The Dressmaker of Khair Khana by Gayle Tzemach Lemmon Page B

sample of our work to show you. Perhaps you would be interested in placing an order?”
    Before he could reply she reached into her bag and neatly spread the blue dress across the glass counter. Her hands trembled, but she worked deftly. She pointed to the beading. “It is very nice for weddings or for Eid,” she said. Her heart beat in her ears, and she leaned against the counter to steady herself.
    The shopkeeper picked up the dress and began to inspect it more closely. Suddenly a large, blue-clad figure Kamila saw out of the corner of her eye approached the counter. The shopkeeper dropped Kamila's blue fabric in a heap on the glass but to his--and Kamila's--relief it turned out to be just another female shopper with her mahram. Kamila struggled to look busy while she waited. She didn't dare to look at her brother; she was sure he was as nervous as she was. What have I gotten us into by coming here? she thought to herself. I am always so full of ideas, but maybe I should have thought this one through a bit more. . . .
    But at last the woman departed, and the shopkeeper returned.
    “Another seamstress like you came to see me earlier this week,” he said, speaking in a low voice. “She also offered to make dresses for my store. I've never really bought much from local women before, but I think I am going to have to start now. Things are tough for everyone, and no one can afford the imported clothes anymore.”
    Kamila felt a small surge of excitement. As she had seen during her last trip to Lycee Myriam, most shopkeepers no longer thought it worth making the risky trip to Pakistan for a handful of dresses that only a few Kabulis could buy. This was her opportunity.
    “Okay, I will take it,” he said, putting Kamila's sample next to another pile of dresses on his side of the glass. “Can you make more like this? I don't need so many dresses, actually, but I could use some more shalwar kameez for women, simpler clothing that people use for every day.”
    “Oh, yes, that will not be a problem,” Kamila said. She kept her voice quiet and even so as not to betray the wave of elation she felt. And she felt grateful for the anonymity of her chadri. “We can produce as much as you need.”
    The storekeeper returned the smile he could not see. “Very good. Then I will take five pantsuits and three dresses. Can you have them ready by next week?”
    Kamila assured him she could. The store owner then took down bolts of polyester blends and rayon in different colors from a shelf behind him. Picking up his scissors, he cut enough material to make the suits he had ordered and placed the fabric into a dark shopping bag that he handed to Rahim. Throughout their short exchange Kamila saw that he had been keeping a close watch on the doorway for any sign of the Amr bil-Maroof. He had no desire to be caught speaking with a female customer, even if her mahram was present. So far things had been uneventful.
    “Okay, then, I will see you in a week,” he said. “I am Mehrab. What is your name so that I can know you when you come back?” Now that everyone had to wear the chadri, all his customers looked the same.
    Where her answer came from, Kamila did not know. But as soon as the shop owner had spoken she realized it was too dangerous to use her real name.
    “Roya,” Kamila said. “My name is Roya.”
    Picking up her black carry-all from the counter, Kamila thanked Mehrab and promised she would return the following week. She and Rahim left the store and made their way back toward the street. Though the entire transaction had taken less than fifteen minutes, Kamila felt as if hours had passed.
    Walking back into the gray morning, Kamila was nearly bursting with excitement. She felt that she was at the beginning of something important, something that could change their lives for the better. She fervently hoped so, but she admonished herself to stay focused. “No need to get ahead of myself when there is so much work to be done.