摘录

May 30 Dear little brother, you whispered when you gave me this pale green book with the blank pages. You didn't want Uncle Rubel and our mother to hear us talking. I don't know why. Ami wouldn't care. But Uncle Rubel? Is he mean to you when I am away? At least he gives us a place to live. I don't want to speak ill of any of our relations, of course, but I am not certain Baba liked him either. I miss our father so much. Will we ever get used to him being gone, Umar? I wish you remembered when we lived in the village, before the bad thing happened and we had to move to Karachi. Baba owned a store and was well respected. We had a house. It was small, but I had my own room. At this time of year, you could smell the wildflowers that grew in a small patch near the spring, especially these blue flowers shaped like bells. Ami called them bluebells, and Baba would laugh and ask if she could hear them ringing. Ami had several saris and dupattas then -- made from the softest silks, with the most becoming colors. She was much admired, our mother. But then our brother Rahman was accused, and I got hurt. That is not the story you want to hear tonight, though, is it? You wanted me to write stories about my life in Begum Naseem's house (where I work as a servant) and then read them to you when I visit on my day off. I will try to do that, little brother. You are only six years old. I know you will not like hearing this, but you are too young for some things. Like the story of how I got hurt -- even though you are the only person I have ever let touch the scar on my face. You said, "It looks like the new moon we watch for at the end of Ramadan." You grinned. "That's the time when we get to feast and celebrate. Just like I celebrate every time you come home!" And you asked if it hurt. I told you no, but it does hurt. Every time I look in the mirror -- which is not often -- and I move my dupatta away from my cheek, my heart hurts to see what they did to me. Why am I talking about this? It must be Uncle Rubel. I do not want to be unkind, Umar, but he reminds me of the men from the village. And that makes me shudder. I don't like him talking to Ami about money. I give her all my pay, little as it is. It must be enough to pay for you both, plus our brothers send money. Or they used to. I am not certain now what they do. Anyway, you gave me the little green book and showed me your little red book. I wonder how long it was before he died that Baba packed the books in the bottom of that box where you found them today. Baba had written "Nadira" on the first blank page of my book and "Umar" on the first blank page of your book. "Remember Shahrazad," he wrote to me in the green book. "Learn wisely," he wrote to you in the red book. Do you think he knew he was going to die? It was very hard for him to lose everything. I was only thirteen when we left the village. He tried for four years to make our life better here. I think it hurt him that our brothers did not come home to help. Maybe they never realized how bad things had gotten. I don't think I will read you everything I write here. I am writing too many sad things, even though I don't feel sad. Fatima, another servant here, is snoring next to me. I should be sleeping, but I am remembering telling you stories tonight before I left, like Baba used to tell me when I was your age. He taught me to read and write, too. I hope Ami sends you to school and doesn't listen to Uncle Rubel. You should not be working at your age! Whatever happens, I will make certain you learn to read and write. Fatima found me a pencil to use to write in this little green book. I can hide it in the book and put both in my pocket. Tonight I told you the story of Shahrazad, the very wise and beautiful woman who saved herself and all the young women of the kingdom. The King was mad with grief because his first wife betrayed him. He would not risk another betrayal, so he took a new wife each night and had the new wife killed each morning. One day, Shahrazad asked her father to put her name forward as the next bride. Her father tried to talk her out of this dangerous course. She told him that she had learned all her lessons well. "Trust me," she told her father. Her father eventually did as she asked. The King and Shahrazad married. In the morning, she asked her husband for one last favor. Could she tell her sister one last story? He agreed. And she told the story, and it was night again. So he spared her life that night. And she told another story and another. Each night for one thousand and one nights, Shahrazad told a story that saved her life, until the King finally decided she had told enough stories and he allowed her to live. That's how we got Alf Layla wa-Layla, A Thousand Nights and One Night. Even though Baba says Shahrazad was not a historical person, I believe someone like her existed. Maybe many someones like her. When Baba first told me this tale, I said, "A King can kill people?" Baba said, "A King can do anything. But he has someone he must answer to -- even if it is his own conscience. Everyone has someone like the King in their lives. Shahrazad was clever. She didn't wait for her fate. She went to the King and said, 'Let me tell you a story.' And she saved her own life. No sense crying and wailing over how terrible your life is. Someone always has it worse. Someone always has it better." Before you went to sleep tonight, Umar, you said, "I want to see the moon." "But we have no window," I said. You gently pulled my scarf away until you could see my scar. I leaned down, and you kissed it. I will never have a husband, and I will probably always be a servant in a household like this one, but I have the best brother in the world. Your breath on my cheek -- on my scar -- felt like the breath of Allah. You said, "Promise you will never leave me." "I promise," I said. "Promise you will never leave me." "Never," you said. Good night, sweet brother. Dream of the two of us flying on a magic carpet, will you? We are flying far far from here. Your loving sister, Nadira Copyright (c) 2007 by Kim Antieau Excerpted from Broken Moon by Kim Antieau All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.