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LOREN TEAGUE |
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novelist |
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Silk and Shadows A trickle of sweat ran down my back as I looked into the dark eyes of Kassim. I had left the road to wander in the bazaar, dazzled by the colours and assailed by pungent spices. After a few minutes I had become lost. Kassim offered his services as a guide. He said it would help him improve his English. He explained he would show me sights that I could not hope to see on my own, and that if I was a true traveller I would take up his offer. So while we wandered along the dirt lanes, he told me about his family. How he had been born outside the city of Kabul, and had four older brothers, all of them killed in the war. I offered to give him money, but he refused, looking offended at my suggestion. We walked on, surrounded by the low, stone buildings. Afghani music wailed from doorways while a donkey, hitched to a cart of figs, brayed in protest at its heavy load. Soon we came to a black iron gate. Kassim pushed it open. We entered a bricked courtyard, surrounded by palm trees and leafy ferns. A fountain arched into a green tinged pool. “We will stop here for a while,” he said softly. “For this is my dwelling.” I felt the brushing of his fingers at my elbow as he steered me to a seat. A woman swathed in black served us mint tea, her silver bracelets jangling as she laid the glasses on the rickety table. I watched Kassim pour the tea, then raise the glass to his lips. I told him why I was in Kabul. There was a significant lift of his eyebrows as if to say it was Allah’s will. I took in his high cheekbones and firm jaw that spoke of strength, and his black hair that hung to his shoulders. My heart lurched at the sensuality of his smile. Later, he led me into the marble tiled house to rest. A rosy glow from the sinking sun bathed the room in subtle shades of light. As I lay back against the rose scented sheets, he told me that he’d first seen me at the hotel. And that he’d heard that I was looking for him. It wasn’t true, of course. But Kassim had the gift of the storytellers, and I had mentioned I was looking for a man who could help me. He did more than that. Through the secret mountain routes we rode. We watched caravans as they weaved their way across the stony trails. In the camps, women carried their water in fat pots, while their men tended the fires. When it was time to leave, Kassim reached out, lacing my fingers with his own. “Turn your back on the west,” he urged, his breath warm against my cheek. In the courtyard that night, I threw my air ticket in the brazier, and Kassim handed me a silk veil. Published in The Leader, Nelson’s community newspaper, 24 May 2007 |
