. They’d been recognized immediately as sons of the neighboring farm family — boys who had wanted this bride for their own clan. Slighted and incensed, they’d decided to exact their revenge on the young couple’s wedding night.

They directed their aim at the bride’s father, the groom, and then the bride’s brothers. Guests ran for cover, hiding under tables full of celebratory sweets and escaping into adjacent rooms.

They’d spared the bride, a punishment in itself.

Kamal had never seen more than a bloodied nose in a street fight.

Things are different outside the town’s limits. People take their own revenge when they feel they’ve been dishonored.

It was forever before the police officers arrived. They shook their heads and went from person to person, assessing the damage. They took notes, but it was unclear what they would do about the attackers. Kamal’s father decided to take the boys home. His mother was in another car with his aunts and cousins.

SALEEM HAD FALLEN ASLEEP THINKING OF WHAT KAMAL’S FATHER had said.

Grudges don’t die — people do.

Saleem woke abruptly to the sound of Madar- jan shrieking. She ripped the bedsheet off him. He bolted upright, his eyes bloodshot. Her hands were on him, touching his chest and face.

“What happened? Why is there blood on your clothes? Where are you hurt?”

The night came rushing back. Saleem cocked his head back and put his hands over his eyes.

“It wasn’t me. I’m not hurt,” he said. Samira was wide awake, staring nervously. “They were shooting, Madar- jan . It was terrible.”

“Shooting guns? What in God’s name are you talking about?”

Madar- jan was not fully convinced that her son was whole and searched his body for hidden wounds.

Saleem pulled her hands away and stood up to shake the slumber from his eyes. He had tossed his bloodstained clothing by the floor cushion, a gruesome sight in the early morning hour. He told her everything, keeping his voice low in hopes that Samira wouldn’t be too frightened. He told his mother how he’d helped lift the bride’s brother into the car so he could be taken to the hospital.

If he’d had a bit more sleep, he might have had the sense to filter some of the gore. By the end, he was crying. He’d been unable to move for so long, he lamented. She listened intently, a hand over her mouth in disbelief. Samira had moved closer, sidling next to her mother, and listened with the intent of an adult. Madar- jan whispered words of gratitude to God for sparing her son.

Madar- jan pulled Saleem to her and rocked him as she did Aziz. He didn’t resist, cherishing the smell of his mother, the comfort of her arms, and her kisses on his forehead. She asked Samira to put the water to boil and get breakfast started for Hakan and Hayal. Samira rose obediently.

“And your friend, Kamal. . he was not hurt either?”

“No, Madar- jan, he was outside with me. He is all right.”

“His mother and father?”

“They were not hurt.”

When Hakan and Hayal came down for breakfast, Saleem repeated the entire story once more. His Turkish had improved immensely since he had started hanging out with Kamal and the boys. He searched for a few words here and there but relayed the night’s events to them. Hakan and Hayal sat stone-faced. Hayal instinctively put a hand over Fereiba’s. To Saleem, the violence at the wedding was starting to feel more like a story than an actual event.

Madar- jan searched their faces for an explanation. How could something like this happen in Intikal? Hakan rose and said he was going to Kamal’s house to see his father. He was dressed and out the door within minutes.

“I’m late for work. I should already be at the farm, Madar- jan, ” Saleem said, instinctively looking at his watch. “I’ll get hell for coming in at this time.”

“Saleem, bachem, you are not going to the farm today. After everything that happened last night, it’s out of the question. I want you with me.”

Saleem looked down at his hands and realized he was trembling slightly. He knew he must have looked like death and had the sudden urge to bathe, to scrub the night’s events from his skin with hot water.

Hayal made him a cup of tea with honey and brought him a plate of bread and cheese. Saleem ate silently. Samira stayed close by but quiet. She warmed a bottle of milk for Aziz and propped him up on her lap so that he could take his breakfast. For the first time in a long time, it looked like the Waziri baby with the broken heart was in better shape than the rest of the family.

Saleem went to the washroom and turned the water as hot as it would go. He let the water cascade over his head, his face, his shoulders. He closed his eyes and saw the bride’s face, blood streaked across her cheek. He heard her brother’s moans. Saleem opened his eyes to try to see something else, but the visions were burned into his retinas. He scrubbed at his skin until it was red and raw. His temples throbbed. He turned the water off, his skin stinging at the towel’s rough touch.

Madar- jan sat in the bedroom, on the edge of her bed. She looked mournful.

“Madar- jan ?” Saleem said, hesitantly.

“I thought we were okay here,” she whispered. “This was not supposed to be like home.”

Saleem sat beside her.

“I brought us here because we thought it would be safer. We thought this would be better for you. What have I done?”

Without Padar- jan around, there was no one to share the blame for the plan that had landed them in Intikal. Saleem pressed his forehead against her shoulder.

“We could not stay in Kabul, Madar- jan . We had nothing left. We were going to starve there — or worse.”

“Aziz was okay there. He was fine until we left home.” Her eyes were glossy, filled with thoughts of a rosy yesterday that existed only in her mind. “Samira wasn’t washing strangers’ dirty dishes and folding their laundry. You weren’t working your hands to a bloody mess from dusk till dawn. We were okay in Kabul, but I brought us here.”

Fereiba had wanted to keep her children healthy, fed, safe, and free from working as indentured servants. She’d failed on all accounts.