‘The kitchen’s perfect and the flowers are especially lovely.’
‘You like?’ asked Behnaz in English.
Jabril had leaned over and whispered in Sofia’s ear. ‘You must be careful. If you show interest or compliment something an Afghan owns, they may think you want it and might feel they have to give it to you. On the other hand, the reverse is also true. If they compliment you on something you own, they may want it.’
Sofia had heard this from her refugee tutor and was only now beginning to see how it might be a problem. ‘Everything is perfect,’ she had offered. ‘Thank you so much and thank you, Dr Aziz, for recommending Mrs …’ Sofia stopped, unsure what to call her landlady.
‘Behnaz. We usually only use first names here in Afghanistan.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. Behnaz.’
Sofia had suspected she was not the tenant the dour-looking woman had been expecting. She later learned from Zahra that when Behnaz, who didn’t much like foreigners, had understood that her first tenant would be a young Australian doctor she had nearly reneged on the deal. With a great appreciation of Behnaz’s interest in money, Zahra had politely reminded her of the promise she had made to help her nieces and nephews back in the village and how Sofia’s afghanis would contribute handsomely to that cause.
When Behnaz stopped torturing the apron she had spoken in English again. ‘Is good?’
‘It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you … Behnaz.’
With such high praise her landlady’s face had lit up. It would take some time for Sofia to understand that Behnaz viewed life as a singularly unrewarding thick and murky soup one was forced to wade through. Laughing, being happy, making jokes were not part of the recipe. Behnaz’s smile was such a rare occurrence that Jabril had looked genuinely shocked.
‘I also want to thank you and your wife for organising all this for me, Dr Aziz.’
‘Jabril. You should call me Jabril.’
Sofia had been wondering what she should call her boss. She knew from the refugee that you normally referred to people by their title because a title opened doors and showed respect. People would be offended if you didn’t use their title.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, please. I lived in Boston long enough to find this normal.’
With the niceties finished they were down to the serious business of money. ‘Pay two thousand afghanis on Sunday and I clean. No men.’
‘I assure you, Behnaz, that Dr Sofia is not interested in bringing men here, although I believe you will not object to my presence from time to time as the need might arise?’
From the look on Behnaz’s face it looked like she might very well object to Dr Jabril’s presence.
‘I clean and shop on Monday. You cook. This is what Zahra arrange.’
‘Thank you, that will be fine, but there’s no need for you to clean or shop for me.’
‘Yes, clean. Okay, no shop. You still pay two thousand afghanis.’
‘Of course.’
‘I clean tomorrow.’
‘Really, there’s no need for you to clean tomorrow.’
‘Is Monday. I clean Monday.’
With all the rules and financial arrangements agreed to and her authority firmly established, Behnaz had left.
‘She is a very nice woman,’ Jabril had offered as they listened to her footsteps descending the stairs. Sofia didn’t think Jabril sounded too convinced of that. ‘My wife tells me her life has been hard. You’ll also find Behnaz’s husband, Chief Wasim, very nice, but you may also notice that although my friend might be the chief of police for all of Kabul, he is not always the chief of police in his own home.’ Jabril laughed at his joke. ‘These things don’t matter though. What matters is that you’re safe and happy in your new home.
‘This afternoon I’ll show you the surgery before taking you to meet my wife, who has invited you to dinner.’
* * *
JABRIL AND ZAHRA’S home, which was close to the square, was an extravagant two-storey affair with windows painted mauve flanked by bright green shutters, and a high white concrete wall with a large metal door shielding the courtyard from the street. Entering the home, they had ascended a curved staircase that led to a room so large it could have been the foyer of a small hotel.
With handmade silk and woollen Afghan rugs scattered across a white tiled floor, the room had a number of white leather lounges and matching poufs, while the ornate gold and marble coffee tables and brass side tables were heavy with vases of Afghan roses, bowls of sugared almonds, dried fruits and books. The wall directly opposite where they had entered boasted two impressively large arched floor to ceiling windows, regally framed by red velvet curtains tied back with elaborate gold tassels. Through an archway to the side Sofia saw a deeply carved baroque dining table with a set of high-backed velvet chairs matching the curtains. Over the table, which must have sat twenty people, were three enormous crystal chandeliers.
The walls of the lounge room were covered with rich tapestries threaded through with gold, interspersed with coloured family photos showing a young Jabril and Zahra and a boy and girl at various ages. Old black and white and ancient sepia photos of an Afghanistan that no longer existed filled what wall space was left. Sofia had stopped in front of one of the photos.
‘Where is this?’ she asked.
‘Ah,’ said Jabril, coming to stand beside her. ‘This is the Kherqa-ye Sharif in Kandahar where the cloak of Prophet Mohammad – peace be upon him – is kept. And this,’ he had said, turning to one of the photos of the children, ‘is our son, Jaweed, and our daughter, Salmar, who are both living overseas. Of course, they are much older now.’
Jabril had been about to say more when they heard a voice behind them.
‘Ah, you’re here.’
Sofia had turned to see a tall, slender woman walking toward her. With raven black hair, golden-brown eyes artfully smudged with kohl, and lips painted a brilliant magenta, Zahra was striking in a tight green
