‘The doctor is an interesting man,’ Fatima had offered.
‘He is,’ Sofia said, taking out blood pressure monitors, thermometers, forceps, lancets and surgical scissors.
Fatima picked up a bandage and pretended to examine it. ‘Do you know him well?’
‘Not really. I met him a long time ago.’
‘And you’ve never forgotten him?’
Sofia stopped what she was doing and looked at Fatima, considering her words. ‘Maybe, though perhaps it’s not so much that I’ve never forgotten him as that I’ve never forgotten the experience.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Sofia sat back on her haunches, hands resting on her knees in front of the box she had been unpacking. ‘I was in a strange place at a strange time and he was part of that. Does that make sense?’
‘I think so. I also think perhaps you love him,’ Fatima offered, returning to her box. She could see her question had disturbed Dr Sofia. They had never strayed into such territory. She watched as the woman she had fallen in love with searched deep inside her for an answer.
‘He’s part of a memory of a time I loved, and perhaps, in that way, it felt like I loved him, but perhaps I don’t know him well enough to say that now. I think you have to know someone much better to know if it’s love rather than attraction, don’t you?’
Fatima sat back on the floor, crossing her legs, looking at Sofia. ‘No, I think you can love someone instantly.’
‘That’s what my father believes.’ Sofia abandoned the boxes to sit cross-legged on the floor opposite Fatima, their knees almost touching. ‘I have something I need to tell you and I don’t know how to say it.’
‘Then perhaps it’s not meant to be said,’ offered Fatima, afraid of what she was about to hear.
‘I can’t come back here anymore. It’s become too dangerous for all of us: me, you, Tawfiq and Rashid and the women. It means I won’t be able to finish their training. I’m sorry.’
In those few seconds Fatima understood that she would have preferred it if Dr Sofia had confessed her love for the man rather than this. But she could see how hard this decision had been for her and she was not about to cause her more pain. Leaning forward, Fatima took both of Sofia’s hands in hers, feeling how delicate and strong they were. It was, she thought, the first time they had touched like this. She let Sofia’s hands go to place her palm on Sofia’s cheek, her heart aching as Sofia leaned into it, covering Fatima’s hand with her own. This was what lovers do, she thought, but they would never be lovers.
‘This is a wise decision, I think,’ Fatima said, forcing a smile. ‘Of course, the women will be disappointed, but they’ll understand.’
‘But listen, there’s a possibility that the woman from MSF who’s coming tomorrow might have someone here in Kandahar who can continue their training.’ As Sofia told her about Clementine and her interest in the group, Fatima withdrew her hand. Seeing Sofia with the doctor had been difficult, but the idea she would never see her again was worse – much, much worse.
In her bed that night, Fatima carefully began unwrapping her grief. Never again would she shop with Sofia in the markets, never again would they return to her kitchen to share their evening meal like lovers, never again would she be able to watch Sofia work with the women, and never again would she be able to make her memory pictures of the woman she loved above all others. Whatever she had now, and whatever she could make in the morning, would be all she would ever have of Sofia.
This is life, Fatima told herself. What more should she expect?
* * *
THE FULL CONTINGENT of midwives numbered twelve, but because the commitment to the group was an extra burden on their already overburdened lives, there was rarely full attendance. On the mornings they were to meet, each woman needed to rise early to finish her work for the day in the home or gardens.
That morning, eight women, their chadors and burqas discarded in a tangled heap by the door, were sitting on the floor drinking tea and eating sweet biscuits, babies resting in laps and small children playing at their feet. Nearly all the women were young mothers, and in this regard the group was no different to any other Sofia had worked with before. The traditional village dai, who had probably practised village midwifery since she was little more than a child herself, was not interested in a young Western woman telling her how she should do her job.
The exception had been Atiqa, who had turned up to one of Sofia’s midwife groups in the north of Afghanistan declaring she was there to learn. In a country where the average life expectancy is sixty years or less, at around fifty years old, Atiqa was considered extremely old. Her withered body had been racked and broken through sixteen full-term pregnancies; six had not survived birth and three had not passed their second birthdays. Atiqa’s eyes were deep holes sunk in a face as chiselled as the mountain passes, her back bent double through years of toil, and her skin as ancient as the land she came from, and yet Sofia could only see beauty. Her crinkly face was a map of a life lived full, her hands as elegant and expressive as a bird in flight, and her heart as deep and full as the great Amu Darya. When Sofia’s work with that particular group ended she had been grieved by the thought of never seeing Atiqa again.
‘You do not need to know the end of every story, little one,’ Atiqa had said gently, pinching Sofia’s cheek. ‘Our lives once crossed. That is enough in this life.’
Had Atiqa been right and would the fact that their lives once crossed be enough for these women? As she sat on the floor next
