Translated from the Dari by Dr. Zubair Popalzai
Nuria opens the fridge for a bottle of mineral water. Moments later, the water is boiling on the stove. She brews tea and sets a cup down, with a plate of dried berries and walnuts. Sitting with the tea, Nuria looks across at the photos on the wall.
In one picture, Arsalan is riding a bicycle and seems to be screaming. In another, her eldest son and daughter-in-law are holding Mahdi, three or four years old at the time. Nuria wasn’t there when he was born or when he took his first steps. In the picture, they are all sitting on a sofa in California, a cake in front of them. They are smiling for the photographer, except for the child, who is looking at the cake. In another picture, Yusra is in traditional Afghan clothes, her green chador tied around her waist. Smiling, she is standing in the corridor, next to a vase that is taller than her.
Nuria gets up slowly and walks towards the TV. She removes the embroidered cloth draped over the set to keep off the dust, and presses the red button on the remote control. Seven members of Moby Media Group have been killed—the Taliban has taken responsibility for the attack. Images of the scene are broadcast, one after another. Nuria is saddened but at least nobody she knows has been wounded or killed. All of her children are abroad. Indeed, this is not a place to live. It is good they left, she thinks to herself. She feels satisfied: I did well to send them out.
She switches off the TV before she has to hear the statement from the Taliban. She puts the remote control down on the table and looks at the wall again. There is another picture, of herself with her sister and nephew. Nuria is wearing a short skirt and a loose blouse. Her legs are bare to the knee and her hair is short and wavy. Her sister’s legs are also bare, but she is wearing a chador. Her nephew has brown hair and red cheeks and lips. His mouth is slightly open and he is staring at the photographer.
Nuria sips her tea. How old is this photo of us two? Thirty-five or forty years? How many years has it been since Dr. Najib’s government? She takes a breath and wraps her scarf tightly around her head. She looks at the clock, which shows it is ten in the morning.
She moves on to the next photo. It’s Lailoma with three other women in Germany. Two of them have blond hair and the other woman is Black and has dark hair. All three are wearing trousers. Lailoma is also wearing trousers. They took this photo in the classroom, laughing at the camera. Their mouths are open and their teeth exposed. What good dress sense Lailoma has! She is better dressed than the foreign women are. A slight smile appears on Nuria’s lips.
The doorbell rings and takes Nuria out of her children’s world. It has to be the cake and biscuits she ordered. She opens the door to the delivery man from the restaurant. He greets her, takes her money, and leaves. The sound of his motorcycle engine mixes with the hum of other vehicles on the road.
Next to the kitchen door is a desk and on it is a laptop that is permanently plugged in. Nuria uses the laptop only to chat on Skype. Each time she receives a call, she sits on the chair facing the laptop camera, constantly tightening her scarf. Each time she sits on that chair, she cries at the screen and kisses the air, saying, “I kiss you from afar, mother’s flower, my dear, my darling, my precious.”
It’s Tahmina calling again. Her mother kisses her from afar again. Everything is fine at their end. The children are healthy and busy with school and sports; the men and women of the house are busy with their work and responsibilities. Only Arash, with a pounding heart, has a special story for his bibi jan. He sits in front of the camera and begins his sweet talk. He tells his grandmother that their neighbor, the lady who gave him chocolate and wore glasses, had been dead for several days and they only found out when a strange smell came from her house. Tahmina hurries to the camera to correct Arash. “She had not decomposed and she had not been dead for several days when they found her,” she tells her mother. “The poor lady was ninety years old and sick. Everyone found out when she died.”
Liza demands, “Food, Maadar.” Tahmina kisses her mother from afar and disconnects the call. Nuria wanted to say, “Let me hear the sounds of your household, let me be in this corner of your room while you do your work and feed Liza and Arash. I will just sit here as if you are in one room and I am in another room.” But it was not possible and she does not know why not.
She gets up and looks at the pictures again. In the hallway is a photo of Jahid and her, together. He had not gone yet. He had accompanied her to the studio to have this photograph taken to make her happy. On the day the photograph was taken, a strange sadness settled in Nuria’s heart. God, what if Jahid goes abroad and leaves me alone, like all his brothers and sisters have? She had blinked while the photo was being taken, so the photographer had taken another. It was the second photograph that was framed.
And Jahid did leave.
What if I die alone and no one knows that I am dead? This thought brings a deeper sense of loneliness. She tightens the knot of her three-cornered scarf.
Nuria puts on her coat and leaves the house. There is a white dog standing at the entrance to the block. It is accustomed to hearing Nuria tell the guard, “Remove this dog from here so it doesn’t enter the building.” But today Nuria does not say anything. It is getting on for noon. Many women have come out to buy chiles and tomatoes to make salads for lunch. The shopkeepers are constantly sprinkling water on the vegetables they are selling, to make them look fresher and more appealing. The air is filled with the smell of mint and coriander and with the noise and motion of the crowd.
When Nuria buys vegetables from the shop, she feels like telling the shopkeeper, a young man: “Son, if I die—no, if you notice that I haven’t come to buy vegetables for two days in a row—come and check on me to make sure I am alive.” It seems a little funny to her, to say “make sure I am alive.” What am I saying? She decides in her heart that she should leave the house every day for some reason, so that on the day she dies everyone will realize that Khala Nuria is missing and ask why they haven’t seen her.
It is still only noon when she returns home. Into a small pot she empties the bag of lemons and peppers she has bought. She washes them. She dries her hands, rests her arm against the window and looks out at the mulberry tree, whose berries have ripened and fallen. What is left is memories of those sweet berries and their dark purple stains on the ground. The leaves will also fall soon, autumn is approaching. Another berry falls from the tree, unseen by Nuria. The height of her window and its distance from the tree in the street make it impossible for Nuria to see the mulberry fall. Taking a deep breath, she reties the knot of her triangular scarf and pulls a mirror out of her pocket. She glances at her eyes and cheeks, opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. She whispers to herself, “I may die. What if I die? What if my body begins to smell? What should I do, God? What could Nuria have done to not die alone? God, if no one finds out, if nobody is informed, I will die a bad death. My poor body, my poor body.”
A deep sorrow quietly occupies Nuria’s heart. She opens the fridge, chooses an apple and puts it on a plate. She puts the plate on the laptop table and calls Hamzah, her eldest son. Hamzah does not answer, neither does Lailoma. She is also busy—she must be busy, that is why she does not answer. Nuria switches off the laptop and, still facing it, prays for them all.
The sound of sparrows filling the branches of the mulberry tree drifts in from the window.
When Nuria opens her eyes, her head is on the table. Her back is sore, stiff from sleeping in the chair. Her appetite is different that day. She feels like smoking, like in the days when she would steal her grandparents’ cigarettes and experiment with them, rebelling against her mother. At this moment, she feels a desire strong enough for ten or twenty cigarettes; she feels she would like to light them together and inhale the smoke.
Nuria walks down the stairs and passes by the mulberry tree. When she enters the store, it is cold and empty, unlike the street. The white dog has followed her. Speaking slowly, Nuria looks at the salesman and asks for Pine cigarettes. He is a young boy. He hands Nuria a packet without any questions, he doesn’t even ask if she wants a lighter.
Pine was the only brand Nuria knew and she wasn’t even sure it still existed. But she thinks she has just bought Pine. She puts the packet in her pocket and holds it tightly so it can’t fall out and someone won’t ask if it is hers.
Nuria walks home. The white dog still follows her, but she says nothing. Back at home, she sits down by the window and opens it. She moves the chair closer to the open window so she can see out better. It’s raining. She opens the pack, places one cigarette between her lips, and lights it with a match. She recites as she exhales: “Lailoma went to Germany, Tahmina is in London, Hamzah has been gone for twenty-six years. Jahid is also gone.”
The rain slowly washes the leaves of the mulberry tree. The white dog is sitting just outside Nuria’s door with its eyes closed. It’s raining and Nuria is blowing out smoke.