ON THAT FIRST day they had worked together examining the children, with Sofia concentrating on the girls. The following day they had trekked to the lower village about an hour’s walk away, and by the end of that day she knew Daniel was right: midwifery could make a huge difference to the lives of the women and children. She just had to work out how to approach the women about this. Perhaps offering a quid pro quo deal: she’d teach them her skills and they could teach her their skills and natural remedies.
Late that afternoon Sofia had been sitting on the ground outside her hut enjoying the last of the day’s sun when two barefoot boys, their clothes and skin covered in thick layers of grime, came to sit in front of her. The youngest had a shaved head and a thick rope of snot streaming from his nose. The older boy was wearing a dirty grey rag that might once have been white tied around his head, and an old ripped suit jacket that fell below his knees. They had come to show Sofia their toys, two large wasps each tied with a length of string that they let free to fly in front of her face. While she had tried to look suitably impressed, she couldn’t help ducking each time a wasp flew too close. When she told the boys their toys were great, they looked at her for a few seconds before turning to each other and collapsing on the ground laughing. Sofia had no idea what she had said wrong but she was soon laughing with them.
Daniel, who had been sitting outside the mosque watching her and the boys, got up and made his way to them. ‘What’s happening?’
‘I think I said something stupid. Won’t you join me?’ Moving over, she had patted the ground next to her as the boys ran off.
After sitting in silence for some time she realised that Daniel had leaned his head back against the wall with his eyes closed. Taking the opportunity, she had examined his face. His skin was smooth and naturally dark, although she had seen the tan line on his arms when he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up as he worked. His black hair was probably due for a cut and the beard was a result of not shaving since he’d arrived in the village. With the angle of the setting sun, dark lashes were casting long shadows over his cheekbones.
‘I grew up in Marrakech,’ he had said. Although his eyes were still closed, she had the feeling he had known she’d been looking at him. ‘I spent a lot of time hanging out with our cook’s family in their village and the local kids tied wasps to pieces of string there too. What was it like growing up in Sydney?’
‘Well, we didn’t tie strings to wasps.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I read books, mostly.’
With his eyes still closed he had smiled. ‘That figures.’
She turned to look directly at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re the bookish type.’
‘I’m not sure how I’m supposed to take that.’
She watched his smile broaden. ‘It means you’re inquisitive and intelligent, both of which seem to be borne out by the fact that you’re here in a village hardly anyone knows or cares about on this crazy plateau in the Hindu Kush. Despite the fact that my mother is a writer, I didn’t read many books when I was young, so I’m impressed that’s the first thing you say about your childhood. It must have been important to you.’
Sofia leaned back against the hut. ‘I guess it was an escape. My mum died when I was twelve.’ She bit her bottom lip. She had no idea why she had told him that.
Daniel opened his eyes then and turned to look at her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ It wasn’t okay really, but she’d been saying it was for so long it was starting to sound like the truth.
‘What do you remember about her?’
Sofia slowly began pulling up pictures. ‘I remember how she loved me. How our family used to be before she died, and how she read to me and laughed a lot. I also remember how she always said I’d stolen her hair.’ She had turned toward him then. ‘I hated that.’ Leaning back against the wall, she watched the purple and pink of dusk beginning to fade. ‘When Mum died, Dad tried to make it better by telling me my hair was a special gift from her. He used to say that someday some man would fall in love with me because of my hair just like he’d fallen in love with my mum. Seriously?’ Sofia shook her head, as if talking to herself. ‘How could anyone possibly think that would be a good thing? Who wants someone to fall in love with you because of your hair?’
‘Better than falling in love with you because of your bank balance.’
‘Well, that’s never going to happen,’ she had said, laughing as she threw her head back, only to crack it against the rock wall of the hut. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Bending forward, Sofia had rubbed the back of her head. ‘Damn that hurt.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah,’ she had said, sitting up straight to look at him as she continued rubbing her head.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So why are you here, anyway?’
‘Are you my therapist, Daniel … Shit, I’ve forgotten your last name already,’ she said, still rubbing the bump.
‘Don’t worry, it’s a hard name to remember. You’ve obviously never been in therapy.’
‘And you have?’ she had fired back, regretting the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. ‘This ground’s a bit hard, isn’t it?’ she said, moving around to get more comfortable, hoping he’d forget what she had just said.
‘Trust me, this isn’t therapy. I’m just interested, that’s all.’
‘So are you asking what I’m doing here in the village specifically or in Afghanistan in general?’
‘Either. Both.’
‘I registered with an international medical agency doing overseas placements and a friend who worked for the agency told me about a job for a female doctor being advertised in Kabul and I applied.’
‘And here in this village specifically?’
‘Jabril – that’s the guy who hired me – thought it might be a good idea if I saw some of the country before I returned home, and I saw the article about your trip here in the paper so I contacted your office. You know the rest. How did you end up in this village?’ Sofia reached up, rubbing the bump on the back of her head again.
‘I’d passed through it years ago trekking in the mountains and always wanted to come back. Do you want me to have a look?’ he had asked, reaching out to feel the bump, their hands touching. ‘It’s a big one.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
He withdrew his hand. ‘How long have you been in Afghanistan?’
‘Nearly six months,’ she had said, changing position again, ‘and I’ve got no idea if I’m going to stay, if that’s your next question.’ It was a question Sofia had been asking herself since the day she arrived and she still didn’t have an answer. ‘This is definitely therapy.’
‘Come on,’ he had said, standing and holding out his hand to help her to her feet. ‘Therapy’s over. We’re having dinner with Mafuz tonight.’
* * *
ABOUT FIFTY METRES behind Sofia’s hut was Mafuz’s, which had the same mud and straw floor as Sofia’s only his was bigger – as would befit a headman – and lined with beautifully ancient and threadbare rugs. Along the walls woven cushions had been stacked atop neatly folded blankets, which were resting on the thin mats the family used for sleeping at night and sitting on during the day. With the only light entering the hut coming from two small windows high in the wall, Mafuz’s home was nearly as dark as Sofia’s storeroom.