‘So I’ll see you again around lunchtime,’ she said, opening the car door and sliding across the back seat. As Tawfiq climbed in and closed his door behind him, the locks clicked into place. The sound had become such a background noise to Sofia’s travels that she didn’t register it, although she might have if it didn’t happen.
When she had first arrived in Kabul, Sofia had made Tawfiq uncomfortable by taking the seat next to him in the front of the car. Not knowing how to broach this delicate subject with the new Australian doctor whose Dari wasn’t so good, Tawfiq had asked Zahra to explain to Dr Sofia that an Afghan woman didn’t sit in the front with the driver unless he was her husband.
‘So what’s going on?’ Sofia asked Tawfiq as they manoeuvred their way out of the square for the fifteen-minute drive to the hotel.
He looked at her in his rear-vision mirror. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘This new security? Rashid following me across the square again?’
‘Ah, that,’ Tawfiq said, not sounding too concerned. ‘Dr Jabril told us to take more care so we’re taking more care.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him, but he didn’t seem worried. Why are we going to the Serena today?’
‘To collect someone.’
Tawfiq was watching her in the rear-vision mirror, which was how a lot of their conversations happened: him in the driver’s seat and her in the back and the mirror between them. ‘The man who came to see you yesterday?’
Sofia looked out the window so their eyes wouldn’t meet. ‘That would be the one.’
Out on the main road they found themselves locked in behind a military convoy. With military vehicles being prime targets for attack, together with the fact that being stuck behind one in Kabul traffic could double your travel time, Tawfiq manoeuvred his way out before speeding off.
‘He’s a friend of yours?’ he asked.
‘Why would you ask that?’ Their eyes met in the mirror.
He looked away. ‘Ahmad said you had something that belonged to him and that you didn’t want to give it back.’
‘My, word travels fast in Shaahir Square. A scarf. It was just a boring old scarf.’ She really couldn’t do much without the square knowing, and while she had got used to it over the years, she still didn’t like it.
* * *
SOFIA HAD SPENT most of the day in the high mountain village working with the women on their health and, in return, they had taught her where to find the best mountain herb for a toothache, what bark to boil up to relieve indigestion, how to set a fire that wouldn’t go out halfway through the cooking, and the secret of their naan bread. In the late afternoon she had been outside her hut packing up her things when she looked up to see Daniel walking toward her with a group of women. The sight of him, tall and elegant in his perahan tunban with a group of village women, was one of the visions anchored in a powerful emotion from that time and, thus, not forgotten. It had been the moment she realised she was in love with Daniel Abiteboul.
‘You’ve got a delegation,’ he had offered with a cheeky smile.
Sofia had looked at the women. ‘So I see.’ She looked back at Daniel. ‘What’s this about?’
‘They’re curious about you and want to ask some questions. They’ve asked me to translate so there’s no miscommunication. Is that okay?’
‘Of course,’ she smiled at the women, acknowledging their request.
As they all sat down in the dirt in front of her hut, the questions began. Where was Australia? Was it like Afghanistan? Why didn’t she know how to make a fire and cook naan? Why had her father let her come to their village without a chaperone and why wasn’t she married? When she said she hadn’t found anyone she loved, they looked unhappy with her response.
‘Not sure the concept of love has anything to do with life in the village here,’ offered Daniel.
‘Okay, tell them my father hasn’t found anyone for me yet.’ When Daniel translated, they nodded. They could understand that, but it opened a discussion about why her father might have found it difficult. One woman suggested it might be because of the colour of her hair. When Daniel had asked the woman what she meant she told him that men wouldn’t be comfortable with a wife who drew unwanted attention.
‘There you go,’ Sofia had said when Daniel translated, although she’d understood most of the conversation. ‘It’s my hair again.’
Searching her face for a few seconds, he had turned back and spoken again to the women.
‘What did you say?’ Sofia had asked, not understanding the last word he used.
‘I said men in my culture would find your hair intriguing.’
‘Oh,’ she said, not knowing what else to say.
What is the ocean like, they asked. Sofia had no idea how to describe the ocean.
It was growing dark by the time the women left to prepare dinner, leaving Daniel and Sofia to relax back against the wall of her hut as the afternoon shadows moved across the face of the mountains and the floor of the valley below fell into darkness. ‘The women think your hair is beautiful, you know,’ he had offered.
She turned to look at him. ‘That’s not what they said, was it?’
‘No, but that’s what they say when you aren’t around. The men also find it fascinating.’
Sofia had groaned. ‘It’s my curse. They should write on my gravestone: She had red hair.’ When the sun had disappeared behind the peaks and the night air descended, Sofia had shivered. Reaching into a pocket of his coat, Daniel pulled out a soft woollen scarf. ‘Here, have this.’
‘Don’t you need it?’
‘I’ve got another.’
Taking his scarf, Sofia had wrapped it around her neck and up over her lips to breathe in
