I cut through town and stop by the florist, then walk on, checking my appearance in every shop window I pass. Now that I’m nearing Mati’s cottage, I worry that I look all wrong. Maybe it’s my reflection, warped in the windowpanes, but my jeans stretch too tight across my butt, the heels of my ankle boots appear a smidge too high, and my hair… Maybe I should’ve left it down?
I grip my just-purchased bouquet a little tighter and pick up my pace.
I knock on the door at noon—right on time. I mentally review Ryan’s notes: compliments good, cursing bad; gracious good, timid bad; drinking tea good, talk of religion bad. I’m so nervous, so on-edge, I’m dizzy.
Mati swings the door open. He’s wearing jeans, too, and a hoodie, dark green, zipped all the way up. He looks handsome—he lookshot. Of course he does. Because if I’m not thinking naughty things about him while his parents serve me rice, cooked with meat and vegetables, lunch just won’t be any fun.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, moving aside so I can step into the foyer, where the scents of grilled meat and earthy spices—saffron, turmeric, paprika—waft through the air.
I indicate my appearance and, with a perfunctory cringe, whisper, “Do I look okay?”
He leans in, just a little, and whispers, “Kaishta.”
And now I’m blushing. Perfect.
I hold up the bunch of gerber daisies I bought in town. They’re vivid pink and sunny yellow, and their stems are tied with a burlap ribbon. “I brought these for your mother. Do you think they’re okay?”
He nods, smiling. Cue sigh of relief.
He steps out of the foyer, toward what I assume is the living room, and I’m a half second from following when I notice his sock-clad feet and remember what Ryan said about removing my shoes. I slip off my boots, relieved to find my socks presentable. God—what if I hadn’t worn socks? I’d be traipsing around in my bare feet with my Very Cherry pedicure calling attention to my toes. I glance up to see Mati watching as I line my boots neatly by the door. “Is this okay?”
He laughs. Gently. Sweetly. “Everything is okay.” He grasps my hand and gives it the briefest squeeze. “Please, stop worrying.”
I take a deep breath. He’s right—I’m freaking out.Be gracious, butnot timid. I repeat Ryan’s words like a mantra as I follow Mati into the living room.
The cottage is very tidy and sparsely decorated, though there are beautiful rugs thrown randomly across the floor. Mati’s parents sit on a sofa not unlike ours, overstuffed and comfortable-looking, across the room from a dark television. His mother, who I remember seeing in town weeks ago, the day Mati and I met, holds a jacketless book. His father—and I’m despicable for eventhinkingthis phrase—looks like death warmed over. He’s thin and pale, and a cream-colored cap covers what I suspect is a bald scalp. He’s got his head tipped to rest on the back of the sofa, and his eyes are closed. I’m pretty sure he’s dozing.
“Mama, Baba,” Mati says with enough volume to coax his father awake. “This is Elise. Elise, my parents, Hala and Rasoul.”
Hala helps her husband stand, gripping his elbow, and I smile as Rasoul welcomes me. His English is as good as his son’s, though his voice is raspier, and his accent is thicker. Hala, while cool and quiet, seems satisfied enough by the bouquet I offer. She leaves the room while Mati and I make small talk with his father, then returns a few minutes later carrying the flowers in a vase filled with water.
She waves us into the dining room, and we sit down to lunch, cross-legged on cushions placed in a circle on the dining room floor. Mati’s across from me, next to his father. His mother takes the spot beside me after bringing an enormous platter from the kitchen. It’s overflowing with golden rice, bits of brightly colored vegetables, and hunks of unidentifiable meat—though, I guess it’s safe to assume it’s not pork.
This must bepilau.
There are skewers of grilled chicken, too, plus flattened bread that reminds me of pita, and a bowl of what looks like diluted milk. There are flecks of green floating in it.
We sit, staring at the bounty of food, until Mati gives me a nod. “Go ahead, Elise.”
Confession… Last night I watched videos online about Afghandining customs. It was all very communal, the way they served and shared and consumed. In most of the clips, men ate separately from women, and utensils appeared to be optional. So now I’m thrown. Here we are, a mix of genders sitting together, and there’s definitely silverware beside my plate. There’s a large spoon beside the platter ofpilau, too, which is a relief. I cannot even fathom digging in with my hand.
I take a kebab and some of the flat bread. Using the spoon, I scoop rice from the platter. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hala watching me, hawklike. I strong-arm a rush of worry.
Mati’s not shy about loading his plate. He serves his parents, too, a surprising gesture that invokes a fluttering in my chest, like the delicate beat of hummingbirds’ wings.
The food is good, thank God, and I shower it with compliments, but the fact that I have no idea what animal died to provide the rice’s protein is a little unsettling. Mati explains that the diluted milk concoction isshlombay, and is actually yogurt thinned with water. The green bits are mint and cucumber. After some persuading from Rasoul, I try a sip and, nope—not good. It’s trying to be refreshing, but I’m getting saltwater-flavored-with-toothpaste vibes. It’s a challenge not to shudder as I drink, but I manage because I am not about to insult these people who invited me into their home.
Still, Hala eyes me cynically, like she’s just waiting for me to make a misstep. As a diversion, I think, Mati launches into a monologue about my photography in a voice that rings with pride. Rasoul picks up the thread, asking about how I got started and what kind of camera I prefer and if I’m one of those people who “snaps pictures using the tiny screen of a phone.”
I laugh. “On occasion. I don’t always carry an actual camera, but I have a very cute niece and sometimes I can’t resist taking pictures of her, even if all that’s handy is my phone.”
“Elise has a dog, too,” Mati says. “Bambi. She takes pictures of her as well.”
Hala’s face twists sourly.
“In Afghanistan, dogs that aren’t strays are mostly used for work,” Mati explains to me. “Things like guarding and herding.” He smiles at his mother, a smile different from any I’ve seen him wear before; it’s genteel, almost artificial. Still, it helps to unscrew her expression. “Even you might like Elise’s dog, Mama. She is very friendly.”
Hala gives her head a frantic shake. “Dirty.”
