cradling her face at his chest, and for several moments neither said a word. They listened to the night sounds of traffic, the sighs of their breathing.
Then he climbed from bed and stepped barefoot to the window, looking across the rooftops toward the few stars visible through the haze. Daliya soundlessly joined him, slipping a hand into his.
“Do you think they’re out there now?” she asked calmly.
“The ISI? Or our friend with the knife?”
“Both.”
“If they are, they’re getting an eyeful.” He recalled the text of the first note, about women and their adornments. He knew the ISI had special equipment, night vision surveillance and all sorts of tricks.
“Maybe you should put something on,” he said, knowing the instant the words left his mouth that he’d ruined the moment. Daliya cocked her head, scrutinizing his face as if noticing certain traits for the first time.
“You’re still one of them, aren’t you? In some ways, at least.”
“Them?”
“The Afridi. Your tribe and your clan. All those people up in the Khyber.” Her tone was level, no hint of anger, but she hadn’t budged from the window. “And in a few months, when you’re tired of me and all the Americans and gentleman scribblers have gone home, you’ll end it. You’ll go crawling back to your father to beg forgiveness and claim your rightful place. Then he’ll find you a nice Pashtun girl from some Afridi family he wants to connect with, and that will seal it. You and some dynasty for the ages, with me nowhere in it.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you know how I’d be treating you if I was still really ‘one of them’?”
She shook her head. “But I can guess. And I’m sure it wouldn’t be pretty.”
“Besides, even crawling back wouldn’t be enough for my father. There are things I’ve done that will never be forgiven. Not even if I begged. I know. I’ve tried.”
She waited for more—she had always waited for more on this topic—but Najeeb did as he always had, and changed the subject.
“If we could only get our visas, these problems wouldn’t matter.”
“That’s your solution to everything. Getting to America. But it’s not going to happen. Not now.”
“Maybe.” Then he told her more about the ISI meeting, and they talked again about Tariq’s offer. Daliya cautioned him not to trust anyone who made a living from duplicity, and maybe she was right. And if Tariq failed them? Then there was only one other realistic option, although up to now neither of them had dared bring it up. But, this being an evening of firsts, Daliya got straight to the point.
“We could marry, if you really wanted to get to America. It’s always easier for a woman to get a visa. Then, after I got a green card I could bring you over. It would still be an arranged marriage, of course, only on our own terms.”
Najeeb nodded, saying nothing. If he was going to raise an objection, or back away, now was the time. But he let the moment pass, and by doing so realized he’d conceded the point, surrendered the territory. And was that so bad? Most any man he knew would say so, but he no longer knew whose rules mattered. He supposed that Daliya and he really were pioneers now, although they couldn’t keep going the way they had, not in the fevered atmosphere of Peshawar. Between the demonstrations in town and the air attacks fewer than forty miles away, it was as if the city itself were part of the war zone. The anonymous notes and the slash on her cheek were confirmation.
So when Najeeb next spoke, his tone was softer, yielding, a tiny white flag that accepted her terms. “You know, if I really were ‘one of them’ I’d probably be quoting you poetry now. Some line from Sher Azim Khan, who believed that all women were nothing but temptresses, luring us into traps.”
“Try me.” She smiled, willing to be humored, knowing that though he hadn’t exactly acknowledged her point he also hadn’t
Then he climbed from bed and stepped barefoot to the window, looking across the rooftops toward the few stars visible through the haze. Daliya soundlessly joined him, slipping a hand into his.
“Do you think they’re out there now?” she asked calmly.
“The ISI? Or our friend with the knife?”
“Both.”
“If they are, they’re getting an eyeful.” He recalled the text of the first note, about women and their adornments. He knew the ISI had special equipment, night vision surveillance and all sorts of tricks.
“Maybe you should put something on,” he said, knowing the instant the words left his mouth that he’d ruined the moment. Daliya cocked her head, scrutinizing his face as if noticing certain traits for the first time.
“You’re still one of them, aren’t you? In some ways, at least.”
“Them?”
“The Afridi. Your tribe and your clan. All those people up in the Khyber.” Her tone was level, no hint of anger, but she hadn’t budged from the window. “And in a few months, when you’re tired of me and all the Americans and gentleman scribblers have gone home, you’ll end it. You’ll go crawling back to your father to beg forgiveness and claim your rightful place. Then he’ll find you a nice Pashtun girl from some Afridi family he wants to connect with, and that will seal it. You and some dynasty for the ages, with me nowhere in it.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you know how I’d be treating you if I was still really ‘one of them’?”
She shook her head. “But I can guess. And I’m sure it wouldn’t be pretty.”
“Besides, even crawling back wouldn’t be enough for my father. There are things I’ve done that will never be forgiven. Not even if I begged. I know. I’ve tried.”
She waited for more—she had always waited for more on this topic—but Najeeb did as he always had, and changed the subject.
“If we could only get our visas, these problems wouldn’t matter.”
“That’s your solution to everything. Getting to America. But it’s not going to happen. Not now.”
“Maybe.” Then he told her more about the ISI meeting, and they talked again about Tariq’s offer. Daliya cautioned him not to trust anyone who made a living from duplicity, and maybe she was right. And if Tariq failed them? Then there was only one other realistic option, although up to now neither of them had dared bring it up. But, this being an evening of firsts, Daliya got straight to the point.
“We could marry, if you really wanted to get to America. It’s always easier for a woman to get a visa. Then, after I got a green card I could bring you over. It would still be an arranged marriage, of course, only on our own terms.”
Najeeb nodded, saying nothing. If he was going to raise an objection, or back away, now was the time. But he let the moment pass, and by doing so realized he’d conceded the point, surrendered the territory. And was that so bad? Most any man he knew would say so, but he no longer knew whose rules mattered. He supposed that Daliya and he really were pioneers now, although they couldn’t keep going the way they had, not in the fevered atmosphere of Peshawar. Between the demonstrations in town and the air attacks fewer than forty miles away, it was as if the city itself were part of the war zone. The anonymous notes and the slash on her cheek were confirmation.
So when Najeeb next spoke, his tone was softer, yielding, a tiny white flag that accepted her terms. “You know, if I really were ‘one of them’ I’d probably be quoting you poetry now. Some line from Sher Azim Khan, who believed that all women were nothing but temptresses, luring us into traps.”
“Try me.” She smiled, willing to be humored, knowing that though he hadn’t exactly acknowledged her point he also hadn’t
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