Legend had it that Commander Kaftar came by the nom de guerre of Kaftar, meaning dove, either by killing with the grace of a bird or from climbing mountains as lightly as a bird. As far as Sofia could see, the birdlike days of the overweight woman sitting in front of her in a floral dress, headscarf and rifle slung over her shoulder were long gone. Large folds of skin covered half the commander’s eyelids while puffy bags hung heavy beneath them. Her hands were fleshy fat fists and her nose bulbous. The deep ridges chiselled into the wasteland of her face drew her mouth down into a permanent scowl. She had no front teeth, and was suffering from acute arthritic pain, failing eyesight and, Sofia suspected, depression. Before Sofia was allowed to examine Kaftar, the warlord insisted that she convert to Islam. ‘Say the Shahada. La ilaha illa Allah, Muhammad rasoolu Allah – there is no true god but God, and Mohammad is the Messenger of God. It’s easy.’
Sofia thought the ease of conversion was not the point. ‘Aren’t you supposed to mean it?’
Kaftar looked confused. ‘Don’t you want Jannah?’
When Sofia professed that, in all good faith, she could not convert to Islam, they spent the next twenty minutes with Kaftar refusing to speak or even look at her. As Sofia was trying to work out the best way to leave, Kaftar began describing her aches and pains, all the while lamenting her miserable life. The best Sofia could do was offer the name of an arthritis medication the warlord could find in Kabul and suggest that while there she might like to see an eye specialist about her cataracts.
Not interested in anything Sofia could offer, Kaftar raised the possibility of Sofia helping her, and maybe thirty or forty of her closest relatives, to immigrate to America where she might live out her last years in peace, maybe even have an operation to mend her aching knees and an apartment with a TV.
‘You need to talk to the American authorities about that.’
‘You’re American.’
‘No, I’m Australian.’
Kaftar was not interested in living in Australia. Sofia was dismissed.
33
AS THE SUN set behind the mountains and Fatima’s courtyard was thrown into long cool shadows, Tawfiq and the guard retreated into the shelter of the guard house. Sofia could hear them talking and knew that Tawfiq would be relishing the opportunity to listen to the old guard’s stories about Kandahar in the time before the Russians and the Taliban.
Feeling the early evening chill, Sofia wrapped her arms around her body. She knew Tawfiq would be tired from the long drive but he still had to drop Daniel off for his rendezvous with Forood, and she and Fatima needed to shop for their dinner. As she was wondering whether she should go inside to ask how much longer they might be, Daniel appeared.
‘So how did it go?’ she asked, jumping off the wall to join him.
‘You were right. She’s not like ordinary Afghan women, is she?’
‘No, she’s not like other Afghan women, but did you learn anything?’
‘I learned a great deal.’
Hearing Daniel’s voice, Tawfiq came out of the guard’s hut and climbed into the car to take him to Forood.
* * *
IN HER LATE forties, Fatima was the sixth of twelve children. As her successful father’s favourite child, she had taken over his building company, expanding it into earthmoving and a taxi service. She had never married, nor had she ever wanted children. She also had zero interest in becoming a midwife, but after one of her sisters and a niece died in quick succession in childbirth, Fatima had seen a need and had set about meeting it. After hearing about the foreign doctor in Kabul who trained midwives in outlying villages, she had travelled to the capital to find her, refusing to leave until Dr Sofia agreed to come to Kandahar. On gaining Sofia’s consent Fatima had returned to the city to find the women who would make up this group.
She needed women who were both intelligent and curious, but also willing and able to leave their homes one day a month to travel to the outskirts of the city for training. Each woman needed the permission of her husband or father, and in some cases the consent of the village imam or other family members. She also needed a male relative willing to accompany her to the training and to wait around to take her home. The initial formation, together with the continuation of the group, was testament to Fatima’s perseverance and the determination and the dedication of each of the women and their families.
When Dr Sofia had arrived at Fatima’s home late that afternoon and introduced her to Dr Daniel, a cold claw had gripped Fatima’s heart. She was not stupid, nor was she blind.
Over the years Fatima had only had one furtive encounter with a woman. Under their clothes, in a dark cupboard, she had been electrified by the gloriousness of it and the utter fear of being discovered. The woman had been married, but even if she hadn’t been there was nothing more they could do. With their lust sated, the two women had stepped out of the cupboard, ashamed by their wantonness. When they met again, which was often enough, for she was Fatima’s sister-in-law, they pretended it had never happened. When Fatima met Sofia in Kabul she had carried back to Kandahar dreams of a foreign woman almost too beautiful to imagine, along with hopes almost too painful to hold.
Dr Daniel seemed both intelligent and knowledgeable about her country, and eager to learn from her. She wished it had been otherwise; it would have been easier to dislike the man. After she and Dr Sofia had visited the local market to shop for their dinner, they prepared and ate their usual
