Allure of Deceit Page 3

  Parsaa studied the light until it moved out of sight and wondered about a woman who had been his closest friend in childhood and why a traveler headed to the compound so late at night.

  The late crop of wheat took on a golden glow in the morning light, ready for harvest, and the wind pushed at the strands in gentle waves. The men of Laashekoh scattered throughout the small field to cut the stalks away. The young boys followed in the men’s footsteps, gathering and tying the strands into bundles before moving them into storage.

  The field was large enough to provide the village with bread for the winter, but some villagers wanted to expand the boundaries. Parsaa reluctantly agreed, though he worried about the vagaries of weather and human nature. The villagers could invest long hours in the new field, and a sudden windstorm or drought would destroy a large harvest overnight.

  The small field had thrived under the attention of many. More wheat to sell, more money for the village, would mean less attention for the crops.

  The field was edged by rocks and bramble bushes, and as Parsaa approached, a gray sar-khorak trilled before going quiet. The bird waited patiently for the humans to disturb the creatures that dug holes throughout the field and stole grain. Parsaa did not let up swinging the scythe, carving gentle arcs into the field, the wheat falling in line on either side, while keeping his eyes on the shrike. Suddenly, the bird dove into a nearby section of uncut wheat and emerged with a plump mouse. Clamping its beak tight, the shrike returned to the edge area. Once there, the bird took careful aim and impaled the mouse against a long thorn. Stepping back, the shrike leisurely pecked at its writhing meal.

  With every swing of the blade, Parsaa was a co-conspirator. He tried to focus on etching crescent patterns onto the field, rather than disrupting routines and driving small creatures to their death.

  Someone shouted his name from the other side of the field long before the midday meal. A few women waved their arms, signaling the men to return to the village center. Other men had already hurried away from the field.

  A moan from the east turned into a growl and then a roaring chopping noise. A helicopter approached, its blades beating the air. Parsaa stared upward as the machine circled overhead, sweeping dangerously close to the village and kicking up stinging dust. Women and men held on to head covers. The machine backed away and tried another pass over Laashekoh before slowing and dropping out of sight to land in the river valley below.

  The children of Laashekoh waited near the stone wall, leaping, waving, and pointing below. Ahmed shouted for his wife to prepare hot water for tea.

  Parsaa glanced back at the shrub, where part of the mouse still dangled. The bird had abandoned its meal, hiding in a nearby tree and waiting for the noise to end. Predators could become prey, too.

  The villagers had hoped to complete the harvest before sunset, and Parsaa regretted walking away from the field. His clothes were covered with dust and bits of stalk, and his skin itched. His wife hurried to his side, handing over a damp rag, and together they walked to the wall.

  “Are the Americans returning?” Sofi asked.

  Wiping the grit from his face, he shook his head. “Not the soldiers. This helicopter is too small, and they would not have flown over the village.”

  She looked disappointed and he teased her. “They will climb the hill like everyone else, and you’ll know soon enough who they are.”

  And what they want from us, he thought to himself.

  Two foreign women with loose headscarves stepped through the village gate, followed by a nervous young man. The three carried backpacks and panted from the climb. The tall, older woman led the group. Curls escaped her headscarf and framed a face lined with what must have been years of work in the sun.

  The other woman, stout and soaked in sweat despite the cool air, dropped her pack to the ground and sat on a mat by the fire. She pulled at her perahaan to keep it from sticking to her skin. A child handed over a mug with water, and the woman drank without pause.

  The older woman smiled at the circle of villagers. She crouched down to open one pack and extracted a small, fluffy toy. She offered the animal to the nearest child, but the little girl backed away. The woman pulled out another animal, cradling one in each hand. The youngest children stared at Parsaa, expecting a decision, and he directed Ahmed to examine the creatures.

  Typically, visitors checked with parents before distributing gifts, and Parsaa wondered how long the group had been in Afghanistan.

  Ahmed held a toy up, laughing. He asked if it was a dog or monkey.

  “Not any stuffed dog!” At last, the younger woman caught her breath and used Dari. “Gund Boo—and all are brand-new.” She explained that there should be enough gifts for all the village children.

  “Boo!” the older woman shouted. Curious children huddled around the woman while the older boys stood back with the men.

  Parsaa didn’t understand most of what she said, and not because the woman’s Dari was rough. Ahmed’s wife snapped orders. The children could accept the gifts, she directed, but must wait and follow the visitor’s instructions. Then she added sternly, “Only children whose parents are here and approve.”

  Village parents typically did not mind strangers distributing a few sweets or toys. Such occasions were rare, and the boundaries were clear. Children could not expect their parents to provide similar gifts. But these gifts were more for the visitors’ pleasure. The tall one beamed, moving about like a nervous songbird, pushing her hair underneath the headscarf and rubbing the skin along her neck and near her eyes. Her perahaan was stiff, probably new, and instead of traditional pants, she wore jeans that were increasingly available in the markets. The clothes made scratching noises with every move.

  He had heard about such women, impatient and sure, unaccustomed to hearing no.

  The woman plucked the animals from the pack and held them out high before handing them over. Suddenly, the man aimed a cell phone at the group.

  “Ne!” Ahmed rushed forward to block a photograph.

  The villagers had agreed long ago. They did not want images of their children leaving the village.

  His companion, the tall woman, shouted in anger, and the young man dropped his arm. She confiscated the phone, tapping buttons before placing it in her pocket. The younger woman apologized. “He should not have tried taking a photograph without asking permission.”

  The older woman pointed to the gate, and the man left the village without a word. Only then, the women introduced themselves, but the names did not register for Parsaa. He did not ask the women to repeat the muddle of harsh English vowels that sounded like noises made by insects during a hot summer night. Instead he thought of the two as Bacha and Pir, young and old.

  The women explained that they ran an orphanage, but Bacha’s tone was strange, almost gleeful. “We are based in Kabul, and do not distribute used or old goods.” She shouted as if trying to convince the whole village. “We love children and are here to help them!”

  She suggested the region was a troubled place, but that ­Laashekoh could help nearby villages and even cities. Parsaa tried to follow the conversation, but the children were rowdy—the boys tossing the animals about like balls, the girls giggling as they rubbed the fur against their cheeks.

  Bacha used the end of her head cover to wipe her brow and spoke in slow Dari. “We work with an organization in Kabul. Hope for Children. And we can help you.”

  Typically, Parsaa waited and listened. But he had to correct her swiftly. Otherwise, the women would press on with whatever plans they had for Laashekoh. The strangers were too brash, and that was not good for the village children to see.

  He held his hand up. “But we don’t need help.”

  The woman rushed to speak. “But we have read about your village. We heard about children in need of our care.”

  Parsaa was firm. “You are thinking of another village. For now, we drink tea and do not discuss such matters in front of our children.”

  A
group of children delivered hot water and tea leaves, a tray with cups, warm bread, sliced apples, and goat’s milk. One of the girls was Thara, whose parents no longer lived in the village. She lived with Ahmed and Karimah, who cared for her. Like other children in Laashekoh, the girl was well fed.

  The village needed no help from outsiders. Surely, the strangers would lose interest and leave Laashekoh alone.

  The visitors whispered among themselves and accepted plates of food. The women reached for the milk. Bacha took gulps, and Pir made a comment, followed by a laugh. Parsaa worried that the milk was sour and tried some. The milk tasted fine.

  Pir drained her cup and asked for more. Ahmed poured and politely asked where the women were from. Bacha answered at once: “America.”

  Pir spoke up. “Tex-is.” Bacha repeated the word slowly, “Tex-is.” She asked if the villagers had heard of the place.

  Ahmed shook his head, and Pir chided her partner. Bacha quickly chewed her naan and swallowed. “Can the women join us, too?”

  Parsaa and Ahmed were not surprised, and Ahmed immediately waved for the wives to join the gathering. Before leaving, American soldiers once stationed in a nearby outpost had warned the village to expect more foreign visitors.

  “Charity workers will travel all over Afghanistan and soon find Laashekoh,” the soldier had confided. “Most aid workers mean well and will abide by your wishes. But others . . .” His voice had drifted off, as if he did not know how to explain.

  Parsaa had found it difficult to believe that people thousands of miles away wanted to donate money for a village they had never seen.

  “Some work outside the cities to avoid the government inspections,” the soldier had explained. “They collect money and take advantage of generous hearts, but use the larger share for their own benefit. They talk about need in Afghanistan to collect more funds and keep their own jobs. Others are looking for adventure, fame . . .”

  The soldier was firm, warning Parsaa to check the offers closely. “Do not sign documents that you do not understand.”

  The soldier had also advised that such encounters would go more smoothly if the men included village women in the meetings. “Especially if the visitors are women,” he added. “I understand it’s not your way, but including more villagers can discourage the most persistent. Women have little choice but to accept the answers of other women.”

  The two women were more controlling than the soldier had described, and Parsaa hoped that the American soldier was right. Karimah chased the children away from the meeting, still muttering about how the gifts should have been left near the gate.

  The two visitors smiled, and yet they had a way of passing their gaze over the wives as if the women couldn’t possibly make decisions. Pir and Bacha knew who was in charge and kept their eyes on Parsaa. In turn, Parsaa studied Pir.

  American women were used to getting their way. Parsaa didn’t know what the two wanted, but he was patient.

  The story slowly unwound. Bacha explained that they had heard news reports about a group of traffickers intercepted nearby while transporting children from small Afghan villages to Pakistan. “We offer rewards for villages that turn over children in need of care,” she said. “We take them off your hands and provide them with a safe home.”

  Parsaa put his cup down and expressed his regret that the women had traveled so far on a misunderstanding. The village had already handled the matter. “We returned the children to their families. The American soldiers helped.” The visitors need not know that a few children without parents remained in the village.

  Bacha’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “A shame.”

  “Not at all.” Parsaa kept his voice stern. “The children have parents, brothers, aunts and uncles, communities.”

  The two women murmured. The exchange sounded like arguing. Quickly, Bacha switched back to Dari. “Do you think more children will pass through here?”

  “We hope not,” Parsaa replied. “Children belong in their villages with families.”

  Bacha rushed to talk about family planning, supporting children in need of homes, finding guardians and working with a sharia family court that reviewed all placements. Then she raised her voice, an effort to make Parsaa understand. Or perhaps she wanted the entire village to hear. “We agree with you. Though sometimes parents cannot care for their children, and some children are happier in an orphanage. There are benefits you cannot imagine! And we offer generous rewards. Finder fees.” She asked if the village wanted to partner with the group.

  Once again, Parsaa remembered advice from the soldier. End tiresome visits with the briefest of responses. Sign no documents. He simply offered more tea and milk.

  “My friend worries about children trapped in unhappy places, neglected and unwanted,” Bacha said.

  “That is not the case here.” The women of Laashekoh nodded.

  Pir offered a comment in English and kept her eyes on Parsaa. Then she pointed to the river and Bacha translated. “No one in sight for as far as the eye can see. My friend says she feels as if she fell into a painting.”

  The two women pressed on with questions for the village women. Karimah and Sofi followed Parsaa’s lead and kept their answers short. Then the visitors asked about the history of Laashekoh. Parsaa didn’t want to answer the question in front of other villagers. He was the only one in the village who understood the entanglements and promises made over the years, and he waved his hand to dismiss the question.

  Bacha pressed, asking about property ownership, whether ­Laashekoh was owned as a collective or by individual families. Parsaa was vague. “The village settled with the permission of a tribal chief.”

  “But the agreement was with you, Parsaa? Before 1995?”

  “A village is not about one man,” he said softly. Questions about the land in Laashekoh made him nervous. The woman already seemed to know the answers though none of the villagers, even his wife, knew of the true arrangements.

  Bacha continued posing questions as Pir stood, pacing back and forth, gazing toward the river and mountains.

  “My friend likes you very much, and our organization would like to help this village. We receive many donations, and a major donor has taken notice of our work.” She paused, as if realizing the explanation might be too much, too fast. “We could do more. So many families were displaced by the war—especially children.”

  “We have been fortunate,” Parsaa said. “Allah willing.” He wanted the questions to stop, but he also wanted the women to understand. Laashekoh did not need help.

  “We are in need of local partners. You could help us, and we would pay you. The donors want Afghans involved in the decision making.” She reached inside her pack and extracted papers. Forms for a partnership. “All you need to do is sign. We would handle most matters in the city. We would run ideas by you. Or, not bother you much at all.”

  Parsaa shook his head. The village would not sign the forms. “Orphans are a family responsibility. Aunts and uncles in the village provide care and spiritual guidance.”

  Another sharp question came from Pir, the older woman. Bacha spoke more gently, asking if the village had help returning the children from the trafficking operation. He told her about the soldiers at the outpost, and she asked about Paul Reichart, an aid worker.

  “He’s from GlobalConnect,” Bacha said flatly. She asked if Paul had handled property matters for the children or village.

  “He helped return children to their families.” Parsaa was curt and hid his puzzlement. “There was no property.”

  She pleaded with him, explaining her group had access to funding, too. “Has Paul told you how much money is available for villages like yours?”

  Parsaa pointed out that the villagers did not discuss money with Paul. Bacha glanced at her colleague and spoke softly. Then she shook her head. “You are making a mistake.”

  “It should not be easy for Afghan families to give up their children.” Parsaa stood and asked if the
women worked with Paul.

  “Not yet,” Bacha said, adding that they were trying to arrange a meeting with him. He was supposed to provide contacts. “But he doesn’t want others working in this area.” In the meantime, the women were assisting children of women serving prison sentences. “One of the women is from Laashekoh,” she added. “Leila?”

  At hearing the name, the other villagers were no longer restless and listened closely. Sofi, his wife, made a small choking noise, and leaned against Karimah. Leila, the daughter of his dearest and lifelong friend who had since died. Her delayed marriage had disrupted the village. A woman whose beauty was destroyed overnight with an acid attack even as her marriage contract was under negotiation. She, along with her parents and husband, had helped organize a trafficking ring, shipping children to Pakistan.

  Leila had also shoved his oldest son off a cliff the night before Ali was supposed to leave for school.

  Parsaa didn’t stop the woman, though he didn’t want to listen.

  “She has an attorney who advises her, and they have welcomed our support. Leila’s attorney advised us that there were too many girls here for a small village to handle.”

  The woman referred to “girls,” not Leila’s sisters who were being raised by village families. A relief. Sofi would be panicked about losing Komal, the youngest of the sisters. But Leila had already been convicted and was in prison. She had no claim and couldn’t know how the villagers felt about her sisters. Parsaa didn’t understand her need for an attorney. He wanted to shout, explain how Leila deserved no assistance or comfort, but instead he moved close to Bacha and kept his voice low. Only Ahmed, Sofi, and Karimah could hear. “Have you spoken with Leila?”

  Bacha was eager and did not wait for Pir. “Do you know her? We are not allowed near her. Not yet. Her attorney describes her as a hero. She was trying to rescue the children and give them a better future.”