End of Manners (30 page)

“Yes, of course, butterflies. Quite right.” Hanif nodded energetically and laughed. “And when I saw her eyes,” he added.

“Her eyes?”

“Yes. Green. Like those of a cat.”

“Was that all it took?”

He nodded.

“We say, if a man feels, then a man
knows.
”

At the entrance to the Rabia Balkhi Hospital was a sign with a drawing of what looked like a toy gun crossed out and the warning “No Arms Inside.”

I followed Hanif along the corridors and we quickly went through the maternity unit, which smelled of Lysol. Voices and noises boomed with a strange echo, like eerie submarine sounds.

I saw a shoeless woman in an apron hosing what looked like sheets stuffed inside aluminum tubs. The water that spilled onto the floor was stained with blood.

Hanif motioned for me to take a seat on a bench in the corridor together with some other women.

“Please sit down. I’ll be right back,” he said.

The women’s heads were covered and only some of them had coats and closed shoes in that freezing temperature. For the most part, they were wearing plastic slippers on their bare feet and thin cotton clothing. Their children at their necks, they clutched plastic thermoses and parcels of home-cooked food they had brought for their relatives. They squeezed in to make room for me, startled by my presence. I smelled spices, kitchen smoke and sweat on their skin and felt their eyes boring through me, checking my clothes, my heavy boots, my bare head. I felt it was too late to pull up my scarf, I would’ve felt awkward doing it then, but I wished I’d thought about doing it earlier. I took the book out of my bag so they could spy on me in peace.

I could feel them pushing gently in on both sides, very gradually regaining possession of the space they had given up to me. They all looked at me, some of them pointing and whispering to one another. Obviously they wanted me to be part of the group and were disappointed to see me read. One of them patted me on the shoulder and offered me a cup of steaming green tea she had poured from a thermos. Now they all stared at me, encouraging me to drink. I smiled and said,
“Tashakor,”
thank you. They nodded, some laughed, covering their blackened teeth with their hands. I drank a few sips then returned the glass, signaling that I’d had enough. This seemed to make them happy.

An elderly nurse in a white coat opened the glass door to the ward. She gestured towards us with her hand—it was visiting hour at last—and the women gathered their things, rearranged the babies in the blankets, huddled together with their tiffins, children, baskets and thermoses. They turned to look at me, waiting for me to follow, but I waved, as if to say that I was fine where I was, not to worry about me. They waited for a few seconds, then, seeing that I kept shaking my head, they moved off, disappointed, perhaps, to be losing their new object of interest so soon.

“There’s a big problem now.”

Hanif slumped onto the bench next to me. There was a new heaviness about him. I quickly put my book away.

“My wife needs a transfusion, but in this hospital they do not have her blood type.”

“They don’t?”

“No. She has Rh-negative”

Hanif looked at his watch.

“What can we do? Unfortunately, I’m not Rh-negative, otherwise I’d…” I wanted to have a brilliant idea, suggest something that would save the day, but I couldn’t think what.

“Oh, no, please. That is not necessary, but thank you. I have to go and look for it at the other hospital because they don’t have a blood bank here. The doctor told me I might find it there.”

“Okay, then let’s go.”

I stood up, gathered my things.

Hanif hesitated for a moment, scratched his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Perhaps is best I go. And pehaps you can…well, maybe you could stay with my wife so that, if something happens…I don’t know, in case there’s an emergency, at least you can call me. You know, men are not allowed into the wards.”

“What do you mean they aren’t?”

“No. Out of respect for the other women. Only in critical situation men are allowed to be with them. In the final moments the doctors will let them. And they can enter to collect the remains, of course.”

He said this with a strange detachment, as if this were just another custom of the country that he was explaining to a foreigner.

“Of course, absolutely. I’ll stay, it’s not a problem.”

“Her mother and her sister are on their way by bus from Peshawar. My sister is at the doctor’s today and our neighbor will come later. So right now there’s no woman from the family who can stay here. I’ll be as quick as I can, I’ll go and come straight back.”

“It’s fine, really, don’t worry.”

I switched on my mobile and turned it towards him, miming a connection between our two phones. Hanif nodded, and smiled back.

“All set. Now if anything happens, we’re in touch,” I said, holding up my phone.

As I sat outside her room, keeping watch over her, it struck me as inexcusable that I’d never asked him her name before.

Hanif had led me through the stairs on the second floor into another ward, where his wife was. I had peeked behind the plastic curtains that shielded the overcrowded rooms, stealing glimpses of rusty iron furniture, chipped tiles on walls, bodies bundled in sheets. There were two women to a bed, with their heads at opposite ends, dozing.

“That’s Leyla.”

She had a room all to herself. Hanif had pointed her out to me from the corridor. It looked as if it was some kind of emergency room, outfitted with obsolete equipment.

I had taken a seat on a bench in the corridor, right outside her room. The door was ajar and I could see her perfectly from where I was. She had an IV tube in her arm with a bluish liquid flowing into it. Behind her, hanging on the wall, was a chipped oxygen tank. I had a feeling the machinery and the equipment didn’t work but just sat there gathering dust. The room, like the rest of the hospital, was freezing.

I’d been sitting there for almost an hour when my cell rang. Imo’s number appeared on the display.

“Maria! I just read your text! This is unbelievable. Can you get on the next flight out? I just rang Pierre, he’s going to take care of it from his end, tell me if there’s anything I—”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Really. It’s okay.”

I told her where I was and about Leyla. I tried to sound calm and unaffected by what was happening.

“Darling, I’m going to make sure you get on that plane. They will fly you back on business. Whatever it takes. Don’t worry, I’m right on top of this, everyone is.”

“Okay, okay, don’t worry. I’m fine. I really am.”

“You’re such a trouper.”

I laughed.

“I’m not, actually. You should see this hospital. I’m sitting across from this sign that says ‘Laura Bush Maternity Ward.’ Next to it there’s a sink clogged with filthy water, the window has a shattered pane, pipes are leaking onto the floor, it’s just appalling.”

“Great. Take a picture.”

“I already did. Did you have that bottle of red wine and all the rest?”

“Yes.” I heard a chuckle. “Lots of all the rest.”

“Okay, then,” I said conclusively. I didn’t want her to spend a fortune on this call, even though her phone bill probably counted as expenses.

“Wait. Don’t rush off,” she said. “Guess what? I’m going to pitch a couple of stories out of Afghanistan to my editor at the
Times
magazine. If they like the Roshan idea we may have to go back in right away.”

I smiled. Despite the fact that all I wanted at that moment was to board a plane and be homebound, the idea that she was serious about us working together soon cheered me up.

“Maria? Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Yes, I can. Yes, you were saying about the
Times
magazine.”

“I’m going to pitch that and the one about opium licenses. I’m going later today.”

“You’re mad.”

“No, I’m not. Just manic. Are you game?”

I paused. She was serious.

“Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

“Wonderful. I just wanted to make sure I could count on you.”

It felt good to be listening to her voice again. It reminded me how the atmosphere Imo created wherever she went, that always surrounded her like a room spray, had a much lighter, safer quality than the world I inhabited, especially at that moment. I realized I didn’t want to end the phone call because I needed a bit more of that precious scent.

Visiting hours were over, but no one had come to tell me I had to leave, so I didn’t move from the bench outside Leyla’s room. I kept waiting for Hanif to return from the other hospital and tried to go back to reading my book. Yet it was hard to concentrate on a story, a voice, sitting there, with the thought of Leyla lying in that bed right across from me. She seemed so much weaker and sicker than I had expected her to be. In the time that I had been sitting out there, no one had come to check on her. I couldn’t figure out whether she had been forgotten—I wouldn’t even know whom to ask—so I lifted my eyes from the book and tiptoed over to her bed.

I leaned over and looked at her closely.

Hanif hadn’t exaggerated: she was exquisite. She had very white skin, smooth, almost translucent. Her mouth pale, fleshy; a shadow of down over her top lip. Beneath the closed eyes, two dark, almost purple crescents that underscored the pallor of her face. Some auburn locks had strayed from her headscarf and covered her cheekbones and I delicately pushed them aside with the tip of my finger. She didn’t stir. Her body seemed very small, almost bony, save for her round, full, pregnant belly.

I was hoping she’d open her eyes so I could see them too, those cat-green eyes Hanif had described. I would’ve liked her to see me, so that I could smile, squeeze her hand, tell her that everything was okay, her husband was coming back soon. That everything was going to be all right with the baby.

At first I wasn’t quite sure why I did this, but I took my digital Leica out of my bag. As I pointed it at her I realized what an aggressive gesture it was in this situation. And yet I couldn’t help myself; I had this urgent need—at last alone, nobody stopping me, no fear of offending her—to see her up close through my lens.

Now her skin was perfectly in focus; I could make out the tiny pores. What I saw wasn’t just her flawless complexion but a face that was losing heat and color and was becoming more and more remote, otherworldly, because of what was leaving her. Leyla didn’t appear to be suffering, or even sleeping, for that matter. She looked as if she had withdrawn into some deep recess, as though this were merely her vacated body, smooth and cold as a beautiful statue lying on a marble bed. Suddenly I felt a new determination, as if this photo was the most important one of all, the one I’d be ready to risk anything for. I don’t think I realized it just then, but what pushed me to capture her image was probably my sense that she was slipping away. I wanted to retrieve her somehow.

I pressed the shutter release. She didn’t open her eyes. I did it again. And again. I ran my hand over her shoulder. I let it rest on her skin. It felt cold, stiff, so I pulled the covers up. But the feeling of that coldness lingered on my fingers.

I ran out to find someone, hoping they could reassure me, someone who would tell me that everything was under control, that there was nothing to fear. As I walked the deserted corridor, hearing the wailing of newborn babies filtering from the rooms, doors slamming, footsteps quickening, metallic cabinet doors creaking, as I went in the direction of these sounds in search of someone who would reassure me that, really, I needn’t worry about her, I was assailed by a frightening thought: while I had been holding the lens so close to Leyla’s face I hadn’t even checked to see whether she was actually still breathing.

Everything dilated and softened as in a dream. The corridors stretched, they became infinite, just like those in nightmares. I went into the rooms looking for a nurse, an orderly, and yet all I could see was women sleeping, their breath heavy and stale. They all looked abandoned to me, like bodies piled up one on top of the other. As I went in and out, in and out, opening and closing doors, I realized how this situation was deadly serious. How hopeless. How could I have ignored the pallor, the temperature of Leyla’s body? Everything had been telling me what I wanted to ignore. Life was rapidly flowing out of her. I couldn’t figure out what would be the right thing to do: whether it was more urgent to go on searching for help throughout that frozen labyrinth, or to stay close to her. Suddenly, the fact that I had left her alone seemed terrible. I thought of Obelix. How I had held his hand till the end. I couldn’t bear that I had abandoned her.

I tried to ring Hanif, but a mechanical voice in Dari told me he was out of range. But even if I had reached him, what else could he do, other than what he was doing already? As I strode back to Leyla’s room, I came across a woman with bare feet in a green plastic apron. I pointed to Leyla’s door and shouted, “Doctor, doctor!” The woman nodded and moved away, but I didn’t know whether she had understood that she had to go and get someone.