child's back or to twist her soul?
I finally did find a shopboy who called out to us in good English and rattled off a list of exotic spices we must surely wish to buy.
The shopkeeper, haggard and with the collapsed mouth of the nearly toothless, might have been forty or seventy. He came out into the late-winter sunlight and waved his arms—the stumps of his arms—so that his sleeves flapped like flags.
I dropped my shades and pushed aside my shemagh to bare my face as a show of respect. Looking straight at him, I wished him a good afternoon and declared my hope his family would prosper in the coming spring, trusting the boy to translate. He did, with remarkable accuracy.
The man's grin exhibited six teeth so widely spaced and dark I couldn't see why he kept them. He bowed deeply, wishing me blessings and my sons enlightenment—the polite greeting for an unbeliever.
I remembered to wait for translation before I touched my heart and thanked him. I expressed my desire that fortune and wisdom fill his house, and could he please advise me as to where to purchase garden seeds, flowers and vegetables alike, such as my grandmother might plant.
The boy translated perfectly. I cocked an ear at him but kept my eyes on the shopkeeper; from what I'd heard on NPR, looking away from the man I was supposedly speaking to would be rude.
Oscar remained silent behind me. Big surprise.
The boy translated suspiciously well.
Maybe not suspiciously well. He probably had learned his first English the way I'd learned my first Russian, but while my father had taken us out of Kabul quickly enough I forgot my Russian vocabulary, this boy was still surrounded by people who wanted to speak English.
So it wasn't necessarily suspicious. Then again, I'd always been told a healthy dose of suspicion is the best way for a Pakhtun to stay healthy.
The shopkeeper bowed from the neck again and again. “You speak to me like a man, and so I tell you as a man, do not go to Fat Ali, for he will sell a feranghi only that which is old or broken. Short Mohammed has a stall in a place very safe for feranghi to go, but has few seeds. Stuttering Mohammed has many, many seeds—fat and fresh and ready to burst forth with life as God wills, but his prices are very dear. Also, I am devastated to say it, but his shop is in a zone forbidden to the unbelievers."
And here I had to pretend to be an unbeliever. I flicked a glare at Oscar, but he looked back impassively.
I bowed to the shopkeeper. “Please understand, I would risk stoning to bring my grandmother that which she might otherwise never see. However, would it be possible to send a messenger to Stuttering Mohammed, whether with euros, dollars, or rupees, to see what might be so obtained? The messenger's efforts of course deserve compensation.” Ah, no—the kid's translation stumbled on the flowery language. “I mean that the messenger's work of course deserves payment."
The wind picked up suddenly, gusting, and he paused to study the sky. Then he bowed, “The boy would be delighted to do this very small thing for you. Please allow him the exercise in manners, for the day has been long, and I fear his attention wanders."
I handed the boy six euros and a ten-dollar bill. “Your generosity reflects well on your ancestors, sir. Please ask the boy to go there and select many kinds of flowers and such vegetables and herbs as might please an old woman. No poppies. We would have trouble should our...uh...elders find us with poppy seeds."
Regardless, my grandmother jealously guarded the purity of her personal strain of poppies, which had blue petals and a generous yield of seeds.
The boy's eyes glittered, his pupils dilating, and the man snarled at him to guard his face. The kid flushed and bowed with his hand over his heart, dutifully translating what I'd said. Then he stood respectfully while the man repeated my instructions back to him, along with admonitions to go directly to his uncle and bring back
I finally did find a shopboy who called out to us in good English and rattled off a list of exotic spices we must surely wish to buy.
The shopkeeper, haggard and with the collapsed mouth of the nearly toothless, might have been forty or seventy. He came out into the late-winter sunlight and waved his arms—the stumps of his arms—so that his sleeves flapped like flags.
I dropped my shades and pushed aside my shemagh to bare my face as a show of respect. Looking straight at him, I wished him a good afternoon and declared my hope his family would prosper in the coming spring, trusting the boy to translate. He did, with remarkable accuracy.
The man's grin exhibited six teeth so widely spaced and dark I couldn't see why he kept them. He bowed deeply, wishing me blessings and my sons enlightenment—the polite greeting for an unbeliever.
I remembered to wait for translation before I touched my heart and thanked him. I expressed my desire that fortune and wisdom fill his house, and could he please advise me as to where to purchase garden seeds, flowers and vegetables alike, such as my grandmother might plant.
The boy translated perfectly. I cocked an ear at him but kept my eyes on the shopkeeper; from what I'd heard on NPR, looking away from the man I was supposedly speaking to would be rude.
Oscar remained silent behind me. Big surprise.
The boy translated suspiciously well.
Maybe not suspiciously well. He probably had learned his first English the way I'd learned my first Russian, but while my father had taken us out of Kabul quickly enough I forgot my Russian vocabulary, this boy was still surrounded by people who wanted to speak English.
So it wasn't necessarily suspicious. Then again, I'd always been told a healthy dose of suspicion is the best way for a Pakhtun to stay healthy.
The shopkeeper bowed from the neck again and again. “You speak to me like a man, and so I tell you as a man, do not go to Fat Ali, for he will sell a feranghi only that which is old or broken. Short Mohammed has a stall in a place very safe for feranghi to go, but has few seeds. Stuttering Mohammed has many, many seeds—fat and fresh and ready to burst forth with life as God wills, but his prices are very dear. Also, I am devastated to say it, but his shop is in a zone forbidden to the unbelievers."
And here I had to pretend to be an unbeliever. I flicked a glare at Oscar, but he looked back impassively.
I bowed to the shopkeeper. “Please understand, I would risk stoning to bring my grandmother that which she might otherwise never see. However, would it be possible to send a messenger to Stuttering Mohammed, whether with euros, dollars, or rupees, to see what might be so obtained? The messenger's efforts of course deserve compensation.” Ah, no—the kid's translation stumbled on the flowery language. “I mean that the messenger's work of course deserves payment."
The wind picked up suddenly, gusting, and he paused to study the sky. Then he bowed, “The boy would be delighted to do this very small thing for you. Please allow him the exercise in manners, for the day has been long, and I fear his attention wanders."
I handed the boy six euros and a ten-dollar bill. “Your generosity reflects well on your ancestors, sir. Please ask the boy to go there and select many kinds of flowers and such vegetables and herbs as might please an old woman. No poppies. We would have trouble should our...uh...elders find us with poppy seeds."
Regardless, my grandmother jealously guarded the purity of her personal strain of poppies, which had blue petals and a generous yield of seeds.
The boy's eyes glittered, his pupils dilating, and the man snarled at him to guard his face. The kid flushed and bowed with his hand over his heart, dutifully translating what I'd said. Then he stood respectfully while the man repeated my instructions back to him, along with admonitions to go directly to his uncle and bring back
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