“Absolutely. I wish parts of the Quran could be different. I wish it dictated equality between men and women, and I wish mixed-gendered friendships weren’t so restricted. Do I think it’s absurd that I shouldn’t take a walk on the beach with a girl? Take a day trip with her? Invite her to meet my parents without worry? Yes. Will I ever bend to desire or make a decision based on what I want, whatIthink is right, even if the Quran says differently?” Quietly, he answers his own question. “Probably.”
Our gazes collide. It’s momentary, but it initiates that familiar tug toward him.Intohim.
I refocus on the road, my heart thudding as I think about whathe’s said. Selfishly, I want him to bend to desire, but I don’t want to be responsible for making him violate the edicts of his faith.
“So if Muslims aren’t supposed to hang out with people of the opposite gender—theoretically,” I add pointedly, “how do they find the person they want to settle down with?”
“You mean marry?”
I move into the left lane to pass a crawling semi. “I guess, yeah.”
“In Afghanistan, marriages are usually matches made by parents. The arrangements are carefully considered, but not always based on whether the couple is compatible, or if they will eventually fall in love. The most important factor is often what each family will gain.”
“What does that mean?”
He sighs—not like he’s annoyed with my questions, but like he’s suddenly glum. I peek over at him and, yeah, he looks deflated. “My older sister is married to a traditionalist. He requires her to wear a burka when they’re in public—something she never would have done before the marriage. We’ve visited them in Ghazni a few times, and it’s frustrating, the way he treats her. He’s not violent or even cruel, but he doesn’t believe Leila should have any sort of independence. Still, the match was a smart move for my baba and for Leila’s husband’s baba; it was a link between tribes, one that made each stronger. The match made sense within the community, so it was done.”
“Your baba doesn’t care that your sister lives with a man who allows her no freedom?”
“He cares. But he has to think of the greater good. Leila’s happiness had to be a sacrifice.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know,” Mati says quietly. “Me, too.”
I drive on, feeling hollowed out and hopeless—I can’t imagine how he must feel. His sister, stuck in a presumably loveless marriage to a man who’s only with her because of tradition and tribal benefit. It seems so unfair—so archaic.
And then an even more disturbing realization hits me. I inhale a wobbly breath. “Mati… is that how marriage will be for you?”
His expression is solemn. So desperately, I want to take his hand. I want to wrap my fingers around his and squeeze until he knows he’s not alone. Instead, I steal glances as he chafes his palms against the denim of his jeans, unsettlingly anxious.
Finally, he lets his head fall back on the rest. It tips in my direction, his features wilted.
“It has to be.”
elise
We spend the remainder of the drive in silence. I’m lost in thought. Mati seems to be drifting in a similar haze.
His background, his culture, his religion… His differences make himhim. I’m as grateful for them as I am for our chance meeting and the unexplainable draw I feel whenever he’s in my vicinity. But at the same time, his differences are why he and I can never be more than passing friends. The sweeping disappointment I feel when I consider all the reasons we’ll never work and the hopelessness that overcomes me when I think about his imminent departure slow my pulse enough to leave me light-headed.
It’s a relief to arrive at the cemetery. I need fresh air. I need to move.
We leave the BMW in the mostly empty parking lot and make our way onto the grounds. The sky is clear, intensely blue, as it rarely is on the coast. Mati fiddles with his hat and I smooth my skirt as a breeze ripples by. I’m weirdly nervous, and I get the sense he is, too.
“Can we see my brother first?” I ask.
“Yes, please,” he says, reaching over to adjust the strap of my camera bag where it’s slipping from my shoulder. When it’s in place, he gives me a sheepish smile and tucks his hands into his pockets, where I hope they’ll stay. My heart does crazy things when they’re hovering over my skin.
“It’s strange having you here,” I confess as we walk down a path that bisects fields of emerald grass lined with row after row of white headstones. As unvaried as the scenery is, I know the way to Nick as well as I know the beach Bambi and I walk each morning. “I usually only come with Audrey and Janie, and I came with my father, once, shortly after the funeral. That’s it, though.”
“What about your mother?”
“She doesn’t visit. She says she prefers to remember Nicky in life, but I think the real reason is that being here hurts her too much.”
Mati sits with that a moment before saying, “You’ve never brought a friend?”
“My friend situation is… unusual. I detached after my brother died. It was hard to be around people who didn’t get it, and I was sad. And pissed. And kind of just… lost. I spent my time with Audrey and Janie, and my mom, too, when she was up for it. I know a few people in San Francisco, but they’re just people from school. Nobody I’d trust with something like this,” I say, sweeping my hand out over the cemetery’s hallowed grounds.
