“Are you blind, you stupid girl? Do you want to get me killed?”
The boy picked his bike out of the gutter and shook his small fist at her, but she just kept running. Her sneakers grew heavy with the mud underfoot and she struggled to keep her pace as she hurried through the narrow streets of the city. Around her, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion—the men pushing their carts piled high with pomegranates and cantaloupes, the covered women walking in pairs, leading their children by the hand, the mass of fat-tailed sheep being urged along with a sharp stick—but inside, her heart was racing so fast she thought it might burst.
She flew around a corner and elbowed her way through the crowds of people gathered near the outdoor food stalls, the smell of garbage and kabobs hitting her like an avalanche. All of her senses seemed to be turned up high—car horns blared, bicycle bells clanged, vendors shouted out their prices, generators whirred. How lucky she was that nobody seemed to bother with her, a frantic girl rushing through the streets with her hands covering her ears. But of course they wouldn’t. No man would dare to put a hand on her in public, and the women would all be too wary to get involved. Yet she continued to jerk her head around like a frightened bird, her eyes on the lookout for anyone who might be following.
Past the shops with their sagging awnings and crumbling façades she fled, weaving in and out of the traffic that was becoming heavier the closer she got to the business center, where the glass and steel Kam Air building rose up from the sidewalk like a giant faceless robot. She grasped at the head scarf slipping back on her silky hair, and nearly tripped over a burqa’d beggar sitting in the middle of Qala-e-Musa Road, a baby resting on rags at her side, the only visible part of her body the one bare hand reaching out to the passing cars. But the girl had to keep going, had to move faster.
As she approached Shaheed Square she quickened her pace, leaping over the potholes that made the roads nearly impassible. Suddenly she felt her left foot slide out from under her and heard a cry as her hip hit the ground. She sat stunned for a moment, the mud oozing through her fingers and soaking her long blouse and jeans through to her skin. Two men walked their bikes in a wide circle around her, and ahead she could see another man in a white cap getting a shave on the street corner. Neither he nor the street barber holding a razor in one hand, keeping the man’s face steady with the other, even blinked. It was as if she were invisible.
She stood and, without bothering to wipe away the filth that covered half her body, continued to run. Now the streets had become a little wider, the traffic lighter, the high walls lining the roads making her picture herself as a rat in a giant maze. She moved as quickly as her feet would take her. She was almost there.
But as she approached the guardhouse, her chest heaving with exhaustion, a small movement across the street attracted her eye. Through the window of a white Toyota, she saw a man pulling something black over his head. The chokidor must have noticed as well, for all at once the air was filled with activity. A car door slammed, the guard yelled and reached toward his gun, and the girl slipped through the gate and dashed toward the coffeehouse door.