Lie Girl

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The drive from Shangla district to Mansehra was ugly. Except for a few rumblings of my stomach, my wildflowers may just as well have been lettuce.

"As it says in The Koran . . ." My papa quoted one of the verses he must have memorized to justify my marriage.

I doubted he quoted accurately, and my heart told me what he said was not what he believed. My father was not devout, and he was lax with his family. He prayed when it was convenient, rarely attended mosque, and didn't ask more of his wife and children. He was no scholar. And yet the rules were always there. The paths one couldn't stray from or avoid.

"Three wives," I finally said. "What does that make me?"

Papa had an answer, sort of. "Sinela, you'll be his fourth wife, that is true, but remember Allah said it is too much to demand from a husband he should mete out equal treatment to a young wife and to an old wife, to a healthy wife and to an invalid wife, and to a good-natured wife and to an ill-natured wife. Sinela, you are young and beautiful. You may be his fourth wife, but you'll be treated the best."

I wondered where my father got that. It surely was not Allah. "The best-treated dog," I said.

"He will treat you well, or I'll—" Papa gripped the steering wheel hard. His knuckles seemed to pop through his skin. But Papa was dreaming. He wasn't a tough guy. No strongman. He could hardly change a car tire without struggling.

"How could you and mama not tell me?"

"We had hoped . . ."

"Yes?"

"They might change their minds."

"When? When they saw me?"

"They might have thought you too thin, too . . ."

"Young? I'm thirteen, Abba. Of course I'm too young, too thin. Too everything." My eyes watered. The road ahead shimmered and blurred. "This is wrong!"

"Respect, Sinela."

His shirt was wet even though the car was not hot. I could smell the anxiety and fear radiating from his body.

"This is not the kind of father you are," I said.

Papa coughed several times, but couldn't get out what was stuck. He put a handkerchief to his lips, coughed again and wiped.

My anger drained, for I loved him, and it hurt me to see him in distress. "Are you all right, papa?"

He nodded, but kept the cloth to his mouth.

We drove a few more miles, and then he said, "I should not have gone to work for them."

"Why did you, then?"

"Bills are to be paid. Food put on the table."

"There are many other jobs."

"I thought they were just businessmen. It's all buy and sell, they told me. Good, for me too. I don't go in for political stuff." "Unfortunately, that's what they liked about me. I'm no radical, that's for sure."

But forcing your daughter to marry an old man is not radical? My anger rose again, and I drew my arms tight to my chest.

"Yes, your papa could do things without suspicion." He laughed. "Even I didn't suspect what I was doing."

As I listened in silence, my stone face fixed on distant white peaks, my father explained what he did for the organization. He delivered packages, small and large, but he had no idea what was in them. He thought it might be, well, canned peaches or, or—fine cheese. They paid him well.

But after a while, Papa admitted, he began to see what was at the places he took the packages to. The men who hired him gradually introduced him to their real work, and my father became implicated in their activities. They'd accepted him as one of their own. Eventually he started delivering parcels to their leader: Sameer, who was not supposed to be in Pakistan. As I suspected, Sameer was not Pakistani, but my father knew no more, or at least did not reveal it. Everything about Sameer was a secret, and my father had become his courier.

Despite my distant attitude, I listened to his story.

Papa knew what he was doing was criminal and dangerous, but he was too frightened of them to get out of it. And one day, when he was nervously taking papers from his wallet to show Sameer, a family photograph fell at Sameer's feet. Before my father could pick it up, Sameer had the picture in his hands. He studied the image. This is not done in Pakistan. You don't show another man a picture of your wife or daughter. But Sameer didn't pretend not to see the women. He wanted to know if my father had any more photos of his eldest daughter.

My father saw danger immediately, but could he lie to this man? Despite his fear, Papa told Sameer a half-truth: he was a terrible photographer and would be embarrassed to bring other photos. Sameer praised my father for his modesty, but declared that he wanted to judge for himself. Twice my father came back empty handed, and twice Sameer pardoned him, but the second time, the rich man declared it was not now a request but a demand. My father brought more photographs, most of them from when I was younger, but that didn't matter, and made Sameer hungrier still. The arrangements began between the families, with one stipulation. Because they had only seen my photos, they needed to be sure they would be pleased with me in person.

Trembling, I drew my legs toward my chest, setting my heels on the seat. "And did you know he had three wives?" I asked.

"I would not choose that for you, daughter."

My eyes blurred and my voice was a whisper. "But you did."

"A man like me is limited."

"I refuse."

My father shook his head and muttered in two voices as if he were arguing with another. His brow furrowed, and he took a deep breath. "You can't refuse, Sinela. I don't have the power to refuse, either."

"I won't marry him."

"I'm sorry."

My tears flowed, and I tasted the salt on my lips as I pleaded, "Is there any way? Any way I don't have to?"

Papa made a fist. "A thousand times I've beaten my head, hoping to release an idea." He pressed his fist to his lips. "Nothing. Nothing."

"Can't we move away? Go someplace he can't find us?"

"He would consider it a betrayal, and he would find us. Then . . . " He shook his head and put his hand on my shoulder. "Sinela, you must promise me never to talk about that house. Not even where it is. Especially that."

Oh, Papa, how I would like the to erase the images of that house forever and with it, too, the images that brought me there. I made the promise, and then, watching trees multiply into a forest, I imagined ways to escape my fate.

Like a sudden breeze, it came to me.

My face would have to change.