1884
AThousand
SplendidSuns
KhaledHosseini
PARTONE1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10.
11.12.13.14.15.
PartTwo16.17.18.19.20.21.
22.23.24.25.26.
PARTTHREE27.28.29.30.31.
32.33.34.35.36.37.38.39.40.41.42.43.44.45.
46.47.
PARTFOUR48.49.50.51.
PARTONE
1.
Mariamwas five years oldthe first time she heard thewordharami.
IthappenedonaThursday.
Itmusthave,becauseMariamremembered that she hadbeenrestlessandpreoccupiedthat day, the way she wasonly on Thursdays, the daywhen Jalil visited her atthekolba. To pass the timeuntil the moment that shewould see him at last,crossing the knee-high grassin the clearing and waving,Mariam had climbed a chairand taken down hermother'sChinese tea set. The tea set
was the sole relic thatMariam's mother, Nana, hadof her ownmother,who haddied when Nana was two.Nana cherished each blue-and-whiteporcelainpiece,thegraceful curve of the pot'sspout, the hand-paintedfinchesandchrysanthemums,thedragononthesugarbowl,meanttowardoffevil.
It was this last piece thatslipped from Mariam's
fingers, that fell to thewooden floorboards ofthekolbaandshattered.
When Nana saw the bowl,her face flushed red and herupper lip shivered, and hereyes, both the lazy one andthe good, settled on Mariamin a flat, unblinking way.Nana looked so mad thatMariamfearedthejinnwouldenterhermother'sbodyagain.But the jinn didn't come, not
that time. Instead, Nanagrabbed Mariam by thewrists, pulled her close, and,through gritted teeth, said,"You are a clumsy littleharamiThisismyrewardforeverything I've endured Anheirloom-breaking, clumsylittleharami."
Atthetime,Mariamdidnotunderstand.Shedidnotknowwhat this word harami-bastard -meant Nor was she
old enough to appreciate theinjustice, to see that it is thecreatorsoftheharamiwhoareculpable, not theharami,whoseonlysinisbeingborn.Mariam did surmise, by thewayNanasaidtheword,thatit was an ugly, loath-something to be harami, like aninsect, like the scurryingcockroaches Nana wasalways cursing and sweepingoutofthekolba.
Later,when shewas older,Mariam did understand. ItwasthewayNanautteredtheword-notsomuchsayingitasspitting it at her-that madeMariam feel the full sting ofit. She understood then whatNanameant,thataharamiwasan unwanted thing; that she,Mariam, was an illegitimatepersonwhowouldneverhavelegitimateclaimto the thingsotherpeoplehad, thingssuchas love, family, home,
acceptance.
Jalil never called Mariamthis name. Jalil said shewashislittleflower.Hewasfondof sitting her on his lap andtelling her stories, like thetime he told her that Herat,the city where Mariam wasbom, in1959,hadoncebeenthe cradle of Persian culture,thehomeofwriters,painters,andSufis.
"You couldn't stretch a legherewithoutpokingapoetintheass,"helaughed.
Jalil told her the story ofQueenGauharShad,whohadraisedthefamousminaretsasher loving ode toHerat backin the fifteenth century. Hedescribed to her the greenwheat fields of Herat, theorchards, the vines pregnantwith plump grapes, the city'scrowded,vaultedbazaars.
"There is a pistachio tree,"Jalil said one day, "andbeneath it, Mariam jo, isburied none other than thegreatpoetJami."Heleanedinand whispered, "Jami livedover five hundred years ago.Hedid.Itookyouthereonce,to the tree. You were little.Youwouldn'tremember."
It was true. Mariam didn'tremember. And though shewould live the first fifteen
years of her life withinwalking distance of Herat,Mariamwouldnever see thisstoried tree.Shewouldneversee the famous minarets upclose, and she would neverpick fruit from Herat'sorchardsor stroll in its fieldsofwheat. Butwhenever Jaliltalked like this, Mariamwould listen withenchantment. She wouldadmire Jalil for his vast andworldly knowledge. She
would quiver with pride tohaveafatherwhoknewsuchthings.
"What rich lies!"Nanasaidafter Jalil left. "Rich mantelling rich lies. He nevertook you to any tree. Anddon't let him charm you. Hebetrayed us, your belovedfather.Hecastusout.Hecastusoutofhisbigfancyhouselikewewerenothing tohim.Hedidithappily."
Mariam would listendutifully to this. She neverdaredsaytoNanahowmuchshe disliked her talking thiswayaboutJalil.Thetruthwasthat aroundJalil,Mariamdidnot feel at all like aharami.For an hour or two everyThursday,whenJalilcametosee her, all smiles and giftsandendearments,Mariamfeltdeserving of all the beautyand bounty that life had togive. And, for this, Mariam
lovedJalil.
***
Even if she had to sharehim.
Jalil had three wives andninechildren,nine legitimatechildren, all of whom werestrangers toMariam.HewasoneofHerat'swealthiestmen.He owned a cinema, whichMariam had never seen, but
at her insistence Jalil haddescribedittoher,andsosheknew that the fa9ade wasmade of blue-and-tan terra-cotta tiles, that it had privatebalcony seats and a trellisedceiling. Double swingingdoors opened into a tiledlobby,wherepostersofHindifilms were encased in glassdisplays. On Tuesdays, Jalilsaidoneday,kidsgotfreeicecreamattheconcessionstand
Nanasmileddemurelywhenhe said this.Shewaiteduntilhe had left thekolba, beforesnickering and saying, "Thechildren of strangers get icecream. What do you get,Mariam? Stories of icecream."
In addition to the cinema,Jalil owned land in Karokh,land in Farah, three carpetstores,aclothingshop,andablack 1956 Buick
Roadmaster. He was one ofHerat's best-connected men,friend of the mayor and theprovincialgovernor.Hehadacook, a driver, and threehousekeepers.
Nana had been one of thehousekeepers.Untilherbellybegantoswell.
When that happened,Nanasaid, the collective gasp ofJalil's family sucked the air
out of Herat. His in-lawssworebloodwouldflow.Thewives demanded that hethrow her out. Nana's ownfather,whowasalowlystonecarverinthenearbyvillageofGul Daman, disowned her.Disgraced, he packed histhings and boarded a bus toBran, never to be seen orheardfromagain.
"Sometimes," Nana saidearlyonemorning,asshewas
feeding the chickens outsidethekolba, "I wish my fatherhad had the stomach tosharpenoneofhisknivesanddo the honorable thing. Itmight have been better forme." She tossed anotherhandful of seeds into thecoop, paused, and looked atMariam. "Better for you too,maybe. Itwould have sparedyouthegriefofknowingthatyouarewhatyouare.Buthewas a coward,my father.He
didn't have thedil, the heart,forit."
Jalildidn'thavethedileither,Nana said, to do thehonorable thing. To stand uptohisfamily,tohiswivesandinlaws, and acceptresponsibilityforwhathehaddone. Instead, behind closeddoors, a face-savingdealhadquicklybeenstruck.Thenextday, he hadmade her gatherher few things from the
servants' quarters, whereshe'dbeenliving,andsentheroff.
"Youknowwhathetoldhiswives by way of defense?That Iforced myself on him.That it was my fault.Didi?You see? This is what itmeans tobeawoman in thisworld."
Nanaputdownthebowlofchicken feed. She lifted
Mariam'schinwithafinger.
"Lookatme,Mariam."
Reluctantly,Mariamdid.
Nana said, "Learn thisnowand learn it well, mydaughter: Like a compassneedle that points north, aman's accusing finger alwaysfindsawoman.Always.Yourememberthat,Mariam."
2.
ToJalilandhiswives,Iwasapokeroot.Amugwort.Youtoo. And you weren't evenbornyet."
"What's a mugwort?"Mariamasked
"A weed," Nana said."Something you rip out andtossaside."
Mariam frowned internally.Jalildidn'ttreatherasaweed.He never had. But Mariamthought it wise to suppressthisprotest.
"Unlikeweeds, I had to bereplanted,yousee,givenfoodandwater.Onaccountofyou.Thatwas the deal Jalilmadewithhisfamily."
NanasaidshehadrefusedtoliveinHerat.
"For what? To watch himdrive hiskinchini wivesaroundtownallday?"
Shesaidshewouldn'tliveinher father's empty houseeither, in the village of GulDaman,which sat on a steephill two kilometers north ofHerat.Shesaidshewantedtolive somewhere removed,detached, where neighborswouldn't stare at her belly,point at her, snicker, or,
worse yet, assault her withinsincerekindnesses.
"And, believe me," Nanasaid, "it was a relief to yourfatherhavingmeoutofsight.Itsuitedhimjustfine."
ItwasMuhsin,Jalil'seldestsonbyhisfirstwife,Khadija,whosuggestedtheclearing-Itwas on the outskirts of GulDaman.Togettoit,onetooka rutted, uphill dirt track that
branched off the main roadbetween Herat and GulDaman. The track wasflanked on either side byknee-high grass and specklesof white and bright yellowflowers. The track snakeduphill and led to a flat fieldwhere poplars andcottonwoods soared andwildbushesgrewinclusters.Fromupthere,onecouldmakeoutthetipsoftherustedbladesofGulDaman'swindmill,onthe
left, and, on the right, all ofHeratspreadbelow.Thepathended perpendicular to awide, trout-filled stream,which rolled down from theSafid-koh mountainssurroundingGulDaman.Twohundred yards upstream,toward the mountains, therewas a circular grove ofweeping willow trees. In thecenter, in the shade of thewillows,wastheclearing.
Jalil went there to have alook. When he came back,Nana said, he sounded like awarden bragging about theclean walls and shiny floorsofhisprison.
"Andso,yourfatherbuiltusthisrathole."
***
Nana had almost marriedonce, when she was fifteen.
The suitor had been a boyfrom Shindand, a youngparakeetseller.Mariamknewthe story from Nana herself,and, though Nana dismissedthe episode, Mariam couldtellbythewistfullightinhereyesthatshehadbeenhappy.Perhaps for the only time inher life, during those daysleading up to her wedding,Nana had been genuinelyhappy.
As Nana told the story,Mariam sat on her lap andpictured her mother beingfitted for a wedding dress.She imagined her onhorseback, smiling shylybehind a veiled green gown,her palms painted red withhenna, her hair parted withsilver dust, the braids heldtogetherbytreesap.Shesawmusiciansblowingtheshahnaiflute and banging ondoholdrums,streetchildrenhooting
andgivingchase.
Then, a week before thewedding date,ajinn hadentered Nana's body. Thisrequired no description toMariam.Shehadwitnesseditenough times with her owneyes: Nana collapsingsuddenly, her bodytightening, becoming rigid,her eyes rolling back, herarms and legs shaking as ifsomethingwerethrottlingher
from the inside, the froth atthe corners of her mouth,white, sometimes pink withblood. Then the drowsiness,thefrighteningdisorientation,theincoherentmumbling.
When the news reachedShindand, the parakeetseller's family called off thewedding.
"They got spooked" washowNanaputit.
The wedding dress wasstashed away. After that,therewerenomoresuitors.
***
Intheclearing,Jalilandtwoof his sons, Farhad andMuhsin, built the smallkolbawhereMariamwouldlivethefirst fifteen years of her life.They raised itwith sun-driedbricks and plastered it withmudandhandfulsofstraw.It
had two sleeping cots, awooden table, two straight-backedchairs,awindow,andshelves nailed to the wallswhereNana placed clay potsand her beloved Chinese teaset. Jalil put in a new cast-iron stove for thewinter andstacked logs of choppedwood behind thekolba Headded a tandoor outside formaking bread and a chickencoop with a fence around it.Hebroughtafewsheep,built
them a feeding trough. HehadFarhadandMuhsindigadeep hole a hundred yardsoutside the circle of willowsandbuiltanouthouseoverit.
Jalil could have hiredlaborers to build thekolba.Nanasaid,buthedidn't.
"Hisideaofpenance."
***
LstNana'S account of theday that she gave birth toMariam,noonecametohelp.It happened on a damp,overcast day in the spring of1959, she said, the twenty-sixth year of King ZahirShah's mostly uneventfulforty-yearreign.ShesaidthatJalil hadn't bothered tosummon a doctor, or even amidwife, even though heknew thatthejinn might enterher body and cause her to
haveoneofherfitsintheactof delivering. She lay allalone on thekolba's floor, aknife by her side, sweatdrenchingherbody.
"Whenthepaingotbad,I'dbite on a pillow and screamintoituntilIwashoarse.Andstillnoonecametowipemyface or give me a drink ofwater. And you, Mariam jo,youwere in no rush.Almosttwodaysyoumademelayon
that cold, hard floor. I didn'teat or sleep, all I did waspushandpraythatyouwouldcomeout."
"I'msorry,Nana."
"I cut the cord between usmyself. That's why I had aknife."
"I'msorry."
Nana always gave a slow,
burdened smile here, one oflingering recrimination orreluctantforgiveness,Mariamcould never tell It did notoccur to young Mariam toponder the unfairness ofapologizingforthemannerofherownbirth.
By the time itdid occur toher, around the time sheturnedten,Mariamnolongerbelieved this story of herbirth. She believed JaliPs
version,thatthoughhe'dbeenaway he'd arranged forNanato be taken to a hospital inHerat where she had beentended to by a doctor. Shehad lain on a clean, properbed in a well-lit room. Jalilshook his head with sadnesswhenMariamtoldhimabouttheknife.
Mariamalsocame todoubtthatshehadmadehermothersufferfortwofulldays.
"They told me it was allover within under an hour,"Jalil said. "Youwere a gooddaughter,Mariamjo.Eveninbirth you were a gooddaughter."
"He wasn't even there!"Nanaspat."HewasinTakht-e-Safar, horseback ridingwithhispreciousfriends."
When they informed himthat he had a new daughter,
Nanasaid,Jalilhadshrugged,kept brushing his horse'smane, and stayed inTakht-e-Safaranothertwoweeks.
"Thetruthis,hedidn'tevenhold you until you were amonth old.And then only tolookdownonce,commentonyour longish face, and handyoubacktome."
Mariam came to disbelievethispartof the storyaswell.
Yes, Jalil admitted, he hadbeen horseback riding inTakht-e-Safar,but,whentheygave him the news, he hadnotshrugged.HehadhoppedonthesaddleandriddenbacktoHerat.Hehadbouncedherin his arms, run his thumboverher flakyeyebrows,andhummed a lullaby. Mariamdid not picture Jalil sayingthatherfacewaslong,thoughitwastruethatitwaslong.
Nana said shewas the onewho'd picked the nameMariam because it had beenthenameofhermother. Jalilsaid he chose the namebecause Mariam, thetuberose,wasalovelyflower.
"Your favorite?" Mariamasked.
"Well,oneof,"he saidandsmiled.
3.
One of Mariam's earliestmemorieswasthesoundofawheelbarrow's squeaky ironwheels bouncing over rocks.The wheelbarrow came oncea month, filled with rice,flour, tea, sugar, cooking oil,soap, toothpaste. It waspushed by two of Mariam'shalfbrothers,usuallyMuhsinandRamin,sometimesRaminandFarhad.Upthedirttrack,
over rocks and pebbles,around holes and bushes, theboys took turnspushinguntilthey reached the stream.There, the wheelbarrow hadto be emptied and the itemshand-carriedacrossthewater.Thentheboyswouldtransferthe wheelbarrow across thestream and load it up again.Anothertwohundredyardsofpushing followed, this timethrough tall, dense grass andaround thickets of shrubs.
Frogsleapedoutoftheirway.The brothers wavedmosquitoesfromtheirsweatyfaces.
"He has servants,"Mariamsaid. "He could send aservant."
"Hisideaofpenance,"Nanasaid.
The sound of thewheelbarrow drew Mariam
and Nana outside. Mariamwould always rememberNana the way she looked onRation Day: a tall, bony,barefoot woman leaning inthe doorway, her lazy eyenarrowed to a slit, armscrossed in a defiant andmocking way. Her short-cropped,sunlithairwouldbeuncovered and uncombed.Shewouldwear an ill-fittinggray shirt buttoned to thethroat. The pockets were
filled with walnut-sizedrocks.
The boys sat by the streamand waited as Mariam andNana transferred the rationstothekolbaTheyknewbetterthan to get any closer thanthirty yards, even thoughNana's aim was poor andmostoftherockslandedwellshort of their targets. Nanayelled at the boys as shecarried bags of rice inside,
and called them namesMariam didn't understand.She cursed their mothers,made hateful faces at them.The boys never returned theinsults.
Mariam felt sorry for theboys. How tired their armsandlegsmustbe,shethoughtpityingly, pushing that heavyload. She wished she wereallowed to offer them water.But she said nothing, and if
they waved at her she didn'twave back. Once, to pleaseNana,Mariamevenyelled atMuhsin, told him he had amouth shaped like a lizard'sass-and was consumed laterwith guilt, shame, and fearthat they would tell Jalil.Nana, though, laughed sohard,herrottingfronttoothinfull display, that Mariamthought shewould lapse intooneofherfits.ShelookedatMariam when she was done
and said, "You're a gooddaughter."
When the barrow wasempty,theboysscuffledbackand pushed it away.Mariamwould wait and watch themdisappear into the tall grassandfloweringweeds.
"Areyoucoming?"
"Yes,Nana."
"They laugh at you. Theydo.Ihearthem."
"I'mcoming."
"Youdon'tbelieveme?"
"HereIam."
"You know I love you,Mariamjo."
***
Inthemornings,theyawoketo the distant bleating ofsheep and the high-pitchedtootofafluteasGulDaman'sshepherds led their flock tograze on the grassy hillside.MariamandNanamilkedthegoats, fed the hens, andcollected eggs. They madebread together.Nana showedherhowtokneaddough,howtokindlethetandoorandslapthe flattened dough onto itsinner walls. Nana taught her
to sew too, and to cook riceand all the differenttoppings:shalqam stew withturnip, spinachsabzi,cauliflowerwithginger.
Nanamadenosecretofherdislike for visitors-and, infact,peopleingeneral-butshemade exceptions for a selectfew. And so there was GulDaman's leader, thevillagearbab, Habib Khan, asmall-headed, bearded man
with a large belly who camebyonceamonthorso,tailedby a servant, who carried achicken, sometimes a potofkichiri rice, or a basket ofdyedeggs,forMariam.
Thentherewasarotund,oldwoman thatNanacalledBibijo, whose late husband hadbeen a stone carver andfriends with Nana's father.Bibi jo was invariablyaccompanied by one of her
sixbridesandagrandchildortwo. She limped and huffedher way across the clearingand made a great show ofrubbingherhipand loweringherself, with a pained sigh,onto the chair that Nanapulledupforher.Bibi jo tooalways brought Mariamsomething,aboxofdishlemehcandy, a basket of quinces.For Nana, she first broughtcomplaints about her failinghealth, and then gossip from
Herat and Gul Daman,delivered at length and withgusto, as her daughter-in-lawsatlistening quietly anddutifullybehindher.
ButMariam'sfavorite,otherthan Jalil of course, wasMullah Faizullah, the elderlyvillageKorantutor,itsakhundHe came by once or twice aweek from Gul Daman toteach Mariam the fivedailynamaz prayers and tutor
her in Koran recitation, justas he had taught Nana whenshe'd been a little girl ItwasMullah Faizullah who hadtaught Mariam to read, whohadpatientlylookedoverhershoulder as her lips workedthe words soundlessly, herindexfingerlingeringbeneatheachword, pressing until thenail bed went white, asthoughshecouldsqueezethemeaning out of the symbols.It wasMullah Faizullahwho
hadheldherhand,guidedthepencil in it along the rise ofeachalef, the curve ofeachbeh, the three dots ofeachseh.
He was a gaunt, stoopingold man with a toothlesssmile and a white beard thatdroppedtohisnavel.Usually,he came alone to thekolba,though sometimes with hisrusset-haired son Hamza,who was a few years older
than Mariam. When heshowed up at thekolba,Mariam kissed MullahFaizullah's hand-which feltlike kissing a set of twigscovered with a thin layer ofskin-andhekissed the topofher brow before they satinside for the day's lesson.After, the two of them satoutside thekolba, ate pinenuts and sipped green tea,watched the bulbul birdsdarting from tree to tree.
Sometimes they went forwalks among the bronzefallen leaves and alderbushes, along the stream andtowardthemountains.MullahFaizullahtwirledthebeadsofhistasbeh rosary as theystrolled,and, inhisquiveringvoice, toldMariam stories ofall thethingshe'dseeninhisyouth, like the two-headedsnake he'd found in Iran, onIsfahan's Thirty-three ArchBridge,or thewatermelonhe
had split once outside theBlue Mosque in Mazar, tofind the seeds forming thewordsAllah on onehalf,Akbarontheother.
Mullah Faizullah admittedto Mariam that, at times, hedid not understand themeaning of the Koran'swords. But he said he likedthe enchanting sounds theArabic words made as theyrolledoffhistongue.Hesaid
theycomfortedhim,easedhisheart.
"They'll comfort you too,Mariam jo," he said. "Youcan summon them in yourtime of need, and theywon'tfail you. God's words willneverbetrayyou,mygirl"
MullahFaizullahlistenedtostories as well as he toldthem. When Mariam spoke,his attention never wavered
Henoddedslowlyandsmiledwithalookofgratitude,asifhehadbeengrantedacovetedprivilege. It was easy to tellMullah Faizullah things thatMariamdidn'tdaretellNana.
One day, as they werewalking, Mariam told himthatshewishedshewouldbeallowedtogotoschool.
"I mean a realschool,akhund sahib. Like in
aclassroom.Likemyfather'sotherkids."
MullahFaizullahstopped.
The week before, Bibi johad brought news that Jalil'sdaughtersSaidehandNaheedwere going to the MehriSchool for girls in Herat.Since then, thoughts ofclassrooms and teachers hadrattledaroundMariam'shead,images of notebooks with
lined pages, columns ofnumbers, andpens thatmadedark, heavy marks. Shepictured herself in aclassroomwithothergirlsherage.Mariam longed to placea ruler on a page and drawimportant-lookinglines.
"Is that what you want?"Mullah Faizullah said,looking at her with his soft,wateryeyes,hishandsbehindhisstoopingback,theshadow
of his turban falling on apatchofbristlingbuttercups.
'Yes.
"And you want me to askyourmotherforpermission."
Mariam smiled.Other thanJalil, she thought there wasno one in the world whounderstoodherbetterthanheroldtutor.
"Thenwhat can Ido?God,in His wisdom, has given useach weaknesses, andforemost amongmymany isthat I ampowerless to refuseyou, Mariam jo," he said,tapping her cheek with onearthriticfinger.
Butlater,whenhebroachedNana, she dropped the knifewith which she was slicingonions."Whatfor?"
"Ifthegirlwantstolearn,lether, my dear. Let the girlhaveaneducation."
"Learn?Learnwhat,Mullahsahib?" Nana said sharply."Whatistheretolearn?"
She snapped her eyestowardMariam.
Mariamlookeddownatherhands.
"What'sthesenseschoolinga girl like you? It's likeshiningaspittoon.Andyou'lllearn nothing of value inthose schools. There is onlyone, only one skill a womanlikeyouandmeneedsinlife,and they don't teach it inschool.Lookatme."
"You shouldnot speak likethistoher,mychild,"MullahFaizullahsaid.
"Lookatme."
Mariamdid.
"Only one skill And it'sthis:iahamuLEndure."
"Endurewhat,Nana?"
"Oh, don't you fretaboutthat,"Nanasaid."Therewon't be any shortage ofthings."
She went on to say howMil'swiveshadcalledheranugly, lowly stone carver'sdaughter. How they'd madeher wash laundry outside inthe cold until her face wentnumb and her fingertipsburned.
"It'sourlot inlife,Mariam.Women like us. We endure.It's all we have. Do youunderstand? Besides, they'lllaugh at you in school. They
will. They'll call youharamlThey'll say the most terriblethingsaboutyou.Iwon'thaveit."
Mariamnodded.
"And no more talk aboutschool. You're all I have. Iwon'tloseyoutothem.Look
at me. Nomore talk aboutschool."
"Bereasonable-Comenow.If the girl wants-" MullahFaizullahbegan.
"And you,akhund sahib,with all due respect, youshould know better than toencourage these foolish ideasof hers. Ifyou really careabouther,thenyoumakehersee that she belongs here athome with her mother.Thereis nothing out there forher.Nothingbutrejectionand
heartache. I know,akhundsahib.Iknow."
4.
Mariam loved havingvisitors at thekolba. Thevillagearbab and his gifts,Bibi jo and her aching hipandendlessgossiping,and,ofcourse,MullahFaizullah.Buttherewasnoone,noone,thatMariam longed to see morethanJalil.
The anxiety set in onTuesday nights. Mariamwould sleep poorly, frettingthat some businessentanglement would preventJalil from coming onThursday, that she wouldhave to wait a whole otherweek to see him. OnWednesdays, she pacedoutside, around thekolba,tossed chicken feedabsentmindedlyintothecoop.She went for aimless walks,
picking petals from flowersandbattingat themosquitoesnibblingonherarms.Finally,on Thursdays, all she coulddowassitagainstawall,eyesgluedtothestream,andwait.If Jalil was running late, aterribledreadfilledherbitbybit.Herkneeswouldweaken,and she would have to gosomewhereandliedown.
ThenNanawouldcall,"Andthereheis,yourfather.Inall
hisglory."
Mariam would leap to herfeet when she spotted himhopping stones across thestream, all smiles and heartywaves. Mariam knew thatNana was watching her,gauging her reaction, and italways took effort to stay inthe doorway, to wait, towatch him slowly make hiswaytoher,tonotruntohim.She restrained herself,
patiently watched him walkthroughthetallgrass,hissuitjacket slung over hisshoulder, the breeze liftinghisrednecktie.
When Jalil entered theclearing, he would throw hisjacket on the tandoor andopenhisarms.Mariamwouldwalk,thenfinallyrun,tohim,andhewouldcatchherunderthearmsandtossheruphigh.Mariamwouldsqueal.
Suspended in the air,Mariam would see Jalil'supturned face below her, hiswide, crooked smile, hiswidow'speak,hiscleftchin-aperfect pocket for the tip ofher pinkie-his teeth, thewhitest in a town of rottingmolars.Shelikedhistrimmedmustache, and she liked thatno matter the weather healways wore a suit on hisvisits-darkbrown,hisfavoritecolor,with thewhite triangle
of a handkerchief in thebreast pocket-and cuff linkstoo, and a tie, usually red,which he left loosenedMariamcouldseeherselftoo,reflected in the brown ofJalil's eyes: her hairbillowing, her face blazingwith excitement, the skybehindher.
Nana said thatoneof thesedayshewouldmiss,thatshe,Mariam, would slip through
his fingers, hit the ground,and break a bone. ButMariam did not believe thatJalil would drop her. Shebelieved that she wouldalways land safely into herfather'sclean,well-manicuredhands.
Theysatoutsidethekolba,inthe shade, and Nana servedthem tea. Jalil and sheacknowledged each otherwith an uneasy smile and a
nod. Jalil never brought upNana's rock throwing or hercursing.
Despite her rants againsthim when he wasn't around,Nana was subdued andmannerly when Jalil visited.Herhairwasalwayswashed.She brushed her teeth, woreherbesthijabforhim.Shesatquietlyonachairacrossfromhim,handsfoldedonherlap.She did not look at him
directly and never usedcoarse language around him.When she laughed, shecoveredhermouthwithafisttohidethebadtooth.
Nana asked about hisbusinesses. And his wivestoo. When she told him thatshe had heard, through Bibijo, that his youngest wife,Nargis, was expecting herthird child, Jalil smiledcourteouslyandnodded.
"Well.Youmustbehappy,"Nanasaid."Howmanyisthatfor you, now? Ten, isit,mashallah1?Ten?"
Jalilsaidyes,ten.
"Eleven, if you countMariam,ofcourse."
Later,afterJalilwenthome,MariamandNanahadasmallfight about this.Mariam saidshehadtrickedhim.
AfterteawithNana,MariamandJalil alwayswent fishinginthestream.Heshowedherhow to cast her line, how toreelinthetrout.Hetaughthertheproperwaytogutatrout,tocleanit,toliftthemeatoffthe bone in one motion. Hedrewpictures for her as theywaited for a strike, showedher how to draw an elephantin one stroke without everlifting the pen off the paper.He taught her rhymes.
Togethertheysang:
LiliMibirdbath,Sittingonadirt path,Minnow sat on therim and drank, Slipped, andinthewatershesank
JalilbroughtclippingsfromHerat's newspaper,Iiiifaq-iIslam,andreadfromthemtoher. He was Mariam's link,herproof that there existed aworld at large, beyondthekolba,beyondGulDaman
and Herat too, a world ofpresidents withunpronounceable names, andtrains and museums andsoccer, and rockets thatorbited the earth and landedon the moon, and, everyThursday, Jalil brought apiece of thatworldwith himtothekolba.
Hewastheonewhotoldherinthesummerof1973,whenMariam was fourteen, that
King Zahir Shah, who hadruled from Kabul for fortyyears,hadbeenoverthrowninabloodlesscoup.
"HiscousinDaoudKhandiditwhile thekingwas in Italygetting medical treatment-You rememberDaoudKhan,right? I told you about him.He was prime minister inKabul when you were bom.Anyway, Afghanistan is nolonger a monarchy, Mariam.
You see, it's a republic now,and Daoud Khan is thepresident. There are rumorsthat the socialists in Kabulhelped him take power. Notthat he's a socialist himself,mind you, but that theyhelped him.That's the rumoranyway."
Mariam asked him what asocialist was and Jalilbeganto explain, but Mariambarelyheardhim.
"Areyoulistening?"
"Iam."
He saw her looking at thebulge in his coat's sidepocket."Ah.Ofcourse.Well.Here, then. Without furtherado…"
Hefishedasmallboxfromhispocketandgaveit toher.Hedidthisfromtimetotime,bring her small presents. A
carnelian bracelet cuff onetime, a choker with lapislazuli beads another. Thatday,Mariam opened the boxand found a leaf-shapedpendant, tiny coins etchedwithmoonsandstarshangingfromit.
"Tryiton,Mariamjo."
She did. "What do youthink?"
Jalil beamed "I think youlooklikeaqueen."
Afterhe left,Nana saw thependant around Mariam'sneck.
"Nomad jewelry," she said."I'veseenthemmakeit.Theymeltthecoinspeoplethrowatthemandmakejewelry.Let'ssee him bring you gold nexttime, your precious father.Let'sseehim."
WhenitwastimeforJaliltoleave, Mariam always stoodin the doorway and watchedhimexittheclearing,deflatedat the thought of the weekthat stood, like an immense,immovable object, betweenherandhisnextvisit.Mariamalwaysheldherbreathasshewatchedhimgo.Sheheldherbreath and, in her head,counted seconds. Shepretended that for eachsecondthatshedidn'tbreathe,
Godwould grant her anotherdaywithJalil.
Atnight,Mariamlayinhercot and wondered what hishouse inHeratwas like. Shewondered what it would belike to live with him, to seehim every day. She picturedherself handing him a towelas he shaved, telling himwhen he nicked himself. Shewould brew tea for him. Shewould sew on his missing
buttons. They would takewalks in Herat together, inthevaultedbazaarwhereJalilsaid you could find anythingyouwanted.Theywouldridein his car, and people wouldpoint and say, "There goesJalilKhanwithhisdaughter."Hewouldshowherthefamedtree that had a poet buriedbeneathit.
One day soon, Mariamdecided, she would tell Jalil
these things. And when heheard, when he saw howmuch she missed him whenhewasgone,hewouldsurelytake herwith him.Hewouldbring her toHerat, to live inhis house, just like his otherchildren.
5.
I know what I want,"MariamsaidtoJalil.
It was the spring of 1974,the year Mariam turnedfifteen. The three of themweresittingoutside thekolba,inapatchofshadethrownbythewillows,onfoldingchairsarrangedinatriangle.
"For my birthday…I knowwhatIwant."
"Youdo?"saidJalil,smilingencouragingly.
Two weeks before, atMariam's prodding, Jalil hadlet on that an American filmwas playing at his cinema. Itwasa special kind of film,what he'd called a cartoon.The entire film was a seriesof drawings, he said,thousands of them, so thatwhen they were made into afilm and projected onto ascreen you had the illusionthat the drawings weremoving. Jalil said the film
told the story of an old,childless toymaker who islonely and desperately wantsason.Sohecarvesapuppet,a boy, whomagically comestolife.Mariamhadaskedhimtotellhermore,andJalilsaidthat the old man and hispuppet had all sorts ofadventures, that there was aplace called Pleasure Island,andbadboyswhoturnedintodonkeys. They even gotswallowed by a whale at the
end,thepuppetandhisfather.Mariam had told MullahFaizullahallaboutthisfilm.
"I want you to take me toyour cinema," Mariam saidnow. "I want to see thecartoon. I want to see thepuppetboy."
With this,Mariamsensedashift in the atmosphere. Herparents stirred in their seats.Mariam could feel them
exchanginglooks.
"That's not a good idea,"said Nana. Her voice wascalm, had the controlled,polite tone she used aroundJalil, but Mariam could feelherhard,accusingglare.
Jalilshiftedonhischair.Hecoughed,clearedhisthroat.
"You know," he said, "thepicturequalityisn'tthatgood.
Neitheristhesound.Andtheprojector's beenmalfunctioning recently.Maybe your mother is right.Maybe you can think ofanotherpresent,Mariamjo."
"Aneh,"Nana said. "Yousee?Yourfatheragrees."
***
But later, at the stream,Mariamsaid,"Takeme."
"I'll tell you what," Jalilsaid. "I'll send someone topickyouupandtakeyou.I'llmake sure they get you agood seat and all the candyyouwant."
"Nay.Iwantyoutotakeme."
"Mariamjo-"
"And I want you to invitemybrothersandsisters too.Iwanttomeetthem.Iwantus
all togo, together.It'swhatIwant."
Jalilsighed.Hewaslookingaway,towardthemountains.
Mariam remembered himtellingherthatonthescreenahumanfacelookedasbigasahouse, that when a carcrashed up there you felt themetal twisting inyourbones.Shepicturedherselfsittinginthe private balcony seats,
lapping at ice cream,alongside her siblings andJalil. "It's what I want," shesaid.
Jalil looked at her with aforlornexpression.
"Tomorrow. At noon. I'llmeetyouatthisveryspot.Allright?Tomorrow?"
"Come here," he said. Hehunkereddown,pulledherto
him,andheldher for a long,longtime.
***
Atfirst.Nanapacedaroundthekolba, clenching andunclenchingherfists.
"OfallthedaughtersIcouldhave had, why did God giveme an ungrateful one likeyou? Everything I enduredforyou!Howdareyou!How
dare you abandon me likethis, you treacherouslittleharamil"
Thenshemocked.
"Whatastupidgirlyouare!Youthinkyoumattertohim,that you're wanted in hishouse? You think you're adaughter to him? That he'sgoing to takeyou in?Letmetell you something- A man'sheart isawretched,wretched
thing, Mariam. It isn't like amother's womb. It won'tbleed,itwon'tstretchtomakeroom for you. I'm the onlyone who loves you. I'm allyou have in this world,Mariam, and when I'm goneyou'll have nothing. You'llhave nothing. Youarenothing!"
Thenshetriedguilt.
"I'll die if you go.The jinn
will come, and I'll have oneof my fits. You'll see, I'llswallow my tongue and die.Don't leave me, Mariam jo.Pleasestay.I'lldieifyougo."
Mariamsaidnothing.
"You know I love you,Mariamjo."
Mariamsaidshewasgoingforawalk.
She feared she might sayhurtful things if she stayed:that she knewthe jinn was alie,thatJalilhadtoldherthatwhatNanahadwasadiseasewith a name and that pillscould make it better. Shemight have asked Nana whyshe refused to see Jalil'sdoctors,ashehadinsistedshedo,whyshewouldn'ttakethepills he'd bought for her. Ifshe could articulate it, shemighthave said toNana that
she was tired of being aninstrument, of being lied to,laid claim to, used. That shewassickofNanatwistingthetruthsoftheirlifeandmakingher, Mariam, another of hergrievancesagainsttheworld.
You 're afraid, Nana,shemighthavesaid.You'reafraidthat 1 might find thehappinessyouneverhad.Andyou don 'i want me to behappy.Youdon'twantagood
life for me. You 're the onewiththewretchedheart
***
TherewasAlookout,ontheedge of the clearing, whereMariam liked to go. She satthere now, on dry, warmgrass.Heratwasvisible fromhere, spreadbelowher like achild's board game: theWomen'sGardentothenorthof the city, Char-suq Bazaar
and the ruins of Alexanderthe Great's old citadel to thesouth.Shecouldmakeouttheminarets in the distance, likethe dusty fingers of giants,and the streets that sheimagined were milling withpeople,carts,mules.Shesawswallows swooping andcircling overhead. She wasenvious of these birds. Theyhad been toHerat. They hadflown over its mosques, itsbazaars. Maybe they had
landed on thewalls of Jalil'shome, on the front steps ofhiscinema.
She picked up ten pebblesandarranged themvertically,in three columns.Thiswas agame that she playedprivately from time to timewhen Nana wasn't looking.She put four pebbles in thefirst column, for Khadija'schildren, three for Afsoon's,and three in the thirdcolumn
for Nargis's children. Thensheaddedafourthcolumn.Asolitary,eleventhpebble.
***
The nextmorning,Mariamwore a cream-colored dressthat fell to her knees, cottontrousers, and a greenhijaboverherhair.Sheagonizedabit over thehijab, its beinggreen and not matching thedress, but it would have to
do-mothshadeatenholesintoherwhiteone.
She checked the clock. Itwasanoldhand-woundclockwithblacknumbersonamintgreen face, a present fromMullahFaizullah.Itwasnineo'clock.ShewonderedwhereNanawas.She thoughtaboutgoingoutsideandlookingforher, but she dreaded theconfrontation, the aggrievedlooks.Nanawouldaccuseher
of betrayal. Shewouldmockher for her mistakenambitions.
Mariamsatdown.Shetriedtomaketimepassbydrawinganelephantinonestroke,thewayJalilhadshownher,overand over. She became stifffrom all the sitting butwouldn't lie down for fearthatherdresswouldwrinkle.
When the hands finally
showedeleven-thirty,Mariampocketed the eleven pebblesandwentoutside.Onherwayto the stream, she saw Nanasitting on a chair, in theshade, beneath the domedroof of a weeping willow.Mariam couldn't tell whetherNanasawherornot.
At the stream, Mariamwaited by the spot they hadagreed on the day before. Inthe sky, a few gray,
cauliflower-shaped cloudsdriftedby.Jalilhadtaughtherthat gray clouds got theircolor by being so dense thattheir top parts absorbed thesunlight and cast their ownshadow along the base.That'swhat you see,Mariam jo, hehad said,the dark in theirunderbelly.
Sometimepassed.
Mariam went back to
thekolba This time, shewalked around the west-facing periphery of theclearingsoshewouldn'thavetopassbyNana.Shecheckedthe clock. It was almost oneo'clock.
He'sabusinessman,Mariamthought.Something has comeup.
Shewentbacktothestreamand waited awhile longer.
Blackbirds circled overhead,dipped into the grasssomewhere. She watched acaterpillar inching along thefootofanimmaturethistle.
She waited until her legswere stiff.This time, shedidnot go back to thekolba Sherolled up the legs of hertrousers to theknees,crossedthe stream, and, for the firsttimeinherlife,headeddownthehillforHerat.
***
Nana was "wrong aboutHerat too. No one pointed.No one laughed. Mariamwalkedalongnoisy,crowded,cypress-lined boulevards,amid a steady stream ofpedestrians, bicycle riders,andmule-drawngaris, and noone threw a rock at her. Noone called her aharami.Hardlyanyoneevenlookedather. She was, unexpectedly,
marvelously, an ordinarypersonhere.
For a while,Mariam stoodbyanoval-shapedpoolinthecenter of a big park wherepebble paths crisscrossed.With wonder, she ran herfingers over the beautifulmarble horses that stoodalong the edge of the pooland gazed down at thewaterwith opaque eyes. She spiedonaclusterofboyswhowere
setting sail to paper ships.Mariam saw flowerseverywhere, tulips, lilies,petunias,theirpetalsawashinsunlight.Peoplewalkedalongthepaths,satonbenchesandsippedtea.
Mariamcouldhardlybelievethat she was here. Her heartwas battering withexcitement. She wishedMullah Faizullah could seeher now. How daring he
would find her. How brave!She gave herself over to thenew life that awaited her inthis city, a lifewith a father,with sisters and brothers, alife inwhich shewould loveand be loved back, withoutreservation or agenda,withoutshame.
Sprightly, shewalked backtothewidethoroughfarenearthe park. She passed oldvendors with leathery faces
sitting under the shade ofplane trees, gazing at herimpassively behind pyramidsof cherries and mounds ofgrapes. Barefoot boys gavechase to cars and buses,waving bags of quinces.Mariam stood at a streetcorner and watched thepassersby, unable tounderstandhowtheycouldbeso indifferent to the marvelsaroundthem.
After a while, she workedupthenervetoasktheelderlyownerofahorse-drawngariifhe knew where Jalil, thecinema's owner, lived. Theold man had plump cheeksand wore a rainbow-stripedchapan. "You're notfromHerat,areyou?"hesaidcompanionably. "Everyoneknows where Jalil Khanlives."
"Canyoupointme?"
He opened a foil-wrappedtoffee and said, "Are youalone?"
"Yes."
"Climbon.I'lltakeyou."
"Ican'tpayyou.Idon'thaveanymoney."
He gave her the toffee.Hesaid he hadn't had a ride intwo hours and he was
planning on going homeanyway. Jalil's housewas ontheway.
Mariam climbed ontothegari.Theyrode insilence,side by side. On the waythere, Mariam saw herbshops, and open-frontedcubbyholes where shoppersbought oranges and pears,books, shawls, even falcons.Children played marbles incirclesdrawnindust.Outside
teahouses, on carpet-coveredwoodenplatforms,mendrankteaandsmokedtobaccofromhookahs.
The oldman turned onto awide, conifer-lined street.Hebroughthishorsetoastopatthemidwaypoint.
"There.Lookslikeyou'reinluck,dokhiarjo. That's hiscar."
Mariam hopped down. Hesmiledandrodeon.
***
Mariam had never beforetouched a car. She ran herfingers along the hood ofJalil's car, which was black,shiny, with glittering wheelsin which Mariam saw aflattened,widened version ofherself.The seatsweremadeof white leather. Behind the
steering wheel, Mariam sawround glass panels withneedlesbehindthem.
For a moment, Mariamheard Nana's voice in herhead, mocking, dousing thedeep-seated glow of herhopes. With shaky legs,Mariam approached the frontdoorofthehouse.Sheputherhands on the walls. Theywere so tall, so foreboding,Jalil'swalls.Shehadtocrane
hernecktoseewherethetopsof cypress trees protrudedover them from the otherside. The treetops swayed inthebreeze, and she imaginedthey were nodding theirwelcome to her. Mariamsteadied herself against thewaves of dismay passingthroughher.
A barefoot young womanopened the door. She had atattoounderherlowerlip.
"I'mhere toseeJalilKhan.I'mMariam.Hisdaughter."
Alookofconfusioncrossedthe girl's face. Then, a flashof recognition. There was afaint smile on her lips now,andanairofeagernessabouther, of anticipation. "Waithere,"thegirlsaidquickly.
Sheclosedthedoor.
Afewminutespassed.Then
a man opened the door. Hewas tall and square-shouldered, with sleepy-lookingeyesandacalmface.
"I'mJalilKhan'schauffeur,"hesaid,notunkindly.
"Hiswhat?"
"Hisdriver.JalilKhanisnothere."
"Iseehiscar,"Mariamsaid.
"He's away on urgentbusiness."
"Whenwillhebeback?"
"Hedidn'tsay."
Mariam said she wouldwait-He closed the gates.Mariam sat, and drew herknees to her chest. It wasearly evening already, andshe was getting hungry. Sheate thegaridriver's toffee. A
while later, the driver cameoutagain.
"You need to go homenow,"hesaid."It'llbedarkinlessthananhour."
"I'musedtothedark."
"It'llgetcoldtoo.Whydon'tyou let me drive you home?I'lltellhimyouwerehere."
Mariamonlylookedathim.
"I'lltakeyoutoahotel,then.You can sleep comfortablythere.We'll seewhatwe candointhemorning."
"Letmeinthehouse."
"I'vebeen instructednot to.Look, no one knows whenhe'scomingback.Itcouldbedays."
Mariamcrossedherarms.
The driver sighed andlooked at her with gentlereproach.
Over the years, Mariamwould have ample occasionto think about how thingsmight have turned out if shehad let the driver take herback to thekolba But shedidn't. She spent the nightoutside Jalil's house. Shewatched the sky darken, theshadows engulf the
neighboring housefronts. Thetattooed girl brought hersome bread and a plate ofrice, which Mariam said shedidn't want. The girl left itnear Mariam. From time totime,Mariamheardfootstepsdown the street, doorsswinging open, muffledgreetings.Electriclightscameon, and windows gloweddimly. Dogs barked. Whenshecouldnolongerresistthehunger,Mariam ate the plate
of rice and the bread. Thenshe listened to the cricketschirping from gardens.Overhead, clouds slid past apalemoon.
In the morning, she wasshaken awake. Mariam sawthatduringthenightsomeonehad covered her with ablanket.
Itwasthedrivershakinghershoulder.
"This is enough. You'vemadeascene.Bos.It'stimetogo."
Mariam sat up and rubbedher eyes. Her back and neckweresore."I'mgoing towaitforhim."
"Lookatme,"hesaid."JalilKhansaysthatIneedto takeyoubacknow.Rightnow.Doyou understand? Jalil Khansaysso."
He opened the rearpassengerdoortothecar."BiaComeon,"hesaidsoftly.
"Iwanttoseehim,"Mariamsaid. Her eyes were tearingover.
The driver sighed. "Letmetake you home. Comeon,dokhtarjo."
Mariam stood up andwalkedtowardhim.Butthen,
at the last moment, shechanged direction and ran tothe front gates. She felt thedriver'sfingersfumblingforagripathershoulder.Sheshedhim and burst through theopengates.
In the handful of secondsthatshewasinJalil'sgarden,Mariam's eyes registeredseeing a gleaming glassstructurewithplantsinsideit,grape vines clinging to
wooden trellises, a fishpondbuilt with gray blocks ofstone,fruit
trees,andbushesofbrightlycolored flowers everywhere.Hergazeskimmedoverallofthese things before theyfound a face, across thegarden, in an upstairswindow. The face was therefor only an instant, a flash,but long enough. LongenoughforMariamtoseethe
eyes widen, themouth open.Then it snapped away fromview. A hand appeared andfrantically pulled at a cord.Thecurtainsfellshut.
Thenapairofhandsburiedinto her armpits and shewasliftedoff theground.Mariamkicked. The pebbles spilledfromherpocket.Mariamkeptkickingandcryingasshewascarriedtothecarandloweredonto the cold leather of the
backseat.
***
The driver talked in amuted, consoling tone as hedrove. Mariam did not hearhim. All during the ride, asshe bounced in the backseat,shecried.Theywere tearsofgrief, of anger, ofdisillusionment. But mainlytearsofadeep,deepshameathow foolishly she had given
herself over to Jalil, howshehadfrettedoverwhatdresstowear, over themismatchinghijab, walkingall the way here, refusing toleave, sleeping on the streetlikeastraydog.And
shewasashamedofhowshehad dismissed her mother'sstrickenlooks,herpuffyeyes.Nana, who had warned her,whohadbeenrightallalong.
Mariamkeptthinkingofhisface in the upstairs window.He let her sleep on thestreet.On the street Mariamcried lying down. She didn'tsitup,didn'twanttobeseen.She imagined all of Heratknewthismorninghowshe'ddisgracedherself.ShewishedMullah Faizullah were hereso shecouldputherheadonhis lap and let him comforther.
After a while, the roadbecamebumpierandthenoseof the car pointed up. Theywere on the uphill roadbetween Herat and GulDaman.
What would she say toNana, Mariam wondered.How would she apologize?How could she even faceNananow?
The car stopped and the
driver helped her out. "I'llwalkyou,"hesaid.
Shelethimguideheracrossthe road and up the track.There was honeysucklegrowing along the path, andmilkweed too. Bees werebuzzing over twinklingwildflowers. The driver tookherhandandhelpedhercrossthe stream. Then he let go,andhewastalkingabouthowHerat's famous one hundred
andtwentydays'windswouldstart blowing soon, frommidmorningtodusk,andhowthe sand flieswould go on afeeding frenzy, and thensuddenly he was standing infront of her, trying to coverher eyes, pushing her backthe way they had come andsaying, "Go back! No. Don'tlook now. Turn around! Goback!"
But he wasn't fast enough.
Mariam saw.Agust ofwindblewandpartedthedroopingbranches of the weepingwillow like a curtain, andMariam caught a glimpse ofwhatwasbeneaththetree:thestraight-backed chair,overturned. The ropedroppingfromahighbranch.Nana dangling at the end ofit.
6.
1 hey buried Nana in acornerofthecemeteryinGulDaman.MariamstoodbesideBibi jo, with the women, asMullah Faizullah recitedprayers at the graveside andthe men lowered Nana'sshrouded body into theground-Afterward, Jalilwalked Mariam to thekolba,where, in front of thevillagers who accompaniedthem, he made a great showof tending to Mariam. He
collectedafewofher things,puttheminasuitcase.Hesatbesidehercot,where she laydown, and fanned her face.Hestrokedherforehead,and,withawoebegoneexpressionon his face, asked if sheneededanything? anything? -hesaiditlikethat,twice.
"I wantMullah Faizullah,"Mariamsaid.
"Ofcourse.He'soutside.I'll
gethimforyou."
It was when MullahFaizullah's slight, stoopingfigure appeared in thekolba'sdoorway that Mariam criedforthefirsttimethatday.
"Oh,Mariamjo."
He sat next to her andcuppedherfaceinhishands."Yougoonandcry,Mariamjo.Goon.Thereisnoshame
in it.But remember,mygirl,whattheKoransays,'Blessedis He in Whose hand is thekingdom, and He Who haspower over all things, WhocreateddeathandlifethatHemay try you.' The Koranspeaksthetruth,mygirl.
Behindeverytrialandeverysorrow that He makes usshoulder,Godhasareason."
ButMariamcouldnot hear
comfort in God's words. Notthat day. Not then. All shecould hear was Nanasaying,I'll die if you go. I'lljustdie.Allshecoulddowascry and cry and let her tearsfallonthespotted,paper-thinskin of Mullah Faizullah'shands.
***
On the ride to his house,Jalilsatinthebackseatofhis
car with Mariam, his armdrapedoverhershoulder.
"You can stay with me,Mariam jo," he said. "I'veaskedthemalreadytocleanaroom for you. It's upstairs.You'll like it, I think. You'llhaveaviewofthegarden."
For the first time, Mariamcould hear him with Nana'sears. She could hear soclearly now the insincerity
that had always lurkedbeneath, the hollow, falseassurances. She could notbringherselftolookathim.
WhenthecarstoppedbeforeJalil's house, the driveropenedthedoorforthemandcarried Mariam's suitcase.Jalil guided her, one palmcupped around each of hershoulders, through the samegates outside of which, twodays before, Mariam had
slepton thesidewalkwaitingfor him. Two days before-whenMariam could think ofnothing in the world shewantedmore than towalk inthisgardenwithJalil-feltlikeanother lifetime. How couldher life have turned upsidedown so quickly, Mariamasked herself. She kept hergaze to the ground, on herfeet, stepping on the graystonepath.Shewasawareofthepresenceofpeople in the
garden, murmuring, steppingaside,assheandJalilwalkedpast.Shesensedtheweightofeyes on her, looking downfromthewindowsupstairs.
Inside the house too,Mariamkept her head down.She walked on a marooncarpet with a repeating blue-and-yellowoctagonalpattern,saw out of the corner of hereye the marble bases ofstatues, the lower halves of
vases, the frayed ends ofrichly colored tapestrieshanging from walls. Thestairs sheandJalil tookwerewide and covered withasimilar carpet, nailed downat the base of each step. Atthe top of the stairs, Jalil ledher to the left, down anotherlong, carpeted hallway. Hestopped by one of the doors,openedit,andletherin.
"Your sisters Niloufar and
Atieh play here sometimes,"Jalilsaid,"butmostlyweusethisasaguestroom.You'llbecomfortablehere, I think. It'snice,isn'tit?"
The roomhadabedwithagreen-flowered blanket knitin a tightly woven,honeycomb design. Thecurtains,pulledbacktorevealthe garden below, matchedthe blanket. Beside the bedwasathree-drawerchestwith
a flower vase on it. Therewereshelvesalong thewalls,with framed pictures ofpeople Mariam did notrecognize. On one of theshelves, Mariam saw acollection of identicalwooden dolls, arranged in aline in order of decreasingsize.
Jalil saw herlooking."Matryoshka dolls. Igot them in Moscow. You
can play with them, if youwant.Noonewillmind."
Mariam sat down on thebed.
"Is there anything youwant?"Jalilsaid.
Mariam lay down. Closedher eyes. After a while, sheheard him softly shut thedoor.
***
Exceptfor"whenshehadtouse the bathroom down thehall, Mariam stayed in theroom.Thegirlwiththetattoo,the one who had opened thegates to her, brought hermeals on a tray: lambkebab,sabzi, aush soup.Mostofitwentuneaten.Jalilcamebyseveraltimesaday,satonthebedbesideher, askedherifshewasallright.
"You could eat downstairswith the rest of us," he said,butwithoutmuchconviction.He understood a little tooreadilywhenMariamsaidshepreferredtoeatalone.
From the window,Mariamwatched impassively whatshe had wondered about andlonged toseeformostofherlife: the comings and goingsof Jalil's daily life. Servantsrushedinandoutofthefront
gates.Agardenerwasalwaystrimming bushes, wateringplantsinthegreenhouse.Carswithlong,sleekhoodspulledup on the street. From thememerged men in suits,inchapcms and caracul hats,women inhijabs, childrenwithneatlycombedhair.Andas Mariam watched Jalilshake these strangers' hands,as she saw him cross hispalmsonhischestandnodtotheir wives, she knew that
Nana had spoken the truth.Shedidnotbelonghere.
But where do I belong?WhatamIgoingtodonow?
I'm all you have in thisworld,Mariam,andwhenI'mgone you'll have nothing.You'll have nothing.Youarenothing!
Like the wind through thewillows around thekolba,
gusts of an inexpressibleblackness kept passingthroughMariam.
OnMariam'ssecondfulldayat Jalil's house, a little girlcameintotheroom.
"I have to get something,"shesaid.
Mariam sat up on the bedand crossed her legs, pulledtheblanketonherlap.
The girl hurried across theroom and opened the closetdoor. She fetched a square-shapedgraybox.
"You know what this is?"shesaid.Sheopenedthebox."It's called agramophone.Gramo. Phone.It plays records. You know,music.Agramophone."
"You're Niloufar. You'reeight."
The little girl smiled. Shehad Jalil's smile and hisdimpled chin. "How did youknow?"
Mariamshrugged.Shedidn'tsaytothisgirlthatshe'doncenamedapebbleafterher.
"Do you want to hear asong?"
Mariamshruggedagain.
Niloufar plugged in thegramophone. She fished asmall record from a pouchbeneaththebox'slid.Sheputit on, lowered the needle.Musicbegantoplay.
1willuseaflowerpetalforpaper, And write you thesweetest letter, You are thesultanofmyheart, thesultanofmyheart
"Doyouknowit?"
"No."
"It's froman Iranian film. Isaw it atmy father's cinema.Hey, do you want to seesomething?"
Before Mariam couldanswer,Niloufar had put herpalms and forehead to theground She pushed with hersoles and then she wasstandingupsidedown,onherhead,inathree-pointstance.
"Canyoudothat?"shesaidthickly.
"No."
Niloufar dropped her legsand pulled her blouse backdown. "I could teach you,"she said, pushing hair fromher flushed brow. "So howlongwillyoustayhere?"
"Idon'tknow."
"Mymothersaysyou'renotreally my sister like you sayyouare."
"IneversaidIwas,"Mariamlied.
"She says you did. I don'tcare.What Imean is, I don'tmind if you did say it, or ifyou are my sister. I don'tmind."
Mariamlaydown."I'mtired
now."
"Mymothersaysajinnmadeyourmotherhangherself."
"You can stop that now,"Mariam said, turning to herside."Themusic,Imean."
Bibijocametoseeherthatdaytoo.Itwasrainingbythetime she came. She loweredher largebodyonto thechairbesidethebed,grimacing.
"This rain, Mariam jo, it'smurder on my hips. Justmurder, I tell you. I hope…Oh, now, come here, child.Come here to Bibi jo. Don'tcry. There, now. You poorthing.Ask You poor, poorthing."
Thatnight,Mariamcouldn'tsleepforalongtime.Shelayin bed looking at the sky,listening to the footstepsbelow, thevoicesmuffledby
walls and the sheets of rainpunishing thewindow.Whenshe did doze off, she wasstartled awake by shouting.Voicesdownstairs, sharpandangry.Mariamcouldn'tmakeout the words. Someoneslammedadoor.
The next morning, MullahFaizullah came to visit her.When she saw her friend atthedoor,hiswhitebeardandhis amiable, toothless smile,
Mariamfelttearsstingingthecornersofhereyesagain.Sheswung her feet over the sideof the bed and hurried over.Shekissedhishandasalwaysand he her brow. She pulledhimupachair-Heshowedherthe Koran he had broughtwith him and opened it. "Ifigured no sense in skippingourroutine,eh?"
"You know I don't needlessons anymore, Mullah
sahib. You taught meeverysurrah andayat in theKoranyearsago."
He smiled, and raised hishands in a gesture ofsurrender. "I confess, then.I'vebeenfoundout.ButIcanthink of worse excuses tovisityou."
"You don't need excuses.Notyou."
"You're kind to say that,Mariamjo."
HepassedherhisKoran.Ashe'd taught her, she kissed itthree times-touching it toherbrow between each kiss-andgaveitbacktohim.
"Howareyou,mygirl?"
"Ikeep,"Mariambegan.Shehad to stop, feeling like arock had lodged itself in her
throat. "I keep thinking ofwhat she said tome before Ileft.She-"
"Nay, nay, nay."MullahFaizullahputhishandonherknee. "Your mother, mayAllah forgive her, was atroubled and unhappywoman,Mariamjo.Shedidaterrible thing to herself. Toherself, to you, and also toAllah.Hewillforgiveher,forHe is all-forgiving,butAllah
is saddenedbywhat she did.He does not approve of thetaking of life, be it another'sorone'sown,forHesaysthatlife is sacred You see-" Hepulled his chair closer, tookMariam'shand inbothofhisown. "You see, I knew yourmotherbeforeyouwereborn,whenshewasalittlegirl,andI tell you that she wasunhappy then. The seed forwhatshedidwasplantedlongago, I'mafraid.What Imean
to say is that this was notyour fault. It wasn't yourfault,mygirl."
"I shouldn't have left her. Ishouldhave-"
"You stop that. Thesethoughtsarenogood,Mariamjo. You hear me, child? Nogood.Theywill destroyyou.Itwasn't your fault. Itwasn'tyourfault.No."
Mariam nodded, but asdesperately as she wanted toshecouldnotbringherselftobelievehim.
***
Oneapternoon,aweeklater,there was a knock on thedoor, and a tall womanwalked in. She was fair-skinned,hadreddishhairandlongfingers.
"I'm Afsoon," she said."Niloufar'smother.Whydon'tyou wash up, Mariam, andcomedownstairs?"
Mariam said she wouldratherstayinherroom.
"No,nafahmidi, you don'tunderstand. Youmedio comedown.Wehavetotalktoyou.It'simportant."
7.
They sat across from her,Jalilandhiswives,ata long,dark brown table. Betweenthem, in the center of thetable, was a crystal vase offresh marigolds and asweating pitcher of water.The red-haired woman whohad introduced herself asNiloufar's mother, Afsoon,was sitting on Jalil's right.The other two, Khadija andNargis,were on his left.Thewives each had on a flimsy
black scarf,which theyworenot on their heads but tiedloosely around the neck likeanafterthought.Mariam,whocould not imagine that theywould wear black for Nana,pictured one of themsuggesting it, ormaybe Jalil,just before she'd beensummoned.
Afsoon poured water fromthe pitcher and put the glassbefore Mariam on a
checkered cloth coaster."Only spring and it's warmalready," she said. Shemadea fanning motion with herhand.
"Have you beencomfortable?" Nargis, whohad a small chin and curlyblack hair, asked. "We hopeyou've been comfortable.This…ordeal…must be veryhardforyou.Sodifficult."
The other two nodded.Mariamtookintheirpluckedeyebrows, the thin, tolerantsmiles they were giving her.TherewasanunpleasanthuminMariam's head.Her throatburned. She drank some ofthewater.
Through the wide windowbehind Jalil, Mariam couldsee a rowof flowering appletrees.On thewall beside thewindowstoodadarkwooden
cabinet.Initwasaclock,anda framed photograph of Jalilandthreeyoungboysholdinga fish. The sun caught thesparkle in the fish's scales.Jalil and the boys weregrinning.
"Well," Afsoon began. "I-that is, we-have brought youhere because we have someverygoodnewstogiveyou."
Mariamlookedup.
She caught a quickexchange of glances betweenthe women over Jalil, whoslouched in his chair lookingunseeingly at the pitcher onthe table. ItwasKhadija, theoldest-looking of the three,who turned her gaze toMariam,andMariamhad theimpression that this duty toohad been discussed, agreedupon, before they had calledforher.
"Youhaveasuitor,"Khadijasaid.
Mariam's stomach fell. "Awhat?" she said throughsuddenlynumblips.
"Akhasiegar. A suitor. Hisname is Rasheed," Khadijawenton. "He is a friendof abusinessacquaintanceofyourfather's.He'saPashtun, fromKandahar originally, but helives in Kabul, in the Deh-
Mazang district, in a two-storyhousethatheowns."
Afsoonwas nodding. "Andhe does speak Farsi, like us,like you. So you won't havetolearnPashto."
Mariam's chest wastightening. The room wasreeling up and down, theground shifting beneath herfeet.
"He'sashoemaker,"Khadijawas saying now. "But notsomekindofordinary street-sidemoochi, no, no. He hashis own shop, and he is oneof the most sought-aftershoemakers in Kabul Hemakes them for diplomats,members of the presidentialfamily-that class of people.So you see, he will have notroubleprovidingforyou."
Mariam fixed her eyes on
Jalil, her heart somersaultingin her chest. "Is this true?Whatshe'ssaying,isittrue?"
But Jalil wouldn't look ather.Hewenton chewing thecorner of his lower lip andstaringatthepitcher.
"Nowheisalittleolderthanyou,"Afsoonchimedin."Buthecan'tbemore than…forty.Forty-five at the most.Wouldn'tyousay,Nargis?"
"Yes. But I've seen nine-year-old girls given to mentwenty years older than yoursuitor,Mariam.We all have.What are you, fifteen?That'sa good, solid marrying agefor a girl." There wasenthusiasticnoddingatthis.Itdid not escape Mariam thatnomentionwasmade of herhalfsistersSaidehorNaheed,both her own age, bothstudents in theMehri Schoolin Herat, both with plans to
enroll in Kabul University.Fifteen, evidently, was not agood, solidmarrying age forthem.
"What'smore,"Nargiswenton, "he too has had a greatloss in his life.Hiswife,wehear, died during childbirthtenyearsago.Andthen,threeyearsago,hissondrownedinalake."
"It'sverysad,yes.He'sbeen
looking for a bride the lastfew years but hasn't foundanyonesuitable."
"I don't want to," Mariamsaid. She looked at Jalil. "Idon't want this. Don't makeme." She hated the sniffling,pleadingtoneofhervoicebutcouldnothelpit.
"Now, be reasonable,Mariam," one of the wivessaid.
Mariam was no longerkeeping track of who wassaying what. She went onstaring at Jalil, waiting forhim to speak up, to say thatnoneofthiswastrue.
"Youcan'tspendtherestofyourlifehere."
"Don'tyouwantafamilyofyourown?"
"Yes. A home, children of
yourown?"
"Youhavetomoveon."
"True that it would bepreferable that you marry alocal,aTajik,butRasheed ishealthy,andinterestedinyou.He has a home and a job.That's all that really matters,isn't it? And Kabul is abeautiful and exciting city.You may not get anotheropportunitythisgood."
Mariamturnedherattentiontothewives.
"I'll live with MullahFaizullah," she said. "He'lltakemein.Iknowhewill."
"That's no good," Khadijasaid."He'soldandso…"Shesearched for the right word,and Mariam knew then thatwhatshereallywantedtosaywasHef s so close. Sheunderstood what they meant
to do.You may not getanotheropportunitythisgoodAndneitherwouldthey.Theyhad been disgraced by herbirth, and this was theirchancetoerase,onceandforall, the last trace of theirhusband's scandalousmistake. She was being sentaway because she was thewalking, breathingembodimentoftheirshame.
"He's so old and weak,"
Khadijaeventuallysaid."Andwhat will you do when he'sgone? You'd be a burden tohisfamily."
As you are now tous.Mariam almostsaw theunspoken words exitKhadija's mouth, like foggybreathonacoldday.
Mariam pictured herself inKabul, a big, strange,crowded city that, Jalil had
once told her, was some sixhundred and fifty kilometersto the east of Herat.Sixhundred and fifty kilometers.The farthest she'd ever beenfrom thekolba was the two-kilometerwalkshe'dmadetoJalil's house. She picturedherselflivingthere,inKabul,at the other end of thatunimaginable distance, livingin a stranger's house whereshewouldhavetoconcedetohis moods and his issued
demands. Shewould have tocleanafterthisman,Rasheed,cook for him, wash hisclothes. And there would beother chores as well-Nanahad told her what husbandsdid to theirwives. Itwas thethoughtoftheseintimaciesinparticular, which sheimagined as painful acts ofperversity,thatfilledherwithdreadandmadeherbreakoutinasweat.
She turned to Jalil again."Tell them. Tell them youwon'tletthemdothis."
"Actually, your father hasalready given Rasheed hisanswer," Afsoon said."Rasheedishere,inHerat;hehas come all the way fromKabul. Thenikka will betomorrow morning, and thenthere is a bus leaving forKabulatnoon."
"Tellthem!"Mariamcried
Thewomengrewquietnow.Mariamsensedthattheywerewatchinghimtoo.Waiting.Asilence fell over the room.Jalil kept twirling hisweddingband,withabruised,helpless look on his face.From inside the cabinet, theclocktickedonandon.
"Jaliljo?"oneofthewomensaidatlast.
Mil'seyesliftedslowly,metMariam's, lingered for amoment, then dropped. Heopenedhismouth,butallthatcame forth was a single,painedgroan.
"Say something," Mariamsaid.
Then Jalil did, in a thin,threadbare voice. "Goddamnit, Mariam, don't do this tome,"hesaidasthoughhewas
the one to whom somethingwasbeingdone.
And,with that,Mariamfeltthe tension vanish from theroom.
As JaliPs wives began anew-and more sprightly-round of reassuring, Mariamlookeddownatthetable.Hereyestracedthesleekshapeofthe table's legs, the sinuouscurves of its corners, the
gleam of its reflective, darkbrown surface. She noticedthat every time she breathedout, the surface fogged, andshe disappeared from herfather'stable.
Afsoonescortedherbacktothe room upstairs. WhenAfsoon closed the door,Mariamheardtherattlingofakeyasitturnedinthelock.
8.
Inthemorning,Mariamwasgiven a long-sleeved, darkgreen dress to wear overwhitecottontrousers.Afsoongave her a green hijab and apairofmatchingsandals.
Shewas taken to the roomwith the long, brown table,exceptnowtherewasabowlofsugar-coatedalmondcandyin the middle of the table, aKoran, a green veil, and amirror.TwomenMariamhad
never seenbefore-witnesses,she presumed-and a mullahshe did not recognize werealreadyseatedatthetable.
Jalil showedher to a chair.Hewaswearingalightbrownsuit and a red tie. His hairwaswashed.Whenhepulledout thechair forher,he triedto smile encouragingly.Khadija and Afsoon sat onMariam'ssideofthetablethistime.
The mullah motionedtoward the veil, and Nargisarranged itonMariam'sheadbefore taking a seat.Mariamlookeddownatherhands.
"Youcancallhiminnow,"Jalilsaidtosomeone.
Mariamsmelledhimbeforeshesawhim.Cigarettesmokeand thick,sweetcologne,notfaint like Jalil's.Thescentofit flooded Mariam's nostrils.
Through the veil, from thecorner of her eye, Mariamsaw a tall man, thick-belliedand broad-shouldered,stoopinginthedoorway.Thesize of him almostmade hergasp,andshehadtodrophergaze, her heart hammeringaway. She sensed himlingering in the doorway.Then his slow, heavy-footedmovement across the room.The candy bowl on the tableclinkedintunewithhissteps.
With a thick grunt, hedroppedonachairbesideher.Hebreathednoisily.
Themullahwelcomedthem.He said this would not be atraditionalnikka
"I understand thatRasheedagha has tickets forthe bus to Kabul that leavesshortly. So, in the interest oftime,wewillbypasssomeofthe traditional steps to speed
uptheproceedings."
The mullah gave a fewblessings, said a few wordsabout the importance ofmarriage.HeaskedJalilifhehad any objections to thisunion, and Jalil shook hishead. Then themullah askedRasheed if he indeed wishedto enter into a marriagecontract with Mariam.Rasheed said, "Yes." Hisharsh, raspy voice reminded
Mariam of the sound of dryautumn leaves crushedunderfoot.
"And do you,Mariam jan,accept this man as yourhusband?"
Mariam stayed quiet.Throatswerecleared.
"She does," a female voicesaidfromdownthetable.
"Actually," themullahsaid,"she herself has to answer.And she should wait until Iask three times.Thepoint is,he'sseekingher,nottheotherwayaround."
He asked the question twomore times. When Mariamdidn't answer, he asked itoncemore,thistimemore
forcefully- Mariam couldfeel Jalil beside her shifting
on his seat, could sense feetcrossing and uncrossingbeneath the table. There wasmorethroatclearing.Asmall,white hand reached out andflicked a bit of dust off thetable.
"Mariam,"Jalilwhispered.
"Yes,"shesaidshakily.
A mirror was passedbeneath the veil. In it,
Mariam saw her own facefirst, the archless, unshapelyeyebrows, the flat hair, theeyes,mirthless green and setso closely together that onemight mistake her for beingcross-eyed. Her skin wascoarse and had a dull, spottyappearance. She thought herbrow too wide, the chin toonarrow,thelipstoothin.Theoverall impression was of alongface,a triangularface,abit houndlike. And yet
Mariam saw that, oddlyenough, the whole of theseunmemorable parts made forafacethatwasnotprettybut,somehow, not unpleasant tolookateither.
In the mirror, Mariam hadher first glimpse ofRasheed:the big, square, ruddy face;the hooked nose; the flushedcheeks that gave theimpression of slycheerfulness; the watery,
bloodshot eyes; the crowdedteeth, the front two pushedtogether like a gabled roof;the impossibly low hairline,barely two finger widthsabove the bushy eyebrows;thewallofthick,coarse,salt-and-pepperhair.
Their gazes met briefly intheglassandslidaway.
This is the face of myhusband,Mariamthought.
They exchanged the thingold bands that Rasheedfished from his coat pocket.Hisnailswereyellow-brown,like the inside of a rottingapple, and some of the tipswere curling, lifting.Mariam's hands shook whenshetriedtoslipthebandontohis finger, and Rasheed hadto help her. Her own bandwasalittletight,butRasheedhadnotroubleforcingitoverherknuckles.
"There,"hesaid.
"It's a pretty ring," one ofthe wives said. "It's lovely,Mariam."
"Allthatremainsnowisthesigning of the contract," themullahsaid.
Mariam signed her name-themeem, thereh, the 3^ andthemeem again-conscious ofall theeyesonherhand.The
next timeMariam signed hername toadocument, twenty-seven years later, a mullahwouldagainbepresent.
"You are nowhusband andwife," the mullahsaid."Tabreek.Congratulations."
***
Rasheed waited in themulticolored bus. Mariam
couldnotseehimfromwhereshe stood with Jalil, by therear bumper, only the smokeof his cigarette curling upfrom the open window.Around them, hands shookand farewells were said.Korans were kissed, passedunder.Barefootboysbouncedbetween travelers, their facesinvisiblebehindtheirtraysofchewinggumandcigarettes.
Jalil was busy telling her
that Kabul was so beautiful,the Moghul emperor Baburhad asked that he be buriedthere. Next, Mariam knew,he'd go on about Kabul'sgardens, and its shops, itstrees, and its air, and, beforelong,shewouldbeonthebusandhewouldwalkalongsideit, waving cheerfully,unscathed,spared.
Mariam could not bringherselftoallowit.
"Iusedtoworshipyou,"shesaid.
Jalilstoppedinmidsentence.Hecrossedanduncrossedhisarms.AyoungHindicouple,the wife cradling a boy, thehusband dragging a suitcase,passed between them. Jalilseemed grateful for theinterruption. They excusedthemselves, and he smiledbackpolitely.
"On Thursdays, I sat forhours waiting for you. Iworriedmyself sick that youwouldn'tshowup."
"It'salongtrip.Youshouldeat something." He said hecouldbuyhersomebreadandgoatcheese.
"I thoughtaboutyouall thetime.Iusedtopraythatyou'dlivetobeahundredyearsold.I didn't know. I didn't know
that you were ashamed ofme."
Jalil lookeddown,and, likean overgrown child, dug atsomethingwiththetoeofhisshoe.
"Youwereashamedofme."
"I'll visit you," hemuttered"I'll come to Kabul and seeyou.We'll-"
"No. No," she said. "Don'tcome. Iwon't see you.Don'tyou come. I don't want tohearfromyou.Ever.Ever."
He gave her a woundedlook.
"It ends here for you andme.Sayyourgood-byes."
"Don't leave like this," hesaidinathinvoice.
"You didn't even have thedecency to give me the timeto say good-bye to MullahFaizullah."
She turned and walkedaroundtothesideofthebus.Shecouldhearhimfollowingher. When she reached thehydraulic doors, she heardhimbehindher.
"Mariamjo."
She climbed the stairs, andthough she could spot Jalilout of the corner of her eyewalking parallel to her shedidnot lookout thewindow.Shemade her way down theaisle to the back, whereRasheedsatwithhersuitcasebetweenhis feet.Shedidnotturn to look when Jalil'spalms pressed on the glass,whenhisknucklesrappedandrapped on it. When the busjerked forward, she did not
turn to see him trottingalongside it. And when thebus pulled away, she did notlook back to see himreceding, to see himdisappear in the cloud ofexhaustanddust.
Rasheed, who took up thewindow andmiddle seat, puthisthickhandonhers.
"There now, girl There.There," he said. He was
squinting out the window ashe said this, as thoughsomething more interestinghadcaughthiseye.
9.
It was early evening thefollowing day by the timethey arrived at Rasheed'shouse.
"We're inDeh-Mazang,"hesaid. They were outside, on
the sidewalk. He had hersuitcase inonehandandwasunlocking the wooden frontgate with the other. "In thesouth and west part of thecity. The zoo is nearby, andtheuniversitytoo."
Mariam nodded. Alreadyshe had learned that, thoughshecouldunderstandhim,shehad to pay close attentionwhen he spoke. She wasunaccustomed to the Kabuli
dialectofhisFarsi,andtotheunderlying layer of Pashtoaccent, the language of hisnative Kandahar. He, on theother hand, seemed to haveno trouble understanding herHeratiFarsi.
Mariam quickly surveyedthe narrow, unpaved roadalongwhichRasheed'shousewas situated. The houses onthis road were crowdedtogether and shared common
walls, with small, walledyards in frontbuffering themfrom the street. Most of thehomeshadflatroofsandweremade of burned brick, someofmud the same dusty coloras the mountains that ringedthecity.Guttersseparatedthesidewalk from the road onboth sides and flowed withmuddy water. Mariam sawsmall mounds of flyblowngarbage littering the streethere and there. Rasheed's
house had two stories.Mariam could see that it hadoncebeenblue.
When Rasheed opened thefront gate, Mariam foundherself in a small, unkemptyard where yellow grassstruggled up in thin patches.Mariam saw an outhouse onthe right, ina sideyard,and,ontheleft,awellwithahandpump, a row of dyingsaplings.Nearthewellwasa
toolshed, and a bicycleleaningagainstthewall.
"Your father told me youlike to fish,"Rasheedsaidastheywerecrossingtheyardtothe house. There was nobackyard, Mariam saw."There are valleys north ofhere. Rivers with lots offish.Maybe I'll take yousomeday."
Heunlocked the front door
andletherintothehouse.
Rasheed's housewasmuchsmaller than Jalil's, but,compared to Mariam andNana'skolba, it was amansion. There was ahallway, a living roomdownstairs, and a kitchen inwhichheshowedherpotsandpans and a pressure cookerand a keroseneLshiop. Theliving room had a pistachiogreen leather couch. It had a
rip down its side that hadbeen clumsily sewn together.The walls were bare. Therewas a table, two cane-seatchairs, two folding chairs,and, in the corner, a black,cast-ironstove.
Mariamstoodinthemiddleof the living room, lookingaround. At thekolba, shecould touch the ceiling withher fingertips. She could lieinhercotandtellthetimeof
day by the angle of sunlightpouring through thewindow.She knew how far her doorwould open before its hingescreaked. She knew everysplinter and crack in each ofthe thirty woodenfloorboards. Now all thosefamiliar things were gone.Nanawas dead, and shewashere, in a strange city,separated from the life she'dknownbyvalleys and chainsof snow-capped mountains
andentiredeserts.Shewasinastranger'shouse,withallitsdifferent rooms and its smellof cigarette smoke, with itsunfamiliar cupboards full ofunfamiliarutensils, itsheavy,dark green curtains, and aceiling she knew she couldnot reach. The space of itsuffocatedMariam. Pangs oflonging bore into her, forNana, for Mullah Faizullah,forheroldlife.
Thenshewascrying.
"What's this crying about?"Rasheed said crossly. Hereachedintothepocketofhispants, uncurled Mariam'sfingers, and pushed ahandkerchief into her palm.He lithimselfacigaretteandleaned against the wall. Hewatched as Mariam pressedthehandkerchieftohereyes.
"Done?"
Mariamnodded.
"Sure?"
"Yes."
He took her by the elbowthenandledhertotheliving-roomwindow.
"Thiswindowlooksnorth,"hesaid,tappingtheglasswiththe crookednail of his indexfinger. "That's the Asmai
mountain directly in front ofus-see?-and,totheleft,istheAli Abad mountain. Theuniversity is at the footof it.Behindus,east,youcan'tseefrom here, is the ShirDarwaza mountain. Everyday, at noon, they shoot acannon from it. Stop yourcrying,now.Imeanit."
Mariamdabbedathereyes.
"That's one thing I can't
stand,"hesaid,scowling,"thesoundofawomancrying.I'msorry. I have no patience forit."
"I want to go home,"Mariamsaid.
Rasheed sighed irritably.Apuff of his smoky breath hitMariam's face. "I won't takethatpersonally.Thistime."
Again, he took her by the
elbow,andledherupstairs.
Therewas a narrow, dimlylit hallway there and twobedrooms. The door to thebiggeronewasajar.Throughit Mariam could see that it,liketherestofthehouse,wassparselyfurnished:bedinthecorner,with a brown blanketand a pillow, a closet, adresser. The walls were bareexcept for a small mirror.Rasheedclosedthedoor.
"Thisismyroom."
He said she could take theguestroom."Ihopeyoudon'tmind. I'm accustomed tosleepingalone."
Mariamdidn't tellhimhowrelieved she was, at leastaboutthis.
The room that was to beMariam's was much smallerthantheroomshe'dstayedin
at Jalil's house. It had a bed,anold,gray-browndresser,asmall closet. The windowlooked into the yard and,beyondthat,thestreetbelow.Rasheedputhersuitcase inacorner.
Mariamsatonthebed.
"Youdidn'tnotice,"hesaidHe was standing in thedoorway, stooping a little tofit.
"Look on the windowsill.You know what kind theyare? I put them there beforeleavingforHerat."
Only now Mariam saw abasket on the sill. Whitetuberoses spilled from itssides.
"You like them? Theypleaseyou?"
"Yes."
"Youcanthankmethen."
"Thank you. I'msorry.Tashakor-"
"You're shaking. Maybe Iscare you. Do I scare you?Areyoufrightenedofme?"
Mariamwas not looking athim, but she could hearsomething slyly playful inthese questions, like aneedling. She quickly shook
her head in what sherecognized as her first lie intheirmarriage.
"No? That's good, then.Good for you. Well, this isyourhomenow.You'regoingtolikeithere.You'llsee.DidItellyouwehaveelectricity?Mostdaysandeverynight?"
Hemade as if to leave.Atthe door, he paused, took along drag, crinkled his eyes
against the smoke. Mariamthought he was going to saysomething. But he didn't. Heclosedthedoor,leftheralonewith her suitcase and herflowers.
10.
The first fewdays,Mariamhardlyleftherroom.Shewasawakened every dawn forprayer by the distant cryofazan, after which shecrawled back into bed. Shewas still in bed when sheheard Rasheed in the
bathroom, washing up, whenhe came into her room tocheck on her before hewentto his shop. From herwindow, shewatched him intheyard,securinghislunchinthe rear carrier pack of hisbicycle, then walking hisbicycle across the yard andinto the street. She watchedhim pedal away, saw hisbroad, thick-shoulderedfigure disappear around theturnattheendofthestreet.
For most of the days,Mariamstayedinbed,feelingadriftandforlorn.Sometimesshe went downstairs to thekitchen, ran her hands overthe sticky, grease-stainedcounter, the vinyl, floweredcurtains that smelled likeburned meals. She lookedthrough the ill-fittingdrawers, at the mismatchedspoons and knives, thecolander and chipped,wooden spatulas, these
would-be instruments of hernew daily life, all of itreminding her of the havocthat had struck her life,making her feel uprooted,displaced, likean intruderonsomeoneelse'slife.
Atthekolba,herappetitehadbeen predictable. Here, herstomach rarely growled forfood. Sometimes she took aplate of leftover white riceand a scrap of bread to the
living room, by the window.Fromthere,shecouldseetheroofsof theone-storyhouseson their street.She could seeinto their yards too, thewomenworkinglaundrylinesand shooing their children,chickens pecking at dirt, theshovelsand spades, thecowstetheredtotrees.
Shethoughtlonginglyofallthe summer nights that sheandNanahadsleptontheflat
roof of thekolba, looking atthe moon glowing over GulDaman,thenightsohottheirshirts would cling to theirchests like a wet leaf to awindow. She missed thewinter afternoons of readingin thekolba with MullahFaizullah, the clinkof iciclesfalling on her roof from thetrees, the crows cawingoutside from snow-burdenedbranches.
Aloneinthehouse,Mariampaced restlessly, from thekitchentothelivingroom,upthe steps to her room anddown again. She ended upback in her room, doing herprayers or sitting on the bed,missing her mother, feelingnauseatedandhomesick.
It was with the sun'swestwardcrawlthatMariam'sanxiety really ratcheted up.Her teeth rattled when she
thoughtofthenight,thetimewhen Rasheed might at lastdecide to do to her whathusbands did to their wives.Shelayinbed,wrackedwithnerves, as he ate alonedownstairs.
He always stopped by herroomandpokedhisheadin.
"You can't be sleepingalready. It's only seven. Areyou awake? Answer me.
Come,now."
He pressed on until, fromthe dark, Mariam said, "I'mhere."
Hesliddownandsatinherdoorway. From her bed, shecould see his large-framedbody, his long legs, thesmoke swirling around hishook-nosedprofile,theambertip of his cigarettebrighteninganddimming.
Hetoldherabouthisday.Apairofloafershehadcustom-made for the deputy foreignminister-who, Rasheed said,bought shoes only fromhim.An order for sandals from aPolishdiplomatandhiswife.He told her of thesuperstitions people hadaboutshoes:thatputtingthemon a bed invited death intothe family, that a quarrelwould follow if one put ontheleftshoefirst.
"Unless it was doneunintentionally on a Friday,"he said. "And did you knowit's supposed to be a badomen to tie shoes togetherandhangthemfromanail?"
Rasheed himself believednone of this. In his opinion,superstitions were largely afemalepreoccupation.
He passed on to her thingshe had heard on the streets,
like how the Americanpresident Richard Nixon hadresignedoverascandal.
Mariam, who had neverheard of Nixon, or thescandalthathadforcedhimtoresign, did not say anythingback. She waited anxiouslyforRasheed to finish talking,to crush his cigarette, andtake his leave. Only whenshe'd heard him cross thehallway, heardhis door open
and close, only then wouldthe metal fist gripping herbellyletgo-Thenonenighthecrushed his cigarette andinstead of saying good nightleanedagainstthedoorway.
"Are you ever going tounpack that thing?" he said,motioning with his headtoward her suitcase. Hecrossed his arms. "I figuredyou might need some time.But this is absurd. A week's
gone and…Well, then, as oftomorrow morning I expectyou to start behaving like awife.Fahmidi? Is thatunderstood?"
Mariam's teeth began tochatter.
"Ineedananswer."
"Yes."
"Good,"hesaid. "Whatdid
you think? That this is ahotel?That I'msomekindofhotelkeeper? Well, it…Oh.Oh.
Laillahu ilillah.WhatdidIsay about the crying?Mariam. What did I say toyouaboutthecrying?"
***
The next morning, afterRasheed left for work,
Mariamunpackedherclothesand put them in the dresser.Shedrewapailofwaterfromthe well and, with a rag,washed the windows of herroomandthewindowstotheliving room downstairs- Sheswept the floors, beat thecobwebs fluttering in thecorners of the ceiling. Sheopenedthewindowstoairthehouse.
Shesetthreecupsoflentils
tosoakinapot,foundaknifeand cut some carrots and apairofpotatoes,leftthemtooto soak. She searched forflour, found it in the back ofone of the cabinets behind arow of dirty spice jars, andmade fresh dough, kneadingit the way Nana had shownher, pushing the dough withthe heel of her hand, foldingtheouteredge,turningit,andpushing it away again. Onceshe had floured the dough,
she wrapped it in a moistcloth, put on ahijab, and setout for the communaltandoor.
Rasheedhadtoldherwhereitwas,downthestreet,a leftthen a quick right, but allMariamhadtodowasfollowthe flock of women andchildrenwhowereheadedthesame way. The childrenMariam saw, chasing aftertheir mothers or running
ahead of them, wore shirtspatched and patched again.They wore trousers thatlookedtoobig
or too small, sandals withragged straps that flappedback and forth. They rolleddiscarded old bicycle tireswithsticks.
Their mothers walked ingroupsofthreeorfour,someinburqas,othersnot.Mariam
could hear their high-pitchedchatter,theirspiralinglaughs.Asshewalkedwithherheaddown,shecaughtbitsoftheirbanter, which seeminglyalways had to do with sickchildren or lazy, ungratefulhusbands.
As if the meals cookthemselves.
Wallah o billah,never amoment'srest!
Andhesays tome, Iswearit, it's true, he actually saystome…
This endless conversation,the tone plaintive but oddlycheerful, flew around andaroundinacircle.Onitwent,down the street, around thecorner, in lineat the tandoor.Husbands who gambled.Husbandswhodotedontheirmothersandwouldn'tspendarupiah on them, the wives.
Mariam wondered how somanywomencouldsufferthesamemiserable luck, to havemarried, all of them, suchdreadful men. Or was this awifely game that she did notknow about, a daily ritual,like soaking rice or makingdough? Would they expecthersoontojoinin?
In thetandoorline,Mariamcaught sidewaysglances shotat her, heard whispers. Her
hands began to sweat. Sheimagined they all knew thatshe'd been born aharami, asourceofshametoherfatherandhisfamily.Theyallknewthatshe'dbetrayedhermotheranddisgracedherself.
With a corner of herhijab,she dabbed at the moistureaboveherupper lipand triedto gather her nerves. For afewminutes,everythingwentwell-Then someone tapped
her on the shoulder.Mariamturned around and found alight-skinned, plump womanwearing ahijab, like her. Shehadshort,wiryblackhairanda good-humored, almostperfectlyroundface.Herlipswere much fuller thanMariam's, the lower oneslightly droopy, as thoughdragged down by the big,dark mole just below the lipline. She had big greenisheyes that shone at Mariam
withaninvitingglint.
"You're Rasheed jan's newwife,aren'tyou?"thewomansaid,smilingwidely.
"TheonefromHerat.You'reso young! Mariam jan, isn'tit?Myname isFariba. I liveonyour street, fivehouses toyour left, the one with thegreen door. This is mysonNoor."
The boy at her side had asmooth, happy face andwiryhair like his mother's. Therewasapatchofblackhairsonthe lobe of his left ear. Hiseyes had a mischievous,reckless light in them. Heraised his hand."Salaam,KhalaJan."
"Nooristen.Ihaveanolderboytoo,Ahmad."
"He'sthirteen,"Noorsaid.
"Thirteen going on forty."The woman Fariba laughed."My husband's name isHakim," she said. "He's ateacher here inDeh-Mazang.You should come bysometime,we'llhaveacup-"
And then suddenly, as ifemboldened, the otherwomen pushed past Faribaand swarmed Mariam,forming a circle around herwithalarmingspeed
"So you're Rasheed jan'syoungbride-"
"HowdoyoulikeKabul?"
"I'vebeentoHerat.Ihaveacousinthere"
"Doyouwantaboyoragirlfirst?"
"The minarets! Oh, whatbeauty! What a gorgeouscity!"
"Boy isbetter,Mariam jan,theycarrythefamilyname-"
"Bah!Boysgetmarriedandrunoff.Girlsstaybehindandtakecareofyouwhenyou'reold"
"We heard you werecoming."
"Have twins. One of each!Theneveryone'shappy."
Mariam backed away. Shewas hyperventilating. Herears buzzed, her pulsefluttered, her eyes dartedfromonefacetoanother.Shebackedawayagain,but therewasnowheretogoto-shewasin the center of a circle. Shespotted Fariba, who wasfrowning, who saw that shewasindistress.
"Let her be!" Fariba wassaying. "Move aside, let her
be!You'refrighteningher!"
Mariamclutched thedoughclosetoherchestandpushedthrough the crowd aroundher.
"Where are yougoing,hamshira?”
She pushed until somehowshewas in theclearand thensheranupthestreet.Itwasn'tuntil she'd reached the
intersection that she realizedshe'drunthewrongway.Sheturnedaroundandranbackinthe other direction, headdown, tripping once andscrapingherkneebadly, thenupagainandrunning,boltingpastthewomen.
"What's the matter withyou?"
"You'rebleeding,hamshiral"
Mariam turned one corner,then theother.She found thecorrect street but suddenlycould not remember whichwasRasheed'shouse.Sheranup then down the street,panting, near tears now,began trying doors blindly.Some were locked, othersopened only to revealunfamiliar yards, barkingdogs, and startled chickens.ShepicturedRasheedcominghome to find her still
searching this way, her kneebleeding, lost on her ownstreet. Now she did startcrying.Shepushedondoors,muttering panicked prayers,her face moist with tears,until one opened, and shesaw,withrelief,theouthouse,the well, the toolshed. Sheslammedthedoorbehindherandturnedthebolt.Thenshewas on all fours, next to thewall,retching.Whenshewasdone, she crawled away, sat
againstthewall,withherlegssplayed before her. She hadneverinherlifefeltsoalone.
***
WhenRasheed came homethat night, he brought withhim a brown paper bag.Mariamwasdisappointedthathe did not notice the cleanwindows, the swept floors,themissing cobwebs. But hedid lookpleased thatshehad
already set his dinner plate,on a cleansofrah spread ontheliving-roomfloor.
"Imadedaal"Mariamsaid.
"Good.I'mstarving."
She poured water for himfrom theafiawa to wash hishandswith.Ashedriedwithatowel,sheputbeforehimasteaming bowlof daal and aplateoffluffywhiterice.This
was the first meal she hadcooked for him, andMariamwished she had been in abetterstatewhenshemadeit.She'd still been shaken fromthe incidentat the tandoorasshe'dcooked,andalldayshehad fretted about thedaal'%consistency,itscolor,worriedthat he would think she'dstirred in toomuchgingerornotenoughturmeric.
Hedippedhisspoonintothe
gold-coloreddaal.
Mariamswayedabit.Whatif he was disappointed orangry?Whatifhepushedhisplateawayindispleasure?
"Careful," she managed tosay."It'shot."
Rasheedpursedhislipsandblew,thenput thespoonintohismouth.
"It'sgood,"hesaid."Alittleundersalted but good.Maybebetterthangood,even."
Relieved,Mariamlookedonas he ate. A flare of pridecaughtheroffguard.Shehaddonewell -maybebetter thangood, even- and it surprisedher,thisthrillshefeltoverhissmall compliment- The day'searlier unpleasantnessrecededabit.
"Tomorrow is Friday,"Rasheed said. "What do yousayIshowyouaround?"
"AroundKabul?"
"No.Calcutta."
Mariamblinked.
"It's a joke. Of courseKabul. Where else?" Hereached into thebrownpaperbag. "But first, something I
havetotellyou."
He fished a sky blue burqafrom the bag. The yards ofpleated cloth spilled over hisknees when he lifted it. Herolleduptheburqa,lookedatMariam.
"Ihavecustomers,Mariam,men,whobringtheirwivestomy shop. The women comeuncovered, they talk to medirectly, look me in the eye
without shame. They wearmakeup and skirts that showtheir knees. Sometimes theyevenput theirfeet infrontofme, the women do, formeasurements, and theirhusbands stand there andwatch. They allow it. Theythink nothing of a strangertouching their wives' barefeet!Theythinkthey'rebeingmodernmen,intellectuals,onaccount of their education, Isuppose. They don't see that
they're spoiling theirownnang andnamoos, theirhonorandpride."
Heshookhishead.
"Mostly, they live in thericherpartsofKabul.I'lltakeyou there. You'll see. Butthey're here too, Mariam, inthisveryneighborhood,thesesoft men. There's a teacherlivingdownthestreet,Hakimishisname,andIseehiswife
Fariba all the time walkingthestreetsalonewithnothingon her head but a scarf. Itembarrasses me, frankly, tosee amanwho's lost controlofhiswife."
He fixed Mariam with ahardglare.
"ButI'madifferentbreedofman,Mariam.Where I comefrom, one wrong look, oneimproper word, and blood is
spilled.WhereIcomefrom,awoman'sfaceisherhusband'sbusiness only. I want you toremember that. Do youunderstand?"
Mariam nodded. When heextended the bag to her, shetookit.
Theearlierpleasureoverhisapproval of her cooking hadevaporated. In its stead, asensation of shrinking. This
man's will felt toMariam asimposing and immovable asthe Safid-koh mountainsloomingoverGulDaman.
Rasheed passed the paperbag to her. "We have anunderstanding,then.Now,letme have some more ofthatdaal."
11.
Mariam had never beforewornaburqa.Rasheedhadtohelpherputiton.Thepaddedheadpiecefelttightandheavyon her skull, and it wasstrange seeing the worldthrough a mesh screen. Shepracticedwalking around her
room in it and kept steppingon the hem and stumbling.The loss of peripheral visionwas unnerving, and she didnot like the suffocating waythe pleated cloth keptpressingagainsthermouth.
"You'll get used to it,"Rasheed said. "With time, Ibetyou'llevenlikeit."
They took a bus to a placeRasheed called the Shar-e-
Nau Park, where childrenpushed each other on swingsand slapped volleyballs overragged nets tied to treetrunks.Theystrolledtogetherand watched boys fly kites,Mariam walking besideRasheed, tripping now andthen on the burqa's hem. Forlunch, Rasheed took her toeat in a small kebab housenear a mosque he called theHajiYaghoub.Thefloorwasstickyandtheairsmoky.The
walls smelled faintly of rawmeat and the music, whichRasheed described to heraslogari,wasloud.Thecookswere thin boys who fannedskewers with one hand andswatted gnatswith the other.Mariam,whohadneverbeeninside a restaurant, found itoddatfirsttositinacrowdedroomwithsomanystrangers,to lift her burqa to putmorsels of food into hermouth. A hint of the same
anxiety as the day at thetandoor stirred in herstomach, but Rasheed'spresence was of somecomfort, and, after a while,shedidnotmindsomuchthemusic, the smoke, even thepeople. And the burqa, shelearned to her surprise, wasalsocomforting.Itwaslikeaone-way window. Inside it,shewasanobserver,bufferedfrom the scrutinizing eyes ofstrangers. She no longer
worried that people knew,with a single glance, all theshamefulsecretsofherpast.
On the streets, Rasheednamedvariousbuildingswithauthority; this is theAmerican Embassy, he said,that theForeignMinistry.Hepointed to cars, said theirnames and where they weremade: Soviet Volgas,American Chevrolets,GermanOpels.
"Whichisyourfavorite?"heasked
Mariamhesitated,pointedtoa Volga, and Rasheedlaughed
Kabul was far morecrowded than the little thatMariam had seen of Herat.There were fewer trees andfewergaris pulled by horses,but more cars, tallerbuildings, more traffic lights
and more paved roads. AndeverywhereMariamheardthecity'speculiardialect: "Dear"wasjon insteadof jo, "sister"becamehamshira insteadofhamshireh,andsoon.
From a street vendor,Rasheed bought her icecream. It was the first timeshe'd eaten ice cream andMariam had never imaginedthat such tricks could beplayed on a palate. She
devoured theentirebowl, thecrushed-pistachiotopping,thetiny rice noodles at thebottom. She marveled at thebewitching texture, thelappingsweetnessofit.
Theywalked on to a placecalled Kocheh-Morgha,Chicken Street. It was anarrow, crowded bazaar in aneighborhood that Rasheedsaid was one of Kabul'swealthierones.
"Around here is whereforeign diplomats live, richbusinessmen,membersoftheroyal family-that sort ofpeople.Notlikeyouandme."
"I don't see any chickens,"Mariamsaid.
"That's the one thing youcan'tfindonChickenStreet."Rasheedlaughed
The street was lined with
shopsandlittlestallsthatsoldlambskin hats and rainbow-coloredchapans. Rasheedstopped to look at anengravedsilverdaggerinoneshop, and, in another, at anold rifle that the shopkeeperassured Rasheed was a relicfromthefirstwaragainst theBritish.
"And I'm Moshe Dayan,"Rasheed muttered. He halfsmiled, and it seemed to
Mariam that thiswasa smilemeantonlyforher.Aprivate,marriedsmile.
They strolled past carpetshops, handicraft shops,pastry shops, flower shops,and shops that sold suits formen and dresses for women,and, in them, behind lacecurtains, Mariam saw younggirls sewing buttons andironing collars. From time totime, Rasheed greeted a
shopkeeper he knew,sometimes in Farsi, othertimes in Pashto. As theyshook hands and kissed onthe cheek, Mariam stood afew feet away. Rasheed didnot wave her over, did notintroduceher.
Heaskedhertowaitoutsideanembroideryshop."Iknowthe owner," he said. "I'll justgo in for a minute, saymysalaam."
Mariam waited outside onthe crowded sidewalk. Shewatched thecarscrawlingupChicken Street, threadingthroughthehordeofhawkersand pedestrians, honking atchildren and donkeys whowouldn't move. She watchedthe bored-looking merchantsinside their tiny stalls,smoking, or spitting intobrass spittoons, their facesemerging from the shadowsnow and then to peddle
textiles and fur-collaredpoosiincoats topassersby.
But itwas thewomenwhodrewMariam'seyesthemost.
The women in this part ofKabulwere a different breedfromthewomeninthepoorerneighborhoods-like the onewheresheandRasheedlived,wheresomanyofthewomencovered fully. These women
were-what was the wordRasheedhadused?-"modern."Yes, modern Afghan womenmarried to modern Afghanmen who did not mind thattheir wives walked amongstrangers with makeup ontheir faces and nothing ontheir heads.Mariamwatchedthem cantering uninhibiteddown the street, sometimeswithaman,sometimesalone,sometimeswithrosy-cheekedchildren who wore shiny
shoes and watches withleather bands, who walkedbicycles with high-risehandlebars and gold-coloredspokes-unlike the children inDeh-Mazang,whoboresand-fly scars on their cheeks androlled old bicycle tires withsticks.
These women were allswinging handbags andrustling skirts. Mariam evenspotted one smoking behind
thewheelofacar.Theirnailswere long, polished pink ororange,theirlipsredastulips.They walked in high heels,and quickly, as if onperpetually urgent business.They wore dark sunglasses,and, when they breezed by,Mariam caught a whiff oftheir perfume. She imaginedthat they all had universitydegrees, that they worked inofficebuildings,behinddesksof their own, where they
typed and smoked and madeimportant telephone calls toimportant people. Thesewomen mystified Mariam.Theymade her aware of herown lowliness, her plainlooks,herlackofaspirations,her ignorance of so manythings.
Then Rasheed was tappingher on the shoulder andhandinghersomethinghere.
It was a dark maroon silkshawl with beaded fringesand edges embroidered withgoldthread
"Doyoulikeit?"
Mariamlookedup.Rasheeddidatouchingthingthen.Heblinkedandavertedhergaze.
Mariam thought of Jalil, ofthe emphatic, jovial way inwhichhe'dpushedhisjewelry
at her, the overpoweringcheerfulness that left roomfor no response but meekgratitude. Nana had beenright about Mil's gifts. Theyhad been halfhearted tokensofpenance,insincere,corruptgestures meant more for hisown appeasement than hers.Thisshawl,Mariamsaw,wasatruegift.
"It'sbeautiful,"shesaid.
***
That night,Rasheed visitedher room again. But insteadof smoking in the doorway,he crossed the room and satbeside her where she lay onthe bed. The springs creakedasthebedtiltedtohisside.
There was a moment ofhesitation, and then his handwas on her neck, his thickfingers slowly pressing the
knobs in the back of it. Histhumb slid down, and now itwas stroking the hollowabovehercollarbone,thentheflesh beneath it. Mariambegan shivering. His handcrept lower still, lower, hisfingernails catching in thecottonofherblouse.
"I can't," she croaked,lookingathismoonlitprofile,histhickshouldersandbroadchest, the tufts of gray hair
protruding from his opencollar.
His hand was on her rightbreastnow,squeezing ithardthrough the blouse, and shecould hear him breathingdeeplythroughthenose.
He slid under the blanketbesideher.Shecouldfeelhishand working at his belt, atthedrawstringofhertrousers.Her own hands clenched the
sheetsinfistfuls.Herolledontop of her, wriggled andshifted, and she let out awhimper. Mariam closed hereyes,grittedherteeth.
The pain was sudden andastonishing. Her eyes sprangopen.She suckedair throughher teeth and bit on theknuckle of her thumb. Sheslung her free arm overRasheed's back and herfingersdugathisshirt.
Rasheedburiedhisfaceintoher pillow, and Mariamstared, wide-eyed, at theceiling above his shoulder,shivering,lipspursed,feelingthe heat of his quick breathson her shoulder. The airbetween them smelled oftobacco, of the onions andgrilled lamb they had eatenearlier.Nowandthen,hisearrubbedagainsthercheek,andshe knew from the scratchyfeelthathehadshavedit.
Whenitwasdone,herolledoff her, panting. He droppedhisforearmoverhisbrow.Inthe dark, she could see thebluehandsofhiswatch.Theylay that way for a while, ontheir backs, not looking ateachother.
"There is no shame in this,Mariam," he said, slurring alittle. "It's what marriedpeople do. It's what theProphethimselfandhiswives
didThereisnoshame."
A few moments later, hepushed back the blanket andleft the room, leaving herwith the impression of hishead on her pillow, leavinghertowaitoutthepaindownbelow, to look at the frozenstars in the sky and a cloudthat draped the face of themoonlikeaweddingveil.
12.
Jtvamadan came in the fallthat year, 1974. For the firsttime in her life,Mariam sawhow the sighting of the newcrescent moon couldtransformanentirecity, alterits rhythm and mood. Shenoticed a drowsy hush
overtaking Kabul Trafficbecame languid, scant, evenquiet. Shops emptied.Restaurants turned off theirlights, closed their doors.Mariam saw no smokers onthe streets, no cups of teasteaming from windowledges.And atifiar,when thesun dipped in the west andthecannonfiredfromtheShirDarwaza mountain, the citybroke its fast, and so didMariam, with bread and a
date, tastingfor thefirst timein her fifteen years thesweetness of sharing in acommunalexperience.
Except for a handful ofdays, Rasheed didn't observethe fast. The few times hedid, he came home in a sourmood.Hungermadehimcurt,irritable, impatient. Onenight, Mariam was a fewminutes latewithdinner, andhe started eating bread with
radishes. Even after Mariamputthericeandthelambandokraqurmainfrontofhim,hewouldn't touch it. He saidnothing,andwentonchewingthe bread, his templesworking, the vein on hisforehead, full and angry. Hewent on chewing and staringahead, and when Mariamspoketohimhelookedatherwithout seeing her face andput another piece of breadintohismouth.
Mariamwas relievedwhenRamadanended.
Backatthekolba,onthefirstof three days of Eid-ul-Fitrcelebration that followedRamadan, Jalil would visitMariamandNana.Dressedinsuit and tie, he would comebearing Eid presents. Oneyear,hegaveMariamawoolscarf. The three of themwould sit for tea and thenJalil would excuse himself
"OfftocelebrateEidwithhisrealfamily,"Nanawouldsayas he crossed the stream andwaved-Mullah Faizullahwould come too. He wouldbring Mariam chocolatecandy wrapped in foil, abasketfulofdyedboiledeggs,cookies. After he was gone,Mariam would climb one ofthe willows with her treats.Perchedonahighbranch,shewould eatMullah Faizullah'schocolates and drop the foil
wrappers until they layscattered about the trunk ofthe tree like silver blossoms.When the chocolate wasgone, she would start in onthe cookies, and, with apencil, shewoulddraw faceson the eggs he had broughther now. But therewas littlepleasure in this for her.Mariam dreaded Eid, thistime of hospitality andceremony, when familiesdressed in their best and
visitedeachother.Shewouldimagine the air in Heratcracklingwithmerriness,andhigh-spirited, bright-eyedpeople showering each otherwith endearments andgoodwill. A forlornnesswould descend on her like ashroud then and would liftonlywhenEidhadpassed.
Thisyear,forthefirsttime,MariamsawwithhereyestheEid of her childhood
imaginings.
Rasheedandshetooktothestreets. Mariam had neverwalked amid such liveliness.Undaunted by the chillyweather,familieshadfloodedthe city on their freneticrounds to visit relatives. Ontheirownstreet,MariamsawFaribaandhersonNoor,whowasdressed ina suit.Fariba,wearingawhitescarf,walkedbeside a small-boned, shy-
lookingmanwitheyeglasses.Her older sonwas there too-Mariam somehowrememberedFaribasayinghisname,Ahmad,at the tandoorthat first time. He had deep-set, brooding eyes, and hisface was more thoughtful,more solemn, than hisyounger brother's, a face assuggestive of early maturityas his brother's was oflingeringboyishness.AroundAhmad'sneckwasaglittering
allahpendant.
Faribamusthaverecognizedher, walking in burqa besideRasheed. She waved, andcalledout,"Eidmubarak!"
From inside the burqa,Mariamgaveheraghostofanod.
"Soyouknow thatwoman,the teacher's wife?" Rasheedsaid
Mariamsaidshedidn't.
"Bestyoustayaway.She'sanosy gossiper, that one. Andthe husband fancies himselfsome kind of educatedintellectualButhe'samouse.Lookathim.Doesn'thelooklikeamouse?"
They went to Shar-e-Nau,where kids romped about innew shirts and beaded,brightly colored vests and
compared Eid gifts. Womenbrandishedplattersofsweets.Mariam saw festive lanternshanging from shopwindows,heard music blaring fromloudspeakers. Strangerscalled out"Eidmubarak" toherastheypassed.
That night they wenttoChaman, and, standingbehind Rasheed, Mariamwatched fireworks light upthe sky, in flashes of green,
pink,andyellow.ShemissedsittingwithMullah Faizullahoutside thekolba, watchingthe fireworks explode overHerat in the distance, thesudden bursts of colorreflected in her tutor's soft,cataract-riddled eyes. But,mostly, she missed Nana.Mariam wished her motherwere alive to see this. Toseeher, amid all of it.To seeat last that contentment andbeauty were not unattainable
things. Even for the likes ofthem.
***
TheyhadEidvisitorsatthehouse. They were all men,friendsofRasheed's.Whenaknockcame,Mariamknewtogo upstairs to her room andclose the door. She stayedthere, as the men sipped teadownstairs with Rasheed,smoked,chatted.Rasheedhad
toldMariamthatshewasnotto come down until thevisitorshadleft
Mariam didn't mind. Intruth, shewas even flattered.Rasheedsawsanctityinwhattheyhadtogether.Herhonor,hernamoos, was somethingworth guarding to him. Shefelt prized by hisprotectiveness.Treasuredandsignificant.
OnthethirdandlastdayofEid, Rasheed went to visitsome friends.Mariam,who'dhad a queasy stomach allnight, boiled somewater andmade herself a cup of greentea sprinkled with crushedcardamom. In the livingroom, she took in theaftermath of the previousnight's Eid visits: theoverturned cups, the half-chewed pumpkin seedsstashed between mattresses,
the plates crusted with theoutline of last night's meal.Mariamsetaboutcleaningupthe mess, marveling at howenergetically lazy men couldbe.
She didn'tmean to go intoRasheed's room. But thecleaning took her from theliving room to the stairs, andthen to the hallway upstairsandtohisdoor,and,thenextthing she knew, she was in
his room for the first time,sittingonhisbed,feelinglikeatrespasser.
Shetookintheheavy,greendrapes, the pairs of polishedshoes lined up neatly alongthe wall, the closet door,where the gray paint hadchipped and showed thewood beneath. She spotted apack of cigarettes atop thedresser beside his bed. Sheputonebetweenher lips and
stood before the small ovalmirror on the wall. Shepuffedairintothemirrorandmade ash-tapping motions.She put it back. She couldnever manage the seamlessgrace with which Kabuliwomen smoked. On her, itlookedcoarse,ridiculous.
Guiltily, she slid open thetopdrawerofhisdresser.
Shesawthegunfirst.Itwas
black, with a wooden gripand a short muzzle. Mariammadesuretomemorizewhichway itwas facing before shepicked it up. She turned itover in her hands. It wasmuch heavier than it looked.The grip felt smooth in herhand, and the muzzle wascold.Itwasdisquietingtoherthat Rasheed ownedsomething whose solepurpose was to kill anotherperson. But surely he kept it
fortheirsafety.Hersafety.
Beneath the gun wereseveral magazines withcurling corners. Mariamopenedone.Somethinginsideher dropped. Her mouthgapedofitsownwill.
Oneverypagewerewomen,beautiful women, who woreno shirts, no trousers, nosocks or underpants. Theyworenothingatall.They lay
in beds amid tumbled sheetsand gazed back at Mariamwithhalf-liddedeyes.Inmostof the pictures, their legswereapart,andMariamhadafull view of the dark placebetween.Insome,thewomenwere prostrated as if-Godforbidthisthought-insujdaforprayer. They looked backover their shoulders with alookofboredcontempt.
Mariam quickly put the
magazine back where she'dfound it. She felt drugged.Who were these women?How could they allowthemselves to bephotographed this way? Herstomach revolted withdistaste.Wasthiswhathedidthen, thosenights that hedidnot visit her room? Had shebeenadisappointmenttohiminthisparticularregard?Andwhat about all his talk ofhonor and propriety, his
disapproval of the femalecustomers, who, after all,were only showing him theirfeet to get fitted for shoes?Awoman'sface,he'dsaid,isherhusband's business only.Surely the women on thesepageshadhusbands, someofthemmust.At the least, theyhad brothers. If so, why didRasheed insist thatshe coverwhen he thought nothing oflookingattheprivateareasofothermen'swivesandsisters?
Mariam sat on his bed,embarrassed and confusedShecuppedherfacewithherhands and closed her eyes.She breathed and breatheduntilshefeltcalmer.
Slowly, an explanationpresented itself He was aman,afterall,livingaloneforyears before she had movedin. His needs differed fromhers.Forher,allthesemonthslater, their coupling was still
anexerciseintoleratingpain.His appetite, on the otherhand, was fierce, sometimesborderingon theviolent.Thewayhepinnedherdown,hishard squeezes at her breasts,how furiously his hipsworked. He was a man. Allthoseyearswithoutawoman.Couldshefaulthimforbeingthe way God had createdhim?
Mariamknewthatshecould
nevertalktohimaboutthis.Itwas unmentionable. But wasitunforgivable?Sheonlyhadto think of the other man inher life. Jalil, a husband ofthreeandfatherofnineatthetime, having relations withNana out ofwedlock.Whichwas worse, Rasheed'smagazine or what Jalil haddone? And what entitled heranyway, a villager, aharami,topassjudgment?
Mariam tried the bottomdrawerofthedresser.
Itwastherethatshefoundapicture of the boy, Yunus. Itwas black-and-white. Helooked four, maybe five. Hewas wearing a striped shirtand a bow tie. He was ahandsome little boy, with aslendernose,brownhair,anddark,slightlysunkeneyes.Helooked distracted, as thoughsomethinghadcaughthiseye
just as the camera hadflashed.
Beneaththat,Mariamfoundanother photo, also black-and-white, this one slightlymore grainy. It was of aseated woman and, behindher, a thinner, youngerRasheed,withblackhair.Thewomanwasbeautiful.Notasbeautifulasthewomeninthemagazine, perhaps, butbeautiful. Certainly more
beautiful than her, Mariam.She had a delicate chin andlong,blackhairparted in thecenter. High cheekbones anda gentle forehead. Mariampictured her own face, herthin lips and long chin, andfeltaflickerofjealousy.
Shelookedatthisphotofora long time. There wassomething vaguely unsettlingabout the way Rasheedseemed to loom over the
woman. His hands on hershoulders.Hissavoring,tight-lipped smile and herunsmiling, sullen face. Theway her body tilted forwardsubtly, as though she weretrying to wriggle free of hishands.
Mariamputeverythingbackwhereshe'dfoundit.
Later, as she was doinglaundry,sheregrettedthatshe
had sneaked around in hisroom. For what?What thingof substance had she learnedabout him?That he owned agun, that hewas amanwiththeneedsofaman?Andsheshouldn't have stared at thephotoofhimandhiswifeforas long as she had.Her eyeshad read meaning into whatwas random body posturecaptured in a single momentoftime.
What Mariam felt now, asthe loaded clotheslinesbounced heavily before her,was sorrow for Rasheed. Hetoohadhadahardlife,alifemarkedby lossandsad turnsoffate.Herthoughtsreturnedto his boy Yunus, who hadonce built snowmen in thisyard,whosefeethadpoundedthese same stairs. The lakehad snatched him fromRasheed, swallowed him up,justasawhalehadswallowed
theboy'snamesakeprophetintheKoran.ItpainedMariam-it pained her considerably-topicture Rasheed panic-stricken and helpless, pacingthe banks of the lake andpleadingwithittospithissonback onto dry land. And shefeltforthefirsttimeakinshipwith her husband. She toldherself that theywouldmakegoodcompanionsafterall.
13.
On thebus ridehome fromthedoctor,thestrangestthingwas happening to Mariam.Everywhere she looked, shesaw bright colors: on thedrab, gray concreteapartments,onthetin-roofed,open-fronted stores, in the
muddy water flowing in thegutters. It was as though arainbow had melted into hereyes.
Rasheedwasdrumminghisgloved fingers and humminga song. Every time the busbucked over a pothole andjerkedforward,hishandshotprotectivelyoverherbelly.
"What about Zalmai?" hesaid. "It's a good Pashtun
name."
"Whatifit'sagirl?"Mariamsaid.
"I think it's a boy. Yes. Aboy."
A murmur was passingthrough the bus. Somepassengers were pointing atsomething and otherpassengers were leaningacrossseatstosee.
"Look," said Rasheed,tapping a knuckle on theglass. He was smiling."There.See?"
On thestreets,Mariamsawpeople stopping in theirtracks.At traffic lights, facesemergedfromthewindowsofcars, turned upward towardthefallingsoftness.Whatwasit about a season's firstsnowfall, Mariam wondered,that was so entrancing?Was
itthechancetoseesomethingas yet unsoiled, untrodden?Tocatchthefleetinggraceofa new season, a lovelybeginning, before it wastrampledandcorrupted?
"Ifit'sagirl,"Rasheedsaid,"andit isn't,but, if itisagirl,thenyoucanchoosewhatevernameyouwant."
***
Mahiam awoke the nextmorning to the sound ofsawing and hammering- Shewrapped a shawl around herand went out into thesnowblown yard. The heavysnowfallofthepreviousnighthad stopped. Now only ascattering of light, swirlingflakestickledhercheeks.Theairwaswindlessandsmelledlike burning coal.Kabulwaseerilysilent,quiltedinwhite,tendrils of smoke snakingup
hereandthere.
She found Rasheed in thetoolshed, pounding nails intoa plank of wood. When hesaw her, he removed a nailfromthecornerofhismouth.
"It was going to be asurprise. He'll need a crib.You weren't supposed to seeuntilitwasdone."
Mariamwishedhewouldn't
do that,hitchhishopes to itsbeingaboy.Ashappyasshewasaboutthispregnancy,hisexpectation weighed on her.Yesterday,Rasheedhadgoneout and come home with asuede winter coat for a boy,lined inside with softsheepskin, the sleevesembroidered with fine redandyellowsilkthread.
Rasheed lifted a long,narrowboard.Ashebeganto
saw it in half, he said thestairs worried him."Something will have to bedone about them later, whenhe's old enough to climb."Thestoveworriedhimtoo,hesaid. The knives and forkswould have to be stowedsomewhere out of reach."You can't be too carefulBoysarerecklesscreatures."
Mariam pulled the shawlaroundheragainstthechill.
***
Thenextmorning,Rasheedsaid he wanted to invite hisfriends for dinner tocelebrate. All morning,Mariam cleaned lentils andmoistened rice. She slicedeggplants forborani, andcookedleeksandgroundbeefforaushak. She swept thefloor, beat the curtains, airedthe house, despite the snowthathadstartedupagain.She
arranged mattresses andcushions along the walls ofthelivingroom,placedbowlsofcandyandroastedalmondsonthetable.
She was in her room byearly evening before the firstofthemenarrived.Shelayinbedasthehootsandlaughterand bantering voicesdownstairs began tomushroom.Shecouldn'tkeepherhandsfromdriftingtoher
belly. She thought of whatwas growing there, andhappiness rushed in like agust ofwind blowing a doorwideopen.Hereyeswatered.
Mariam thought of her six-hundred-and-fifty-kilometerbus trip with Rasheed, fromHerat in the west, near theborderwith Iran, toKabul inthe east. They had passedsmall towns and big towns,and knots of little villages
that kept springing up oneafter another. They had goneover mountains and acrossraw-burneddeserts, fromoneprovince to the next. Andhereshewasnow,overthoseboulders and parched hills,with a home of her own, ahusbandof her own, headingtoward one final, cherishedprovince: Motherhood. Howdelectableitwastothinkof
this baby,her baby,their
baby.Howglorious itwas toknow that her love for italreadydwarfedanythingshehad ever felt as a humanbeing,toknowthattherewasnoneedanylongerforpebblegames.
Downstairs, someone wastuning a harmonium. Thenthe clanging of a hammertuning a tabla. Someonecleared his throat. And thenthere was whistling and
clapping and yipping andsinging.
Mariamstrokedthesoftnessof her belly.No bigger thanafingernail, the doctor hadsaid.
I'mgoingtobeamother,shethought.
"I'mgoing tobeamother,"she said. Then she waslaughing to herself, and
saying it over and over,relishingthewords.
When Mariam thought ofthis baby, her heart swelledinside of her. It swelled andswelled until all the loss, allthe grief, all the lonelinessandself-abasementofherlifewashed away. This was whyGodhadbroughtherhere,allthe way across the country.She knew this now. Sherememberedaversefromthe
Koran that Mullah Faizullahhad taught her:And Allah isthe East and the West,therefore wherever you turnthere is Allah's purpose …Shelaiddownherprayerruganddidnamaz.Whenshewasdone, she cupped her handsbefore her face and askedGod not to let all this goodfortuneslipawayfromher.
***
ItwasRasheed'Sideatogoto thehamam. Mariam hadnever been to a bathhouse,buthesaidtherewasnothingfiner than stepping out andtakingthatfirstbreathofcoldair, to feel the heat risingfromtheskin.
In the women'shamam,shapes moved about in thesteam around Mariam, aglimpse of a hip here, thecontour of a shoulder there.
The squeals of young girls,thegruntsofoldwomen,andthe trickling of bathwaterechoed between the walls asbackswerescrubbedandhairsoaped.Mariamsatinthefarcornerbyherself,workingonher heels with a pumicestone, insulated by a wall ofsteam from the passingshapes.
Then there was blood andshewasscreaming.
The sound of feet now,slapping against the wetcobblestones. Faces peeringat her through the steam.Tonguesclucking.
Later that night, in bed,Fariba told her husband thatwhenshe'dheard thecryandrushed over she'd foundRasheed'swife shriveled intoacorner,huggingherknees,apoolofbloodatherfeet.
"You could hear the poorgirl's teeth rattling, Hakim,shewasshiveringsohard."
WhenMariamhadseenher,Fariba said, shehad asked inahigh, supplicatingvoice,It'snormal,isn't it?Isn't it?Isn 'iitnormal?
***
Another bus ride withRasheed. Snowing again.
Fallingthickthistime.Itwaspiling in heapson sidewalks,onroofs,gatheringinpatcheson the bark of straggly trees.Mariam watched themerchants plowing snowfrom their storefronts- Agroup of boyswas chasing ablack dog. They wavedsportivelyat thebus.Mariamlooked over to Rasheed. Hiseyes were closed He wasn'thumming. Mariam reclinedherhead andclosedher eyes
too. She wanted out of hercold socks, out of the dampwoolsweaterthatwaspricklyagainst her skin. She wantedawayfromthisbus.
At the house, Rasheedcoveredherwithaquiltwhenshe lay on the couch, buttherewas a stiff, perfunctoryairaboutthisgesture.
"What kind of answer isthat?" he said again. "That's
whatamullah issupposed tosay.Youpayadoctorhisfee,youwantabetteranswerthan'God'swill.'"
Mariamcurledupherkneesbeneath the quilt and said heoughttogetsomerest.
"God'swill,"hesimmered.
Hesatinhisroomsmokingcigarettesallday.
Mariam lay on the couch,hands tucked between herknees,watched thewhirlpoolofsnowtwistingandspinningoutside the window. Sheremembered Nana sayingoncethateachsnowflakewasasighheavedbyanaggrievedwoman somewhere in theworld. That all the sighsdrifted up the sky, gatheredinto clouds, then broke intotinypiecesthatfellsilentlyonthepeoplebelow.
As a reminder of howwomen like us suffer,she'dsaid.How quietly we endureallthatfallsuponus.
14.
The grief kept surprisingMariam. All it took tounleashitwasherthinkingofthe unfinished crib in thetoolshed or the suede coat inRasheed's closet. The babycame to life then and shecould hear it, could hear its
hungrygrunts,itsgurglesandjabbering-She felt it sniffingat her breasts. The griefwashed over her, swept herup, tossed her upside down.Mariam was dumbfoundedthat shecouldmiss in suchacripplingmannerabeing shehadneverevenseen.
Then thereweredayswhenthe dreariness didn't seemquite as unrelenting toMariam.Dayswhenthemere
thought of resuming the oldpatterns of her life did notseem so exhausting, when itdidnottakeenormouseffortsofwilltogetoutofbed,todoherprayers,todothewash,tomakemealsforRasheed.
Mariam dreaded goingoutside. She was envious,suddenly, of theneighborhood women andtheir wealth of children.Somehadsevenoreightand
didn't understand howfortunate they were, howblessedthattheirchildrenhadflourished in their wombs,lived to squirm in their armsand take the milk from theirbreasts. Children that theyhadnotbledawaywithsoapywater and the bodily filth ofstrangers down somebathhouse drain. Mariamresented them when sheoverheard them complainingabout misbehaving sons and
lazydaughters.
Avoiceinsideherheadtriedto soothe her with well-intended but misguidedconsolation.
You 'll haveothers,Inshallah.You 'reyoung. Surely you‘ll havemanyotherchances.
But Mariam's grief wasn'taimless or unspecific.
Mariamgrieved forthisbaby,thisparticularchild,whohadmade her so happy for awhile-Some days, shebelieved that the baby hadbeen an undeserved blessing,that she was being punishedfor what she had done toNana.Wasn't it true that shemight as well have slippedthat noose around hermother's neck herself?Treacherous daughters didnot deserve to be mothers,
andthiswasjustpunishment-She had fitful dreams,ofNma'sjinnsneakingintoherroom at night, burrowing itsclaws into her womb, andstealing her baby. In thesedreams, Nana cackled withdelightandvindication.
Other days, Mariam wasbesieged with anger. It wasRasheed's fault for hisprematurecelebration.Forhisfoolhardy faith that she was
carrying a boy. Naming thebabyashehad.TakingGod'swillforgranted.Hisfault,formaking her go to thebathhouse. Something there,thesteam,thedirtywater,thesoap, something there hadcaused this to happen. No.Not Rasheed.She was toblame. She became furiouswith herself for sleeping inthewrongposition,foreatingmealsthatweretoospicy,fornot eating enough fruit, for
drinkingtoomuchtea.
It was God's fault, fortaunting her as He had. FornotgrantingherwhatHehadgranted so many otherwomen. For dangling beforeher, tantalizingly, what Heknew would give her thegreatest happiness, thenpullingitaway.
But it did no good, all thisfault laying, all these
harangues of accusationsbouncing in her head. Itwaskojr, sacrilege, to thinkthesethoughts.Allahwasnotspiteful. He was not a pettyGod. Mullah Faizullah'swordswhisperedinherhead:
Blessed is He in Whosehand is thekingdom, andHeWho has power over allthings, Who created deathandlifethatHemaytryyou.
Ransacked with guilt,Mariamwouldkneelandprayfor forgiveness for thesethoughts.
***
Meanwhile, a change hadcome over Rasheed eversince the day at thebathhouse.Mostnightswhenhe came home, he hardlytalked anymore. He ate,smoked, went to bed,
sometimes came back in themiddleofthenightforabriefand, of late, quite roughsession of coupling. He wasmore apt to sulk these days,to fault her cooking, tocomplainaboutclutteraroundthe yard or point out evenminor uncleanliness in thehouse. Occasionally, he tookher around town on Fridays,like he used to, but on thesidewalks he walked quicklyandalwaysafewstepsahead
of her, without speaking,unmindful of Mariam whoalmosthad to run tokeepupwithhim.Hewasn'tsoreadywithalaughontheseoutingsanymore. He didn't buy hersweets or gifts, didn't stopandnameplaces toherasheused to. Her questionsseemedtoirritatehim.
Onenight,theyweresittinginthelivingroomlisteningtothe radio. Winter was
passing. The stiff winds thatplastered snow onto the faceandmade theeyeswaterhadcalmed. Silvery fluffs ofsnow were melting off thebranches of tall elms andwould be replaced in a fewweekswithstubby,palegreenbuds. Rasheed was shakinghis foot absently to the tablabeatofaHamahangsong,hiseyescrinkledagainstcigarettesmoke.
"Are you angry with me?"Mariamasked.
Rasheed said nothing. Thesong ended and the newscame on. A woman's voicereportedthatPresidentDaoudKhan had sent yet anothergroup of Soviet consultantsback to Moscow, to theexpected displeasure of theKremlin.
"Iworry thatyouareangry
withme."
Rasheedsighed
"Areyou?"
His eyes shifted to her."WhywouldIbeangry?"
"Idon'tknow,buteversincethebaby-"
"Isthatthekindofmanyoutakeme for, after everything
I'vedoneforyou?"
"No.Ofcoursenot."
"Thenstoppesteringme!"
"I'm sorry.Bebakhsh,Rasheed.I'msorry."
Hecrushedouthiscigaretteand lit another.He turnedupthevolumeontheradio.
"I'vebeenthinking,though,"
Mariamsaid,raisinghervoiceso as to be heard over themusic.
Rasheedsighed again,moreirritably this time, turneddown thevolumeoncemore.He rubbed hisforeheadwearily."Whatnow?"
"I've been thinking, thatmaybe we should have aproper burial For the baby, Imean.Justus,afewprayers,
nothingmore."
Mariam had been thinkingaboutitforawhile.Shedidn'twant to forget this baby. Itdidn'tseemright,nottomarkthis loss in some way thatwaspermanent.
"Whatfor?It'sidiotic."
"It would make me feelbetter,Ithink."
"Thm youdo it," he saidsharply. "I've already buriedoneson.Iwon'tburyanother.
Now,ifyoudon'tmind,I'mtryingtolisten."
He turned up the volumeagain, leaned his head backandclosedhiseyes.
One sunny morning thatweek, Mariam picked a spotintheyardanddugahole.
"In the name of Allah andwith Allah, and in the nameof the messenger of Allahupon whom be the blessingsandpeaceofAllah,"shesaidunderherbreathashershovelbit into the ground. Sheplaced the suede coat thatRasheed had bought for thebabyintheholeandshoveleddirtoverit.
"Youmakethenighttopassinto the day and You make
thedaytopassintothenight,andYoubringforththelivingfromthedeadandYoubringforththedeadfromtheliving,and You give sustenance towhom You please withoutmeasure."
Shepatted thedirtwith theback of the shovel.Shesquatted by the mound,closedhereyes.
Givesustenance,Allah.
Givesustenancetome.
15.
April1978
OnApril 17,1978, the yearMariam turned nineteen, aman named Mir AkbarKhyber was found murderedTwo days later, there was alargedemonstrationinKabul.
Everyone in theneighborhood was in thestreets talking about it.Throughthewindow,Mariamsaw neighborsmilling about,chatting excitedly, transistorradios pressed to their ears.She saw Fariba leaningagainstthewallofherhouse,talking with a woman whowas new to Deh-Mazang.Fariba was smiling, and herpalms were pressed againstthe swell of her pregnant
belly. The other woman,whosenameescapedMariam,lookedolderthanFariba,andher hair had an odd purpletint to it. She was holding alittle boy's hand. Mariamknew the boy's name wasTariq, because shehadheardthiswomanon the street callafterhimbythatname.
MariamandRasheeddidn'tjoin the neighbors. Theylistened in on the radio as
some ten thousand peoplepoured into the streets andmarched up and downKabul's government district.Rasheed said thatMirAkbarKhyberhadbeenaprominentcommunist, and that hissupporters were blaming themurder on President DaoudKhan'sgovernment.Hedidn'tlookatherwhenhesaidthis.These days, he never didanymore, andMariamwasn'tever sure if she was being
spokento.
"What's a communist?" sheasked.
Rasheedsnorted,andraisedboth eyebrows. "You don'tknow what a communist is?Suchasimplething.
Everyone knows. It'scommon knowledge. Youdon't…Bah.Idon'tknowwhyI'm surprised." Then he
crossed his ankles on thetableandmumbledthatitwassomeone who believed inKarlMarxist.
"Who'sKarlMarxist?"
Rasheedsighed.
On the radio, a woman'svoicewassaying thatTaraki,the leader of the Khalqbranch of the PDPA, theAfghancommunistparty,was
in the streets giving rousingspeechestodemonstrators.
"WhatImeantwas,whatdothey want?" Mariam asked."Thesecommunists,whatisitthattheybelieve?"
Rasheedchortledandshookhishead,butMariamthoughtshe saw uncertainty in thewayhe crossed his arms, theway his eyes shifted. "Youknow nothing, do you?
You're like a child. Yourbrain is empty. There is noinformationinit."
"Iaskbecause-"
"Chupko.Shutup."
Mariamdid.
Itwasn'teasytoleratinghimtalking this way to her, tobear his scorn, his ridicule,his insults, his walking past
herlikeshewasnothingbutahousecat.Butafterfouryearsof marriage, Mariam sawclearly how much a womancould tolerate when she wasafraidAndMariamwasafraidShe lived in fear of hisshifting moods, his volatiletemperament, his insistenceon steering even mundaneexchanges down aconfrontational path that, onoccasion, he would resolvewith punches, slaps, kicks,
and sometimes try to makeamends for with pollutedapologiesandsometimesnot.
In the four years since theday at the bathhouse, therehad been six more cycles ofhopes raised then dashed,eachloss,eachcollapse,eachtrip to the doctor morecrushingforMariamthanthelast. With eachdisappointment, Rasheed hadgrown more remote and
resentful Now nothing shedidpleasedhim.Shecleanedthe house, made sure healwayshada supplyofcleanshirts, cooked him hisfavorite dishes. Once,disastrously,sheevenboughtmakeupandputitonforhim.Butwhen he came home, hetook one look at her andwincedwithsuchdistastethatshe rushed to the bathroomandwasheditalloff,tearsofshame mixing with soapy
water,rouge,andmascara.
Now Mariam dreaded thesoundofhimcominghomeintheevening.Thekeyrattling,the creak of the door- theseweresoundsthatsetherheartracing. From her bed, shelistened to theclick-clack ofhis heels, to the muffledshufflingofhisfeetafterhe'dshedhisshoes.Withherears,she took inventory of hisdoings: chair legs dragged
across the floor, theplaintivesqueakof thecaneseatwhenhe sat, the clinking of spoonagainst plate, the flutter ofnewspaper pages flipped, theslurpingofwater.Andasherheart pounded, her mindwondered what excuse hewould use that night topounce on her. There wasalways something, someminor thing that wouldinfuriate him, because nomatterwhatshedidtoplease
him, no matter howthoroughly she submitted tohis wants and demands, itwasn'tenough.Shecouldnotgivehimhissonback.Inthismost essential way, she hadfailed him-seven times shehad failed him-and now shewas nothing but a burden tohim. She could see it in thewayhelookedather,whenhelooked at her. She was aburdentohim.
"What's going to happen?"sheaskedhimnow.
Rasheedshotherasidelongglance. He made a soundbetween a sigh and a groan,dropped his legs from thetable, and turned off theradio. He took it upstairs tohisroom.Heclosedthedoor.
***
On April 27, Mariam's
question was answered withcracklingsoundsand intense,sudden roars. She ranbarefoot down to the livingroom and found Rasheedalreadybythewindow,inhisundershirt, his hairdisheveled, palms pressed tothe glass. Mariam made herway to the window next tohim.Overhead,shecouldseemilitaryplaneszoomingpast,headingnorthandeast.Theirdeafening shrieks hurt her
ears. In the distance, loudbooms resonated and suddenplumes of smoke rose to thesky.
"What's going on,Rasheed?"shesaid."What isallthis?"
"God knows," hemuttered.He tried the radio and gotonlystatic.
"Whatdowedo?"
Impatiently, Rasheed said,"Wewait."
***
Later in the day, Rasheedwas still trying the radio asMariam made rice withspinach sauce in the kitchen.Mariam remembered a timewhen she had enjoyed, evenlooked forward to, cookingfor Rasheed. Now cookingwasanexerciseinheightened
anxiety. Thequrma% werealways toosaltyor tooblandfor his taste. The rice wasjudged either too greasy ortoo dry, the bread declaredtoo doughy or too crispy.Rasheed'sfaultfindingleftherstricken in the kitchen withself-doubt.
When she brought him hisplate, the national anthemwasplayingontheradio.
"Imadesabzi,"shesaid.
"Putitdownandbequiet."
After the music faded, aman's voice came on theradio. He announced himselfas Air Force Colonel AbdulQader. He reported thatearlier in the day the rebelFourthArmoredDivisionhadseized the airport and keyintersections in the city.KabulRadio,theministriesof
Communication and theInterior, and the ForeignMinistry building had alsobeen captured. Kabul was inthehandsof thepeoplenow,he said proudly.RebelMiGshad attacked the PresidentialPalace.Tankshadbrokenintothe premises, and a fiercebattle was under way there.Daoud's loyalist forces wereallbutdefeated,AbdulQadersaidinareassuringtone.
Days later, when thecommunists began thesummary executions of thoseconnectedwithDaoudKhan'sregime, when rumors beganfloating about Kabul of eyesgouged and genitalselectrocuted in the Pol-e-Charkhi Prison, Mariamwould hear of the slaughterthat had taken place at thePresidential Palace. DaoudKhanhadbten killed, but notbefore the communist rebels
had killed some twentymembers of his family,including women andgrandchildren. There wouldbe rumors that he had takenhis own life, that he'd beengunned down in the heat ofbattle; rumors that he'd beensavedforlast,madetowatchthe massacre of his family,thenshot.
Rasheed turned up thevolumeandleanedincloser.
"A revolutionarycouncilofthe armed forces has beenestablished, and ourwatanwill now be known as theDemocratic Republic ofAfghanistan," Abdul Qadersaid. "The era of aristocracy,nepotism, and inequality isover, fellowhamwaians. Wehave ended decades oftyranny.Power isnow in thehands of the masses andfreedom-loving people. Aglorious new era in the
history of our country isafoot. A new Afghanistan isborn.Weassureyouthatyouhave nothing to fear, fellowAfghans. The new regimewill maintain the utmostrespect for principles, bothIslamic and democratic. Thisis a time of rejoicing andcelebration."
Rasheed turned off theradio.
"So is this good or bad?"Mariamasked.
"Bad for the rich, by thesound of it," Rasheed said."Maybenotsobadforus."
Mariam'sthoughtsdriftedtoJalil. She wondered if thecommunists would go afterhim, then. Would they jailhim? Jail his sons? Take hisbusinesses and propertiesfromhim?
"Is this warm?" Rasheedsaid,eyeingtherice.
"I just served it from thepot."
Hegrunted, and toldher tohandhimaplate.
***
Do"WN the street, as thenight litup in sudden flashesof red and yellow, an
exhaustedFaribahadproppedherselfuponherelbows.Herhair was matted with sweat,and droplets of moistureteetered on the edge of herupperlip.Atherbedside, theelderly midwife, Wajma,watched as Fariba's husbandand sons passed around theinfant. They were marvelingatthebaby'slighthair,atherpink cheeks and puckered,rosebud lips, at the slits ofjade green eyes moving
behind her puffy lids. Theysmiled at each other whenthey heard her voice for thefirst time, a cry that startedlike the mewl of a cat andexploded into a healthy, full-throated yowl.Noor said hereyes were like gemstones.Ahmad, who was the mostreligious member of thefamily, sang theazan in hisbaby sister's ear and blew inherfacethreetimes.
"Laila it is, then?" Hakimasked,bouncinghisdaughter.
"Laila it is," Fariba said,smiling tiredly. "NightBeauty.It'sperfect."
***
Rasheedmadeaballofricewith his fingers.He put it inhismouth,chewedonce,thentwice, before grimacing andspittingitoutonthesofrah.
"What's the matter?"Mariam asked, hating theapologetic tone of her voice.She could feel her pulsequickening, her skinshrinking.
"What's the matter?" hemewled, mimicking her."What's the matter is thatyou'vedoneitagain."
"ButIboileditfiveminutesmorethanusual."
"That'saboldlie."
"Iswear-"
He shook the rice angrilyfrom his fingers and pushedtheplateaway,spillingsauceandriceonthesojrah.Mariamwatchedashestormedoutofthe living room, then out ofthehouse,slammingthedooronhiswayout.
Mariam kneeled to the
ground and tried to pick upthe grains of rice and putthem back on the plate, buther hands were shakingbadly,andshehadtowaitforthem to stop. Dread presseddown on her chest. She triedtaking a few deep breaths.Shecaughtherpalereflectionin the darkened living-roomwindowandlookedaway.
Then she heard the frontdoor opening, and Rasheed
wasbackinthelivingroom.
"Get up," he said. "Comehere.Getup."
He snatched her hand,opened it, and dropped ahandfulofpebblesintoit.
"Put these in yourmouth.""What?"
"Put.These.Inyourmouth."
"Stopit,Rasheed,I'm-"
Hispowerfulhandsclaspedher jaw. He shoved twofingers into her mouth andpried itopen, then forced thecold, hard pebbles into it.Mariam struggled againsthim, mumbling, but he keptpushing the pebbles in, hisupperlipcurledinasneer.
"Nowchew,"hesaid.
Throughthemouthfulofgritand pebbles, Mariammumbled a plea. Tears wereleaking out of the corners ofhereyes.
"CHEW!" he bellowed. Agust of his smoky breathslammedagainstherface.
Mariamchewed.Somethingin the back of her mouthcracked.
"Good," Rasheed said. Hischeekswerequivering."Nowyou know what your ricetastes like. Now you knowwhatyou'vegivenme in thismarriage. Bad food, andnothingelse."
Then hewas gone, leavingMariam to spit out pebbles,blood, and the fragments oftwobrokenmolars.
PartTwo
16.
Kabul,Spring1987
JN ine-year-old Laila rosefrom bed, as she did mostmornings, hungry for thesightofherfriendTariq.Thismorning, however, she knewthere would be no Tariqsighting.
"How long will you begone?" she'd asked whenTariq had told her that hisparents were taking himsouth, to the city of Ghazni,tovisithispaternaluncle.
"Thirteendays."
"Thirteendays?"
"It's not so long. You'remakingaface,Laila."
"Iamnot."
"You'renotgoingtocry,areyou?"
"Iamnotgoingtocry!Notover you. Not in a thousandyears."
She'dkickedathisshin,nothis artificial but his real one,and he'd playfully whackedthebackofherhead.
Thirteen days. Almost twoweeks.And,justfivedaysin,Laila had learned afundamentaltruthabouttime:Like the accordion on whichTariq's father sometimesplayedoldPashtosongs,timestretched and contracteddependingonTariq'sabsenceor presence-Downstairs, herparentswere fighting.Again.Laila knew the routine:Mammy, ferocious,indomitable, pacing and
ranting;Babi,sitting, lookingsheepish and dazed, noddingobediently, waiting for thestorm to pass. Laila closedher door and changed. Butshecouldstillhearthem.Shecould still hearher Finally, adoor slammed. Poundingfootsteps. Mammy's bedcreaked loudly. Babi, itseemed,wouldsurvivetoseeanotherday.
"Laila!"hecallednow."I'm
goingtobelateforwork!"
"Oneminute!"
Laila put on her shoes andquicklybrushedhershoulder-length, blond curls in themirror. Mammy always toldLaila that she had inheritedher hair color-as well as herthick-lashed, turquoise greeneyes,herdimpledcheeks,herhigh cheekbones, and thepout of her lower lip, which
Mammy shared-from hergreat-grandmother, Mammy'sgrandmother.Shewasapari,astunner, Mammy said.Herbeauty was the talk of thevalley. It skipped twogenerations ofwomen in ourfamily, but it sure didn'tbypass you,LailaThe valleyMammy referred to was thePanjshir, the Farsi-speakingTajik region one hundredkilometers northeast ofKabul. Both Mammy and
Babi,whowerefirstcousins,had been born and raised inPanjshir; they had moved toKabul back in 1960 ashopeful, bright-eyednewlyweds when Babi hadbeen admitted to KabulUniversity.
Lailascrambleddownstairs,hoping Mammy wouldn'tcome out of her room foranother round. She foundBabi kneeling by the screen
door.
"Didyouseethis,Laila?"
The rip in the screen hadbeen there for weeks. Lailahunkered down beside him."No.Mustbenew."
"That'swhat I toldFariba."He looked shaken, reduced,as he always did afterMammy was through withhim. "She says it's been
lettinginbees."
Laila's heart went out tohim. Babi was a small man,with narrow shoulders andslim, delicate hands, almostlike a woman's. At night,when Laila walked intoBabi's room, she alwaysfound the downward profileof his face burrowing into abook, his glasses perched onthetipofhisnose.Sometimeshedidn'tevennotice thatshe
was there. When he did, hemarked his page, smiled aclose-lipped, companionablesmile. Babi knew most ofRumi'sandHafez'sghazalsbyheart. He could speak atlength about the strugglebetween Britain and czaristRussia over Afghanistan. Heknew the difference betweena stalactite and a stalagmite,and could tell you that thedistance between the earthand the sunwas the same as
going from Kabul to Ghaznione and a halfmillion times.But ifLailaneededthelidofa candy jar forced open, shehad to go toMammy,whichfelt like a betrayal. Ordinarytools befuddledBabi.On hiswatch, squeaky door hingesnevergotoiled.Ceilingswenton leaking after he pluggedthem.Mold thrived defiantlyin kitchen cabinets. Mammysaid that before he left withNoortojointhejihadagainst
the Soviets, back in 1980, itwas Ahmad who haddutifully and competentlymindedthesethings.
"Butifyouhaveabookthatneeds urgent reading," shesaid, "then Hakim is yourman."
Still, Laila could not shakethe feeling that at one time,before Ahmad andNoor hadgone to war against the
Soviets-before Babi hadletthem go to war-Mammy toohad thought Babi'sbookishness endearing, that,onceuponatime,shetoohadfound his forgetfulness andineptitudecharming.
"Sowhat is today?"hesaidnow, smiling coyly. "Dayfive?Orisitsix?"
"What do I care? I don'tkeep count," Laila lied,
shrugging, loving him forremembering- Mammy hadnoideathatTariqhadleft.
"Well,hisflashlightwillbegoing off before you knowit," Babi said, referring toLaila and Tariq's nightlysignaling game. They hadplayed it for so long it hadbecomeabedtime ritual, likebrushingteeth.
Babi ranhis finger through
therip."I'llpatchthisassoonasIgetachance.We'dbettergo." He raised his voice andcalled over his shoulder,"We're going now, Fariba!I'm taking Laila to school.Don'tforgettopickherup!"
Outside, as she wasclimbing on the carrier packof Babi's bicycle, Lailaspotted a car parked up thestreet, across from the housewhere the shoemaker,
Rasheed, lived with hisreclusivewife.ItwasaBenz,an unusual car in thisneighborhood, blue with athick white stripe bisectingthe hood, the roof, and thetrunk. Laila could make outtwo men sitting inside, onebehindthewheel,theotherintheback.
"Whoarethey?"shesaid.
"It'snotourbusiness,"Babi
said."Climbon,you'llbelateforclass."
Laila remembered anotherfight,and, that time,MammyhadstoodoverBabiandsaidinamincingway,That'syourbusiness, isn't it, cousin? Tomake nothing your business.Evenyourownsonsgoingtowar.Howlpleadedwithyou.Bui you buried your nose inthose cursed books and letour sons go like theywere a
pairofharamis.
Babi pedaled up the street,Laila on the back, her armswrappedaroundhisbelly.Asthey passed the blue Benz,Laila caught a fleetingglimpse of the man in thebackseat: thin, white-haired,dressed in adarkbrown suit,with a white handkerchieftriangle in the breast pocket.Theonlyother thing shehadtimetonoticewasthatthecar
hadHeratlicenseplates.
They rode the rest of theway in silence, except at theturns, where Babi brakedcautiouslyandsaid,"Holdon,Laila. Slowing down.Slowingdown.There."
***
In class that day, Lailafoundithardtopayattention,between Tariq's absence and
her parents' fight. So whenthe teacher called on her tonamethecapitalsofRomaniaand Cuba, Laila was caughtoffguard.
The teacher's name wasShanzai,but,behindherback,the students called herKhalaRangmaal, Auntie Painter,referring to the motion shefavored when she slappedstudents-palm, then back ofthehand,backandforth,like
a painter working a brush.KhalaRangmaalwasasharp-faced young woman withheavy eyebrows.On the firstday of school, she hadproudlytoldtheclassthatshewas the daughter of a poorpeasant from Khost. Shestood straight, and wore herjet-black hair pulled tightlybackandtiedinabunsothat,whenKhalaRangmaalturnedaround, Laila could see thedark bristles on her neck.
KhalaRangmaaldidnotwearmakeup or jewelry. She didnot cover and forbade thefemalestudentsfromdoingit.She said women and menwere equal in everywayandthere was no reason womenshouldcoverifmendidn't.
She said that the SovietUnionwas the best nation inthe world, along withAfghanistan.Itwaskindtoitsworkers, and its peoplewere
all equal. Everyone in theSovietUnionwas happy andfriendly, unlike America,where crime made peopleafraid to leave their homes.Andeveryone inAfghanistanwouldbehappytoo,shesaid,oncetheantiprogressives,thebackward bandits, weredefeated.
"That's why our Sovietcomradescamehere in1979.To lend their neighbor a
hand.Tohelpusdefeatthesebruteswhowant our countryto be a backward, primitivenation. And you must lendyourownhand,children.Youmust report anyone whomight know about theserebels. It's your duty. Youmustlisten,thenreport.Evenif it's your parents, yourunclesoraunts.Becausenoneofthemlovesyouasmuchasyour country does. Yourcountry comes first,
remember!Iwillbeproudofyou, and so will yourcountry."
On the wall behind KhalaRangmaal's desk was a mapoftheSovietUnion,amapofAfghanistan, and a framedphotoofthelatestcommunistpresident, Najibullah, who,Babi said, had once been thehead of the dreaded KHAD,the Afghan secret police.Therewere other photos too,
mainly of young Sovietsoldiers shaking hands withpeasants, planting applesaplings, building homes,alwayssmilinggenially.
"Well," Khala Rangmaalsaid now, "have I disturbedyour daydreaming,InqilabiGirl?"
Thiswas her nickname forLaila, Revolutionary Girl,because she'd been born the
night of the April coup of1978-exceptKhalaRangmaalbecame angry if anyone inher class used thewordcoup.What had happened, sheinsisted, was aninqilab, arevolution, anuprisingof theworking people againstinequality.Jihad was anotherforbiddenword.Accordingtoher, there wasn't even a warout there in the provinces,just skirmishes againsttroublemakers stirred by
people she called foreignprovocateurs. And certainlynoone,noone,daredrepeatinher presence the risingrumors that, after eight yearsof fighting, the Soviets werelosing this war. Particularlynow that the Americanpresident,Reagan,hadstartedshipping the MujahideenStingerMissiles to down theSoviet helicopters, now thatMuslims from all over theworldwerejoiningthecause:
Egyptians, Pakistanis, evenwealthySaudis,wholefttheirmillions behind and came toAfghanistantofightthejihad.
"Bucharest. Havana," Lailamanaged.
"Andarethosecountriesourfriendsornot?"
"They are,moolim sahib.Theyarefriendlycountries."
KhalaRangmaalgaveacurtnod.
***
When school let out.Mammyagaindidn'tshowuplike she was supposed to.Lailaendedupwalkinghomewith two of her classmates,GitiandHasina.
Giti was a tightly wound,bony littlegirlwhoworeher
hairintwinponytailsheldbyelasticbands.Shewasalwaysscowling, and walking withher books pressed to herchest, like a shield. Hasinawas twelve, threeyearsolderthan Laila and Giti, but hadfailed third grade once andfourthgrade twice.What shelackedinsmartsHasinamadeup for in mischief and amouththat,Gitisaid,ranlikea sewing machine. It wasHasina who had come up
with the Khala Rangmaalnickname-Today,Hasinawasdispensing advice on how tofend off unattractive suitors."Foolproof method,guaranteed to work. I giveyoumyword."
"This is stupid. I'm tooyoung to have a suitor!"Gitisaid.
"You'renottooyoung."
"Well,noone'scometoaskformyhand."
"That's becauseyouhave abeard,mydear."
Giti's hand shot up to herchin, and she looked withalarm to Laila, who smiledpityingly-Giti was the mosthumorless person Laila hadevermet-and shook her headwithreassurance.
"Anyway,youwanttoknowwhattodoornot,ladies?"
"Goahead,"Lailasaid.
"Beans. No less than fourcans. On the evening thetoothless lizard comes to askforyourhand.Butthetiming,ladies, the timing iseverything- You have tosuppress the fireworks 'til it'stimetoservehimhistea."
"I'll remember that," Lailasaid.
"Sowillhe."
Laila could have said thenthat she didn't need thisadvice because Babi had nointention of giving her awayanytime soon. Though Babiworked at Silo, Kabul'sgiganticbread factory,wherehe laboredamid theheatandthe humming machinery
stoking the massive ovensand mill grains all day, hewas a university-educatedman.He'dbeenahighschoolteacher before thecommunists fired him-thiswas shortly after the coup of1978,aboutayearandahalfbefore the Soviets hadinvaded. Babi had made itclear to Laila from ayoungage that the most importantthing in his life, after hersafety,washerschooling.
I know you're still young,bull waniyou to understandand learn this now,hesaid.Marriage can wait,education cannot You're avery, very bright girl. Truly,youare.Youcanbeanythingyou want, Laila I know thisabout you. And I also knowthat when this war is over,Afghanistan is going to needyou as much as its men,maybeevenmore.Becauseasociety has no chance of
success if its women areuneducated,LailaNochance.
ButLaila didn't tellHasinathat Babi had said thesethings, or how glad she wasto have a father like him, orhow proud she was of hisregard for her, or howdeterminedshewastopursueher education just as he hadhis. For the last two years,Laila had received theawalnumra certificate, given
yearly to the top-rankedstudentineachgrade.
She said nothing of thesethings to Hasina, though,whoseown fatherwasan ill-tempered taxi driver who intwo or three years wouldalmost certainly give heraway. Hasina had told Laila,in one of her infrequentserious moments, that it hadalreadybeendecidedthatshewould marry a first cousin
who was twenty years olderthan her and owned an autoshop inLahore.I've seen himtwice, Hasina had said.Bothtimes he ate with his mouthopen.
"Beans, girls,"Hasina said."You remember that.Unless,ofcourse"-heresheflashedanimpishgrinandnudgedLailawith an elbow-"it's youryoung handsome, one-leggedprince who comes knocking-
Then…"
Laila slapped the elbowaway. She would have takenoffense if anyone else hadsaidthataboutTariq.Butsheknew that Hasina wasn'tmalicious.Shemocked-itwaswhat she did-and hermockingsparednoone, leastofallherself.
"Youshouldn'ttalkthatwayaboutpeople!"Gitisaid.
"Whatpeopleisthat?"
"Peoplewho'vebeeninjuredbecause of war," Giti saidearnestly, oblivious toHasina'stoying.
"IthinkMullahGitiherehasa crush on Tariq. I knew it!Ha! But he's already spokenfor,don'tyouknow?Isn'the,Laila?"
"I do not have a crush.On
anyone!"
They broke off fromLaila,and, still arguing this way,turnedintotheirstreet.
Lailawalked alone the lastthree blocks. When she wasonherstreet,shenoticedthattheblueBenzwasstillparkedthere, outside Rasheed andMariam's house. The elderlyman in the brown suit wasstanding by the hood now,
leaningonacane,lookingupatthehouse.
That was when a voicebehind Laila said, "Hey.YellowHair.Lookhere."
Lailaturnedaroundandwasgreetedbythebarrelofagun.
17.
Thegunwasred,thetriggerguard bright green. Behindthe gun loomed Khadim'sgrinning face. Khadim waseleven, like Tariq. He wasthick, tall, and had a severeunderbite. His father was abutcher inDeh-Mazang, and,
from time to time, Khadimwas known to fling bits ofcalf intestine at passersby.Sometimes, if Tariq wasn'tnearby, Khadim shadowedLaila in the schoolyard atrecess, leering, making littlewhining noises. One time,he'd tapped her on theshoulder and said,You 're sovery pretty, Yellow Hair. Iwanttomarryyou.
Now he waved the gun.
"Don'tworry,"he said. "Thiswon'tshow.Notonyourhair."
"Don't you do it! I'mwarningyou."
"Whatareyougoingtodo?"he said. "Sic your cripple onme?'Oh,Tariqjan.Oh,won'tyoucomehomeandsavemefromthebadmashl'"
Laila began to backpedal,but Khadim was already
pumping the trigger. Oneafter another, thin jets ofwarm water struck Laila'shair, thenherpalmwhensheraisedittoshieldherface.
Now the other boys cameout of their hiding, laughing,cackling.
AninsultLailahadheardonthestreetrosetoherlips.Shedidn't really understand it-couldn't quite picture the
logistics of it-but the wordspacked a fierce potency, andsheunleashedthemnow.
"Yourmothereatscock!"
"At least she's not a loonylike yours," Khadim shotback, unruffled "At least myfather's not a sissy! And, bytheway,whydon'tyousmellyourhands?"
Theotherboys tookup the
chant. "Smell your hands!Smellyourhands!"
Lailadid,butsheknewevenbefore she did, what he'dmeantaboutitnotshowinginher hair. She let out a high-pitchedyelp.Atthis,theboyshootedevenharder.
Laila turned around and,howling,ranhome.
***
She drew water from thewell, and, in the bathroom,filled a basin, tore off herclothes. She soaped her hair,frantically digging fingersinto her scalp, whimperingwithdisgust. She rinsedwitha bowl and soaped her hairagain. Several times, shethought she might throw up.She kept mewling andshivering, as she rubbed andrubbed the soapy washclothagainst her face and neck
untiltheyreddened.
This would have neverhappened if Tariq had beenwith her, she thought as sheputonacleanshirtandfreshtrousers. Khadim wouldn'thave dared. Of course, itwouldn't have happened ifMammy had shown up likeshe was supposed to either.Sometimes Laila wonderedwhy Mammy had evenbothered having her. People,
she believed now, shouldn'tbe allowed to have newchildren if they'd alreadygiven away all their love totheir old ones. It wasn't fair.A fit of anger claimed her.Laila went to her room,collapsedonherbed.
When the worst of it hadpassed, she went across thehallway to Mammy's doorand knocked.When she wasyounger,Lailaused to sit for
hours outside this door. Shewould tap on it and whisperMammy's name over andover, like a magic chantmeant to break aspell:Mammy, Mammy,Mammy, Mammy… ButMammy never opened thedoor.Shedidn'topen itnow.Laila turned the knob andwalkedin.
***
Sometimes Mammy hadgooddays.Shesprangoutofbed bright-eyed and playful.The droopy lower lipstretched upward in a smile.She bathed. She put on freshclothes and wore mascara.She let Laila brush her hair,whichLaila loveddoing,andpin earrings through herearlobes.Theywentshoppingtogether to Mandaii Bazaar.Laila got her to play snakesand ladders, and they ate
shavingsfromblocksofdarkchocolate, one of the fewthingstheysharedacommontaste for. Laila's favorite partof Mammy's good days waswhenBabicamehome,whenshe and Mammy looked upfromtheboardandgrinnedathimwithbrownteeth.Agustof contentment puffedthrough the room then, andLaila caught a momentaryglimpseofthetenderness,theromance,thathadoncebound
her parents back when thishouse had been crowded andnoisyandcheerful.
Mammy sometimes bakedonhergooddaysand invitedneighborhood women overforteaandpastries.Lailagotto lick the bowls clean, asMammy set the table withcups and napkins and thegood plates. Later, Lailawould take her place at theliving-room table and try to
break into the conversation,as the women talkedboisterously and drank teaand complimented Mammyon her baking. Though therewas never much for her tosay, Laila liked to sit andlisten in because at thesegatherings shewas treated toa rare pleasure: She got tohear Mammy speakingaffectionatelyaboutBabi.
"Whatafirst-rateteacherhe
was," Mammy said. "Hisstudents loved him. And notonlybecausehewouldn'tbeatthem with rulers, like otherteachers did. They respectedhim, you see, because herespectedthem. He wasmarvelous."
Mammy loved to tell thestory of how she'd proposedtohim.
"I was sixteen, he was
nineteen. Our families livednext door to each other inPanjshir.Oh, I had the crushon him,hamshirasl I used toclimb the wall between ourhouses, and we'd play in hisfather's orchard. Hakim wasalways scared that we'd getcaught and that my fatherwould give him a slapping.'Your father's going to giveme a slapping,' he'd alwayssay. He was so cautious, soserious, even then. And then
onedayIsaid tohim, Isaid,'Cousin,whatwill it be?Areyougoingtoaskformyhandorareyougoing tomakemecomekhasiegari to you?' Isaid it just like that. Youshouldhave seen the faceonhim!"
Mammy would slap herpalmstogetherasthewomen,andLaila,laughed.
Listening to Mammy tell
these stories,Lailaknew thatthere had been a time whenMammy always spoke thiswayaboutBabi.Atimewhenher parents did not sleep inseparate rooms.Lailawishedshe hadn't missed out onthosetimes.
Inevitably, Mammy'sproposal story led tomatchmakingschemes.WhenAfghanistan was free fromthe Soviets and the boys
returned home, they wouldneed brides, and so, one byone, the women paraded theneighborhood girls whomightormightnotbesuitablefor Ahmad and Noon Lailaalways felt excluded whenthe talk turned to herbrothers, as though thewomen were discussing abeloved film that only shehadn't seen. She'd been twoyears old when Ahmad andNoor had left Kabul for
Panjshir up north, to joinCommander Ahmad ShahMassoud's forces and fightthe jihad Laila hardlyremembered anything at allabout them. A shiny allahpendant around Ahmad'sneck. A patch of black hairson one of Noor's ears. Andthatwasit.
"WhataboutAzita?"
"Therugmaker'sdaughter?"
Mammy said, slapping hercheekwithmockoutrage.
"ShehasathickermustachethanHakim!"
"There's Anahita. We hearshe's top in her class atZarghoona."
"Haveyouseentheteethonthat girl? Tombstones. She'shiding a graveyard behindthoselips."
"How about the Wahidisisters?"
"Thosetwodwarfs?No,no,no.Oh,no.Not formysons.Not for my sultans. Theydeservebetter."
Asthechatterwenton,Lailalet her mind drift, and, asalways,itfoundTariq.
***
Mammy had pulled theyellowish curtains. In thedarkness, the room had alayered smell about it: sleep,unwashed linen, sweat, dirtysocks, perfume, the previousnight's leftoverqurma. Lailawaited for her eyes to adjustbefore she crossed the room.Even so, her feet becameentangled with items ofclothingthatlitteredthefloor.
Laila pulled the curtains
open. At the foot of the bedwas an old metallic foldingchair. Laila sat on it andwatched the unmovingblanketedmoundthatwashermother.
ThewallsofMammy'sroomwerecoveredwithpicturesofAhmad and Noor.Everywhere Laila looked,two strangers smiled back.Here was Noor mounting atricycle. Here was Ahmad
doing his prayers, posingbeside a sundialBabi and hehad built when he wastwelve.And there theywere,her brothers, sitting back tobackbeneaththeoldpeartreeintheyard.
Beneath Mammy's bed,Laila could see the corner ofAhmad'sshoeboxprotruding.From time to time, Mammyshowedhertheold,crumplednewspaperclippingsinit,and
pamphlets that Ahmad hadmanaged to collect frominsurgent groups andresistance organizationsheadquartered in Pakistan.One photo, Lailaremembered, showed a maninalongwhitecoathandingalollipoptoaleglesslittleboy.The caption below the photoread:Children are theintended victims of Sovietland mine campaign. Thearticlewentontosaythatthe
Soviets also liked to hideexplosives inside brightlycoloredtoys.Ifachildpickedit up, the toy exploded, toreoff fingers or an entire hand.The father could not join thejihad then; he'd have to stayhome and care for his child.Inanotherarticle inAhmad'sbox, a young Mujahid wassaying that the Soviets haddropped gas on his villagethatburnedpeople's skinandblindedthem.Hesaidhehad
seen his mother and sisterrunning for the stream,coughingupblood.
"Mammy."
Themound stirred slightly.Itemittedagroan.
"Getup,Mammy. It's threeo'clock."
Another groan. A handemerged, like a submarine
periscope breaking surface,and dropped. The moundmoved more discernibly thistime. Then the rustle ofblankets as layers of themshifted over each other.Slowly, in stages, Mammymaterialized: first theslovenlyhair, then thewhite,grimacing face, eyes pinchedshut against the light, a handgroping for the headboard,thesheetsslidingdownasshepulled herself up, grunting.
Mammy made an effort tolook up, flinched against thelight, and her head droopedoverherchest.
"How was school?" shemuttered.
So it would begin. Theobligatory questions, theperfunctory answers. Bothpretending. Unenthusiasticpartners, the two of them, inthistiredolddance.
"School was fine," Lailasaid.
"Didyoulearnanything?"
"Theusual."
"Didyoueat?"
"Idid."
"Good."
Mammy raised her head
again, toward the window.She winced and her eyelidsflutteredTherightsideofherfacewasred,and thehaironthatsidehadflattened.
"Ihaveaheadache."
"Should I fetch you someaspirin?"
Mammy massaged hertemples. "Maybe later. Isyourfatherhome?"
"It'sonlythree."
"Oh. Right. You said thatalready."Mammyyawned."Iwas dreaming just now," shesaid, her voice only a bitlouder than the rustle of hernightgownagainst thesheets."Just now, before you camein. But I can't remember itnow. Does that happen toyou?"
"It happens to everybody,
Mammy."
"Strangestthing."
"Ishouldtellyouthatwhileyou were dreaming, a boyshot piss out of a water gunonmyhair."
"Shotwhat?Whatwasthat?I'msony."
"Piss.Urine."
"That's…that's terrible.GodI'm sorry. Poor you. I'll havea talkwith him first thing inthe morning. Or maybe withhis mother. Yes, that wouldbebetter,Ithink."
"I haven't told you who itwas."
"Oh.Well,whowasit?"
"Nevermind."
"You'reangry."
"Youweresupposedtopickmeup."
"I was," Mammy croaked.Laila could not tell whetherthiswas a question.Mammybegan picking at her hair.This was one of life's greatmysteries to Laila, thatMammy's picking had notmade her bald as an egg."What about…What's his
name, your friend, Tariq?Yes,whatabouthim?"
"He'sbeengoneforaweek."
"Oh." Mammy sighedthrough her nose. "Did youwash?"
"Yes."
"So you're clean, then."Mammyturnedhertiredgazetothewindow."You'reclean,
andeverythingisfine."
Laila stood up. "I havehomeworknow."
"Ofcourseyoudo.Shutthecurtains before you go, mylove,"Mammysaid,hervoicefading. She was alreadysinkingbeneaththesheets.
As Laila reached for thecurtains, she saw a car passby on the street tailed by a
cloudofdust.ItwastheblueBenz with the Herat licenseplate finally leaving. Shefolloweditwithhereyesuntilit vanished around a turn, itsbackwindowtwinklinginthesun.
"I won't forget tomorrow,"Mammy was saying behindher."Ipromise."
"Yousaidthatyesterday."
"Youdon'tknow,Laila."
"Know what?" Lailawheeled around to face hermother."Whatdon'tIknow?"
Mammy'shandfloateduptoher chest, tapped there."Inhere. What's inhere. "Thenitfellflaccid."Youjustdon'tknow."
18.
A week passed, but therewas still no sign of Tariq.Thenanotherweekcameandwent.
Tofill the time,Laila fixedthescreendoorthatBabistillhadn'tgotaroundto.Shetook
down Babi's books, dustedand alphabetized them. Shewent to Chicken Street withHasina,Giti, and Giti'smother, Nila, who was aseamstress and sometimesewing partner of Mammy's.In that week, Laila came tobelieve that of all thehardshipsapersonhadtofacenone was more punishingthan the simple act ofwaiting.
Anotherweekpassed.
Lailafoundherselfcaughtinanetofterriblethoughts.
Hewouldnevercomeback.His parents hadmoved awayfor good; the trip to Ghaznihad been a ruse. An adultscheme to spare the two ofthemanupsettingfarewell.
A land minehad gotten tohim again.Theway it did in
1981, when he was five, thelasttimehisparentstookhimsouth to Ghazni. That wasshortly after Laila's thirdbirthday.He'dbeenluckythattime,losingonlyaleg;luckythathe'dsurvivedatall.
Herheadrangandrangwiththesethoughts.
ThenonenightLailasawatinyflashinglightfromdownthe street. A sound,
something between a squeakand a gasp, escaped herlips.She quickly fished her ownflashlightfromunderthebed,but it wouldn't work. Lailabanged it against her palm,cursedthedeadbatteries.Butitdidn'tmatter.Hewasback.Laila sat on the edge of herbed, giddy with relief, andwatched that beautiful,yellow eye winking on andoff.
***
OnherwaytoTariq'shousethe next day, Laila sawKhadim and a group of hisfriends across the street.Khadim was squatting,drawingsomethinginthedirtwith a stick. When he sawher,hedropped the stickandwiggled his fingers. He saidsomething and there was around of chuckles. Lailadroppedherheadandhurried
past.
"What did youdo1?" sheexclaimedwhenTariqopenedthe door. Only then did sheremember that his uncle wasabarber.
Tariq ranhis handoverhisnewly shaved scalp andsmiled, showing white,slightlyuneventeeth.
"Likeit?"
"You look like you'reenlistinginthearmy."
"You want to feel?" Heloweredhishead.
The tiny bristles scratchedLaila'spalmpleasantly.Tariqwasn't like someof theotherboys,whosehairconcealed
cone-shaped skulls andunsightly lumps.Tariq'sheadwas perfectly curved and
lump-free.
When he looked up, Lailasawthathischeeksandbrowhadsunburned
"What took you so long?"shesaid
"Myunclewas sick.Comeon.Comeinside."
Heledherdownthehallwayto the family room. Laila
loved everything about thishouse.Theshabbyoldruginthe family room, thepatchworkquiltonthecouch,theordinaryclutterofTariq'slife: his mother's bolts offabric, her sewing needlesembedded in spools, the oldmagazines, the accordioncase in the corner waiting tobecrackedopen.
"Whoisit?"
It was his mother callingfromthekitchen.
"Laila,"heanswered
He pulled her a chair. Thefamily room was brightly litandhaddoublewindowsthatopened into the yard.On thesillwereempty jars inwhichTariq's mother pickledeggplant and made carrotmarmalade.
"You mean ouraroos,ourdaughter-in-law,"his fatherannounced, entering theroom. He was a carpenter, alean,white-hairedman inhisearly sixties. He had gapsbetween his front teeth, andthe squinty eyes of someonewhohadspentmostofhislifeoutdoors.Heopenedhisarmsand Laila went into them,greeted by his pleasant andfamiliar smell of sawdust.They kissed on the cheek
threetimes.
"You keep calling her thatand she'll stop cominghere,"Tariq's mother said, passingby them. Shewas carrying atray with a large bowl, aserving spoon, and foursmaller bowls on it. She setthe tray on the table. "Don'tmind the old man." ShecuppedLaila'sface."It'sgoodto see you, my dear. Come,sit down. I brought back
somewater-soaked fruitwithme."
The table was bulky andmade of a light, unfinishedwood-Tariq's father had builtit,aswellasthechairs.Itwascovered with a moss greenvinyl tablecloth with littlemagenta crescents and starsonit.Mostoftheliving-roomwall was taken up withpictures of Tariq at variousages. In some of the very
earlyones,hehadtwolegs.
"I heard your brother wassick," Laila said to Tariq'sfather, dipping a spoon intoher bowl of soaked raisins,pistachios,andapricots.
Hewas lightingacigarette."Yes,buthe'sfinenow,shokreKhoda,thankstoGod."
"Heart attack.His second,"Tariq's mother said, giving
her husband an admonishinglook.
Tariq's father blew smokeandwinkedatLaila.Itstruckher again thatTariq's parentscould easily pass for hisgrandparents. His motherhadn't had him until she'dbeenwellintoherforties.
"How is your father, mydear?" Tariq's mother said,lookingonover her bowl-As
longasLailahadknownher,Tariq's mother had worn awig. It was turning a dullpurplewithage.Itwaspulledlow on her brow today, andLailacouldseethegrayhairsofhersideburns.Somedays,itrode high on her forehead.But, to Laila, Tariq's mothernever looked pitiable in it-WhatLailasawwasthecalm,self-assured face beneath thewig, the clever eyes, thepleasant,unhurriedmanners.
"He'sfine,"Lailasaid."StillatSilo,ofcourse.He'sfine."
"Andyourmother?"
"Good days. Bad ones too.Thesame-"
"Yes," Tariq's mother saidthoughtfully, lowering herspoon into the bowl "Howhard itmust be, how terriblyhard,foramothertobeawayfromhersons."
"You're staying for lunch?"Tariqsaid-
"You have to," said hismother."I'mmakingshorwa"
"I don't want to beamozahem."
"Imposing?"Tariq'smothersaid. "We leave for a coupleofweeks and you turn politeonus?"
"All right, I'll stay," Lailasaid,blushingandsmiling.
"It'ssettled,then."
The truth was, Laila lovedeatingmeals atTariq's houseasmuchasshedislikedeatingthemathers.AtTariq's,therewas no eating alone; theyalways ate as a family. Lailaliked the violet plasticdrinking glasses they usedand the quarter lemon that
always floated in the waterpitcher. She liked how theystartedeachmealwithabowlof fresh yogurt, how theysqueezed sour oranges oneverything,eventheiryogurt,and how they made small,harmlessjokesateachother'sexpense.
Over meals, conversationalwaysflowed.ThoughTariqand his parents were ethnicPashtuns, they spoke Farsi
when Laila was around forherbenefit,eventhoughLailamoreor lessunderstood theirnativePashto,having learnedit in school. Babi said thatthere were tensions betweentheir people-the Tajiks, whowere a minority, and Tariq'speople, the Pashtuns, whowere the largest ethnicgroupin Afghanistan.Tajiks havealwaysfeltslighted,Babihadsaid.Pashiun kings ruled thiscountry for almost two
hundredand'fiftyyears,Laila,and Tajiks for all of ninemonths,backin1929.
Andyou,Lailahadasked,doyoufeelslighted,Babi?
Babi had wiped hiseyeglassescleanwiththehemof his shirt.To me, it'snonsense-andverydangerousnonsense at that-all this talkof I'm Tajik and you 'rePashiun and he's Hazara and
she's Uzbek. We 're allAfghans, and that's all thatshouldmatter.Butwhen onegroup rules over the othersfor so long…Theref scontempt. Rivalry. There is.Therealwayshasbeen.
Maybe so. But Laila neverfeltitinTariq'shouse,wherethese matters never evencame up. Her time withTariq's family always feltnatural to Laila, effortless,
uncomplicatedbydifferencesintribeorlanguage,orbythepersonal spites and grudgesthat infected the air at herownhome.
"How about a game ofcards?"Tariqsaid.
"Yes, go upstairs," hismother said, swipingdisapprovingly at herhusband's cloud of smoke."I'llgettheshorwagoing."
They layon their stomachsinthemiddleofTariq'sroomand took turns dealingforpanjpar. Pedaling air withhis foot,Tariq toldher abouthis trip. The peach saplingshehadhelpedhisuncleplant.A garden snake he hadcaptured.
This roomwaswhereLailaand Tariq did theirhomework, where they builtplaying-cardtowersanddrew
ridiculous portraits of eachother. If it was raining, theyleaned on the windowsill,drinking warm, fizzy orangeFanta, and watched theswollen rain droplets trickledowntheglass.
"Allright,here'sone,"Lailasaid, shuffling. "What goesaroundtheworldbutstaysinacorner?"
"Wait." Tariq pushed
himself up and swung hisartificial left leg around.Wincing, he lay on his side,leaning on his elbow. "Handme thatpillow."Heplaced itunder his leg. "There. That'sbetter."
Laila remembered the firsttime he'd shown her hisstump. She'd been six. Withonefinger,shehadpokedthetaut.
shinyskinjustbelowhisleftknee. Her finger had foundlittle hard lumps there, andTariq had told her theywerespursofbone thatsometimesgrew after an amputation.She'd askedhim if his stumphurt,andhesaiditgotsoreatthe end of the day, when itswelled and didn't fit theprosthesis like it wassupposedto,likeafingerinathimble.And sometimes itgets rubbed Especially when
it'shot.ThenIgetrashesandblisters, but my mother hascreams that help. It's not sobad.
Lailahadburstintotears.
What are you crying for?He'd strapped his leg backon.You asked to see it, yougiryanok,you crybaby! If I'dknown you were going tobawl,Iwouldn'ihaveshownyou.
"Astamp,"hesaid.
"What?"
"Theriddle.Theanswerisastamp. We should go to thezoo after lunch." "You knewthat one. Did you?""Absolutelynot."
"You'reacheat."
"And you're envious." "Ofwhat?"
"Mymasculinesmarts."
"Yourmasculine smarts?Really?Tellme,whoalwayswinsatchess?"
"Iletyouwin."Helaughed.They both knew that wasn'ttrue.
"Andwhofailedmath?Whodoyoucometoforhelpwithyour math homework eventhoughyou'reagradeahead?"
"I'd be twogrades ahead ifmathdidn'tboreme."
"Isupposegeographyboresyoutoo."
"Howdidyouknow?Now,shut up. So are we going tothezooornot?"
Lailasmiled."We'regoing."
"Good."
"Imissedyou."
There was a pause. ThenTariq turned to her with ahalf-grinning, half-grimacinglook of distaste. "What'sthematterwithyou?"
How many times had she,Hasina, and Giti said thosesame three words to eachother,Lailawondered,saiditwithout hesitation, after onlytwo or three days of not
seeing each other? /missedyou,HasinaOh,Imissedyoutoo. InTariq'sgrimace,Lailalearned that boys differedfromgirlsinthisregard.Theydidn't make a show offriendship.Theyfeltnourge,noneed, for this sort of talk.Laila imagined it had beenthiswayforherbrothers too.Boys, Laila came to see,treated friendship the waythey treated the sun: itsexistence undisputed; its
radiance best enjoyed, notbehelddirectly.
"Iwastryingtoannoyyou,"shesaid.
He gave her a sidelongglance."Itworked."
Butshethoughthisgrimacesoftened. And she thoughtthatmaybethesunburnonhischeeks deepenedmomentarily.
***
Lailadidn'tmeantotellhim.She'd, in fact, decided thattelling him would be a verybadidea.Someonewouldgethurt, because Tariq wouldn'tbe able to let it pass. Butwhen theywereon the streetlater,headingdowntothebusstop, she sawKhadim again,leaningagainstawallHewassurrounded by his friends,thumbs hooked in his belt
loops. He grinned at herdefiantly.
And so she toldTariq.Thestoryspilledoutofhermouthbeforeshecouldstopit.
"Hedidwhat?"
Shetoldhimagain.
He pointed to Khadim."Him? He's the one? You'resure?"
"I'msure."
Tariqclenchedhisteethandmuttered something tohimself in Pashto that Lailadidn'tcatch."Youwaithere,"hesaid,inFarsinow.
"No,Tariq-"
Hewasalreadycrossingthestreet.
Khadimwasthefirst tosee
him. His grin faded, and hepushed himself off the wall.He unhooked his thumbsfromthebeltloopsandmadehimself more upright, takingon a self-conscious air ofmenace. The others followedhisgaze.
Lailawishedshehadn'tsaidanything. What if theybanded together? How manyof them were there-ten?eleven? twelve?What if they
hurthim?
Then Tariq stopped a fewfeet from Khadim and hisband.Therewasamomentofconsideration, Laila thought,maybeachangeofheart,and,when he bent down, sheimagined he would pretendhis shoelace had comeundoneandwalkbacktoher.Thenhishandswenttowork,andsheunderstood.
The others understood toowhen Tariq straightened up,standingononeleg.Whenhebegan hopping towardKhadim, then charging him,hisunstrappedlegraisedhighover his shoulder like asword.
Theboyssteppedasideinahurry.TheygavehimaclearpathtoKhadim.
Thenitwasalldustandfists
andkicksandyelps.
Khadim never botheredLailaagain.
***
That night, asmost nights,Laila set the dinner table fortwo only. Mammy said shewasn't hungry. On thosenightsthatshewas,shemadeapointoftakingaplatetoherroombeforeBabi even came
home.Shewasusuallyasleepor lyingawake inbedby thetimeLailaandBabisatdowntoeat.
Babi came out of thebathroom, his hair-pepperedwhite with flour when he'dcome home-washed cleannowandcombedback.
"What are we having,Laila?"
"Leftoveraushsoup."
"Sounds good," he said,folding the towelwithwhichhe'd dried his hair. "Sowhatare we working on tonight?Addingfractions?"
"Actually, convertingfractionstomixednumbers."
"Ah.Right."
Every night after dinner,
Babi helped Laila with herhomeworkandgavehersomeofhisown.Thiswasonly tokeep Laila a step or twoahead of her class, notbecausehedisapprovedoftheworkassignedby theschool-the propaganda teachingnotwithstanding.Infact,Babithoughtthattheonethingthecommunistshaddoneright-oratleastintendedto-ironically,wasinthefieldofeducation,thevocationfromwhichthey
had fired him. Morespecifically, the education ofwomen.Thegovernmenthadsponsored literacyclasses forallwomen.Almosttwo-thirdsof the students at KabulUniversitywerewomennow,Babi said, women who werestudying law, medicine,engineering.
Womenhave alwayshad ithard in this country, Laila,but they're probably more
free now, under thecommunists, and have morerights than they've ever hadbefore,Babi said, alwayslowering his voice, aware ofhow intolerant Mammy wasofevenremotelypositivetalkof the communists.But it'strue, Babi said,it'sagood timeto be a woman inAfghanistan. And you cantake advantage of that, LailaOfcourse,women'sfreedom-here, he shook his head
ruefully-is also one of thereasonspeopleouttheretookuparmsinthefirstplace.
By "out there," he didn'tmean Kabul, which hadalwaysbeen relatively liberaland progressive. Here inKabul, women taught at theuniversity, ran schools, heldofficeinthegovernment-No,Babi meant the tribal areas,especiallythePashtunregionsinthesouthorintheeastnear
the Pakistani border, wherewomen were rarely seen onthe streets and only then inburqa and accompanied bymen.Hemeant those regionswhere men who lived byancient tribal laws hadrebelled against thecommunistsandtheirdecreesto liberatewomen, toabolishforced marriage, to raise theminimum marriage age tosixteen for girls. There, mensaw it as an insult to their
centuries-old tradition, Babisaid, to be told by thegovernment-and a godlessone at that-that theirdaughtershad to leavehome,attend school, and workalongsidemen.
God forbid that shouldhappen!Babi liked to saysarcastically. Then he wouldsigh, and say,Laila,my love,the only enemy an Afghancannotdefeatishimself
Babi took his seat at thetable, dipped bread into hisbowlofaush.
LailadecidedthatshewouldtellhimaboutwhatTariqhaddone to Khadim, over themeal, before they started inon fractions. But she nevergotthechance.Because,rightthen,therewasaknockatthedoor,and,ontheothersideofthe door, a stranger withnews.
19.
I need to speak to yourparents,dokhiarjan" he saidwhen Laila opened the door.Hewasastockyman,withasharp, weather-roughenedface. He wore a potato-colored coat, and a brownwoolpakolonhishead
"Can I tell them who'shere?"
Then Babi's hand was onLaila's shoulder, and hegently pulled her from thedoor.
"Whydon'tyougoupstairs,Laila.Goon."
As she moved toward thesteps, Laila heard the visitorsay toBabi thathehadnews
from Panjshir. Mammy wasintheroomnowtoo.Shehadone hand clamped over hermouth, and her eyes wereskipping from Babi to themaninthepakol
Lailapeekedfromthetopofthe stairs. She watched thestranger sit down with herparents. He leaned towardthem. Said a few mutedwords. Then Babi's face waswhite,andgettingwhiter,and
hewas looking at his hands,and Mammy was screaming,screaming, and tearing at herhair.
***
The next morning, the dayofthefaiiha, a flock ofneighborhood womendescended on the house andtook charge of preparationsfor thekhatm dinner thatwould take place after the
funeral Mammy sat on thecouchthewholemorning,herfingers working ahandkerchief, her facebloated.Shewastendedtobya pair of sniffling womenwho took turns pattingMammy'shandgingerly, likeshe was the rarest and mostfragile doll in the world.Mammy did not seem awareoftheirpresence.
Laila kneeled before her
mother and took her hands."Mammy."
Mammy's eyes drifteddown.Sheblinked.
"We'lltakecareofher,Lailajan," one of the women saidwith an air of self-importance.Lailahadbeentofuneralsbeforewhereshehadseenwomenlikethis,womenwho relished all things thathad todowithdeath,official
consolers who let no onetrespass on their self-appointedduties.
"It's under control. You goon now, girl, and dosomething else. Leave yourmotherbe."
Shooed away, Laila feltuseless. She bounced fromone room to the next. Sheputtered around the kitchenfor a while. An
uncharacteristically subduedHasinaandhermothercame.So did Giti and her mother.When Giti saw Laila, shehurried over, threw her bonyarms around her, and gaveLaila a very long, andsurprisingly strong, embrace.When she pulled back, tearshadpooledinhereyes."Iamso sorry, Laila," she said.Laila thanked her. The threegirls sat outside in the yarduntil one of the women
assigned them the task ofwashing glasses and stackingplatesonthetable.
Babitookeptwalkinginandout of the house aimlessly,looking, it seemed, forsomethingtodo.
"Keephimawayfromme."That was the only timeMammy said anything allmorning.
Babiendedupsittingaloneon a folding chair in thehallway,lookingdesolateandsmallThenoneofthewomentold him he was in the waythere. He apologized anddisappearedintohisstudy.
***
That apternoon, the menwent to a hall in Karteh-Sehthat Babi had rented forthefatiha. The women came
to the house. Laila took herspot besideMammy, next tothe living-room entrancewhere it was customary forthe familyof thedeceased tosit. Mourners removed theirshoes at the door, nodded atacquaintancesastheycrossedthe room, and sat on foldingchairs arranged along thewalls. Laila sawWajma, theelderly midwife who haddeliveredher.ShesawTariq'smother too, wearing a black
scarf over thewig. She gaveLaila a nod and a slow, sad,close-lippedsmile.
From a cassette player, aman's nasal voice chantedverses from the Koran. Inbetween, the women sighedand shifted and sniffled.There were muted coughs,murmurs, and, periodically,someone let out a theatrical,sorrow-drenchedsob.
Rasheed's wife, Mariam,came in. She was wearing ablackhijab.Strandsofherhairstrayedfromitontoherbrow.ShetookaseatalongthewallacrossfromLaila.
NexttoLaila,Mammykeptrockingbackand forth.LailadrewMammy'shandintoherlapandcradleditwithbothofhers, but Mammy did notseemtonotice.
"Do youwant somewater,Mammy?" Laila said in herear."Areyouthirsty?"
But Mammy said nothing.She did nothing but swaybackandforthandstareattherug with a remote, spiritlesslook.
Now and then, sitting nextto Mammy, seeing thedrooping, woebegone looksaround the room, the
magnitudeofthedisasterthathad struck her family wouldregister with Laila. Thepossibilities denied. Thehopesdashed.
Butthefeelingdidn'tlast.Itwas hard to feel,really feel,Mammy's loss. Hard tosummonsorrow,togrievethedeaths of people Laila hadnever really thought of asalive in the first place.AhmadandNoorhadalways
been like lore to her. Likecharactersinafable.Kingsinahistorybook.
ItwasTariqwhowas real,flesh and blood. Tariq, whotaught her cusswords inPashto, who liked saltedclover leaves, who frownedand made a low, moaningsoundwhen he chewed,whohad a light pink birthmarkjust beneath his leftcollarbone shaped like an
upside-downmandolin.
So she sat beside Mammyand dutifully mournedAhmad and Noor, but, inLaila's heart, her truebrotherwasaliveandwell.
20.
The ailments that wouldhoundMammyfortherestofher days began. Chest painsand headaches, joint achesand night sweats, paralyzingpains in her ears, lumps nooneelsecouldfeel.Babitookher to a doctor, who took
blood and urine, shot X-raysofMammy'sbody,but foundnophysicalillness.
Mammy lay in bed mostdays. She wore black. Shepickedatherhairandgnawedon the mole below her lip.When Mammy was awake,Laila found her staggeringthrough the house. Shealways ended up in Laila'sroom, as though she wouldrun into the boys sooner or
later if she just keptwalkingintotheroomwheretheyhadonce slept and farted andfought with pillows. But allshe ran into was theirabsence. And Laila. Which,Laila believed, had becomeoneandthesametoMammy.
TheonlytaskMammyneverneglected was her fivedailynamaz prayers. Sheended eachnamaz with herhead hung low, hands held
before her face, palms up,mutteringaprayerforGodtobring victory to theMujahideen. Laila had toshoulder more and more ofthe chores. If she didn't tendto the house, she was apt tofindclothes, shoes,open ricebags,cansofbeans,anddirtydishes strewn abouteverywhere. Laila washedMammy's dresses andchanged her sheets. Shecoaxed her out of bed for
bathsandmeals.Shewastheone who ironed Babi's shirtsand folded his pants.Increasingly, she was thecook.
Sometimes, after she wasdone with her chores, Lailacrawled into bed next toMammy. She wrapped herarms around her, laced herfingers with her mother's,buried her face in her hair.Mammy would stir, murmur
something. Inevitably, shewould start in on a storyabouttheboys.
Oneday,astheywerelyingthis way, Mammy said,"Ahmad was going to be aleader. He had the charismafor it-People three times hisage listened to him withrespect, Laila. It wassomething to see. AndNoonOh,myNoor.Hewasalwaysmaking sketches of
buildingsandbridges.Hewasgoing to be an architect, youknow. He was going totransform Kabul with hisdesigns. And now they'rebothshaheed, my boys, bothmartyrs."
Lailalaythereandlistened,wishing Mammy wouldnotice thatshe, Laila, hadn'tbecomeshaheed, that shewasalive, here, in bed with her,that she had hopes and a
future. But Laila knew thather future was no match forher brothers' past. They hadovershadowed her in life.They would obliterate her indeath. Mammy was now thecuratoroftheirlives'museumandshe,Laila,amerevisitor.A receptacle for theirmyths.Theparchment on whichMammy meant to ink theirlegends.
"Themessenger who came
with the news, he said thatwhen they brought the boysback to camp, Ahmad ShahMassoud personally oversawthe burial. He said a prayerfor them at the gravesite.That's the kind of braveyoung men your brotherswere,Laila, thatCommanderMassoudhimself,theLionofPanjshir, God bless him,wouldoverseetheirburial."
Mammy rolled onto her
back.Lailashifted,restedherheadonMammy'schest.
"Somedays,"Mammy saidinahoarsevoice, "I listen tothat clock ticking in thehallway. Then I think of allthe ticks, all the minutes, allthehoursanddaysandweeksandmonthsandyearswaitingfor me. All of it withoutthem. And I can't breathethen, like someone's steppingon my heart, Laila. I get so
weak.SoweakI justwant tocollapsesomewhere."
"IwishtherewassomethingI could do," Laila said,meaning it. But it came outsounding broad, perfunctory,likethetokenconsolationofakindstranger.
"You're a good daughter,"Mammy said, after a deepsigh. "And I haven't beenmuchofamothertoyou."
"Don'tsaythat."
"Oh,it's true.IknowitandI'msorryforit,mylove."
"Mammy?"
"Mm."
Laila sat up, looking downatMammy. There were graystrandsinMammy'shairnow.And it startled Lailahowmuch weight Mammy,
who'd always been plump,had lost. Her cheeks had asallow, drawn look. Theblouseshe was wearingdrooped over her shoulders,andtherewasagapingspacebetween her neck and thecollar.More than once Lailahad seen the weddingbandslide off Mammy'sfinger.
"I've been meaning to askyousomething."
"Whatisit?"
"You wouldn't…" Lailabegan.
She'd talked about it toHasina. At Hasina'ssuggestion, the two of themhad emptied the bottle ofaspirin in the gutter, hiddenthe kitchen knives and thesharp kebab skewers beneaththe rug under the couch.Hasina had found a rope in
theyard.WhenBabicouldn'tfind his razors, Laila had totell him of her fears. Hedropped on the edge of thecouch, hands between hisknees. Lailawaited for somekindofreassurancefromhim.But all she got was abewildered, hollow-eyedlook.
"You wouldn't…Mammy Iworrythat-"
"Ithoughtaboutitthenightwe got the news," Mammysaid. "Iwon't lie to you, I'vethought about it since too.But,no.Don'tworry,Laila.Iwant to see my sons' dreamcome true. I want to see theday the Soviets go homedisgraced, the day theMujahideencometoKabulinvictory. I want to be therewhen it happens, whenAfghanistan is free, so theboys see it too.They'll see it
throughmyeyes."
Mammy was soon asleep,leaving Laila with duelingemotions: reassured thatMammy meant to live on,stung thatshe was not thereason.Shewouldneverleaveher mark on Mammy's heartthe way her brothers had,because Mammy's heart waslike a pallid beach whereLaila's footprints wouldforever wash away beneath
the waves of sorrow thatswelled and crashed, swelledandcrashed.
21.
The driver pulled his taxiover to let pass another longconvoy of Soviet jeeps andarmored vehicles. Tariqleaned across the front seat,over the driver, andyelled,"Pajalmia!Pajalmta!"
A jeep honked and Tariqwhistled back, beaming andwaving cheerfully. "Lovelyguns!" he yelled "Fabulousjeeps! Fabulous army! Toobad you're losing to a bunchofpeasantsfiringslingshots!"
The convoy passed. Thedriver merged back onto theroad
"Howmuch farther?" Lailaasked
"An hour at themost," thedriver said. "Barring anymore convoys orcheckpoints."
Theyweretakingadaytrip,Laila,Babi,andTariq.Hasinahadwanted to come too,hadbegged her father, but hewouldn't allow it. The tripwas Babi's idea. Though hecould hardly afford it on hissalary,he'dhiredadriver fortheday.Hewouldn'tdisclose
anything to Laila about theirdestinationexcepttosaythat,withit,hewascontributingtohereducation.
They had been on the roadsince five in the morning.Through Laila's window, thelandscape shifted fromsnowcapped peaks to desertsto canyons and sun-scorchedoutcroppingsof rocks.Alongthe way, they passed mudhouses with thatched roofs
andfieldsdottedwithbundlesof wheat. Pitched out in thedusty fields, here and there,Laila recognized the blacktentsofKoochinomads.And,frequently, the carcasses ofburned-out Soviet tanks andwrecked helicopters. This,she thought,wasAhmad andNoor's Afghanistan. This,here in the provinces, waswhere the war was beingfought, after all. Not inKabul. Kabul was largely at
peace. Back in Kabul, if notfor the occasional bursts ofgunfire, if not for the Sovietsoldiers smoking on thesidewalks and the Sovietjeeps always bumpingthroughthestreets,warmightaswellhavebeenarumor.
It was late morning, afterthey'd passed two morecheckpoints, when theyentered a valley. Babi hadLailaleanacrosstheseatand
pointedtoaseriesofancient-lookingwallsofsun-driedredinthedistance.
"That's called Shahr-e-Zohak.TheRedCity.Itusedto be a fortress. It was builtsomeninehundredyearsagoto defend the valley frominvaders. Genghis Khan'sgrandson attacked it in thethirteenthcentury,buthewaskilled. It was Genghis Khanhimself who then destroyed
it."
"And that, my youngfriends, is the story of ourcountry, one invader afteranother," the driver said,flicking cigarette ash out thewindow. "Macedonians.Sassanians. Arabs. Mongols.Now the Soviets. But we'relike those walls up there.Battered, and nothing prettyto look at, but still standing.Isn'tthatthetruth,badar?'
"Indeeditis,"saidBabi.
***
Halfanhourlater,thedriverpulledover.
"Come on, you two," Babisaid."Comeoutsideandhavealook."
They got out of the taxi.Babipointed"Theretheyare.Look."
Tariqgasped.Lailadidtoo.And she knew then that shecould live to be a hundredand she would never againseeathingasmagnificent.
The two Buddhas wereenormous, soaring muchhigherthanshehadimaginedfromallthephotosshe'dseenof them.Chiseled intoa sun-bleached rock cliff, theypeereddownatthem,astheyhad nearly two thousand
years before,Laila imagined,at caravans crossing thevalley on the Silk Road. Oneithersideofthem,alongtheoverhanging niche, the cliffwas pocked with myriadcaves.
"Ifeelsosmall,"Tariqsaid.
"You want to climb up?"Babisaid.
"Up the statues?" Laila
asked."Wecandothat?"
Babismiledandheldouthishand."Comeon."
***
TheclimbwashardforTariq,who had to hold on to bothLailaandBabiastheyinchedup a winding, narrow, dimlylit staircase. They sawshadowy caves along theway, and tunnels
honeycombing thecliffeverywhichway.
"Careful where you step,"Babi said His voice made aloud echo. "The ground istreacherous."
In someparts, the staircasewas open to the Buddha'scavity.
"Don't lookdown,children.Keeplookingstraightahead."
As they climbed,Babi toldthem that Bamiyan had oncebeen a thriving BuddhistcenteruntilithadfallenunderIslamicArabruleintheninthcentury. The sandstone cliffswere home to Buddhistmonks who carved caves inthemtouseaslivingquartersand as sanctuary for wearytraveling pilgrims. Themonks, Babi said, paintedbeautiful frescoes along thewallsandroofsoftheircaves.
"At one point," he said,"there were five thousandmonks living as hermits inthesecaves."
Tariq was badly out ofbreathwhentheyreachedthetop. Babi was panting too.But his eyes shone withexcitement.
"We're standing atop itshead," he said, wiping hisbrow with a handkerchief
"There's a niche over herewherewecanlookout."
They inched over to thecraggy overhang and,standing side by side, withBabi in the middle, gazeddownonthevalley.
"Lookatthis!"saidLaila.
Babismiled.
TheBamiyanValleybelow
wascarpetedbylushfarmingfields. Babi said they weregreen winter wheat andalfalfa, potatoes too. Thefields were bordered bypoplars and crisscrossed bystreamsandirrigationditches,on the banks of which tinyfemale figures squatted andwashedclothes.Babipointedto rice paddies and barleyfields draping the slopes. Itwas autumn, andLaila couldmake out people in bright
tunics on the roofs of mudbrickdwellingslayingouttheharvesttodry.Themainroadgoing through the town waspoplar-lined too. There weresmall shops and teahousesand street-side barbers oneither side of it. Beyond thevillage, beyond the river andthe streams, Laila sawfoothills, bare and dustybrown,and,beyond those, asbeyond everything else inAfghanistan, the snowcapped
HinduKush.
The sky above all of thiswas an immaculate, spotlessblue.
"It's so quiet," Lailabreathed. She could see tinysheepandhorsesbutcouldn'thear their bleating andwhinnying.
"It's what I alwaysremember about being up
here," Babi said. "Thesilence. The peace of it. Iwanted you to experience it.But I alsowantedyou to seeyour country's heritage,children, to learn of its richpast. You see, some things Ican teach you. Some youlearn from books. But thereare things that,well,you justhavetoseeandfeel."
"Look,"saidTariq.
They watched a hawk,gliding in circles above thevillage.
"Did you ever bringMammy up here?" Lailaasked
"Oh,manytimes.Beforetheboys were born. After too.Yourmother, she used to beadventurous then, and…soalive. She was just aboutthe liveliest, happiest person
I'd ever met." He smiled atthe memory. "She had thislaugh. I swear it's why Imarried her, Laila, for thatlaugh. It bulldozed you.Youstoodnochanceagainstit."
A wave of affectionovercame Laila. From thenon, she would alwaysremember Babi this way:reminiscing about Mammy,with his elbows on the rock,hands cupping his chin, his
hairruffledbythewind,eyescrinkledagainstthesun.
"I'm going to look at someofthosecaves,"Tariqsaid.
"Becareful,"saidBabi.
"I will,Kakajan," Tariq'svoiceechoedback.
Lailawatchedatrioofmenfarbelow,talkingnearacowtethered to a fence. Around
them, the treeshad started toturn, ochre and orange,scarletred.
"I miss the boys too, youknow," Babi said. His eyeshadwelledupatad.Hischinwas trembling. "I may not…With your mother, both herjoy and sadness are extreme.She can't hide either. Shenever could. Me, I supposeI'mdifferent.Itendto…Butitbrokemetoo,theboysdying.
I miss them too. Not a daypasses that I…It's very hard,Laila. So very hard." Hesqueezedtheinnercornersofhis eyes with his thumb andforefinger. When he tried totalk, his voice broke. Hepulled his lips over his teethand waited. He took a long,deep breath, looked at her."But I'm glad I have you.Every day, I thank God foryou. Every single day.Sometimes, when your
mother's having one of herreally dark days, I feel likeyou'reallIhave,Laila."
Lailadrewclosertohimandrested her cheek up againsthischest.He seemedslightlystartled-unlike Mammy, herarelyexpressedhis affectionphysically.Heplantedabriskkiss on the top of her headand hugged her backawkwardly. They stood thisway for a while, looking
downontheBamiyanValley.
"AsmuchasIlovethisland,some days I think aboutleavingit,"Babisaid.
"Whereto?"
"Anyplacewhereit'seasytoforget. Pakistan first, Isuppose. For a year, maybetwo.Wait for our paperworktogetprocessed."
"Andthen?"
"And then, well, itis a bigworld. Maybe America.Somewherenearthesea.LikeCalifornia."
Babi said the Americanswereagenerouspeople.Theywouldhelpthemwithmoneyand food for a while, untiltheycouldgetontheirfeet.
"Iwouldfindwork,and,ina
few years, when we hadenoughsavedup,we'dopenalittle Afghan restaurant-Nothingfancy,mindyou,justa modest little place, a fewtables, some rugs. MaybehangsomepicturesofKabul.We'd give the Americans ataste of Afghan food. Andwith your mother's cooking,they'd line up and down thestreet.
"And you, you would
continue going to school, ofcourse.YouknowhowIfeelaboutthat.Thatwouldbeourabsolute top priority, to getyou a good education, highschool then college. But inyour free time,if youwantedto, you could help out, takeorders,fillwaterpitchers,thatsortofthing."
Babi said they would holdbirthday parties at therestaurant, engagement
ceremonies, New Year's get-togethers.Itwouldturnintoagathering place for otherAfghanswho, like them, hadfled the war. And, late atnight, after everyonehad leftandtheplacewascleanedup,they would sit for tea amidtheemptytables, thethreeofthem, tired but thankful fortheirgoodfortune.
When Babi was donespeaking,hegrewquiet.They
both did. They knew thatMammy wasn't goinganywhere. LeavingAfghanistan had beenunthinkable to her whileAhmad and Noor were stillalive. Now that theywereshaheed,packingupandrunning was an even worseaffront, a betrayal, adisavowalofthesacrificehersonshadmade.
How can you think of it?
Laila could hear hersaying.Doestheirdyingmeannothing to you, cousin? Theonly solace I find is inknowingthatIwalkthesameground that soaked up theirblood.No.Never.
AndBabiwouldneverleavewithouther,Lailaknew,eventhoughMammywasnomorea wife to him now than shewas a mother to Laila. ForMammy, he would brush
asidethisdaydreamofhisthewayheflickedspecksofflourfrom his coat when he gothomefromwork.Andsotheywould stay. Theywould stayuntil thewarendedAndtheywouldstayforwhatevercameafterwar.
Laila rememberedMammytellingBabioncethatshehadmarried a man who had noconvictions. Mammy didn'tunderstand. She didn't
understand that if she lookedinto amirror, shewould findthe one unfailing convictionof his life looking right backather.
***
Later, after they'd eaten alunch of boiled eggs andpotatoes with bread, Tariqnappedbeneath a tree on thebanks of a gurgling stream.He sleptwith his coat neatly
folded into a pillow, hishands crossed on his chest.Thedriverwenttothevillageto buy almonds. Babi sat atthe foot of a thick-trunkedacacia tree reading apaperback. Laila knew thebook;he'dreadittoheronce.It told the story of an oldfisherman named Santiagowho catches an enormousfish.Butby the timehesailshis boat to safety, there isnothing left of his prize fish;
the sharks have torn it topieces.
Lailasatontheedgeof thestream, dipping her feet intothe cool water. Overhead,mosquitoes hummed andcottonwood seeds danced. Adragonfly whirred nearby.Lailawatcheditswingscatchglintsofsunlightasitbuzzedfrom one blade of grass toanother.They flashedpurple,then green, orange. Across
the stream, a group of localHazara boys were pickingpatties of dried cow dungfrom thegroundandstowingthem into burlap sackstethered to their backs.Somewhere,adonkeybrayed.Ageneratorsputteredtolife.
Laila thought again aboutBabi's littledream.Somewhere near thesea
There was something shehadn'ttoldBabiupthereatopthe Buddha: that, in oneimportant way, she was gladthey couldn't go. She wouldmissGitiandherpinch-facedearnestness, yes, and Hasinatoo, with her wicked laughandrecklessclowningaroundBut, mostly, Lailaremembered all too well theinescapabledrudgeryofthosefour weeks without TariqwhenhehadgonetoGhazni.
She remembered all toowellhow time had draggedwithout him, how she hadshuffled about feelingwaylaid,outofbalance.Howcould she ever copewith hispermanentabsence?
Maybe it was senseless towant to be near a person sobadlyhereinacountrywherebulletshadshreddedherownbrothers to pieces. But allLaila had to do was picture
Tariq going at Khadim withhis leg and then nothing inthe world seemed moresensibletoher.
***
Six months later, in April1988, Babi came home withbignews.
"They signed a treaty!" hesaid."InGeneva.It'sofficial!They're leaving. Within nine
months, there won't be anymore Soviets inAfghanistan!"
Mammy was sitting up inbed.Sheshrugged.
"But thecommunist regimeis staying," she said."Najibullah is the Soviets'puppet president. He's notgoinganywhere.No, thewarwill go on. This is not theend"
"Najibullahwon'tlast,"saidBabi.
"They're leaving, Mammy!They'reactuallyleaving!"
"You two celebrate if youwantto.ButIwon'trestuntiltheMujahideenholdavictoryparaderighthereinKabul"
And,withthat,shelaydownagain and pulled up theblanket.
22.
January1989
One cold, overcast day inJanuary 1989, three monthsbefore Laila turned eleven,she, her parents, and Hasinawent towatchoneof the lastSoviet convoys exit the city.
Spectators had gathered onbothsidesofthethoroughfareoutsidetheMilitaryClubnearWazir Akbar Khan. Theystood in muddy snow andwatched the line of tanks,armored trucks, and jeeps aslight snow flew across theglare of the passingheadlights. There wereheckles and jeers. Afghansoldiers kept people off thestreet. Every now and then,they had to fire a warning
shot.
Mammyhoisted a photoofAhmad and Noor high overher head. It was the one ofthem sitting back-to-backunder the pear tree. Therewere others like her, womenwith pictures of theirshaheedhusbands, sons,brothersheldhigh.
Someone tapped Laila andHasina on the shoulder. It
wasTariq.
"Where did you get thatthing?"Hasinaexclaimed.
"I thought I'dcomedressedfor the occasion."Tariq said.HewaswearinganenormousRussian fur hat, completewith earflaps, which he hadpulleddown.
"HowdoIlook?"
"Ridiculous,"Lailalaughed.
"That'stheidea."
"Your parents came herewithyoudressedlikethis?"
"They'rehome,actually,"hesaid.
The previous fall, Tariq'suncleinGhaznihaddiedofaheartattack,and,afewweekslater, Tariq's father had
suffered a heart attack of hisown, leaving him frail andtired, prone to anxiety andbouts of depression thatovertook him for weeks at atime. Laila was glad to seeTariq like this, like his oldselfagain.Forweeksafterhisfather's illness, Laila hadwatchedhimmopingaround,heavy-facedandsullen.
The three of them stoleawaywhileMammyandBabi
stood watching the Soviets.From a street vendor, Tariqbought them each a plate ofboiled beans topped withthick cilantro chutney. Theyate beneath the awning of aclosed rug shop, thenHasinawenttofindherfamily.
Onthebusridehome,Tariqand Laila sat behind herparents. Mammy was by thewindow, staring out,clutching the picture against
her chest. Beside her, BabiwasimpassivelylisteningtoamanwhowasarguingthattheSovietsmight be leaving butthattheywouldsendweaponstoNajibullahinKabul.
"He's their puppet. They'llkeep the war going throughhim,youcanbetonthat."
Someone in the next aislevoicedhisagreement.
Mammy was muttering toherself, long-winded prayersthatrolledonandonuntilshehadnobreath leftandhad toekeout the last fewwords inatiny,high-pitchedsqueak.
***
They"wenttoCinemaParklater that day, Laila andTariq, and had to settle for aSoviet film thatwas dubbed,to unintentionally comic
effect, in Farsi. There was amerchant ship, and a firstmate in love with thecaptain's daughter.Her namewas Alyona. Then came afierce storm, lightning, rain,the heaving sea tossing theship. One of the franticsailors yelled something. Anabsurdly calm Afghan voicetranslated: "My dear sir,would you kindly pass therope?"
At this, Tariq burst outcackling. And, soon, theyboth were in the grips of ahopeless attack of laughter.Just when one becamefatigued, the other wouldsnort, and off theywould goon another round. A mansitting two rows up turnedaroundandshushedthem.
Therewasaweddingsceneneartheend.ThecaptainhadrelentedandletAlyonamarry
thefirstmate.Thenewlywedswere smiling at each other.Everyone was drinkingvodka.
"I'mnevergettingmarried,"Tariqwhispered.
"Meneither,"saidLaila,butnot before a moment ofnervous hesitation. Sheworried that her voice hadbetrayed her disappointmentatwhathehadsaid.Herheart
galloping, she added, moreforcefullythistime,"Never."
"Weddingsarestupid.""Allthefuss."
"Allthemoneyspent.""Forwhat?"
"For clothes you'll neverwearagain."
"Ha!"
"If I everdo get married,"Tariq said, "they'll have tomake room for three on theweddingstage.Me,thebride,and the guy holding the guntomyhead."
The man in the front rowgave them anotheradmonishinglook.
On the screen, Alyona andhernewhusbandlockedlips.
Watchingthekiss,Lailafeltstrangely conspicuous all atonce. She became intenselyawareof her heart thumping,of the blood thudding in herears, of the shape of Tariqbeside her, tightening up,becoming still. The kissdragged on. It seemed ofutmost urgency to Laila,suddenly, that she not stir ormakeanoise.ShesensedthatTariq was observing her-oneeye on the kiss, the other on
her-asshewasobservinghim.Was he listening to the airwhooshing in and out of hernose, she wondered, waitingfor a subtle faltering, arevealing irregularity, thatwouldbetrayherthoughts?
Andwhatwoulditbeliketokiss him, to feel the fuzzyhairabovehislipticklingherownlips?
Then Tariq shifted
uncomfortably in his seat. Inastrainedvoice,hesaid,"Didyou know that if you flingsnot in Siberia, it's a greenicicle before it hits theground?"
They both laughed, butbriefly, nervously, this time.Andwhenthefilmendedandthey stepped outside, Lailawas relieved to see that thesky had dimmed, that shewouldn'thavetomeetTariq's
eyesinthebrightdaylight.
23.
April1992
Threeyearspassed.
In that time, Tariq's fatherhad a series of strokes. Theyleft him with a clumsy lefthand and a slight slur to his
speech. When he wasagitated, which happenedfrequently, the slurring gotworse.
Tariqoutgrewhis legagainandwas issued a new legbytheRedCross,thoughhehadtowaitsixmonthsforit.
As Hasina had feared, herfamily took her to Lahore,whereshewasmadetomarrythe cousin who owned the
auto shop. The morning thatthey took her, Laila andGitiwenttoHasina'shousetosaygood-bye. Hasina told themthat the cousin, her husband-to-be, had already started theprocess to move them toGermany,where his brotherslived. Within the year, shethought, they would be inFrankfurt.They cried then ina three-way embrace. Gitiwas inconsolable. The lasttime Laila ever saw Hasina,
shewas being helped by herfather into the crowdedbackseatofataxi.
TheSovietUnioncrumbledwith astonishing swiftness.Every few weeks, it seemedto Laila, Babi was cominghomewithnewsof the latestrepublic to declareindependence. Lithuania.Estonia. Ukraine. The Sovietflag was lowered over theKremlin. The Republic of
Russiawasborn.
In Kabul, Najibullahchanged tactics and tried toportray himself as a devoutMuslim. "Too little and fartoo late," said Babi. "Youcan't be the chief of KHADonedayandthenextdayprayin a mosque with peoplewhose relatives you torturedandkilled"Feeling thenoosetightening around Kabul,Najibullah tried to reach a
settlement with theMujahideen but theMujahideenbalked.
Fromherbed,Mammysaid,"Good for them." She kepthervigils for theMujahideenand waited for her parade.Waited for her sons' enemiestofall.
***
And,eventually,theydid.In
April 1992, the year Lailaturnedfourteen.
Najibullah surrendered atlast and was given sanctuaryin the UN compound nearDarulaman Palace, south ofthecity.
The jihad was over. Thevarious communist regimesthathadheldpowersincethenightLailawasbornwerealldefeated. Mammy's heroes,
Ahmad'sandNoor'sbrothers-in-war, had won. And now,after more than a decade ofsacrificing everything, ofleaving behind their familiestoliveinmountainsandfightforAfghanistan'ssovereignty,theMujahideenwere comingtoKabul,inflesh,blood,andbattle-wearybone.
Mammy knew all of theirnames.
There was Dostum, theflamboyant Uzbekcommander, leader of theJunbish-i-Milli faction, whohad a reputation for shiftingallegiances.Theintense,surlyGulbuddinHekmatyar,leaderof the Hezb-e-Islami faction,a Pashtun who had studiedengineeringandoncekilledaMaoist student. Rabbani,Tajik leader of the Jamiat-e-Islami faction, who hadtaught Islam at Kabul
University in the days of themonarchy. Sayyaf, a Pashtunfrom Paghman with Arabconnections, a stout Muslimand leader of the Ittehad-i-Islami faction. Abdul AliMazari, leaderof theHizb-e-Wahdat faction, known asBaba Mazari among hisfellow Hazaras, with strongShi'atiestoIran.
And, of course, there wasMammy's hero, Rabbani's
ally, the brooding,charismaticTajikcommanderAhmad Shah Massoud, theLionofPanjshir.Mammyhadnailed up a poster of him inher room. Massoud'shandsome, thoughtful face,eyebrow cocked andtrademarkpakoltilted, wouldbecome ubiquitous in Kabul.His soulfulblackeyeswouldgaze back from billboards,walls, storefront windows,from little flags mounted on
theantennasoftaxicabs.
For Mammy, this was theday she had longed for. Thisbrought to fruition all thoseyearsofwaiting.
At last, she could end hervigils,andhersonscouldrestinpeace.
***
The day after Najibullah
surrendered, Mammy rosefrom bed a newwoman. Forthefirsttimeinthefiveyearssince Ahmad and Noor hadbecomeshaheed,she didn'twear black. She put on acobalt blue linen dress withwhitepolkadots.Shewashedthewindows,sweptthefloor,aired the house, took a longbath. Her voice was shrillwithmerriment.
"A party is in order," she
declared-She sent Laila toinvite neighbors. "Tell themwe're having a big lunchtomorrow!"
In the kitchen, Mammystood looking around, handson her hips, and said, withfriendly reproach, "Whathaveyoudonetomykitchen,Laila?Wboy.Everythingisinadifferentplace."
Shebeganmovingpotsand
pans around, theatrically, asthoughshewerelayingclaimto them anew, restaking herterritory, now that she wasback. Laila stayed out of herway. It was best. Mammycouldbeasindomitableinherfits of euphoria as in herattacks of rage. Withunsettling energy, Mammyset about cooking:aush soupwith kidney beans and drieddill,kofia, steaming hotmaniudrenched with fresh yogurt
andtoppedwithmint.
"You're plucking youreyebrows," Mammy said, asshe was opening a largeburlap sack of rice by thekitchencounter.
"Onlyalittle."
Mammy poured rice fromthesackintoalargeblackpotof water. She rolled up hersleevesandbeganstirring.
"HowisTariq?"
"Hisfather'sbeenill,"Lailasaid "How old is he nowanyway?"
"I don't know. Sixties, Iguess."
"ImeantTariq."
"Oh.Sixteen."
"He'saniceboy.Don'tyou
think?"
Lailashrugged.
"Not really aboyanymore,though, is he? Sixteen.Almost a man. Don't youthink?"
"What are you getting at,Mammy?"
"Nothing," Mammy said,smilinginnocently."Nothing.
It's just that you…Ah,nothing. I'd better not sayanyway."
"I see you want to," Lailasaid, irritated by thiscircuitous,playfulaccusation.
"Well."Mammy foldedherhands on the rim of the pot.Laila spotted an unnatural,almost rehearsed, quality totheway she said "Well" andto this folding of hands. She
fearedaspeechwascoming.
"Itwasonethingwhenyouwere little kids runningaround. No harm in that. Itwas charming- But now.Now. Inoticeyou'rewearingabra,Laila."
Lailawascaughtoffguard.
"And you could have toldme,bytheway,aboutthebra.I didn't know. I'm
disappointed you didn't tellme." Sensing her advantage,Mammypressedon.
"Anyway,thisisn'taboutmeor thebra. It'saboutyouandTariq. He's a boy, you see,and, as such, what does hecare about reputation? Butyou?Thereputationofagirl,especially one as pretty asyou,isadelicatething,Laila.Like a mynah bird in yourhands.Slackenyourgripand
awayitflies."
"And what about all yourwall climbing, the sneakingaround with Babi in theorchards?"Lailasaid,pleasedwithherquickrecovery.
"Wewerecousins.Andwemarried. Has this boy askedforyourhand?"
"He's a friend. Arqfiq. It'snot like that between us,"
Laila said, soundingdefensive, and not veryconvincing. "He's like abrother to me," she added,misguidedly. And she knew,even before a cloud passedover Mammy's face and herfeatures darkened, that she'dmadeamistake.
"Thathe is not," Mammysaid flatly. "You will notliken that one-leggedcarpenter's boy to your
brothers. There isno one likeyourbrothers."
"Ididn't sayhe…That'snothowImeantit."
Mammysighed through thenoseandclenchedherteeth.
"Anyway,"sheresumed,butwithout the coylightheadedness of a fewmoments ago, "what I'mtrying to say is that if you're
notcareful,peoplewilltalk."
Laila opened her mouth tosay something. It wasn't thatMammy didn't have a point.Laila knew that the days ofinnocent, unhinderedfrolicking in the streets withTariq had passed. For sometimenow,Lailahadbeguntosenseanewstrangenesswhenthe two of them were out inpublic. An awareness ofbeing looked at, scrutinized,
whispered about, that Lailahad never felt before.Andwouldn't have felt evennowbut forone fundamentalfact:ShehadfallenforTariq.Hopelessly and desperately.When he was near, shecouldn't help but beconsumed with the mostscandalous thoughts, of hislean, bare body entangledwith hers. Lying in bed atnight, she pictured himkissingherbelly,wonderedat
thesoftnessofhislips,atthefeelofhishandsonherneck,herchest,herback,andlowerstill. When she thought ofhim this way, she wasovertakenwithguilt,butalsowith a peculiar, warmsensation that spread upwardfromher belly until it felt asifherfacewereglowingpink.
No. Mammy had a point.More than she knew, in fact.Laila suspected that some, if
not most, of the neighborswere already gossiping abouther and Tariq. Laila hadnoticed the sly grins, wasaware of the whispers in theneighborhood that the twoofthem were a couple. Theother day, for instance, sheand Tariq were walking upthe street together whenthey'd passed Rasheed, theshoemaker, with his burqa-cladwife,Mariam,intow.Ashe'dpassedbythem,Rasheed
hadplayfully said, "If it isn'tLailiandMajnoon,"referringto the star-crossed lovers ofNezami's popular twelfth-century romantic poem-aFarsi version ofRomeo andJuliet,Babi said, though headdedthatNezamihadwrittenhistaleofill-fatedloversfourcenturiesbeforeShakespeare.
Mammyhadapoint.
WhatrankledLailawasthat
Mammy hadn't earned theright to make it. It wouldhave been one thing if Babihad raised this issue. ButMammy? All those years ofaloofness, of cooping herselfupandnotcaringwhereLailawent andwhomshe sawandwhat she thought…It wasunfair.Lailafeltlikeshewasnobetter than these pots andpans,somethingthatcouldgoneglected, then laid claim to,at will, whenever the mood
struck.
But this was a big day, animportantday,forallofthem.It would be petty to spoil itover this. In the spirit ofthings,Lailaletitpass.
"Igetyourpoint,"shesaid.
"Good!" Mammy said."That's resolved, then. Now,where is Hakim? Where, ohwhere, is that sweet little
husbandofmine?"
***
Itwasadazzling,cloudlessday, perfect for a party. Themen sat on rickety foldingchairsintheyard.Theydrankteaandsmokedandtalkedinloud bantering voices aboutthe Mujahideen's plan. FromBabi, Laila had learned theoutlineofit:Afghanistanwasnow called the Islamic State
of Afghanistan. An IslamicJihad Council, formed inPeshawar by several of theMujahideen factions, wouldoversee things for twomonths, led by SibghatullahMojadidi. This would befollowedthenbyaleadershipcouncil led byRabbani,whowould take over for fourmonths. During those sixmonths, aloyajirga would beheld, a grand council ofleaders and elders, who
would form an interimgovernmenttoholdpowerfortwo years, leading up todemocraticelections.
Oneofthemenwasfanningskewersoflambsizzlingovera makeshift grill Babi andTariq's father were playing agameofchessintheshadeofthe old pear tree.Their faceswere scrunched up inconcentration. Tariq wassitting at the board too, in
turns watching the match,then listening in on thepolitical chat at the adjacenttable.
Thewomengathered in thelivingroom,thehallway,andthe kitchen. They chatted asthey hoisted their babies andexpertlydodged,withminuteshifts of their hips, thechildren tearing after eachother around the house. AnUstad Sarahangghazal blared
fromacassetteplayer.
Laila was in the kitchen,making carafes ofdogh withGiti. Giti was no longer asshy, or as serious, as before.For several months now, theperpetual severe scowl hadcleared from her brow. Shelaughed openly these days,morefrequently,and-itstruckLaila-a bit flirtatiously. Shehaddoneawaywith thedrabponytails, let her hair grow,
and streaked it with redhighlights. Laila learnedeventually that the impetusforthistransformationwasaneighteen-year-old boy whoseattentionGitihadcaught.HisnamewasSabir,andhewasagoalkeeper on Giti's olderbrother'ssoccerteam.
"Oh, he has the mosthandsome smile, and thisthick, thick black hair!" Gitihad toldLaila.No one knew
about their attraction, ofcourse.Giti had secretlymethim twice for tea, fifteenminuteseachtime,atasmallteahouseon theother sideoftown,inTaimani.
"He's going to ask for myhand, Laila! Maybe as earlyas this summer. Can youbelieveit?IswearIcan'tstopthinkingabouthim."
"Whataboutschool?"Laila
hadasked.Gitihad tiltedherheadandgivenheraWebothknowbetterlook.
By the time we'retwenty,Hasina used tosay,Giti and I, we'll havepushed out four, five kidseach Bui you, Laila, you'1Imake m two dummiesproud. You 're going to besomebody. I know one dayI'll pick up a newspaper andfind your picture on the
frontpage.
Gitiwas beside Laila now,chopping cucumbers, with adreamy, far-off look on herface.
Mammywasnearby, inherbrilliant summer dress,peeling boiled eggs withWajma, the midwife, andTariq'smother.
"I'm going to present
CommanderMassoud with apictureofAhmadandNoor,"Mammy was saying toWajmaasWajmanoddedandtried to look interested andsincere.
"Hepersonallyoversaw theburial. He said a prayer attheirgrave.It'llbeatokenofthanks for his decency."Mammy cracked anotherboiled egg. "I hear he's areflective, honorable man. I
thinkhewouldappreciateit."
All around them, womenbolted in and out of thekitchen, carried out bowlsofqurma, platters ofmasiawa,loavesofbread,andarrangedit all onthesofrah spread ontheliving-roomfloor.
Everyonceinawhile,Tariqsauntered in. He picked atthis,nibbledonthat.
"Nomenallowed,"saidGiti.
"Out, out, out," criedWajma.
Tariqsmiledatthewomen'sgood-humored shooing. Heseemedtotakepleasureinnotbeing welcome here, ininfecting this femaleatmosphere with his half-grinning, masculineirreverence.
Lailadidherbestnottolookat him, not to give thesewomen any more gossipfodder than they already hadSo she kept her eyes downand said nothing to him, butshe remembered a dreamshe'dhadafewnightsbefore,ofhis faceandhers, togetherin a mirror, beneath a soft,greenveil.Andgrainsofrice,dropping from his hair,bouncing off the glass withalink.
Tariq reached to sample amorsel of veal cooked withpotatoes.
"Hobacha!"Gitislappedtheback of his hand. Tariq stoleitanywayandlaughed.
Hestoodalmostafoottallerthan Laila now. He shaved.His face was leaner, moreangular. His shoulders hadbroadened. Tariq liked towear pleated trousers, black
shiny loafers, and short-sleeve shirts that showed offhis newly muscular arms-compliments of an old, rustyset of barbells that he lifteddailyinhisyard.Hisfacehadlately adopted an expressionof playful contentiousness.He had taken to a self-consciouscockingofhisheadwhenhespoke,slightlytotheside, and to arching oneeyebrow when he laughed.He let his hair growandhad
fallenintothehabitoftossingthe floppy locks often andunnecessarily. The corrupthalfgrinwasanewthingtoo.
The last time Tariq wasshooedoutofthekitchen,hismother caught Laila stealinga glance at him.Laila's heartjumped, and her eyesflutteredguiltily.Shequicklyoccupied herselfwith tossingthe chopped cucumber intothepitcherofsalted,watered-
down yogurt. But she couldsense Tariq's motherwatching, her knowing,approvinghalfsmile.
The men filled their platesand glasses and took theirmeals to the yard.Once theyhad taken their share, thewomen and children settledon theflooraround thesofrahandate.
It was afterfat sofrah was
cleared and the plates werestacked in the kitchen, whenthe frenzyof teamaking andrememberingwho tookgreenand who black started, thatTariqmotionedwithhisheadandslippedoutthedoor.
Laila waited five minutes,thenfollowed.
Shefoundhimthreehousesdown the street, leaningagainst the wall at the
entranceofanarrow-mouthedalley between two adjacenthouses.Hewas humming anold Pashto song, by UstadAwalMir:
Dazemazibawaian,dazema dada waian. This is ourbeautiful land, this is ourbelovedland.
And he was smoking,anothernewhabit,whichhe'dpickedupfromtheguysLaila
spotted him hanging aroundwith these days. Lailacouldn't stand them, thesenew friends of Tariq's. Theyall dressed the same way,pleated trousers, and tightshirts that accentuated theirarmsandchest.Theyallworetoo much cologne, and theyall smoked. They struttedaround the neighborhood ingroups, joking, laughingloudly, sometimes evencalling after girls, with
identical stupid, self-satisfiedgrins on their faces. One ofTariq'sfriends,onthebasisofthe most passing ofresemblances to SylvesterStallone,insistedhebecalledRambo.
"Your mother would killyou if she knew about yoursmoking,"Lailasaid,lookingone way, then the other,beforeslippingintothealley.
"But she doesn't," he said.He moved aside to makeroom.
"Thatcouldchange."
"Who is going to tell?You?"
Laila tappedher foot. "Tellyour secret to the wind, butdon't blame it for telling thetrees."
Tariq smiled, the oneeyebrow arched. "Who saidthat?"
"KhalilGibran."
"You'reashow-off."
"Givemeacigarette."
He shook his head no andcrossed his arms. Thiswas anewentryinhisrepertoireofposes:back to thewall, arms
crossed, cigarette danglingfromthecornerofhismouth,hisgoodlegcasuallybent.
"Whynot?"
"Badforyou,"hesaid.
"Andit'snotbadforyou?"
"Idoitforthegirls."
"Whatgirls?"
Hesmirked."Theythinkit'ssexy."
"It'snot."
"No?"
"Iassureyou."
"Notsexy?"
"You lookkhila, likeahalf-wit."
"Thathurts,"hesaid
"Whatgirlsanyway?"
"You'rejealous."
"I'mindifferentlycurious."
"Youcan'tbeboth."Hetookanother drag and squintedthrough the smoke. "I'll betthey'retalkingaboutusnow."
In Laila's head, Mammy's
voice rang out.Like amynahbird in your hands. Slackenyour grip and away it flies.Guilt bore its teeth into her.ThenLailashutoffMammy'svoice. Instead, she savoredthe way Tariq had saidus.How thrilling, howconspiratorial, it soundedcoming from him. And howreassuring to hear him say itlike that-casually,naturally.Us.Itacknowledgedtheir connection, crystallized
it.
"Andwhataretheysaying?"
"Thatwe're canoeing downthe River of Sin," he said."Eating a slice of ImpietyCake."
"Riding the Rickshaw ofWickedness?" Laila chimedin.
"MakingSacrilegeQurma."
They both laughed. ThenTariq remarked that her hairwasgettinglonger."It'snice,"he said Laila hoped shewasn't blushing- "Youchangedthesubject."
"Fromwhat?"
"The empty-headed girlswhothinkyou'resexy."
"Youknow."
"Knowwhat?"
"That I only have eyes foryou."
Laila swooned inside. Shetried to readhis facebutwasmet by a look that wasindecipherable: the cheerful,cretinous grin at odds withthe narrow, half-desperatelook in his eyes. A cleverlook, calculated to fallprecisely at the midpoint
between mockery andsincerity.
Tariq crushed his cigarettewiththeheelofhisgoodfoot."Sowhat do you think aboutallthis?"
"Theparty?"
"Who's the half-wit now?Imeant theMujahideen,Laila.TheircomingtoKabul."
Oh.
She started to tell himsomething Babi had said,about the troublesomemarriage of guns and ego,whensheheardacommotioncomingfromthehouse.Loudvoices.Screaming.
Lailatookoffrunning.Tariqhobbledbehindher.
There was a melee in the
yard.Inthemiddleofitweretwo snarling men, rolling onthe ground, a knife betweenthem.Lailarecognizedoneofthemasamanfromthetablewho had been discussingpoliticsearlier.Theotherwasthe man who had beenfanning the kebab skewers.Several men were trying topull them apart. Babi wasn'tamongthem.Hestoodbythewall, at a safe distance fromthe fight, with Tariq's father,
whowascrying.
From the excited voicesaround her, Laila caughtsnippetsthatsheputtogether:The fellow at the politicstable, a Pashtun, had calledAhmad Shah Massoud atraitor for "making a deal"withtheSovietsinthe1980s.The kebabman, aTajik, hadtaken offense and demandedaretraction.ThePashtunhadrefused. The Tajik had said
that if not for Massoud, theotherman's sisterwould stillbe "giving it" to Sovietsoldiers. They had come toblows.Oneof themhad thenbrandishedaknife; therewasdisagreementastowho.
Withhorror,Laila saw thatTariqhadthrownhimselfintothescuffle.Shealsosawthatsome of the peacemakerswere now throwing punchesoftheirown.Shethoughtshe
spottedasecondknife.
Later that evening, Lailathoughtofhowthemeleehadtoppled over, with menfallingontopofoneanother,amid yelps and cries andshouts and flying punches,and, in the middle of it, agrimacing Tariq, his hairdisheveled, his leg comeundone,tryingtocrawlout.
***
Itwasdizzyinghowquicklyeverythingunraveled.
The leadership councilwasformed prematurely. Itelected Rabbani president.The other factionscriednepotism. Massoudcalledforpeaceandpatience.
Hekmatyar, who had beenexcluded, was incensed. TheHazaras, with their longhistory of being oppressed
andneglected,seethed.
Insultswerehurled.Fingerspointed. Accusations flew.Meetingswere angrily calledoff and doors slammed. Thecity held its breath. In themountains, loadedmagazinessnappedintoKalashnikovs.
The Mujahideen, armed tothe teeth but now lacking acommon enemy, had foundtheenemyineachother.
Kabul's day of reckoninghadcomeatlast.
Andwhentherocketsbeganto rain down on Kabul,peopleranforcover.Mammydidtoo,literally.Shechangedinto black again,went to herroom, shut the curtains, andpulled the blanket over herhead.
24.
It'sthewhistling,"LailasaidtoTariq,"thedamnwhistling,I hate more than anything"Tariqnoddedknowingly.
It wasn't so much thewhistlingitself,Lailathoughtlater,butthesecondsbetween
thestartofitandimpact.Thebriefandinterminabletimeoffeeling suspended. The notknowing.Thewaiting.Likeadefendant about to hear theverdict.
Oftenithappenedatdinner,when she and Babi were atthe table. When it started,theirheadssnappedup.Theylistened to the whistling,forks in midair, unchewedfood in their mouths. Laila
saw the reflection of theirhalf-lit faces in the pitch-blackwindow, their shadowsunmoving on the wall. Thewhistling. Then the blast,blissfullyelsewhere,followedbyanexpulsionofbreathandthe knowledge that they hadbeen spared for now whilesomewhere else, amid criesandchokingcloudsofsmoke,there was a scrambling, abarehandedfrenzyofdigging,of pulling from the debris,
what remained of a sister, abrother,agrandchild.
But the flip side of beingspared was the agony ofwondering who hadn't. Aftereveryrocketblast,Lailaracedto the street, stammering aprayer,certainthat, thistime,surely this time, itwasTariqthey would find buriedbeneath the rubble andsmoke.
At night, Laila lay in bedandwatchedthesuddenwhiteflashes reflected in herwindow. She listened to therattling of automatic gunfireand counted the rocketswhining overhead as thehouse shook and flakes ofplaster rained down on herfrom the ceiling. Somenights, when the light ofrocket fire was so bright aperson could read a book byit,sleepnevercame.And,ifit
did, Laila's dreams weresuffused with fire anddetached limbs and themoaningofthewounded.
Morning brought no relief.The muezzin's call fornamazrangout,andtheMujahideenset down their guns, facedwest, and prayed. Then therugs were folded, the gunsloaded, and the mountainsfired on Kabul, and Kabulfired back at the mountains,
as Laila and the rest of thecity watched as helpless asold Santiago watching thesharks take bites out of hisprizefish.
***
EverywhereLaila"went,shesawMassoud'smen.Shesawthem roam the streets andeveryfewhundredyardsstopcarsforquestioning.Theysatand smoked atop tanks,
dressed in their fatigues andubiquitouspakols.Theypeeked at passersby frombehind stacked sandbags atintersections.
Not that Laila went outmuch anymore. And, whenshe did, she was alwaysaccompanied by Tariq, whoseemedtorelishthischivalricduty.
"I bought a gun," he said
one day. They were sittingoutside, on the groundbeneath the pear tree inLaila's yard. He showed her.He said it was asemiautomatic, a Beretta. ToLaila, itmerely looked blackanddeadly.
"I don't like it," she said."Gunsscareme."
Tariq turned the magazineoverinhishand
"Theyfoundthreebodiesina house in Karteh-Seh lastweek," he said. "Did youhear?Sisters.All three rapedTheir throats slashed.Someonehadbitten theringsoff their fingers. You couldtell,theyhadteethmarks-"
"Idon'twanttohearthis."
"Idon'tmeantoupsetyou,"Tariq said "But I just…Ifeelbettercarryingthis."
He was her lifeline to thestreets now. He heard theword ofmouth and passed iton to her. Tariqwas the onewho told her, for instance,that militiamen stationed inthemountainssharpenedtheirmarksmanship-and settledwagers over saidmarksmanship-by shootingcivilians down below, men,women, children, chosen atrandom.Hetoldherthattheyfired rockets at cars but, for
somereason, left taxisalone-which explained to Laila therecentrashofpeoplesprayingtheircarsyellow.
Tariq explained to her thetreacherous, shiftingboundaries within Kabul.Laila learned from him, forinstance, that this road,up tothe secondacacia treeon theleft,belongedtoonewarlord;that the next four blocks,ending with the bakery shop
next to the demolishedpharmacy, was anotherwarlord's sector; and that ifshe crossed that street andwalked half amilewest, shewould find herself in theterritory of yet anotherwarlord and, therefore, fairgameforsniperfire.Andthiswas what Mammy's heroeswere called now. Warlords.Laila heard themcallediofangdar too.Riflemen. Others still called
them Mujahideen, but, whenthey did, theymade a face-asneering, distasteful face-theword reeking of deepaversionanddeepscorn.Likeaninsult.
Tariqsnappedthemagazineback into his handgun."Doyouhaveitinyou?"Lailasaid."Towhat?"
"To use this thing. To killwithit."
Tariqtuckedthegunintothewaist ofhisdenims.Thenhesaid a thing both lovely andterrible. "For you," he said."I'd kill with it for you,Laila."
He slid closer to her andtheir hands brushed, once,then again. When Tariq'sfingers tentatively began toslip intohers,Laila let them.Andwhensuddenlyheleanedover and pressed his lips to
hers,shelethimagain.
At that moment, all ofMammy's talk of reputationsand mynah birds soundedimmaterial to Laila. Absurd,even. In themidst of all thiskilling and looting, all thisugliness, it was a harmlessthingtositherebeneathatreeandkissTariq.Asmallthing.An easily forgivableindulgence. So she let himkiss her, andwhen he pulled
back she leaned in andkissedhim, heart pounding inherthroat,herfacetingling,afire burning in the pit of herbelly.
***
In June of that yeah, 1992,there was heavy fighting inWest Kabul between thePashtunforcesofthewarlordSayyafandtheHazarasoftheWahdat faction. The shelling
knocked down power lines,pulverized entire blocks ofshopsandhomes.Lailaheardthat Pashtunmilitiamenwereattacking Hazara households,breaking in and shootingentire families, executionstyle, and that Hazaras wereretaliating by abductingPashtun civilians, rapingPashtun girls, shellingPashtun neighborhoods, andkilling indiscriminately.Everyday,bodieswerefound
tied to trees, sometimesburned beyond recognition.Often,they'dbeenshotinthehead, had had their eyesgougedout, their tonguescutout.
BabitriedagaintoconvinceMammytoleaveKabul.
"They'll work it out,"Mammy said. "This fightingistemporary.They'llsitdownandfiguresomethingout."
"Fariba, all thesepeopleknow is war," saidBabi. "They learned to walkwithamilkbottleinonehandandagunintheother."
"Whozrtyou to say?"Mammy shot back. "Didyoufightjihad?Didyouabandoneverything you had and riskyour life? If not for theMujahideen,we'd still be theSoviets' servants, remember.And now you'd have us
betraythem!"
"We aren't the ones doingthebetraying,Fariba."
"You go, then. Take yourdaughterand runaway.Sendme a postcard. But peace iscoming, and I, for one, amgoingtowaitforit."
The streets became sounsafe that Babi did anunthinkable thing: He had
Lailadropoutofschool.
He took over the teachingduties himself. Laila wentintohisstudyeverydayaftersundown, and, as Hekmatyarlaunched his rockets atMassoud from the southernoutskirtsofthecity,Babiandshe discussedtheghazals ofHafez and the works of thebeloved Afghan poet UstadKhalilullah Khalili. Babitaught her to derive the
quadratic equation, showedherhowtofactorpolynomialsand plot parametric curves.When he was teaching, Babiwas transformed. In hiselement, amid his books, helooked taller to Laila. Hisvoice seemed to rise from acalmer, deeper place, and hedidn't blink nearly as much.Lailapicturedhimashemusthave been once, erasing hisblackboard with gracefulswipes, looking over a
student's shoulder, fatherlyandattentive.
But it wasn't easy to payattention. Laila kept gettingdistracted.
"What is the area of apyramid?" Babi would ask,and all Laila could think ofwas the fullness of Tariq'slips,theheatofhisbreathonhermouth,herownreflectioninhishazeleyes.She'dkissed
himtwicemoresincethetimebeneaththetree,longer,morepassionately, and, shethought, less clumsily. Bothtimes, she'dmet him secretlyin the dim alley where he'dsmokedacigarettethedayofMammy's lunch party. Thesecond time, she'd let himtouchherbreast.
"Laila?"
"Yes,Babi."
"Pyramid.Area.Where areyou?"
"Sorry, Babi. I was, uh…Let's see. Pyramid. Pyramid.One-thirdtheareaofthebasetimestheheight."
Babinoddeduncertainly,hisgaze lingering on her, andLaila thought of Tariq'shands, squeezing her breast,slidingdownthesmallofherback, as the two of them
kissedandkissed.
***
OnedaYthatsamemonthofJune,Gitiwaswalkinghomefrom school with twoclassmates.Onlythreeblocksfrom Giti's house, a strayrocket struck the girls. Laterthatterribleday,Lailalearnedthat Nila, Giti's mother, hadrun up and down the streetwhere Giti was killed,
collecting pieces of herdaughter's flesh in an apron,screechinghysterically.Giti'sdecomposing right foot, stillin its nylon sock and purplesneaker,wouldbefoundonarooftoptwoweekslater.
AtGiti'sfaiiha, the day afterthekillings,Lailasatstunnedin a roomful of weepingwomen. This was the firsttime that someone whomLaila had known, been close
to, loved, had died. Shecouldn't get around theunfathomablerealitythatGitiwasn't alive anymore. Giti,with whom Laila hadexchanged secret notes inclass, whose fingernails shehadpolished,whosechinhairshe had plucked withtweezers. Giti, who wasgoing to marry Sabir thegoalkeeper. Giti wasdead.Dead. Blown to pieces.At last, Laila began to weep
for her friend. And all thetearsthatshehadn'tbeenableto shed at her brothers'funeralcamepouringdown.
25.
JLailacouldhardlymove,asthough cement had solidifiedin every one of her joints.There was a conversationgoingon,andLailaknewthatshewas at one endof it, butshe felt removed from it, asthough she were merely
eavesdropping. As Tariqtalked,Lailapicturedher lifeas a rotted rope, snapping,unraveling, the fibersdetaching,fallingaway.
It was a hot, muggyafternoon that August of1992, and they were in theliving room of Laila's house.Mammy had had astomachache all day, and,minutes before, despite therockets that Hekmatyar was
launching from the south,Babi had taken her to see adoctor. And here was Tariqnow, seated beside Laila onthe couch, looking at theground, hands between hisknees.
Sayingthathewasleaving.
Not the neighborhood. NotKabul. But Afghanistanaltogether.
Leaving.
Lailawasstruckblind.
"Where? Where will yougo?"
"Pakistan first. Peshawar.Then I don't know. MaybeHindustan.Iran."
"Howlong?"
"Idon'tknow."
"Imean,howlonghaveyouknown?"
"Afewdays.Iwasgoingtotellyou,Laila, I swear,but Icouldn't bring myself to. Iknewhowupsetyou'dbe."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Laila,lookatme."
"Tomorrow."
"It'smyfather.Hisheartcan'ttake it anymore, all thisfightingandkilling."
Lailaburiedher face inherhands, a bubble of dreadfillingherchest.
She should have seen thiscoming, she thought. Almost
everyone she knew hadpacked their things and left.The neighborhood had beenall but drained of familiarfaces, and now, only fourmonths after fighting hadbroken out between theMujahideen factions, Lailahardly recognized anybodyon the streets anymore.Hasina's family had fled inMay, off to Tehran. Wajmaand her clan had gone toIslamabad that same month.
Giti'sparentsandhersiblingsleft inJune,shortlyafterGitiwaskilled.Laila didn't knowwhere they had gone-sheheard a rumor that they hadheaded for Mashad, in Iran.Afterpeopleleft,theirhomessat unoccupied for a fewdays, then either militiamentookthemorstrangersmovedin.
Everyonewas leaving.AndnowTariqtoo.
"And my mother is not ayoung woman anymore," hewassaying."They'resoafraidall the time. Laila, look atme."
"Youshouldhavetoldme."
"Pleaselookatme."
AgroancameoutofLaila.Then a wail. And then shewas crying, and when hewent to wipe her cheekwith
the pad of his thumb sheswipedhishandaway.Itwasselfish and irrational, but shewas furious with him forabandoning her, Tariq, whowas like an extension of her,whose shadow sprung besidehers in every memory. Howcould he leave her? Sheslapped him. Then sheslappedhimagainandpulledathishair,andhehadtotakeherbythewrists,andhewassayingsomethingshecouldn't
make out, he was saying itsoftly, reasonably, and,somehow, they ended upbrow to brow, nose to nose,andshecouldfeeltheheatofhisbreathonherlipsagain.
And when, suddenly, heleanedin,shedidtoo.
***
In the coming days andweeks,Lailawould scramble
frantically tocommit it all tomemory, what happenednext-Likeanartloverrunningoutofaburningmuseum,shewould grab whatever shecould-a look, a whisper, amoan-to salvage fromperishing, to preserve. Buttime is the most unforgivingof fires, and she couldn't, inthe end, save it all Still, shehad these: that first,tremendous pang of paindown below. The slant of
sunlight on the rug.Her heelgrazing the cold hardness ofhis leg, lying beside them,hastilyunstrapped.Herhandscupping his elbows. Theupside-down, mandolin-shapedbirthmarkbeneathhiscollarbone, glowing red. Hisface hovering over hers. Hisblack curls dangling, ticklingher lips, her chin. The terrorthat they would bediscovered. The disbelief attheir own boldness, their
courage. The strange andindescribable pleasure,interlacedwith thepain.Andthe look, themyriad oflooks,on Tariq: of apprehension,tenderness, apology,embarrassment, but mostly,mostly,ofhunger.
***
There was frenzy after.Shirts hurriedly buttoned,belts buckled, hair finger-
combed.They sat, then, theysat beside each other,smelling of each other, facesflushed pink, both of themstunned, both of themspeechless before theenormity of what had justhappened. What they haddone.
Laila saw three drops ofblood on the rug,her blood,and pictured her parentssitting on this couch later,
oblivious to the sin that shehadcommitted.Andnow theshame set in, and the guilt,and,upstairs,theclocktickedon,impossiblyloudtoLaila'sears. Like a judge's gavelpounding again and again,condemningher.
Then Tariq said, "Comewithme."
Foramoment,Lailaalmostbelievedthatitcouldbedone.
She, Tariq, and his parents,setting out together-Packingtheirbags, climbingaboardabus, leaving behind all thisviolence, going to findblessings, or trouble, andwhichever came they wouldface it together. The bleakisolation awaiting her, themurderousloneliness,itdidn'thavetobe.
Shecouldgo.Theycouldbetogether.
They would have moreafternoonslikethis.
"Iwanttomarryyou,Laila."
Forthefirsttimesincetheywere on the floor, she raisedher eyes to meet his. Shesearched his face. Therewasno playfulness this time. Hislook was one of conviction,of guileless yet ironcladearnestness.
"Tariq-"
"Let me marry you, Laila.Today.Wecouldgetmarriedtoday."
Hebegantosaymore,aboutgoing to amosque, finding amullah,apairofwitnesses,aquicknikka.…
But Laila was thinking ofMammy, as obstinate anduncompromising as the
Mujahideen, the air aroundher choked with rancor anddespair,andshewasthinkingof Babi, who had longsurrendered, who made sucha sad, pathetic opponent toMammy.
Sometimes…I feel likeyou'reallIhave,Laila.
These were thecircumstancesof her life, theinescapabletruthsofit.
"I'll ask Kaka Hakim foryour hand He'll give us hisblessing,Laila,Iknowit."
He was right. Babi would.Butitwouldshatterhim.
Tariqwasstillspeaking,hisvoice hushed, then high,beseeching, then reasoning;his face hopeful, thenstricken.
"Ican't,"Lailasaid.
"Don'tsaythat.Iloveyou."
"I'msorry-"
"Iloveyou."
Howlonghadshewaitedtohear those words from him?How many times had shedreamedthemuttered?There
they were, spoken at last,andtheironycrushedher.
"It'smyfatherIcan'tleave,"Lailasaid"I'mallhehasleft.His heart couldn't take iteither."
Tariq knew this. He knewshe could notwipe away theobligations of her life anymorethanhecouldhis,butitwent on, his pleadings andher rebuttals, his proposalsand her apologies, his tearsandhers.
In the end, Laila had tomakehimleave.
At the door, shemade himpromise to go without good-byes. She closed the door onhim. Laila leaned her backagainst it,shakingagainsthispounding fists, one armgrippingherbellyandahandacrosshermouth,ashespokethrough the door andpromisedthathewouldcomeback, that he would come
back forher.She stood thereuntil he tired, until he gaveup, and then she listened tohis uneven footsteps untiltheyfaded,untilallwasquiet,save for the gunfire crackinginthehillsandherownheartthudding in her belly, hereyes,herbones.
26.
It was, by far, the hottestday of the year. Themountains trapped the bone-scorchingheat,stifledthecitylike smoke. Power had beenout fordays.AlloverKabul,electric fans sat idle, almostmockinglyso.
Lailawas lying still on theliving-room couch, sweatingthrough her blouse. Everyexhaledbreathburned the tipofhernose.Shewasawareofher parents talking inMammy's room. Two nightsago,andagain lastnight,shehad awakened and thoughtshe heard their voicesdownstairs. They weretalking every day now, eversincethebullet,eversincethenewholeinthegate.
Outside, the far-offboomofartillery, then, more closely,the stammering of a longstringofgunfire,followedbyanother.
InsideLailatooabattlewasbeing waged: guilt on oneside, partnered with shame,and, on the other, theconviction that what she andTariq had done was notsinful; that it had beennatural, good,beautiful, even
inevitable, spurred by theknowledge that they mightneverseeeachotheragain.
Laila rolled to her side onthe couch now and tried toremember something:At onepoint,whentheywereonthefloor, Tariq had lowered hisforehead on hers. Then hehad panted something,eitherAm I hurting you? orIsthishurtingyou?
Lailacouldn'tdecidewhichhehadsaid.
AmIhurtingyou?
Isthishurtingyou?
Only two weeks since hehad left, and it was alreadyhappening- Time, bluntingthe edges of those sharpmemories. Laila bore downmentally.What had he said?Itseemedvital,suddenly,that
sheknow.
Laila closed hereyes.Concentrated.
With the passing of time,shewould slowly tire of thisexercise. She would find itincreasingly exhausting toconjure up, to dust off, toresuscitate once again whatwas long dead. There wouldcome a day, in fact, yearslater, when Laila would no
longerbewailhisloss.Ornotas relentlessly; not nearly.There would come a daywhen the details of his facewould begin to slip frommemory's grip, whenoverhearing a mother on thestreet call after her child byTariq'snamewouldnolongercut her adrift. Shewould notmiss him as she did now,whentheacheofhisabsencewas her unremittingcompanion-like the phantom
painofanamputee.
Excepteveryonceinalongwhile, when Laila was agrownwoman,ironingashirtor pushing her children on aswing set, something trivial,maybethewarmthofacarpetbeneathherfeetonahotdayor the curve of a stranger'sforehead, would set off amemory of that afternoontogether. And it would allcome rushing back. The
spontaneity of it. Theirastonishing imprudence.Theirclumsiness.Thepainoftheact, thepleasureof it, thesadnessofit.Theheatoftheirentangledbodies.
Itwouldfloodher,stealherbreath.
Butthenitwouldpass.Themoment would pass. Leaveher deflated, feeling nothingbutavaguerestlessness.
She decided that he hadsaidAmi hurting you? Yes.That wasit. Laila was happythatshe'dremembered
Then Babi was in thehallway, calling her namefrom the top of the stairs,asking her to come upquickly.
"She's agreed!"he said, hisvoice tremulous withsuppressed excitement-
"We're leaving, Laila. Allthree of us. We'releavingKabul."
***
InMammy'sroom,thethreeof them sat on thebed.Outside, rockets werezipping acrossthe sky asHekmatyar's andMassoud'sforces fought andfought. Laila knew thatsomewhere in the city
someone had justdied, andthat a pall of black smokewas hovering over somebuildingthathadcollapsedinapuffingmassofdust.Therewould be bodies to steparound in themorning.Somewould be collected. Othersnot. ThenKabul's dogs,whohad developed a taste forhumanmeat,wouldfeast.
All the same, Laila had anurge to run through those
streets.She could barelycontainherownhappiness.Ittookefforttosit,tonotshriekwithjoy.Babisaidtheywouldgo to Pakistan first, to applyforvisas. Pakistan, whereTariq was! Tariq was onlygone seventeen days, Lailacalculated excitedly. If onlyMammy had made up hermindseventeen days earlier,theycouldhave left together.She would have been withTariq right now! But that
didn'tmatter now. They weregoingto Peshawar-she,Mammy, and Babi-andtheywouldfindTariqandhisparents there. Surely theywould. They would processtheir paperwork together.Then, who knew? Whoknew?Europe?
America? Maybe, as Babiwas always saying,somewherenearthesea…
Mammywashalflying,halfsittingagainst theheadboard.Hereyeswerepuffy.Shewaspickingatherhair.
Threedaysbefore,Lailahadgone outside for a breath ofair. She'd stood by the frontgates, leaning against them,whenshe'dheardaloudcrackandsomethinghadzippedbyher right ear, sending tinysplinters of wood flyingbefore her eyes. After Giti's
death, and the thousands ofrounds fired and myriadrockets that had fallen onKabul,itwasthesightofthatsingleroundholeinthegate,less than three fingers awayfrom where Laila's head hadbeen, that shook Mammyawake.Madeherseethatonewarhadcosthertwochildrenalready; this latest couldcostherherremainingone.
Fromthewallsoftheroom,
Ahmad and Noor smileddown. Laila watchedMammy's eyes bouncingnow,guiltily,fromonephotototheother.Asiflookingfortheir consent. Their blessing.Asifaskingforforgiveness.
"There's nothing left for ushere," Babi said. "Our sonsare gone, but we still haveLaila. We still have eachother,Fariba.Wecanmakeanewlife."
Babireachedacrossthebed.When he leaned to take herhands, Mammy let him. Onher face, a look ofconcession. Of resignation.Theyheldeachother'shands,lightly, and then they wereswaying quietly in anembrace.Mammy buried herfaceinhisneck.Shegrabbedahandfulofhisshirt.
For hours that night, theexcitement robbed Laila of
sleep. She lay in bed andwatched the horizon light upin garish shades of orangeand yellow. At some point,though, despite theexhilaration inside and thecrackof
artilleryfireoutside,shefellasleep.
Anddreamed
They are on a ribbon of
beach, sittingon aquilt. It's achilly, overcast day,but it'swarmnexttoTariqundertheblanket draped over theirshoulders. She can see carsparkedbehindalowfenceofchippedwhitepaintbeneatharowofwindsweptpalmtrees.The wind makes her eyeswater and buries their shoesin sand, hurls knots of deadgrass from the curvedridgesofonedune toanother.They're watching sailboats
bob in the distance. Aroundthem, seagulls squawk andshiver in thewind.Thewindwhips up another spray ofsand off the shallow,windwardslopes. There is anoise then likea chant, andshe tellshimsomethingBabihad taught her years beforeaboutsingingsand.
He rubs at her eyebrow,wipesgrains of sand from it.She catches a flicker of the
band on his finger. It'sidenticalto hers -gold with asortofmazepatternetchedallthewayaround.
It's true,she tellshim.It's thefriction, of grain againstgrain. Listen. Hedoes. Hefrowns.Theywait.Theyhearit again. A groaning sound,whenthewindissoft,whenitblowshard,amewling,high-pitchedchorus.
* * *Babi said theyshouldtakeonlywhatwasabsolutelynecessary. They would selltherest.
"That should hold us inPeshawaruntilIfindwork."
For thenext twodays, theygathered items to be sold.Theyputtheminbigpiles.
Inherroom,Lailasetasideoldblouses,oldshoes,books,
toys.Lookingunder her bed,shefoundatinyyellowglasscowHasinahadpassedtoherduringrecessinfifthgrade.Aminiature-soccer-ball keychain,agiftfromGiti.Alittlewooden zebra on wheels. Aceramic astronaut she andTariqhadfoundonedayinagutter.She'dbeen six andheeight. They'd had a minorrow, Laila remembered, overwhichoneofthemhadfoundit.
Mammy too gathered herthings. There was areluctance inhermovements,and her eyes had a lethargic,farawaylookinthem.Shedidaway with her good plates,her napkins, all her jewelry-save for her wedding band-andmostofheroldclothes.
"You'renot selling this, areyou?" Laila said, liftingMammy's wedding dress. Itcascaded open onto her lap.
She touched the lace andribbonalongtheneckline,thehand-sewnseedpearlsonthesleeves.
Mammyshruggedand tookit from her. She tossed itbrusquelyonapileofclothes.Like ripping off a Band-Aidinonestroke,Lailathought.
It was Babi who had themostpainfultask.
Lailafoundhimstandinginhisstudy,a ruefulexpressiononhisfaceashesurveyedhisshelves. He was wearing asecondhand T-shirt with apictureofSanFrancisco'sredbridge on it. Thick fog rosefrom the whitecapped watersand engulfed the bridge'stowers.
"Youknow theoldbit,"hesaid. "You're on a desertedisland. You can have five
books.Whichdoyouchoose?I never thought I'd actuallyhaveto."
"We'll have to start you anewcollection,Babi."
"Mm."He smiled sadly. "Ican't believe I'm leavingKabul. Iwent toschoolhere,gotmyfirstjobhere,becamea father in this town. It'sstrange to think that I'll besleeping beneath another
city'sskiessoon."
"It'sstrangeformetoo."
"All day, this poem aboutKabul has been bouncingaround in my head. Saib-e-Tabrizi wrote it back in theseventeenthcentury,Ithink.Iused to know the wholepoem,butallIcanremembernowistwolines:
"One could not count the
moons that shimmer on herroofs, Or the thousandsplendid suns that hidebehindher-walls."
Lailalookedup,sawhewasweeping. She put an armaround his waist. "Oh, Babi.We'll come back. When thiswarisover.We'llcomebackto Kabul,inshallah. You'llsee."
***
Onthethirdmorning,Lailabegan moving the piles ofthings to the yard anddepositing them by the frontdoor.Theywouldfetchataxithen and take it all to apawnshop.
Lailakeptshufflingbetweenthe house and the yard, backand forth, carrying stacks ofclothes and dishes and boxafterboxofBabi'sbooks.Sheshould have been exhausted
bynoon,when themoundofbelongings by the front doorhad grown waist high. But,with each trip, sheknew thatshe was that much closer toseeingTariqagain, and,witheach trip, her legs becamemore sprightly, her armsmoretireless.
"We're going to need a bigtaxi."
Laila looked up. It was
Mammy calling down fromher bedroom upstairs. Shewas leaning out thewindow,restingherelbowsonthesill.The sun, bright and warm,caught in her graying hair,shoneonherdrawn,thinface.Mammy was wearing thesame cobalt blue dress shehadwornthedayofthelunchparty four months earlier, ayouthful dress meant for ayoung woman, but, for amoment, Mammy looked to
Laila like an oldwoman.Anoldwomanwithstringyarmsandsunkentemplesandsloweyes rimmed by darkenedcircles of weariness, analtogether different creaturefrom the plump, round-facedwoman beaming radiantlyfrom those grainy weddingphotos.
"Twobigtaxis,"Lailasaid.
She could see Babi too, in
the living room stackingboxes of books atop eachother.
"Comeupwhenyou'redonewith those," Mammy said."We'll sit down for lunch.Boiled eggs and leftoverbeans."
"Myfavorite,"Lailasaid.
Shethoughtsuddenlyofherdream. She and Tariq on a
quilt. The ocean. The wind.Thedunes.
What had it sounded like,she wondered now, thesingingsands?
Laila stopped. She saw agray lizard crawl out of acrack in the ground. Its headshot side to side. It blinked.Dartedunderarock.
Laila pictured the beach
again.Exceptnowthesingingwasallaround.Andgrowing.Louder and louder by themoment,higherandhigher.Itflooded her ears. Drownedeverythingelseout.Thegullswere feathered mimes now,opening and closing theirbeaks noiselessly, and thewaves were crashing withfoam and spray but no roar.The sands sang on.Screaming now. A soundlike…atinkling?
Not a tinkling. No. Awhistling.
Laila dropped the books atherfeet.Shelookeduptothesky. Shielded her eyes withonehand.
Thenagiantroar.
Behindher,aflashofwhite.
Thegroundlurchedbeneathherfeet.
Somethinghotandpowerfulslammed into her frombehind.Itknockedheroutofher sandals. Lifted her up.And now she was flying,twisting and rotating in theair, seeing sky, then earth,then sky, then earth. A bigburning chunk of woodwhipped by. So did athousandshardsofglass,andit seemed to Laila that shecouldseeeachindividualoneflyingallaroundher,flipping
slowly end over end, thesunlight catching in each.Tiny,beautifulrainbows.
ThenLaila struck thewall.Crashed to the ground. Onher face and arms, a showerofdirtandpebblesandglass.The last thingshewasawareofwasseeingsomethingthudto the ground nearby. Abloody chunk of something.On it, the tip of a red bridgepokingthroughthickfog.
***
Shapes moving about. Afluorescent light shines fromtheceilingabove.Awoman'sface appears, hovers overhers.
Lailafadesbacktothedark.
***
Another face. This time aman's. His features seem
broad and droopy. His lipsmovebutmakenosound.AllLailahearsisringing.
Themanwaveshishandather. Frowns. His lips moveagain.
Ithurts.Ithurtstobreathe.Ithurtseverywhere.
A glass of water. A pinkpill.
Backtothedarkness.
***
The woman again. Longface, narrow-set eyes. Shesays something. Laila can'thearanythingbuttheringing.But she can see the words,like thick black syrup,spilling out of the woman'smouth.
Her chest hurts. Her arms
andlegshurt.
Allaround,shapesmoving.
WhereisTariq?
Whyisn'thehere?
Darkness.Aflockofstars.
Babi and she, perchedsomewhere high up. He ispointing to a field of barley.Ageneratorcomestolife.
The long-faced woman isstanding over her lookingdown.
Ithurtstobreathe.
Somewhere, an accordionplaying.
Mercifully, the pink pillagain. Then a deep hush. Adeephush falls overeverything.
PARTTHREE
27.
Madam
DoyouknowwhoIam?"
Thegirl'seyesfluttered
"Do you know what hashappened?"
The girl's mouth quivered.She closed her eyes.Swallowed. Her hand grazedher left cheek. She mouthedsomething.
Mariamleanedincloser.
"Thisear,"thegirlbreathed."Ican'thear."
***
For the first "week, thegirl
did little but sleep,with helpfrom the pink pills Rasheedpaid for at the hospital. Shemurmured in her sleep.Sometimes she spokegibberish, cried out, calledout names Mariam did notrecognize. She wept in hersleep, grew agitated, kickedthe blankets off, and thenMariam had to hold herdown.Sometimessheretchedand retched, threw upeverythingMariamfedher.
When she wasn't agitated,the girl was a sullen pair ofeyes staring from under theblanket, breathing out shortlittle answers toMariam andRasheed's questions. Somedays she was childlike,whipped her head side toside, when Mariam, thenRasheed, tried to feed her.Shewent rigidwhenMariamcameatherwithaspoon.Butshetiredeasilyandsubmittedeventually to their persistent
badgering. Long bouts ofweepingfollowedsurrender.
Rasheed had Mariam rubantibiotic ointment on thecuts on the girl's face andneck, and on the suturedgashes on her shoulder,acrossherforearmsandlowerlegs. Mariam dressed themwith bandages, which shewashed and recycled. Sheheld the girl's hair back, outof her face,when she had to
retch.
"How long is she staying?"sheaskedRasheed.
"Until she's better. Look ather. She's in no shape to go.Poorthing."
***
It was Rasheedwho foundthegirl,whodugheroutfrombeneaththerubble.
"LuckyIwashome,"hesaidtothegirl.HewassittingonafoldingchairbesideMariam'sbed, where the girl lay."Luckyforyou,Imean.Idugyou outwithmy own hands.There was a scrap of metalthisbig-"Here,hespreadhisthumband index fingeraparttoshowher,atleastdoubling,in Mariam's estimation, theactual size of it. "This big.Sticking right out of yourshoulder. It was really
embedded in there. I thoughtI'dhavetouseapairofpliers.
But you're all right. In notime, you'll benau socha.Goodasnew."
It was Rasheed whosalvaged a handful ofHakim'sbooks.
"Most of them were ash.The rest were looted, I'mafraid."
He helped Mariam watchover the girl that first week.Oneday,hecamehomefromworkwithanewblanketandpillow.Another day, a bottleofpills.
"Vitamins,"hesaid.
It was Rasheed who gaveLailathenewsthatherfriendTariq's house was occupiednow.
"Agift,"hesaid."Fromoneof Sayyaf s commanders tothreeofhismen.Agift.Ha!"
Thethreemenwereactuallyboys with suntanned,youthful faces. Mariamwould see them when shepassed by, always dressed intheir fatigues, squatting bythe front door of Tariq'shouse, playing cards andsmoking, their Kalashnikovsleaning against thewall. The
brawnyone, theonewiththeself-satisfied, scornfuldemeanor, was the leader.The youngest was also thequietest, theonewhoseemedreluctant to wholeheartedlyembrace his friends' air ofimpunity. He had taken tosmiling and tipping hisheadsalaam when Mariampassed by. When he did,someofhissurfacesmugnessdropped away, and Mariamcaught a glint of humility as
yetuncorrupted.
Then one morning rocketsslammedintothehouse.Theywere rumored later to havebeen fired by the Hazaras ofWahdat. For some time,neighbors kept finding bitsandpiecesoftheboys.
"They had it coming," saidRasheed.
***
Thegirlwasextraordinarilylucky, Mariam thought, toescape with relatively minorinjuries, considering therocket had turned her houseinto smoking rubble. Andso,slowly, the girl got better.Shebegantoeatmore,beganto brush her own hair. Shetook baths on her own. Shebegan taking her mealsdownstairs,withMariamandRasheed.
But then some memorywould rise, unbidden, andtherewouldbestonysilencesor spells of churlishness.Withdrawals and collapses.Wan looks. Nightmares andsudden attacks of grief.Retching.
Andsometimesregrets.
"I shouldn't even behere,"shesaidoneday.
Mariam was changing thesheets.The girlwatchedfromthefloor, herbruised kneesdrawnupagainstherchest.
"My father wanted to takeouttheboxes.Thebooks.Hesaid they were too heavyforme.But Iwouldn't let him. Iwas so eager. I should havebeentheoneinsidethehousewhenithappened."
Mariam snapped the clean
sheet and let it settle on thebedShe lookedat thegirl,ather blond curls, her slenderneckandgreeneyes,herhighcheekbones and plump lips.Mariam remembered seeingher on the streets when shewas little, tottering after hermother on the way to thetandoor, riding on theshoulders of her brother, theyounger one, with the patchof hair on his ear. Shootingmarbles with the carpenter's
boy.
ThegirlwaslookingbackasifwaitingforMariamtopasson some morsel of wisdom,to say somethingencouraging- But whatwisdom did Mariam have tooffer? What encouragement?Mariam remembered the daythey'd buried Nana and howlittle comfort she had foundwhen Mullah Faizullah hadquoted the Koran for
her.Blessed is He in Whosehand is thekingdom, andHeWho has power over allthings, Who created deathandlife thatHemaytryyou.Orwhenhe'dsaidofherownguilt,These thoughts are nogood, Mariam jo. They willdestroy you. It wasn't yourfaultItwasn'tyourfault.
What could she say to thisgirl that would ease herburden?
As it turned out, Mariamdidn't have to say anything.Because the girl's facetwisted, and she was on allfours then saying she wasgoingtobesick.
"Wait! Hold on. I'll get apan. Not on the floor. I justcleaned…Oh. Oh.Khodaya.God."
***
Then one day, about amonth after the blast thatkilledthegirl'sparents,amancame knocking. Mariamopened the door. He statedhisbusiness.
"There isamanhere toseeyou,"Mariamsaid.
The girl raised her headfromthepillow.
"HesayshisnameisAbdul
Sharif."
"I don't know any AbdulSharif."
"Well, he's here asking foryou.Youneedtocomedownandtalktohim."
28.
Laila
JLailasatacrossfromAbdulSharif,whowasathin,small-headed man with a bulbousnose pocked with the samecratered scars that pitted hischeeks. His hair, short and
brown,stoodonhisscalplikeneedlesinapincushion.
"You'll have to forgiveme,hamshira," he said,adjustinghis loosecollaranddabbing at his brow with ahandkerchief "I still haven'tquite recovered, I fear. Fivemore days of these,what aretheycalled…sulfapills."
Laila positioned herself inher seat so thather right ear,
the good one, was closest tohim. "Were you a friend ofmyparents?"
"No,no,"AbdulSharifsaidquickly. "Forgive me." Heraised a finger, took a longsip of thewater thatMariamhadplacedinfrontofhim.
"I should begin at thebeginning, I suppose." Hedabbedathislips,againathisbrow."Iamabusinessman.I
own clothing stores, mostlymen's clothing.Chapans,hats,iumban%, suits, ties-youname it. Two stores here inKabul, in Taimani and Shar-e-Nau, though I just soldthose.AndtwoinPakistan,inPeshawar. That's where mywarehouse is as well. So Itravel a lot, back and forth.Which, these days"-he shookhisheadandchuckledtiredly-"let's just say that it's anadventure.
"IwasinPeshawarrecently,on business, taking orders,going over inventory, thatsortofthing.Alsotovisitmyfamily. We have threedaughters,alhamdulellah. Imoved them andmy wife toPeshawar after theMujahideen began going ateach other's throats. I won'thave their names added totheshaheedlist. Nor mine, tobehonest.I'llbejoiningthemthereverysoon,inshallah.
"Anyway,Iwassupposedtobe back in Kabul theWednesday before last. But,asluckwouldhaveit,Icamedownwithan illness. Iwon'tbother you with it,hamshira,suffice it to say that when Iwent to do my privatebusiness, the simpler of thetwo, it felt like passingchunks of broken glass. Iwouldn't wish it onHekmatyarhimself.Mywife,Nadia jan, Allah bless her,
she begged me to see adoctor.But I thought I'dbeatit with aspirin and a lot ofwater.Nadia jan insisted andI said no, back and forth wewent. You know thesaying^stubborn ass needs astubborn driver. This time,I'm afraid, the asswon. Thatwouldbeme."
He drank the rest of thiswater and extended the glassto Mariam. "If it's not too
muchzahmat."
Mariam took the glass andwenttofillit.
"Needless to say, I shouldhave listened to her. She'salways been the moresensible one,God give her alonglife.BythetimeImadeit to the hospital, I wasburning with a fever andshaking likeabeid tree in thewind. I could barely stand.
The doctor said I had bloodpoisoning. She said two orthreemore days and Iwouldhavemademywifeawidow.
"They put me in a specialunit, reserved for really sickpeople, I suppose.Oh,iashakor." He took theglass fromMariam and fromhis coat pocket produced alarge white pill. "Thesize ofthesethings."
Lailawatchedhimswallowhis pill She was aware thather breathing had quickenedHerlegsfeltheavy,asthoughweights had been tethered tothem.Shetoldherselfthathewasn't done, that he hadn'ttold her anything as yet. Buthewould go on in a second,andsheresistedanurgetogetupandleave,leavebeforehetoldherthingsshedidn'twanttohear.
AbdulSharifsethisglassonthetable.
"That's where I met yourfriend, Mohammad TariqWalizai."
Laila'sheart spedup.Tariqinahospital?Aspecialunit?Forreallysickpeople?
She swallowed dry spit.Shiftedonherchair.Shehadto steel herself. If she didn't,
she feared she would comeunhinged. She diverted herthoughts from hospitals andspecial units and thoughtinsteadaboutthefactthatshehadn't heard Tariq called byhisfullnamesincethetwoofthem had enrolled in a Farsiwintercourseyearsback.Theteacher would call roll afterthebellandsayhisnamelikethat-Mohammad TariqWalizai. It had struck her ascomically officious then,
hearinghisfullnameuttered.
"What happened to him Iheard from one of thenurses," Abdul Sharifresumed, tapping his chestwith a fist as if to ease thepassage of the pill. "With allthe time I've spent inPeshawar, I'vebecomeprettyproficient in Urdu. Anyway,whatIgatheredwasthatyourfriend was in a lorry full ofrefugees, twenty-three of
them, all headed forPeshawar. Near the border,theywerecaughtincrossfire.A rocket hit the lorry.Probably a stray, but younever know with thesepeople, you never know.There were only sixsurvivors, all of themadmitted to the same unit.Threediedwithintwenty-fourhours. Two of them lived-sisters,as Iunderstood it-andhadbeendischarged.
YourfriendMr.Walizaiwasthe last. He'd been there foralmost three weeks by thetimeIarrived."
So he was alive. But howbadly had they hurt him?Laila wondered frantically.Howbadly?Badlyenoughtobe put in a special unit,evidently. Laila was awarethatshehadstartedsweating,that her face felt hot. Shetried to think of something
else, somethingpleasant, likethetriptoBamiyantoseetheBuddhaswithTariqandBabi.But instead an image ofTariq's parents presenteditself: Tariq's mother trappedin the lorry, upside down,screaming for Tariq throughthesmoke,herarmsandcheston fire, the wig melting intoherscalp…
Lailahadtotakeaseriesofrapidbreaths.
"Hewas in thebednext tomine. There were no walls,onlyacurtainbetweenus.SoIcouldseehimprettywell."
AbdulShariffoundasuddenneed to toywithhisweddingband. He spokemore slowlynow.
"Yourfriend,hewasbadly-very badly-injured, youunderstand. He had rubbertubes coming out of him
everywhere. At first-" Heclearedhis throat. "At first, Ithoughthe'd lostboth legs inthe attack, but a nurse saidno,onlytheright,theleftonewas on account of an oldinjury. There were internalinjuries too. They'd operatedthreetimesalready.Tookoutsections of intestines, I don'trememberwhat else.And hewas burned. Quite badly.That's all I'll say about that.I'm sure you have your fair
shareofnightmares,hamshira.No sense in me adding tothem."
Tariq was legless now. Hewas a torso with twostumps.Legless.Lailathoughtshe might collapse. Withdeliberate, desperate effort,she sent the tendrils of hermindoutofthisroom,outthewindow,awayfromthisman,over the street outside, overthe city now, and its flat-
toppedhousesandbazaars,itsmazeofnarrowstreetsturnedtosandcastles.
"Hewasdruggedupmostofthe time. For the pain, youunderstand. But he hadmoments when the drugswere wearing off when hewasclear.Inpainbutclearofmind I would talk to himfrommybed.ItoldhimwhoIwas,where Iwas from.Hewas glad, I think, that there
wasahamwaiannexttohim.
"Ididmostofthetalking.Itwas hard for him to. Hisvoicewashoarse,andIthinkit hurt him tomove his lips.So I told him about mydaughters, and about ourhouse in Peshawar and theveranda my brother-in-lawand I are building out in theback.ItoldhimIhadsoldthestoresinKabulandthatIwasgoing back to finish up the
paperwork. It wasn't much.Butitoccupiedhim.Atleast,Iliketothinkitdid.
"Sometimes he talked too.Halfthetime,Icouldn'tmakeoutwhathewassaying,butIcaught enough.He describedwherehe'dlived.
HetalkedabouthisuncleinGhazni. And his mother'scooking and his father'scarpentry, him playing the
accordion.
"But, mostly, he talkedabout you,hamshira. He saidyou were-how did he put it-his earliest memory. I thinkthat'sright,yes.Icouldtellhecared a great deal aboutyou.Balay, that much wasplain to see. But he said hewas glad you weren't there.He said he didn't want youseeinghimlikethat."
Laila'sfeetfeltheavyagain,anchoredtothefloor,asifallher blood had suddenlypooled down there. But hermindwas far away, free andfleet,hurtling likeaspeedingmissile beyond Kabul, overcraggy brown hills and overdesertsraggedwithclumpsofsage, past canyons of jaggedred rock and oversnowcappedmountains…
"When I told him I was
going back to Kabul, heaskedmetofindyou.Totellyou that he was thinking ofyou. That he missed you. Ipromised him I would I'dtaken quite a liking to him,yousee.Hewasadecentsortofboy,Icouldtell."
Abdul Sharif wiped hisbrowwiththehandkerchief.
"I woke up one night," hewent on, his interest in the
wedding band renewed, "Ithinkitwasnightanyway,it'shard
totellinthoseplaces.Therearen't any windows. Sunrise,sundown, you just don'tknow. But I woke up, andthere was some sort ofcommotion around the bednext to mine. You have tounderstand that I was full ofdrugsmyself,alwaysslippinginandout,tothepointwhere
it was hard to tell what wasreal andwhat you'd dreamedup.AllIrememberis,doctorshuddled around the bed,calling for this and that,alarms bleeping, syringes allovertheground.
"Inthemorning,thebedwasempty. I asked a nurse. Shesaidhefoughtvaliantly."
Lailawasdimly aware thatshe was nodding. She'd
known. Of course she'dknown. She'd known themoment she had sat acrossfrom this man why he washere, what news he wasbringing.
"At first, you see, at first Ididn't think you evenexisted," hewas sayingnow."I thought it was themorphine talking. Maybe Ievenhopedyou didn't exist;I've always dreaded bearing
bad news. But I promisedhim. And, like I said, I'dbecome rather fond of him.SoIcamebyhereafewdaysago. I asked around for you,talked to some neighbors.They pointed to this house.They also told me what hadhappened to your parents.When I heard about that,well,Iturnedaroundandleft.I wasn't going to tell you. Idecideditwouldbetoomuchforyou.Foranybody."
AbdulSharifreachedacrossthe table and put a hand onher kneecap. "But I cameback. Because, in the end, Ithink he would have wantedyou to know. I believe that.I'msosorry.Iwish…"
Laila wasn't listeninganymore. She wasrememberingthedaythemanfrom Panjshir had come todeliver the news of Ahmad'sand Noor's deaths. She
remembered Babi, white-faced,slumpingonthecouch,andMammy,herhandflyingtohermouthwhensheheard.Laila had watched Mammycome undone that day and ithadscaredher,butshehadn'tfelt any true sorrow. Shehadn't understood theawfulness of her mother'sloss. Now another strangerbringing news of anotherdeath. Nowshe was the onesitting on the chair.Was this
her penalty, then, herpunishmentforbeingalooftoherownmother'ssuffering?
Laila remembered howMammy had dropped to theground, how she'd screamed,torn at her hair. But Lailacouldn't even manage that.She could hardly move. Shecouldhardlymoveamuscle.
Shesatonthechairinstead,hands limp in her lap, eyes
staringatnothing,andlethermind flyon.She let it flyonuntil it found the place, thegood and safe place, wherethe barley fields were green,wherethewaterranclearandthe cottonwood seeds dancedby the thousands in the air;where Babi was reading abook beneath an acacia andTariq was napping with hishands laced across his chest,and where she could dip herfeet in the stream and dream
good dreams beneath thewatchful gaze of gods ofancient,sun-bleachedrock.
29.
Madam
I'm so sorry,"Rasheed saidto the girl, taking his bowlofmasiawa and meatballsfromMariamwithoutlookingather."Iknowyouwereveryclose….friends. ..the two of
you. Always together, sinceyou were kids. It's a terriblething, what's happened. ToomanyyoungAfghanmenaredyingthisway."
He motioned impatientlywithhishand,stilllookingatthe girl, and Mariam passedhimanapkin.
For years, Mariam hadlooked on as he ate, themuscles of his temples
churning, one hand makingcompact little rice balls, theback of the other wipinggrease, swiping stray grains,from the corners of hismouth. For years, he hadeaten without looking up,without speaking, his silencecondemning, as though somejudgmentwere being passed,then broken only by anaccusatory grunt, adisapproving cluck of histongue,aone-wordcommand
formorebread,morewater.
Now he ate with a spoon.Used a napkin. Saidlot/anwhen asking for water. Andtalked. Spiritedly andincessantly.
"If you ask me, theAmericans armed the wrongman in Hekmatyar. All theguns theCIA handed him inthe eighties to fight theSoviets. The Soviets are
gone, but he still has theguns, and now he's turningthemon innocentpeople likeyour parents. And he callsthisjihad.Whatafarce!Whatdoes jihad have to do withkilling women and children?Better the CIA had armedCommanderMassoud."
Mariam's eyebrows shotupoftheirownwill.CommanderMassoud? In her head, shecould hear Rasheed's rants
againstMassoud,howhewasa traitor and a communist-But, then, Massoud was aTajik,ofcourse.LikeLaila.
"Now,there is a reasonablefellow.AnhonorableAfghan.Amangenuinelyinterestedinapeacefulresolution."
Rasheed shrugged andsighed.
"Not that theygiveadamn
in America, mind you.Whatdo they care that Pashtunsand Hazaras and Tajiks andUzbeks are killing eachother?HowmanyAmericanscan even tell one from theother?Don'texpecthelpfromthem, I say. Now that theSovietshavecollapsed,we'reno use to them. We servedour purpose. To them,Afghanistan is akenarab, ashit hole. Excuse mylanguage, but it's true. What
doyouthink,Lailajan?"
The girl mumbledsomething unintelligible andpushed a meatball around inherbowl.
Rasheed noddedthoughtfully, as though she'dsaid the most clever thinghe'd ever heard.Mariam hadtolookaway.
"You know, your father,
God give him peace, yourfather and I used to havediscussionslikethis.Thiswasbefore you were born, ofcourse. On and on we'd goabout politics. About bookstoo.Didn'twe,Mariam?Youremember."
Mariam busied herselftakingasipofwater.
"Anyway, I hope I am notboring you with all this talk
ofpolitics."
Later, Mariam was in thekitchen, soaking dishes insoapywater, a tightlywoundknot in her belly-Itwasn't somuchwhathesaid,theblatantlies, the contrived empathy,or even the fact that he hadnot raised a hand to her,Mariam,sincehehaddugthegirl out from under thosebricks.
It was thestaged delivery.Like a performance. Anattempt on his part, both slyand pathetic, to impress. Tocharm.
AndsuddenlyMariamknewthathersuspicionswereright.She understood with a dreadthat was like a blindingwhacktothesideofherheadthatwhat shewaswitnessingwas nothing less than acourtship.
***
Whenshedatlastworkedupthenerve,Mariamwenttohisroom.
Rasheed lit a cigarette, andsaid,"Whynot?"
Mariamknewrightthenthatshe was defeated. She'd halfexpected, half hoped, that hewoulddenyeverything, feignsurprise,maybeevenoutrage,
at what she was implying.Shemighthavehadtheupperhand then. She might havesucceeded in shaming him.But it stolehergrit,hiscalmacknowledgment, his matter-of-facttone.
"Sitdown,"hesaid.Hewaslyingonhis bed, back to thewall, his thick, long legssplayed on the mattress. "Sitdownbeforeyoufaintandcutyourheadopen."
Mariam felt herself droponto the folding chair besidehisbed.
"Hand me that ashtray,wouldyou?"hesaid.
Obediently,shedid.
Rasheed had to be sixty ormore now-though Mariam,and in fact Rasheed himselfdid not know his exact age.His hair had gonewhite, but
itwas as thick and coarse asever.Therewasasagnowtohiseyelidsandtheskinofhisneck, which was wrinkledandleathery.Hischeekshungabitmore than theyused to.In the mornings, he stoopedjustatad.Buthestillhadthestout shoulders, the thicktorso, the strong hands, theswollenbellythatenteredtheroombeforeanyotherpartofhimdid.
On the whole, Mariamthoughtthathehadweatheredthe years considerably betterthanshe.
"Weneed to legitimize thissituation," he said now,balancing the ashtray on hisbelly. His lips scrunched upin a playful pucker. "Peoplewill talk. It looksdishonorable, an unmarriedyoungwomanlivinghere.It'sbad for my reputation. And
hers. And yours, I mightadd."
"Eighteen years," Mariamsaid."AndIneveraskedyouforathing.Notonething.I'maskingnow."
Heinhaledsmokeandletitoutslowly."Shecan'tjuststayhere, if that's what you'resuggesting. I can't go onfeeding her and clothing herand giving her a place to
sleep. I'mnot theRedCross,Mariam."
"Butthis?"
"What of it? What? She'stoo young, you think? She'sfourteen.Hardly a child. Youwere fifteen, remember? Mymother was fourteen whenshe had me. Thirteen whenshemarried."
"I...Idon'twantthis,"Mariam
said,numbwithcontemptandhelplessness.
"It's not your decision. It'shersandmine."
"I'mtooold."
"She's tooyoung, you'retooold.Thisisnonsense."
"Iam too old. Too old foryoutodothistome,"Mariamsaid,ballingupfistfulsofher
dress sotightly her handsshook."Foryou,afteralltheseyears,tomakemeanambagh"
"Don't be sodramatic. It's acommon thing and youknowit. I have friendswhohave two, three, fourwives. Your own father hadthree.Besides,whatI'mdoingnowmostmenIknowwouldhave done long ago.Youknowit'strue."
"Iwon'tallowit."
At this, Rasheed smiledsadly.
"Thereisanotheroption,"hesaid, scratching the sole ofone foot with the callousedheel of the other. "She canleave. I won't stand in herway.But I suspect shewon'tget far. No food, no water,not a rupiah in her pockets,bullets and rockets flying
everywhere.Howmany daysdo you suppose she'll lastbefore she's abducted, raped,or tossed into some roadsideditchwith her throat slit?Orallthree?"
Hecoughedandadjustedthepillowbehindhisback.
"The roads out there areunforgiving,Mariam, believeme.Bloodhoundsandbanditsat every turn. Iwouldn't like
her chances, not at all. Butlet'ssaythatbysomemiracleshe gets to Peshawar. Whatthen? Do you have any ideawhatthosecampsarelike?"
Hegazedatherfrombehindacolumnofsmoke.
"People livingunder scrapsof cardboard. TB, dysentery,famine, crime. And that'sbefore winter. Then it'sfrostbite season. Pneumonia.
People turning to icicles.Those camps become frozengraveyards.
"Of course," he made aplayful, twirlingmotionwithhis hand, "she could keepwarm in one of thosePeshawar brothels. Businessis booming there, I hear. Abeautylikeheroughttobringin a small fortune, don't youthink?"
He set the ashtray on thenightstandandswunghislegsoverthesideofthebed.
"Look," hesaid, soundingmore conciliatory now, asavictor could afford to. "Iknew you wouldn't take thiswell.Idon'treallyblameyou.Butthis is for thebest. You'llsee. Think of it this way,Mariam. I'm givingyou helparound the house andher asanctuary. A home and a
husband. These days, timesbeingwhattheyare,awomanneedsahusband.Haven'tyounoticed all the widowssleeping onthe streets? Theywould kill for thischance. Infact,this is. … Well, I'd saythisisdownrightcharitableofme."
Hesmiled.
"ThewayIseeit,Ideserveamedal."
***
Later, in the dark,Mariamtoldthegirl.
Foralongtime,thegirlsaidnothing.
"Hewantsananswerbythismorning,"Mariamsaid.
"He can have it now," thegirlsaid."Myanswerisyes."
30.
Laila
Thenextday,Lailastayedinbed. She was under theblanket in themorningwhenRasheed poked his head inand saidhewasgoing to thebarber. She was still in bed
when he came home late inthe afternoon, when heshowed her his new haircut,his new used suit, blue withcream pinstripes, and thewedding band he'd boughther.
Rasheed sat on the bedbesideher,madeagreatshowofslowlyundoingtheribbon,of opening the box andplucking out the ringdelicately.Heletonthathe'd
traded in Mariam's oldweddingringforit.
"She doesn't care. Believeme.Shewon'tevennotice."
Lailapulledawaytothefarend of the bed. She couldhear Mariam downstairs, thehissingofheriron.
"Sheneverworeitanyway,"Rasheedsaid.
"Idon'twantit,"Lailasaid,weakly. "Not like this. Youhavetotakeitback."
"Take it back?" Animpatient look flashed acrosshis face and was gone. Hesmiled. "I had to add somecash too-quite a lot, in fact.This is a better ring, twenty-two-karat gold. Feel howheavy? Go on, feel it. No?"He closed the box. "Howaboutflowers?Thatwouldbe
nice. You like flowers? Doyouhaveafavorite?Daisies?
Tulips?Lilacs?Noflowers?Good! I don't see the pointmyself. I just thought…Now,I know a tailor here in Deh-Mazang. I was thinking wecould take you theretomorrow,getyoufittedforaproperdress."
Lailashookherhead.
Rasheed raised hiseyebrows.
"I'd just as soon-" Lailabegan.
Heputahandonherneck.Laila couldn't help wincingand recoiling. His touch feltlikewearingapricklyoldwetwool sweater with noundershirt.
"Yes?"
"I'd just as soon we get itdone."
Rasheed's mouth opened,then spread in a yellow,toothygrin."Eager,"hesaid.
***
BeforeAbdulSharif's visit,LailahaddecidedtoleaveforPakistan. Even after AbdulSharifcamebearinghisnews,Lailathoughtnow,shemight
have left. Gone somewherefar from here. Detachedherself from this city whereeverystreetcornerwasatrap,whereeveryalleyhidaghostthatsprangatherlikeajack-in-the-box. She might havetakentherisk.
But, suddenly, leavingwasnolongeranoption.
Notwiththisdailyretching.
This new fullness in herbreasts.
And the awareness,somehow, amid all of thisturmoil,thatshehadmissedacycle.
Laila pictured herself in arefugee camp, a stark fieldwith thousands of sheets ofplastic strung to makeshiftpoles flapping in the cold,stingingwind.Beneathoneof
thesemakeshifttents,shesawher baby, Tariq's baby, itstemples wasted, its jawsslack, itsskinmottled,bluishgray. She pictured its tinybody washed by strangers,wrapped in a tawny shroud,lowered into a hole dug in apatch of windswept landunder the disappointed gazeofvultures.
Howcouldsherunnow?
Lailatookgriminventoryofthepeopleinherlife.Ahmadand Noor, dead. Hasina,gone. Giti, dead. Mammy,dead. Babi, dead. NowTariq…
But, miraculously,something of her former liferemained, her last link to theperson that she had beenbefore she had become soutterlyalone.ApartofTariqstill alive inside her,
sprouting tiny arms, growingtranslucenthands.
How could she jeopardizetheonly thingshehad leftofhim,ofheroldlife?
She made her decisionquickly. Six weeks hadpassed since her time withTariq. Any longer andRasheed would growsuspicious.
Sheknewthatwhatshewasdoing was dishonorable.Dishonorable, disingenuous,and shameful. Andspectacularly unfair toMariam.Buteventhoughthebabyinsideherwasnobiggerthanamulberry,Lailaalreadysaw the sacrifices a motherhadtomake.Virtuewasonlythefirst.
Sheputahandonherbelly.Closedhereyes.
***
Laila would remember themuted ceremony in bits andfragments.Thecream-coloredstripesofRasheed's suit.Thesharpsmellofhishair spray.The small shaving nick justabove hisAdam's apple. Therough pads of his tobacco-stained fingers when he slidthe ring on her. The pen. Itsnotworking.Thesearchforanew pen. The contract. The
signing,hissure-handed,hersquavering. The prayers.Noticing, in the mirror, thatRasheed had trimmed hiseyebrows.
And, somewhere in theroom,Mariamwatching.Theair choking with herdisapproval.
Lailacouldnotbringherselfto meet the older woman'sgaze.
***
Lying beneath his coldsheetsthatnight,shewatchedhim pull the curtains shut.Shewas shakingevenbeforehis fingers worked her shirtbuttons, tugged at thedrawstringofhertrousers.Hewas agitated. His fingersfumbled endlessly with hisown shirt, with undoing hisbelt.Lailahada fullviewofhis sagging breasts, his
protruding belly button, thesmall blue vein in the centerof it, the tufts of thickwhitehair on his chest, hisshoulders, and upper arms.She felthiseyescrawlingalloverher.
"Godhelpme,IthinkIloveyou," he said-Throughchattering teeth, she askedhimtoturnoutthelights.
Later, when she was sure
that he was asleep, Lailaquietly reached beneath themattressfortheknifeshehadhidden there earlier. With it,she punctured the pad of herindex finger. Then she liftedtheblanketand lether fingerbleed on the sheets wheretheyhadlaintogether.
31.
Madam
In thedaytime, thegirlwasno more than a creakingbedspring, a patter offootsteps overhead. She waswater splashing in thebathroom, or a teaspoon
clinking against glass in thebedroom upstairs.Occasionally, there weresightings: ablurofbillowingdress in the periphery ofMadam'svision,scurryingupthe steps, arms folded acrossthechest,sandalsslappingtheheels.
But it was inevitable thatthey would run into eachother.Madampassed thegirlon the stairs, in the narrow
hallway,inthekitchen,orbythedoorasshewascominginfromtheyard.Whentheymetlike this,anawkward tensionrushedintothespacebetweenthem. The girl gathered herskirtandbreathedoutawordortwoofapology,and,asshehurried past, Madam wouldchanceasidelongglanceandcatchablush.Sometimesshecould smell Rasheed on her.Shecouldsmellhissweatonthegirl'sskin,histobacco,his
appetite.Sex,mercifully,wasa closed chapter in her ownlife. It had been for sometime, and now even thethought of those laborioussessions of lying beneathRasheed made Madamqueasyinthegut.
At night, however, thismutually orchestrated danceofavoidancebetweenherandthe girl was not possible.Rasheed said they were a
family.Heinsistedtheywere,and families had to eattogether,hesaid.
"What is this?"he said,hisfingers working themeat offa bone-the spoon-and-forkcharade was abandoned aweekafterhemarriedthegirl."Have I married a pair ofstatues? Go on, Madam,gapbezan, say something to her.Whereareyourmanners?"
Sucking marrow from abone,hesaidtothegirl,"Butyoumustn'tblameher.Sheisquiet. A blessing, really,because,wallah, if a personhasn't got much to say shemight as well be stingywithwords. We are city people,youandI,butsheisdehati.Avillage girl. Not even avillagegirl.No.Shegrewupin akolba made ofmudoutside the village. Herfatherputherthere.Haveyou
told her, Mariam, have youtold her that you areaharami1? Well, she is. Butshe is not without qualities,all things considered. Youwill see for yourself, Lailajan. She is sturdy, for onething, a good worker, andwithoutpretensions.I'llsayitthis way: If she were a car,shewouldbeaVolga."
Mariamwas a thirty-three-year-oldwomannow,butthat
word,harami, still had sting.Hearing it stillmadeher feellike she was a pest, acockroach. She rememberedNana pulling her wrists.Youare a clumsy Utileharami.This ismyrewardforeverything I've endured. Anheirloom-breaking clumsyUtileharami.
"You,"Rasheed said to thegirl, "you,on theotherhand,would be a Benz. A brand-
new, first-class, shinyBenz.Wahwah.But.But."Heraised one greasy indexfinger. "One must takecertain…cares…with a Benz.Asamatterof respect for itsbeauty and craftsmanship,you see. Oh, you must bethinking that I amcrazy,diwana, with all thistalkofautomobiles. I amnotsaying you are cars. I ammerelymakingapoint."
For what came next,Rasheedputdowntheballofrice he'd made back on theplate.Hishandsdangled idlyover his meal, as he lookeddownwithasober,thoughtfulexpression.
"Onemustn'tspeakillofthedead much lessthe,shaheed.And I intend nodisrespect when I say this, Iwantyoutoknow,butIhavecertain…reservations…about
the way your parents-Allah,forgivethemandgrantthemaplace in paradise-about their,well, their leniencywithyou.I'msorry."
The cold, hateful look thegirl flashed Rasheed at thisdid not escape Mariam, buthewaslookingdownanddidnotnotice.
"Nomatter. The point is, Iamyourhusbandnow,andit
falls on me to guard notonlyyour honor butours, yes,ournang andnamoos. That isthehusband'sburden.Youletme worry about that. Please.As for you, you are thequeen, themalika, and thishouse is your palace.AnythingyouneeddoneyouaskMariamandshewilldoitforyou.Won'tyou,Mariam?Andifyoufancysomething,Iwill get itforyou. You see,that is the sort of husband I
am.
"All Iask in return,well, itis a simple thing. I ask thatyou avoid leaving this housewithout my company. That'sall.Simple,no?IfIamawayand you need somethingurgently, I meanabsolutelyneed itand itcannotwait forme, then you can sendMariam and she will go outand get it for you. You'venoticedadiscrepancy,surely.
Well, one does not drive aVolgaandaBenzinthesamemanner. That would befoolish, wouldn't it? Oh, Ialsoaskthatwhenweareouttogether, that you wear aburqa. For your ownprotection, naturally. It isbest. So many lewd men inthis town now. Such vileintentions, so eager todishonor even a marriedwoman.So.That'sall."
Hecoughed.
"I should say that Mariamwill be my eyes and earswhen I am away." Here, heshot Mariam a fleeting lookthat was as hard as a steel-toedkick to the temple."Notthat I am mistrusting. Quitethe contrary. Frankly, youstrike me as far wiser thanyouryears.Butyouarestillayoung woman, Laila jan,adokhtar ejawan, and young
womencanmakeunfortunatechoices.Theycanbepronetomischief. Anyway, Mariamwill be accountable. And ifthereisaslipup…"
Onandonhewent.Mariamsat watching the girl out ofthe corner of her eye asRasheed's demands andjudgments rained down onthem like the rockets onKabul.
***
Oneday,Mariamwasintheliving room folding someshirts of Rasheed's that shehad plucked from theclothesline in the yard. Shedidn'tknowhowlongthegirlhad been standing there, but,when she picked up a shirtand turnedaround,shefoundher standingby thedoorway,hands cupped around aglassfuloftea.
"I didn't mean to startleyou," the girl said. "I'msorry."
Mariamonlylookedather.
The sun fell on the girl'sface, on her large green eyesandher smoothbrow,onherhigh cheekbones and theappealing, thick eyebrows,which were nothing likeMariam's own, thin andfeatureless. Her yellow hair,
uncombed this morning, wasmiddle-parted.
Mariamcouldseeinthestiffwaythegirlclutchedthecup,the tightened shoulders, thatshe was nervous. Sheimagined her sitting on thebedworkingupthenerve.
"Theleavesareturning,"thegirl said companionably."Have you seen? Autumn ismy favorite. I like the smell
ofit,whenpeopleburnleavesin their gardens.Mymother,she likedspringtime thebest.Youknewmymother?"
"Notreally."
The girl cupped a handbehindherear."I'msorry?"
Mariamraisedhervoice."Isaid no. I didn't know yourmother."
"Oh."
"Is there something youwant?"
"Mariam jan, I want to…About the things he said theothernight-"
"Ihavebeenmeaningtotalkto you about it." Mariambrokein.
"Yes, please," the girl said
earnestly,almosteagerly.Shetook a step forward. Shelookedrelieved.
Outside, an oriole waswarbling. Someone waspulling a cart;Mariam couldhear the creaking of itshinges, the bouncing andrattling of its iron wheels.There was the sound ofgunfire not so far away, asingle shot followedby threemore,thennothing.
"I won't be your servant,"Mariamsaid."Iwon't."
The girl flinched "No. Ofcoursenot!"
"You may be thepalacemalikaandmeadehati,but I won't take orders fromyou. You can complain tohimandhecanslitmythroat,butIwon'tdoit.Doyouhearme?Iwon'tbeyourservant."
"No!Idon'texpect-"
"And if you think you canuse your looks to get rid ofme,you'rewrong. Iwasherefirst. Iwon'tbethrownout.Iwon'thaveyoucastmeout."
"It's not what I want," thegirlsaidweakly.
"AndIseeyourwoundsarehealed up now. So you canstart doing your share of the
workinthishouse-"
The girl was noddingquickly. Some of her teaspilled, but she didn't notice."Yes,that'stheotherreasonIcamedown, to thankyou fortakingcareofme-"
"Well, I wouldn't have,"Mariam snapped. "Iwouldn'thavefedyouandwashedyouand nursed you if I'd knownyou were going to turn
around and steal myhusband."
"Steal-"
"I will still cook andwashthe dishes. You will do thelaundry and the sweeping-The rest we will alternatedaily.And onemore thing. Ihave no use for yourcompany. I don't want it.What I want is to be alone.You will leaveme be, and I
will return the favor. That'showwewillgeton.Thosearetherules."
When she was donespeaking, her heart washammering and her mouthfelt parched. Mariam hadnever before spoken in thismanner, had never stated herwill so forcefully. Itought tohavefeltexhilarating,butthegirl's eyes had teared up andher face was drooping, and
what satisfaction Mariamfound from this outburst feltmeager,somehowillicit.
She extended the shirtstowardthegirl.
"Put them in thealmari, notthecloset.Helikesthewhitesin the top drawer, the rest inthemiddle,withthesocks."
The girl set the cup on thefloor and put her hands out
for the shirts, palms up. "I'msorry about all of this," shecroaked.
"You should be," Mariamsaid."Youshouldbesorry."
32.
Laila
JLaila remembered agathering once, years beforeat the house, on one ofMammy's good days. Thewomenhadbeensittinginthegarden, eating from a platter
of fresh mulberries thatWajma had picked from thetree in her yard. The plumpmulberries had been whiteandpink,andsome thesamedark purple as the bursts oftinyveinsonWajma'snose.
"You heard how his sondied?" Wajma had said,energetically shovelinganotherhandfulofmulberriesintohersunkenmouth.
"He drowned, didn't he?"Nila, Giti's mother, said. "AtGharghaLake,wasn'tit?"
"Butdidyouknow,didyouknow that Rasheed…"Wajma raised a finger,madea show of nodding andchewing and making themwaitforhertoswallow."Didyou know that he used todrinksharabbackthen,thathewas crying drunk that day?It's true. Crying drunk, is
what I heard. And that wasmidmorning.Bynoon,hehadpassedoutonaloungechair.You could have fired thenoon cannon next to his earand he wouldn't have battedaneyelash."
Laila remembered howWajma had covered hermouth, burped; how hertongue had gone exploringbetween her few remainingteeth.
"You can imagine the rest.The boy went into the waterunnoticed. They spotted hima while later, floatingfacedown. People rushed tohelp, half trying to wake upthe boy, the other half thefather.Someonebentovertheboy, did the…the mouth-to-mouth thing you're supposedto do. It was pointless. Theycould all see that. The boywasgone."
Laila remembered Wajmaraisingafingerandhervoicequiveringwithpiety."Thisiswhy the Holy Koranforbidssharab. Because italways falls on the sober topayfor thesinsof thedrunk.Soitdoes."
It was this story that wascircling in Laila's head aftershe gave Rasheed the newsabout the baby. He hadimmediately hopped on his
bicycle, ridden to a mosque,andprayedforaboy.
That night, all during themeal, Laila watched Mariampush a cube of meat aroundher plate. Laila was therewhen Rasheed sprang thenews on Mariam in a high,dramatic voice-Laila hadnever before witnessed suchcheerful cruelty. Mariam'slashes fluttered when sheheard. A flush spread across
her face. She sat sulking,lookingdesolate.
After,Rasheedwentupstairsto listen to his radio, andLaila helped Mariam clearthesojrah.
"I can't imagine what youare now," Mariam said,picking grains of rice andbreadcrumbs,"ifyouwereaBenzbefore."
Laila tried a morelightheaded tactic. "A train?Maybeabigjumbojet."
Mariam straightened up. "Ihope you don't think thisexcusesyoufromchores."
Laila opened her mouth,thought better of it. SheremindedherselfthatMariamwastheonlyinnocentpartyinthisarrangement.Mariamandthe baby-Later, in bed, Laila
burstintotears.
What was the matter?Rasheed wanted to know,lifting her chin.Was she ill?Was it the baby, wassomething wrong with thebaby?No?
Was Mariam mistreatingher?
"That'sit,isn'tit?"
"No."
"Wallah o billah, I'll godownand teachher a lesson.Who does she think she is,thatharami,treatingyou-"
"No!"
Hewas getting up already,and she had to grab him bythe forearm, pull him backdown."Don't!No!She'sbeendecenttome.Ineedaminute,
that'sall.I'llbefine."
He sat beside her, strokingher neck, murmuring- Hishand slowly crept down toher back, then up again. Heleaned in, flashed hiscrowdedteeth.
"Let'ssee, then,"hepurred,"if I can't help you feelbetter."
***
First, the trees-those thathadn't been cut down forfirewood-shed their spottyyellow-and-copper leaves.Then came the winds, coldand raw, ripping through thecity.They toreoff the lastofthe clinging leaves, and leftthe trees looking ghostlyagainst the muted brown ofthe hills. The season's firstsnowfallwas light, the flakesnosooner fallen thanmelted.Then the roads froze, and
snowgatheredinheapsontherooftops, piled halfway upfrost-caked windows. Withsnowcamethekites,oncetherulersofKabul'swinterskies,now timid trespassers interritoryclaimedbystreakingrocketsandfighterjets.
Rasheedkeptbringinghomenews of the war, and Lailawasbaffledbytheallegiancesthat Rasheed tried to explainto her. Sayyaf was fighting
the Hazaras, he said. TheHazaras were fightingMassoud.
"And he's fightingHekmatyar, of course, whohas the support of thePakistanis. Mortal enemies,those two, Massoud andHekmatyar. Sayyaf, he'ssiding with Massoud. AndHekmatyar supports theHazarasfornow."
As for the unpredictableUzbek commander Dostum,Rasheed said no one knewwhere he would stand.Dostum had fought theSoviets in the 1980salongsidetheMujahideenbuthad defected and joinedNajibullah's communistpuppet regime after theSovietshadleft.Hehadevenearnedamedal,presentedbyNajibullah himself, beforedefecting once again and
returning to theMujahideen'sside. For the time being,Rasheed said, Dostum wassupportingMassoud.
In Kabul, particularly inwestern Kabul, fires raged,and black palls of smokemushroomed over snow-cladbuildings. Embassies closeddown. Schools collapsed Inhospital waiting rooms,Rasheed said, the woundedwere bleeding to death. In
operating rooms, limbs werebeing amputated withoutanesthesia.
"But don't worry," he said."You're safe with me, myflower, mygul. Anyone triestoharmyou, I'll ripout theirliverandmakethemeatit."
That winter, everywhereLaila turned, walls blockedher way. She thoughtlongingly of the wide-open
skiesofherchildhood,ofherdays of going tobuzkashitournaments with Babi andshopping at Mandaii withMammy, of her days ofrunningfreeinthestreetsandgossiping about boys withGiti andHasina.Her days ofsittingwithTariq inabedofclover on the banks of astream somewhere, tradingriddles and candy, watchingthesungodown.
But thinking of Tariq wastreacherous because, beforeshe could stop, she saw himlying on a bed, far fromhome, tubes piercing hisburned body. Like the bilethat kept burning her throatthesedays,adeep,paralyzinggrief would come rising upLaila's chest.Her legswouldturntowater.Shewouldhavetoholdontosomething.
Laila passed that winter of
1992 sweeping the house,scrubbing the pumpkin-coloredwallsofthebedroomshe shared with Rasheed,washing clothes outside in abigcopperlagoon.Sometimesshesawherselfasifhoveringabove her own body, sawherselfsquattingovertherimof thelogoon, sleeves rolledup to the elbows, pink handswringing soapy water fromone ofRasheed's undershirts.She felt lost then, casting
about, like a shipwrecksurvivor, no shore in sight,only miles and miles ofwater.
When itwas toocold togooutside,Laila ambled aroundthe house. She walked,dragging a fingernail alongthe wall, down the hallway,then back, down the steps,then up, her face unwashed,hair uncombed. She walkeduntil she ran into Mariam,
who shot her a cheerlessglance and went back toslicing the stem off a bellpepperandtrimmingstripsoffat from meat. A hurtfulsilence would fill the room,and Laila could almost seethe wordless hostilityradiating from Mariam likewaves of heat rising fromasphalt. She would retreatback to her room, sit on thebed, and watch the snowfalling.
***
Rasheedtookhertohisshoeshoponeday.
When they were outtogether,hewalkedalongsideher,onehandgrippingherbythe elbow. For Laila, beingout inthestreetshadbecomean exercise in avoidinginjury. Her eyes were stilladjusting to the limited,gridlike visibility of the
burqa,herfeetstillstumblingover the hem. Shewalked inperpetualfearof trippingandfalling, of breaking an anklestepping into a pothole. Still,she found some comfort inthe anonymity that the burqaprovided. She wouldn't berecognizedthiswayifsheraninto an old acquaintance ofhers. She wouldn't have towatch the surprise in theireyes,orthepityortheglee,athowfarshehadfallen,athow
herloftyaspirationshadbeendashed.
Rasheed's shop was biggerand more brightly lit thanLaila had imagined. He hadher sit behind his crowdedworkbench, the top ofwhichwas littered with old solesandscrapsofleftoverleather.He showedher his hammers,demonstrated how thesandpaper wheel worked,hisvoice ringing high and
proud-He felt her belly, notthroughtheshirtbutunderit,his fingertips cold and roughlike bark on her distendedskin. LailarememberedTariq's hands,soft but strong, the tortuous,full veins on the backs ofthem, which she had alwaysfound soappealinglymasculine.
"Swelling so quickly,"Rasheedsaid."It'sgoingtobe
a big boy. My sonwillbeapahlawanl Like hisfather."
Lailapulleddownhershirt.Itfilledherwithfearwhenhespokelikethis.
"Howare things withMariam?"
Shesaidtheywerefine.
"Good.Good."
She didn't tell him thatthey'd had their first truefight.
Ithadhappenedafewdaysearlier.Lailahadgone to thekitchen and found Mariamyanking drawers andslamming themshut. Shewaslooking, Mariam said, forthelongwooden spoon she usedtostirrice.
"Wheredidyouputit?"she
said,wheelingaroundtofaceLaila.
"Me?" Laila said "I didn'ttake it. I hardly come inhere."
"I'venoticed."
"Is that an accusation? It'show you wanted it,remember. You said youwouldmakethemeals.Butifyouwanttoswitch-"
"So you're saying it grewlittle legs and walkedout.Teep, teep, teep, teep. Isthatwhathappened,degeh?'
"I'm saying…" Laila said,trying to maintain control.Usually, she could willherself to absorb Mariam'sderision and finger-pointing.But her ankles had swollen,her head hurt, and theheartburn was vicious thatday."Iamsayingthatmaybe
you'vemisplacedit."
"Misplaced it?" Mariampulledadrawer.Thespatulasand knives inside it clanked."How long have you beenhere,afewmonths?I'velivedin this house for nineteenyears,dokhiarjo. I havekeptthat spoon inthis drawersince you were shitting yourdiapers."
"Still," Laila said, on the
brink now, teeth clenched,"it's possible you put itsomewhereandforgot."
"And it'spossibleyouhid itsomewhere,toaggravateme."
"You're a sad, miserablewoman,"Lailasaid.
Mariam flinched, thenrecovered, pursed her lips."And you're a whore. Awhore and adozd.A thieving
whore,that'swhatyouare!"
Then there was shouting-Potsraisedthoughnothurled.They'd called each othernames,namesthatmadeLailablush now. They hadn'tspoken since. Laila was stillshocked at how easily she'dcomeunhinged,but,thetruthwas, part of her had liked it,had liked how it felt toscreamatMariam,tocurseather,tohaveatargetatwhich
to focus all her simmeringanger,hergrief.
Laila wondered, withsomething like insight, if itwasn'tthesameforMariam.
After, she had run upstairsand thrown herself onRasheed's bed. Downstairs,Mariam was still yelling,"Dirton
your head! Dirt on your
head!" Laila had lain on thebed,groaningintothepillow,missing her parents suddenlyand with an overpoweringintensity shehadn't felt sincethose terrible days just afterthe attack. She lay there,clutching handfuls of thebedsheet,until, suddenly,herbreath caught. She sat up,hands shooting down to herbelly.
Thebabyhadjustkickedfor
thefirsttime.
33.
Madam
Jbarlyonemorningthenextspring, of 1993, Mariamstood by the living-roomwindow and watchedRasheedescortthegirloutofthe house. The girl was
tottering forward, bent at thewaist, one arm drapedprotectively across the tautdrum of her belly, the shapeofwhichwasvisible throughher burqa. Rasheed, anxiousand overly attentive, washolding her elbow, directingher across the yard like atraffic policeman. He madeaWaitheregesture, rushed tothe front gate, thenmotionedfor the girl to come forward,one foot propping the gate
open.Whenshereachedhim,he took her by the hand,helped her through the gate.Mariam could almost hearhim say,"Watch your step,now,myflower,mygul."
They came back early thenextevening.
Mariam sawRasheed entertheyard first.He let thegategoprematurely,anditalmosthit the girl on the face. He
crossed the yard in a few,quick steps.Mariamdetecteda shadow on his face, adarkness underlying thecoppery light of dusk. In thehouse, he took off his coat,threw it on the couch.Brushing past Mariam, hesaid in a brusque voice, "I'mhungry.Getsupperready."
Thefrontdoor to thehouseopened. From the hallway,Mariam saw the girl, a
swaddled bundle in the hookof her left arm. She had onefootoutside, theother inside,againstthedoor,topreventitfromspringingshut.Shewasstooped over and wasgrunting, trying to reach forthe paper bag of belongingsthat she had put down inorder to open the door.Herface was grimacing witheffort.ShelookedupandsawMariam.
Mariam turned around andwent to the kitchen to warmRasheed'smeal.
***
"Irs like someone isramming a screwdriver intomy ear," Rasheed said,rubbing his eyes.He wasstanding in Mariam's door,puffy-eyed, wearing onlyaiumban tied with a floppyknot.His white hair was
straggly, pointing everywhich way. "This crying. Ican'tstandit."
Downstairs, the girl waswalking the baby across thefloor,tryingtosingtoher.
"I haven't had adecentnight's sleep in twomonths,"Rasheedsaid."Andtheroomsmells like a sewer.There'sshit cloths lying allover the place. I stepped on
onejusttheothernight."
Mariam smirked inwardlywithperversepleasure.
"Takeheroutside!"Rasheedyelled over his shoulder."Can'tyoutakeheroutside?"
The singingwas suspendedbriefly."She'll catchpneumonia!"
"It'ssummertime!"
'What?
Rasheed clenched his teethand raised his voice. "I said,It'swarmout!"
"I'mnottakingheroutside!"
Thesingingresumed
"Sometimes, I swear,sometimes Iwant to put thatthinginaboxandletherfloatdownKabulRiver.Likebaby
Moses."
Mariam never heard himcallhisdaughterbythenamethegirlhadgivenher,Aziza,the Cherished One. It wasalwaysthe baby, or, when hewas really exasperated,thaithing.
Some nights, Mariamoverheard them arguing. Shetiptoed to their door, listenedto him complain about the
baby-always the baby-theinsistent crying, the smells,the toys that made him trip,the way the baby hadhijacked Laila's attentionsfrom him with constantdemands to be fed, burped,changed, walked, held. Thegirl, in turn, scolded him forsmoking in the room, fornotletting the baby sleep withthem.
Therewereotherarguments
wagedinvoicespitchedlow.
"Thedoctorsaidsixweeks."
"Not yet,Rasheed.No.Letgo.Comeon.Don'tdothat."
"It'sbeentwomonths."
"Sshi.There. You woke upthe baby." Then moresharply,"Khoshshodi?Happynow?"
Mariam would sneak backtoherroom.
"Can't you help?" Rasheedsaid now. "There must besomethingyoucando."
"What do I know aboutbabies?"Mariamsaid.
"Rasheed!Canyoubringthebottle? It's sitting onthealmari. She won't feed. Iwanttotrythebottleagain."
The baby's screeching roseand fell like a cleaver onmeat.
Rasheed closed his eyes."That thing is a warlord.Hekmatyar. I'm telling you,Laila's given birth toGulbuddinHekmatyar."
***
Mariamwatchedasthegirl'sdays became consumed with
cycles of feeding, rocking,bouncing, walking. Evenwhen the baby napped, therewere soiled diapers to scrubandleavetosoakinapailofthe disinfectant that the girlhad insistedRasheed buy forher.Therewerefingernailstotrim with sandpaper,coveralls and pajamas towash and hang to dry.Theseclothes, like other thingsabout the baby, became apointofcontention.
"What's the matter withthem?"Rasheedsaid
"They're boys' clothes. Forabacha"
"You think she knows thedifference? I paid goodmoneyforthoseclothes.Andanotherthing,Idon'tcareforthat tone. Consider that awarning."
Every week, without fail,
the girl heated a blackmetalbrazieroveraflame,tossedapinchofwild rue seeds in it,andwafted theespandismokein her baby's direction towardoffevil.
Mariamfounditexhaustingto watch the girl's lollopingenthusiasm-andhad toadmit,if only privately, to a degreeof admiration. She marveledat how the girl's eyes shonewith worship, even in the
mornings when her facedrooped and her complexionwas waxy from a night'sworth of walking the baby.The girl had fits of laughterwhen the baby passed gas.The tiniest changes in thebaby enchanted her, andeverythingitdidwasdeclaredspectacular.
"Look! She's reaching fortherattle.Howcleversheis."
"I'll call the newspapers,"saidRasheed.
Every night, there weredemonstrations. When thegirl insisted he witnesssomething, Rasheed tippedhis chin upward and cast animpatient, sidelong glancedowntheblue-veinedhookofhisnose.
"Watch. Watch how shelaughs when I snap my
fingers. There. See?Did yousee?"
Rasheed would grunt, andgoback to his plate.Mariamremembered how the girl'smere presence used tooverwhelm him. Everythingshe said used to please him,intrigue him,make him lookup from his plate and nodwithapproval.
The strange thing was, the
girl'sfallfromgraceoughttohave pleased Mariam,brought her a sense ofvindication. But it didn't. Itdidn't. To her own surprise,Mariamfoundherselfpityingthegirl.
Itwasalsooverdinner thatthe girl let loose a steadystream of worries. Toppingthe list was pneumonia,which was suspected withevery minor cough. Then
there was dysentery, thespecter of which was raisedwithevery loosestool.Everyrash was either chicken poxormeasles.
"You should not get soattached," Rasheed said onenight.
"Whatdoyoumean?"
"Iwaslisteningtotheradiothe other night. Voice of
America. I heard aninterestingstatistic.TheysaidthatinAfghanistanoneoutoffour children will die beforethe age of five. That's whatthey said. Now, they-What?What?Whereareyougoing?Come back here. Get backherethisinstant!"
He gave Mariam abewildered look. "What's thematterwithher?"
That night, Mariam waslying in bed when thebickeringstartedagain.Itwasa hot, dry summer night,typical of the monthofSaratan in Kabul. Mariamhadopenedherwindow,thenshut itwhen no breeze camethrough to temper the heat,only mosquitoes. She couldfeel the heat rising from theground outside, through thewheat brown, splinteredplanksof theouthouse in the
yard, up through the wallsandintoherroom.
Usually,thebickeringranitscourse after a few minutes,but half an hour passed andnotonlywasitstillgoingon,it was escalating. Mariamcould hear Rasheed shoutingnow. The girl's voice,underneath his,was tentativeandshrill.Soonthebabywaswailing.
Then Mariam heard theirdoor open violently. In themorning, she would find thedoorknob's circularimpression in the hallwaywall. She was sitting up inbed when her own doorslammed open and Rasheedcamethrough.
He was wearing whiteunderpants and a matchingundershirt, stained yellow intheunderarmswithsweat.On
hisfeetheworeflip-flops.Heheld a belt in his hand, thebrown leather one he'dbought for hisnikka with thegirl, and was wrapping theperforatedendaroundhisfist.
"It's your doing. I know itis," he snarled, advancing onher.
Mariam slid out of her bedand began backpedaling.Herarms instinctively crossed
overherchest,whereheoftenstruckherfirst.
"What are you talkingabout?"shestammered.
"Her denying me. You'reteachingherto."
Overtheyears,Mariamhadlearned to harden herselfagainst his scorn andreproach, his ridiculing andreprimanding. But this fear
she had no control over. Allthese years and still sheshiveredwith frightwhen hewas like this, sneering,tighteningthebeltaroundhisfist, the creaking of theleather, the glint in hisbloodshot eyes. It was thefear of the goat, released inthe tiger's cage, when thetiger first looks up from itspaws, begins to growl-Nowthe girlwas in the room, hereyeswide,herfacecontorted
"I should have known thatyou'd corrupt her," RasheedspatatMariam.Heswungthebelt,testingitagainsthisownthigh. The buckle jingledloudly.
"Stop it,basl" the girl said."Rasheed,youcan'tdothis."
"Gobacktotheroom."
Mariambackpedaledagain.
"No!Don'tdothis!"
Now!
Rasheed raised the beltagain and this time came atMariam.
Then an astonishing thinghappened: The girl lunged athim. She grabbed his armwith both hands and tried todraghimdown,butshecoulddonomorethandanglefrom
it.ShedidsucceedinslowingRasheed's progress towardMariam.
"Letgo!"Rasheedcried.
"You win. You win. Don'tdo this. Please, Rasheed, nobeating!Pleasedon'tdothis."
Theystruggledlikethis,thegirl hanging on, pleading,Rasheed trying to shake heroff, keeping his eyes on
Mariam,whowastoostunnedtodoanything.
In the end, Mariam knewthat there would be nobeating, not that night. He'dmade his point. He stayedthat way a few momentslonger, arm raised, chestheaving,afinesheenofsweatfilming his brow. Slowly,Rasheed lowered his arm.Thegirl'sfeettouchedgroundand still she wouldn't let go,
as if she didn't trust him.Hehad to yank his arm free ofhergrip.
"I'm on to you," he said,slinging the belt over hisshoulder."I'montoyouboth.I won't be made anahmaq, afool,inmyownhouse."
He threwMariam one last,murderousstare,andgavethegirlashoveinthebackonthewayout.
When she heard their doorclose, Mariam climbed backinto bed, buried her headbeneath the pillow, andwaited for the shaking tostop.
***
Three times that night,Mariam was awakened fromsleep. The first time, it wasthe rumble of rockets in thewest, coming from the
directionofKarteh-Char.Thesecond time, it was the babycrying downstairs, the girl'sshushing, theclatterofspoonagainstmilkbottle.Finally,itwas thirst that pulled her outofbed.
Downstairs,thelivingroomwas dark, save for a bar ofmoonlight spilling throughthe window. Mariam couldhear the buzzing of a flysomewhere, could make out
the outline of the cast-ironstove in the corner, its pipejutting up, then making asharp angle just below theceiling.
On herway to the kitchen,Mariam nearly tripped oversomething.Therewasashapeat her feet. When her eyesadjusted, she made out thegirlandherbabylyingonthefloorontopofaquilt.
Thegirlwassleepingonherside, snoring. The baby wasawake. Mariam lit thekerosene lamp on the tableand hunkered down. In thelight, she had her first realclose-uplookatthebaby,thetuft of dark hair, the thick-lashed hazel eyes, the pinkcheeks, and lips the color ofripepomegranate.
Mariamhad the impressionthat the baby too was
examiningher.Shewaslyingon her back, her head tiltedsideways, looking atMariamintently with a mixture ofamusement, confusion, andsuspicion. Mariam wonderedifherfacemightfrightenher,but then the baby squealedhappily and Mariam knewthatafavorablejudgmenthadbeenpassedonherbehalf.
"Shh,"Mariam whispered"You'llwakeupyourmother,
halfdeafassheis."
Thebaby'shandballedintoa fist. It rose, fell, found aspastic path to her mouth.Around a mouthful of herown hand, the baby gaveMariam a grin, little bubblesofspittleshiningonherlips.
"Lookatyou.Whatasorrysight you are, dressed like adamn boy. And all bundledup in this heat. No wonder
you'restillawake."
Mariam pulled the blanketoffthebaby,washorrifiedtofind a second one beneath,clucked her tongue, andpulled that one off too. Thebabygiggledwith relief. Sheflappedherarmslikeabird.
"Better,nayT
As Mariam was pullingback, the baby grabbed her
pinkie. The tiny fingerscurled themselves tightlyaroundit.Theyfeltwarmandsoft,moistwithdrool.
"Gunuh,"thebabysaid.
"Allright,Ms;letgo."
The baby hung on, kickedherlegsagain.
Mariam pulled her fingerfree. The baby smiled and
made a series of gurglingsounds. The knuckles wentbacktothemouth.
"What are you so happyabout? Huh? What are yousmiling at? You're not soclever as your mother says.Youhaveabruteforafatheranda fool foramother.Youwouldn'tsmilesomuchifyouknew.Noyouwouldn't.Gotosleep,now.Goon."
Mariamrosetoherfeetandwalkedafewstepsbeforethebaby started making theeh,eh, eh sounds that Mariamknew signaled the onset of ahearty cry. She retraced hersteps.
"What is it? What do youwantfromme?"
The baby grinnedtoothlessly.
Mariam sighed. She satdown and let her finger begrabbed, looked on as thebaby squeaked, as she flexedherplumplegsatthehipsandkicked air.Mariam sat there,watching, until the babystopped moving and begansnoringsoftly.
Outside,mockingbirdsweresingingblithely, and,once ina while, when the songsterstookflight,Mariamcouldsee
their wings catching thephosphorescent blue ofmoonlight beaming throughthe clouds. And though herthroatwasparchedwiththirstandherfeetburnedwithpinsand needles, it was a longtime before Mariam gentlyfreed her finger from thebaby'sgripandgotup.
34.
Laila
Of all earthly pleasures,Laila'sfavoritewaslyingnextto Aziza, her baby's face soclosethatshecouldwatchherbig pupils dilate and shrink.Lailalovedrunningherfinger
over Aziza's pleasing, softskin, over the dimpledknuckles, the folds of fat ather elbows. Sometimes shelayAziza down on her chestand whispered into the softcrown of her head thingsabout Tariq, the father whowouldalwaysbeastrangertoAziza, whose face Azizawouldneverknow.Lailatoldherofhisaptitudeforsolvingriddles, his trickery andmischief,hiseasylaugh.
"Hehadtheprettiestlashes,thicklikeyours.Agoodchin,a fine nose, and a roundforehead.Oh,yourfatherwashandsome, Aziza. He wasperfect.Perfect,likeyouare."
Butshewascarefulnevertomentionhimbyname.
Sometimes she caughtRasheed looking at Aziza inthe most peculiar way. Theother night, sitting on the
bedroomfloor,wherehewasshavingacorn fromhis foot,he said quite casually, "Sowhatwasit likebetweenyoutwo?"
Laila had given him apuzzled look, as though shedidn'tunderstand.
"Laili and Majnoon. Youand theyakknga,the cripple.Whatwas it youhad,heandyou?"
"He was my friend," shesaid, careful that her voicenotshifttoomuchinkey.Shebusied herself making abottle."Youknowthat."
"I don't knowwhat Iknow."Rasheed deposited theshavings on the windowsilland dropped onto the bed.The springs protested with aloud creak. He splayed hislegs, picked at his crotch."And as….friends, did the
two of you ever do anythingoutoforder?"
"Outoforder?"
Rasheed smiledlightheartedly, but Lailacould feel his gaze, cold andwatchful. "Let me see, now.Well, did heever give you akiss? Maybeput his handwhereitdidn'tbelong?"
Laila winced with, she
hoped, an indignant air. Shecould feel her heartdrumming in her throat."Hewaslikeabrothertome."
"So he was a friend or abrother?"
"Both.He^"
"Whichwasit?"
"Hewaslikeboth."
"Butbrothersandsistersarecreatures of curiosity.Yes.Sometimes a brother lets hissister see his pecker, andasisterwill-"
"Yousickenme,"Lailasaid.
"Sotherewasnothing."
"I don't want to talk aboutthisanymore."
Rasheed tilted his head,
pursed his lips, nodded."People gossiped, you know.I remember. They said allsortsofthingsaboutyoutwo.But you're saying there wasnothing."
She willed herself to glareathim.
He held her eyesfor anexcruciatinglylongtimeinanunblinkingwaythatmadeherknuckles go pale around the
milkbottle,andittookallthatLaila could muster to notfalter.
She shuddered at what hewould do if hefoundout thatshe had been stealing fromhim. Every week, sinceAziza's birth, she pried hiswallet open when hewasasleep or in the outhouseand took a single bill. Someweeks,ifthewalletwaslight,she took only a five-
afghanibill, or nothing at all,forfear thathewouldnotice.When the wallet was plump,shehelpedherselftoatenoratwenty,onceevenriskingtwotwenties. She hid the moneyin a pouchshe'd sewn in theliningofhercheckeredwintercoat.
She wondered what hewoulddoifheknewthatshewas planning to run awaynext spring. Next summer at
thelatest.Lailahopedtohavea thousand afghanis or morestowed away, half of whichwouldgotothebusfarefromKabul to Peshawar. Shewouldpawnherweddingringwhen the timedrewclose,aswellas theother jewelry thatRasheed had given her theyearbeforewhenshewasstillthemalikaofhispalace.
"Anyway," he said at last,fingersdrumminghisbelly,"I
can't be blamed. I am ahusband.Thesearethethingsa husband wonders. But he'sluckyhediedthewayhedid.Because if hewas here now,if I gotmyhands on him…"He sucked through his teethandshookhishead.
"What happened to notspeakingillofthedead?"
"I guess some people can'tbedeadenough,"hesaid.
***
Twodays later,Lailawokeup in themorning and foundastackofbabyclothes,neatlyfolded, outside her bedroomdoor.Therewasa twirldresswith little pink fishes sewnaround the bodice, a bluefloral wool dress withmatching socks and mittens,yellow pajamas with carrot-coloredpolkadots,andgreencotton pants with a dotted
ruffleonthecuff.
"Thereisarumor,"Rasheedsaid over dinner that night,smacking his lips, taking nonotice of Aziza or thepajamasLailahadputonher,"that Dostum is going tochange sides and joinHekmatyar. Massoud willhave his hands full then,fighting those two. And wemustn't forget the Hazaras."He took a pinch of the
pickledeggplantMariamhadmade that summer. "Let'shope it's just that, a rumor.Because if that happens, thiswar," he waved one greasyhand,"willseemlikeaFridaypicnicatPaghman."
Later, he mounted her andrelieved himself withwordless haste, fully dressedsave for histumban, notremoved but pulled down tothe ankles. When the frantic
rocking was over, he rolledoff her and was asleep inminutes.
Laila slipped out of thebedroom and found Mariamin the kitchen squatting,cleaningapairoftrout.Apotof rice was already soakingbeside her. The kitchensmelled like cumin andsmoke, browned onions andfish.
Laila sat in a comer anddraped her knees with thehemofherdress.
"Thankyou,"shesaid.
Mariam took no notice ofher. She finished cutting upthe first trout and picked upthe second. With a serratedknife, she clipped the fins,then turned the fish over, itsunderbelly facing her, andsliceditexpertlyfromthetail
tothegills.Lailawatchedherputherthumbintoitsmouth,justover the lower jaw,pushit in, and, in one downwardstroke, remove the gills andtheentrails.
"Theclothesarelovely."
"I had no use for them,"Mariam muttered. Shedropped the fish on anewspaper smudged withslimy, gray juice and sliced
off its head. "It was eitheryourdaughterorthemoths."
"Where did you learn tocleanfishlikethat?"
"When Iwas a little girl, Ilived by a stream. I usedtocatchmyownfish."
"I'veneverfished"
"Notmuch toit. It's mostlywaiting."
Lailawatched her cut thegutted trout into thirds. "Didyou sew the clothesyourself?"
Mariamnodded.
"When?"
Mariamrinsed sectionsoffish in a bowl of water."When I was pregnant thefirst time. Or maybe thesecond time. Eighteen,
nineteen years ago. Longtime, anyhow. Like I said, Ineverhadanyuseforthem."
"You'reareallygoodkhayai.Maybeyoucanteachme."
Mariam placed the rinsedchunks of trout into a cleanbowl.Drops of waterdrippingfrom herfingertips,she raisedherheadandlookedatLaila,lookedatherasifforthefirsttime.
"Theothernight,whenhe…Nobody's ever stood up formebefore,"shesaid.
Laila examined Mariam'sdrooping cheeks, the eyelidsthatsaggedintiredfolds, thedeep lines that framed hermouth-she saw these thingsas though she too werelooking at someone for thefirst time. And, for the firsttime,itwasnotanadversary'sface Laila saw but a face of
grievancesunspoken,burdensgone unprotested, a destinysubmitted to and endured. Ifshestayed,would thisbeherown face, Laila wondered,twentyyearsfromnow?
"I couldn't let him," Lailasaid "I wasn't raised in ahousehold where people didthingslikethat."
"Thisisyourhouseholdnow.Yououghttogetusedtoit."
"Notto/toIwon't."
"He'll turn onyou too, youknow," Mariam said, wipingher hands dry with a rag."Soonenough.Andyougavehim a daughter. So, you see,your sin is even lessforgivablethanmine."
Laila rose to her feet. "Iknow it's chilly outside, butwhat do you say we sinnershave us a cup ofchai in the
yard?"
Mariam lookedsurprised"Ican't. I still have to cut andwashthebeans."
"I'll help you do it in themorning."
"And I have to clean uphere."
"We'lldo it together. If I'mnot mistaken, there's
somehalwaleftover.Awfullygoodwithchat."
Mariam put the rag on thecounter.Laila sensed anxietyin theway she tugged at hersleeves, adjusted herhijab,pushedbackacurlofhair.
"TheChinesesay it'sbetterto be deprived of food forthreedaysthanteaforone."
Mariam gave a half smile.
"It'sagoodsaying."
"Itis."
"ButIcan'tstaylong."
"Onecup."
They sat on folding chairsoutside and atehalwa withtheir fingers from a commonbowl.Theyhadasecondcup,and when Laila asked her ifshe wanted a third Mariam
said she did. As gunfirecracked in the hills, theywatchedthecloudsslideoverthemoon and the last of theseason's fireflies chartingbrightyellowarcsinthedark.And when Aziza woke upcryingandRasheedyelledforLailatocomeupandshutherup, a look passed betweenLaila and Mariam. Anunguarded, knowing look.Andinthisfleeting,wordlessexchangewithMariam,Laila
knew that they were notenemiesanylonger.
35.
Madam
Jrromthatnighton,Mariamand Laila did their chorestogether. They sat in thekitchen and rolled dough,chopped green onions,mincedgarlic,offeredbitsof
cucumber to Aziza, whobanged spoons nearby andplayed with carrots. In theyard, Aziza lay in a wickerbassinet, dressed in layers ofclothing, a winter mufflerwrapped snugly around herneck.Mariam andLaila keptawatchfuleyeonherastheydid the wash, Mariam'sknuckles bumping Laila's asthey scrubbed shirts andtrousersanddiapers.
Mariam slowly grewaccustomed to this tentativebut pleasant companionship.She was eager for the threecups ofchai she and Lailawould share in the yard, anightly ritual now. In themornings, Mariam foundherselflookingforwardtothesound of Laila's crackedslippers slapping the steps asshe came down for breakfastand to the tinkle of Aziza'sshrilllaugh,tothesightofher
eight little teeth, the milkyscentofherskin.IfLailaandAziza slept in, Mariambecame anxiouswaiting. Shewashed dishes that didn'tneedwashing.Sherearrangedcushions in the living room.Shedustedcleanwindowsills.She kept herself occupieduntil Laila entered thekitchen,Azizahoistedonherhip.
When Aziza first spotted
Mariam in the morning, hereyesalwayssprangopen,andshe began mewling andsquirming in her mother'sgrip. She thrust her armstoward Mariam, demandingto be held, her tiny handsopeningandclosingurgently,on her face a look of bothadoration and quiveringanxiety.
"What a scene you'remaking," Laila would say,
releasingher tocrawl towardMariam. "What a scene!Calm down. Khala Mariamisn't going anywhere. Theresheis,youraunt.See?Goon,now."
As soon as she was inMariam's arms, Aziza'sthumb shot into her mouthand she buried her face inMariam'sneck.
Mariambouncedherstiffly,
a half-bewildered, half-grateful smile on her lips.Mariam had never beforebeen wanted like this. Lovehad never been declared toher so guilelessly, sounreservedly.
AzizamadeMariamwanttoweep.
"Whyhaveyoupinnedyourlittlehearttoanold,uglyhaglike me?" Mariam would
murmur into Aziza's hair."Huh?Iamnobody,don'tyousee?AdehatlWhathaveIgottogiveyou?"
But Aziza only mutteredcontentedly and dug her facein deeper.Andwhen she didthat, Mariam swooned. Hereyeswatered.Her heart tookflight. And she marveled athow, after all these years ofrattling loose, she had foundin this little creature the first
true connection in her life offalse,failedconnections.
***
Earlythefollowingyeah,inJanuary 1994, Dostumdidswitch sides. He joinedGulbuddin Hekmatyar, andtook up position near BalaHissar, the old citadel wallsthat loomed over the cityfromtheKoh-e-Shirdawaza
mountains. Together, theyfired on Massoud andRabbani forces at theMinistry of Defense and thePresidential Palace. Fromeither side of the KabulRiver,theyreleasedroundsofartillery at each other. Thestreets became littered withbodies, glass, and crumpledchunks of metal. There waslooting, murder, and,increasingly,rape,whichwasused to intimidate civilians
and reward militiamen.Mariamheardofwomenwhowere killing themselves outoffearofbeingraped,andofmen who, in the name ofhonor,wouldkill theirwivesor daughters if they'd beenrapedbythemilitia.
Aziza shrieked at thethumping of mortars. Todistracther,Mariamarrangedgrainsof riceon thefloor, inthe shape of a house or a
roosterorastar,andletAzizascatter them. She drewelephants for Aziza the wayJalil had shown her, in onestroke, without ever liftingthetipofthepen.
Rasheedsaidciviliansweregetting killed daily, by thedozens. Hospitals and storesholding medical suppliesweregettingshelled.Vehiclescarrying emergency foodsupplies were being barred
from entering the city, hesaid, raided, shot at.Mariamwondered if there wasfightinglikethisinHerattoo,and, if so, how MullahFaizullah was coping, if hewasstillalive,andBibijotoo,with all her sons, brides, andgrandchildren. And, ofcourse,Jalil.Was
he hiding out, Mariamwondered, as she was? Orhad he taken his wives and
childrenandfledthecountry?She hoped Jalil wassomewhere safe, that he'dmanagedtogetawayfromallofthiskilling.
For a week, the fightingforced even Rasheed to stayhome.He locked the door tothe yard, set booby traps,lockedthefrontdoortooandbarricaded it with the couch.Hepacedthehouse,smoking,peering out the window,
cleaninghisgun,loadingandloading it again. Twice, hefired his weapon into thestreet claiming he'd seensomeone trying to climb thewall.
"They'reforcingyoungboysto join," he said."TheMujahideenare. In plaindaylight, at gunpoint. Theydragboysrightoffthestreets.And when soldiers from arival militia capture these
boys, they torture them. Iheard they electrocute them-it's what I heard-that theycrush their balls with pliers.They make the boys leadthem to their homes. Thenthey break in, kill theirfathers, rape their sisters andmothers."
Hewaved his gun over hishead. "Let's see them try tobreak into my house. I'llcrushtheir balls! I'll blow
theirheadsoff!Doyouknowhow lucky you two are tohave a man who's not afraidofShaitanhimself?"
He looked down at theground, noticed Aziza at hisfeet. "Get off my heels!" hesnapped, making a shooingmotion with his gun. "Stopfollowing me! And you canstop twirling yourwrists likethat. I'm not picking you up.Goon!Goonbeforeyouget
steppedon."
Azizaflinched.Shecrawledback to Mariam, lookingbruised and confused. InMariam's lap, she suckedherthumb cheerlessly andwatchedRasheed in a sullen,pensive way. Occasionally,she looked up, Mariamimagined, with a look ofwantingtobereassured.
Butwhenitcametofathers,
Mariamhadnoassurances togive.
***
Maeiamwas relievedwhenthe fighting subsided again,mostly because they nolonger had to be cooped upwith Rasheed, with his sourtemper infecting thehousehold. And he'dfrightened her badly wavingthatloadedgunnearAziza.
One day that winter, LailaaskedtobraidMariam'shair.
MariamsatstillandwatchedLaila's slim fingers in themirror tighten her plaits,Laila's face scrunched inconcentration. Aziza wascurledupasleeponthefloor.Tucked under her armwas adoll Mariam had hand-stitched for her.Mariam hadstuffeditwithbeans,madeita dress with tea-dyed fabric
and a necklace with tinyempty thread spools throughwhichshe'dthreadedastring.
Then Aziza passed gas inher sleep. Laila began tolaugh,andMariam joined in.They laughed like this, ateach other's reflection in themirror,theireyestearing,andthe moment was so natural,so effortless, that suddenlyMariam started telling herabout Jalil, andNana,andthe
jinn. Laila stood with herhands idle on Mariam'sshoulders, eyes locked onMariam's face in the mirror.Out the words came, likebloodgushingfromanartery.Mariam told her about Bibijo, Mullah Faizullah, thehumiliating trek to Jalil'shouse, Nana's suicide. Shetold about Jalil's wives, andthe hurriednikka withRasheed, the trip to Kabul,her pregnancies, the endless
cycles of hope anddisappointment, Rasheed'sturningonher.
After,LailasatatthefootofMariam'schair.Absently,sheremoved a scrap of lintentangled in Aziza's hair. Asilenceensued.
"Ihavesomethingtotellyoutoo,"Lailasaid.
***
Maeiamdid not sleep thatnight.Shesatinbed,watchedthesnowfallingsoundlessly.
Seasonshadcomeandgone;presidents inKabulhadbeeninauguratedandmurdered;anempirehadbeendefeated;oldwarshadendedandnewoneshad broken out. ButMariamhad hardly noticed, hardlycared. She had passed theseyears in a distant corner ofhermindAdry,barren field,
out beyondwish and lament,beyond dream anddisillusionment- There, thefuturedidnotmatter.Andthepast held only this wisdom:that love was a damagingmistake, and its accomplice,hope, a treacherous illusion.And whenever those twinpoisonous flowers began tosprout in theparched landofthat field, Mariam uprootedthem.Sheuprootedthemandditchedthembeforetheytook
hold.
But somehow, over theselastmonths,LailaandAziza-aharami like herself, as itturned out-had becomeextensions of her, and now,withoutthem,thelifeMariamhad tolerated for so longsuddenlyseemedintolerable.
We're leaving this spring,Aziza and I. Come with us,Mariam.
Theyearshadnotbeenkindto Mariam. But perhaps, shethought, there were kinderyearswaitingstill.Anewlife,alifeinwhichshewouldfindthe blessings that Nana hadsaid aharami like her wouldnever see. Two new flowershadunexpectedly sprouted inher life, and, as Mariamwatched the snow comingdown, she pictured MullahFaizullah twirling hisiasbehbeads, leaning in and
whispering to her in his soft,tremulousvoice,ButitisGodWho has planted them,Mariamjo.AnditisHiswillthat you tend to them. It isHiswill,mygirl.
36.
Laila
As daylight steadilybleached darkness from theskythat spring morningof1994,Laila became certainthatRasheedknew.That,anymoment now, hewould drag
her out of bed and askwhether she'd really takenhim for such akhar, such adonkey,thathewouldn'tfindout. Butazan rang out, andthen the morning sun wasfalling flat on the rooftopsandtheroosterswerecrowingand nothing out of theordinaryhappened
She couldhearhimnow inthe bathroom, the tapping ofhis razor against the edge of
the basin. Then downstairs,moving about, heating tea.The keys jingled. Now hewas crossing the yard,walkinghisbicycle.
Lailapeeredthroughacrackin the living-room curtains.Shewatchedhimpedalaway,abigmanonasmallbicycle,the morning sun glaring offthehandlebars.
"Laila?"
Mariamwasinthedoorway.Lailacouldtellthatshehadn'tslept either. Shewondered ifMariam too had been seizedallnightbyboutsofeuphoriaand attacks of mouth-dryinganxiety.
"We'll leave in half anhour,"Lailasaid.
***
In the backseat of the taxi,
theydidnot speak.Aziza saton Mariam's lap, clutchingher doll, looking with wide-eyed puzzlement at the cityspeedingby.
"Ona!"shecried,pointingtoagroupoflittlegirlsskippingrope."Mayam!Ona"
Everywhere she looked,Laila saw Rasheed. Shespotted him coming out ofbarbershops with windows
the color of coal dust, fromtiny booths that soldpartridges, from battered,open-fronted stores packedwitholdtirespiledfromfloortoceiling.
Shesanklowerinherseat.
Beside her, Mariam wasmuttering a prayer. Lailawished she could see herface, but Mariam was inburqa-they both were-and all
she could see was the glitterofhereyesthroughthegrid.
This was Laila's first timeout of the house in weeks,discounting the short trip tothepawnshopthedaybefore-where she had pushed herwedding ring across a glasscounter, where she'd walkedout thrilled by the finality ofit, knowing there was nogoingback.
All around her now, Lailasaw the consequences of therecent fightingwhose soundsshe'd heard from the house.Homes that lay in rooflessruins of brick and jaggedstone, gouged buildings withfallen beams poking throughthe holes, the charred,mangled husks of cars,upended, sometimes stackedon top of each other, wallspocked by holes of everyconceivable caliber, shattered
glass everywhere. She saw afuneral procession marchingtoward a mosque, a black-clad old woman at the reartearing at her hair. Theypassed a cemetery litteredwith rock-piled graves andraggedshaheed flagsflutteringinthebreeze.
Laila reached across thesuitcase,wrapped her fingersaround the softness of herdaughter'sarm.
***
At the Lahore Gate busstation, near Pol MahmoodKhaninEastKabul,arowofbuses sat idling along thecurbside. Men in turbanswere busy heaving bundlesand crates onto bus tops,securing suitcases downwithropes.Insidethestation,menstood in a long line at theticket booth. Burqa-cladwomen stood in groups and
chatted, their belongingspiled at their feet. Babieswere bounced, childrenscoldedforstrayingtoofar.
Mujahideen militiamenpatrolled the station and thecurbside, barking curt ordershere and there. They woreboots,pakols, dusty greenfatigues. They all carriedKalashnikovs.
Laila felt watched. She
lookednooneintheface,butshe felt as though everyperson in this place knew,that they were looking onwith disapproval at what sheandMariamweredoing.
"Do you see anybody?"Lailaasked.
MariamshiftedAzizainherarms."I'mlooking."
This, Laila had known,
would be the first risky part,findingamansuitabletoposewith them as a familymember. The freedoms andopportunitiesthatwomenhadenjoyed between 1978 and1992wereathingofthepastnow- Laila could stillremember Babi saying ofthose years of communistrule,It's a good time to be awoman inAfghanistan,LailaSince the Mujahideentakeover in April 1992,
Afghanistan'snamehadbeenchanged to the Islamic StateofAfghanistan.TheSupremeCourt under Rabbani wasfilled now with hard-linermullahs who did away withthe communist-era decreesthat empowered women andinstead passed rulings basedonShari'a,strictIslamiclawsthatorderedwomentocover,forbade their travelwithoutamale relative, punishedadulterywithstoning.Evenif
the actual enforcement ofthese laws was sporadic atbest.But they'd enforce themonusmore,LailahadsaidtoMariam,if they weren't sobusy killing each other. Andus.
Thesecondriskypartofthistrip would come when theyactually arrived in Pakistan.AlreadyburdenedwithnearlytwomillionAfghanrefugees,Pakistan had closed its
borderstoAfghansinJanuaryof that year. Laila had heardthat only those with visaswould be admitted. But theborder was porous-alwayshadbeen-andLailaknewthatthousands of Afghans werestill crossing into Pakistaneither with bribes or byproving humanitariangrounds- and there werealways smugglers who couldbe hired.We'll find a waywhenweget there,she'dtold
Mariam.
"How about him?"Mariamsaid,motioningwithherchin.
"He doesn't looktrustworthy."
"Andhim?"
"Tooold.Andhe'stravelingwithtwoothermen."
Eventually,Laila found him
sitting outside on a parkbench,withaveiledwomanathis side and a little boy in askullcap,roughlyAziza'sage,bouncing on his knees.Hewastall and slender, bearded,wearinganopen-collaredshirtand a modest gray coat withmissingbuttons.
"Wait here,"she said toMariam. Walking away, sheagain heard Mariammutteringaprayer.
WhenLailaapproached theyoung man, he looked up,shieldedthesunfromhiseyeswithahand.
"Forgive me, brother, butareyougoingtoPeshawar?"
"Yes,"hesaid,squinting.
"Iwonderifyoucanhelpus.Canyoudousafavor?"
He passed the boy to his
wife. He and Laila steppedaway.
"Whatisit,hamshiraT'
Shewas encouraged to seethat he had soft eyes, a kindface.
She told him the story thatshe and Mariam had agreedon.Shewasabiwa,shesaid,awidow. She and her motherand daughter had no oneleft
inKabul.TheyweregoingtoPeshawar to stay with heruncle.
"Youwanttocomewithmyfamily,"theyoungmansaid
"Iknow it'szahmat foryou.But you look like a decentbrother,andI-"
"Don't worry,hamshira Iunderstand. It's no trouble.Let me go and buy your
tickets."
"Thank you, brother. Thisissawab, a good deed. Godwillremember."
She fished the envelopefrom her pocket beneath theburqaandpassedittohim.Init was eleven hundredafghanis,orabouthalfof themoneyshe'dstashedover thepast year plus the sale of thering.Heslippedtheenvelope
inhistrouserpocket.
"Waithere."
Shewatched him enter thestation. He returned half anhourlater.
"It's best I hold on to yourtickets," he said. The busleavesinonehour,ateleven.We'll all board together. Myname is Wakil. If they ask-and they shouldn't-I'll tell
themyou'remycousin."
Lailagavehimtheirnames,and he said he wouldremember.
"Stayclose,"hesaid.
They sat on the benchadjacent to Wakil and hisfamily's. It was a sunny,warm morning, the skystreakedonlybyafewwispyclouds hovering in the
distance over thehills.Mariam began feedingAzizaa few of the crackers she'dremembered to bring in theirrushtopack.SheofferedonetoLaila.
"I'll throwup," Lailalaughed."I'mtooexcited."
"Metoo."
"Thankyou,Mariam."
"Forwhat?"
"For this.For coming withus,"Lailasaid."Idon'tthinkIcoulddothisalone."
"Youwon'thaveto."
"We'regoingtobeallright,aren't we, Mariam, wherewe'regoing?"
Mariam's hand slid acrossthe bench and closed over
hers. "The Koran says Allahis the East and the West,therefore wherever you turnthereisAllah'spurpose."
"Bov!"Azizacried,pointingtoabus."Mayam,bov"
"Iseeit,Azizajo,"Mariamsaid. "That's right,bov. Soonwe're all going to ride onabov. Oh, the things you'regoingtosee."
Lailasmiled.Shewatchedacarpenter in his shop acrossthe street sawing wood,sending chips flying. Shewatchedthecarsboltingpast,their windows coated withsoot and grime. Shewatchedthebusesgrowlingidlyatthecurb, with peacocks, lions,rising suns, and glitteryswordspaintedontheirsides.
In the warmth of themorningsun,Laila feltgiddy
andbold.Shehadanotherofthoselittlesparksofeuphoria,and when a stray dog withyelloweyes limpedby,Lailaleaned forward and pet itsback.
A few minutes beforeeleven,amanwithabullhorncalled for all passengers toPeshawar to begin boarding.Thebusdoorsopenedwithaviolent hydraulic hiss. Aparade of travelers rushed
toward it, scampering pasteach other to squeezethrough.
Wakil motioned towardLailaashepickeduphisson.
"We'regoing,"Lailasaid.
Wakil led theway.As theyapproachedthebus,Lailasawfaces appear in thewindows,noses and palms pressed tothe glass. All around them,
farewellswereyelled.
Ayoungmilitiasoldierwaschecking tickets at the busdoor.
"Bov!"Azxzz.cried.
Wakilhanded tickets to thesoldier,whotoretheminhalfandhandedthemback.Wakillet hiswife board first. Lailasaw a look pass betweenWakil and the militiaman.
Wakil, perched on the firststep of the bus, leaned downandsaidsomethinginhisear.Themilitiamannodded.
Laila'sheartplummeted.
"You two, with the child,stepaside,"thesoldiersaid.
Lailapretendednot tohear.She went to climb the steps,but he grabbed her by theshoulder and roughly pulled
heroutoftheline."Youtoo,"he called to Mariam. "Hurryup! You're holding up theline."
"What's the problem,brother?" Laila said throughnumb lips. "We have tickets.Didn't my cousin hand themtoyou?"
HemadeaShhmotionwithhisfingerandspokeina lowvoice to another guard. The
secondguard,arotundfellowwith a scar down his rightcheek,nodded.
"Followme," this one saidtoLaila.
"Wehavetoboardthisbus,"Laila cried, aware that hervoicewasshaking."Wehavetickets. Why are you doingthis?"
"You'renotgoing togeton
this bus. You might as wellaccept that. You will followme. Unless you want yourlittlegirltoseeyoudragged."
Astheywereledtoatruck,Laila looked over hershoulder and spottedWakil'sboyattherearofthebus.Theboy saw her too and wavedhappily.
***
At the police station atTorabaz Khan Intersection,they were made to sit apart,on opposite ends of a long,crowded corridor, betweenthem a desk, behindwhich aman smoked one cigaretteafter another and clackedoccasionally on a typewriter.Threehours passed thisway.Aziza tottered from Laila toMariam, then back. Sheplayedwith a paper clip thatthemanatthedeskgaveher.
She finished the crackers.Eventually, she fell asleep inMariam'slap.
At around three o'clock,Laila was taken to aninterview room.Mariamwasmade to wait with Aziza inthecorridor.
Themansittingontheotherside of the desk in theinterview room was in histhirties and wore civilian
clothes- black suit, tie, blackloafers. He had a neatlytrimmed beard, short hair,and eyebrows that met. Hestared at Laila, bouncing apencil by the eraser end onthedesk.
"We know," he began,clearing his throat andpolitely covering his mouthwith a fist, "that you havealready told one lietoday,kamshira The young
man at the station was notyour cousin. He told us asmuchhimself.Thequestioniswhether you will tell morelies today. Personally, Iadviseyouagainstit."
"Weweregoingtostaywithmyuncle,"Laila said "That'sthetruth."
The policeman nodded."Thehamshirainthecorridor,she'syourmother?"
"Yes."
"She has a Herati accent.Youdon't."
"Shewas raised inHerat, IwasbornhereinKabul."
"Of course. And you arewidowed? You said youwere. My condolences. Andthis uncle, thiskaka, wheredoeshelive?"
"InPeshawar."
"Yes, you said that." Helicked the point of his penciland poised it over a blanksheetofpaper."ButwhereinPeshawar? Whichneighborhood, please? Streetname,sectornumber."
Laila tried topushbackthebubble of panic that wascoming up her chest. Shegave him the name of the
only street she knew inPeshawar-she'd heard itmentioned once, at the partyMammyhadthrownwhentheMujahideenhadfirstcometoKabul-"JamrudRoad."
"Oh,yes.SamestreetasthePearl Continental Hotel. Hemighthavementionedit."
Lailaseizedthisopportunityand said he had. "That verysamestreet,yes."
"Except the hotel is onKhyberRoad."
Laila could hear Azizacrying in the corridor. "Mydaughter's frightened. May Igether,brother?"
"Iprefer'Officer.'Andyou'llbe with her shortly. Do youhave a telephone number forthisuncle?"
"Ido.Idid.I…"Evenwith
the burqa between them,Laila was not buffered fromhis penetrating eyes. "I'm soupset, I seem to haveforgottenit."
Hesighedthroughhisnose.He asked for the uncle'sname, his wife's name. Howmany children did he have?What were their names?Wheredidhework?Howoldwas he? His questions leftLailaflustered.
He put down his pencil,lacedhisfingerstogether,andleaned forward the wayparentsdowhentheywanttoconvey something to atoddler. "You dorealize,hamshira, that it is acrime for a woman to runaway. We see a lot of it.Women traveling alone,claiming their husbands havedied. Sometimes they'retelling the truth, most timesnot. You can be imprisoned
for running away, I assumeyouunderstandthat,nay1?"
"Let us go,Officer…" Sheread the name on his lapeltag. "Officer Rahman.Honorthe meaning of your nameand show compassion. Whatdoes itmatter to you to let amere twowomengo?What'stheharminreleasingus?Wearenotcriminals."
"Ican't."
"Ibegyou,please."
"It's a matter ofqanoon,hamshira, a matter of law,"Rahman said, injecting hisvoice with a grave, self-important tone. "It is myresponsibility, you see, tomaintainorder."
In spite of her distraughtstate, Laila almost laughed.She was stunned that he'dused thatword in the faceof
all that the Mujahideenfactions had done-themurders, the lootings, therapes, the tortures, theexecutions,thebombings,thetens of thousands of rocketsthey had fired at each other,heedless of all the innocentpeoplewhowould die in thecross fire.Order. But she bithertongue.
"If you send us back," shesaid instead,slowly,"there is
no sayingwhat hewill do tous."
She could see the effort ittook him to keep his eyesfrom shifting. "What a mandoes in his home is hisbusiness."
"What about the law,then,Officer Rahman?" Tears ofrage stung her eyes. "Willyou be there to maintainorder?"
"As amatter of policy,wedo not interfere with privatefamilymatters,hamshira"
"Ofcourseyoudon't.Whenitbenefits theman.And isn'tthis a 'private familymatter,'asyousay?Isn'tit?"
He pushed back from hisdesk and stood up,straightened his jacket. "Ibelieve this interview isfinished.Imustsay,hamshira,
that you have made a verypoor case for yourself. Verypoor indeed. Now, if youwould wait outside I willhave a few words withyour…whoeversheis."
Lailabegan toprotest, thentoyell,andhehadtosummonthehelpof twomoremen tohave her dragged out of hisoffice.
Mariam's interview lasted
only a few minutes. Whenshe came out, she lookedshaken.
"He asked so manyquestions," she said. "I'msorry,Lailajo.Iamnotsmartlike you. He asked so manyquestions, I didn't know theanswers.I'msorry."
"It'snotyourfault,Mariam,"Laila saidweakly. "It'smine.It'sallmyfault.Everythingis
myfault."
***
Itwaspastsixo'clockwhenthe police car pulled up infront of the house. Laila andMariamweremadetowaitinthe backseat, guarded by aMujahid soldier in thepassenger seat. The driverwas the one who got out ofthe car, who knocked on thedoor,who spoke toRasheed.
It was he who motioned forthemtocome.
"Welcome home," themaninthefrontseatsaid,lightingacigarette.
***
"You," he said toMariam."Youwaithere."
Mariam quietly took a seatonthecouch.
"Youtwo,upstairs."
Rasheed grabbed Laila bythe elbowandpushedherupthe steps. He was stillwearingtheshoesheworetowork, hadn't yet changed tohis flip-flops, taken off hiswatch, hadn't even shed hiscoat yet. Laila pictured himashemusthavebeenanhour,or maybe minutes, earlier,rushing from one room toanother, slamming doors,
furious and incredulous,cursingunderhisbreath.
Atthetopofthestairs,Lailaturnedtohim.
"She didn't want to do it,"she said. "I made her do it.Shedidn'twanttogo-"
Laila didn't see the punchcoming.Onemomentshewastalking and the next shewason all fours, wide-eyed and
red-faced, trying to draw abreath. Itwas as if a car hadhit her at full speed, in thetender place between thelower tip of the breastboneand the belly button. Sherealized she had droppedAziza, that Aziza wasscreaming. She tried tobreathe again and could onlymake a husky, chokingsound.Dribblehungfromhermouth.
Thenshewasbeingdraggedby the hair. She saw Azizalifted, saw her sandals slipoff,hertinyfeetkicking.HairwasrippedfromLaila'sscalp,and her eyes watered withpain. She saw his foot kickopen the door to Mariam'sroom, saw Aziza flung ontothe bed. He let go of Laila'shair, and she felt the toe ofhisshoeconnectwithherleftbuttock. She howled withpain as he slammed the door
shut. A key rattled in thelock.
Aziza was still screaming.Laila lay curled up on thefloor, gasping. She pushedherself up on her hands,crawled to where Aziza layon the bed. She reached forherdaughter.
Downstairs, the beatingbegan. To Laila, the soundsshe heard were those of a
methodical, familiarproceeding. There was nocursing, no screaming, nopleading, no surprised yelps,only the systematic businessof beating and being beaten,thethump, thump ofsomething solid repeatedlystriking flesh, something,someone,hittingawallwithathud, cloth ripping.Nowandthen, Laila heard runningfootsteps, a wordless chase,furniture turning over, glass
shattering, then the thumpingoncemore.
Laila took Aziza in herarms.Awarmthspreaddownthe front of her dress whenAziza'sbladderletgo.
Downstairs,therunningandchasing finally stopped.Therewasasoundnowlikeawooden club repeatedlyslappingasideofbeef.
LailarockedAzizauntilthesounds stopped, and, whenshe heard the screen doorcreakopenandslamshut,shelowered Aziza to the groundand peeked out the window.She saw Rasheed leadingMariam across the yard bythenapeofherneck.Mariamwas barefoot and doubledover.Therewasbloodonhishands, blood on Mariam'sface,herhair,downherneckandback.Her shirt had been
rippeddownthefront.
"I'm so sorry, Mariam,"Lailacriedintotheglass.
She watched him shoveMariamintothetoolshed.Hewent in, came out with ahammer and several longplanks of wood. He shut thedoubledoorstotheshed,tooka key from his pocket,worked the padlock. Hetested the doors, then went
around the back of the shedandfetchedaladder.
Afewminuteslater,hisfacewas in Laila's window, nailstucked in the comer of hismouth. His hair wasdisheveled. There was aswath of blood on his brow.At the sight of him, Azizashrieked and buried her faceinLaila'sarmpit.
Rasheed began nailing
boardsacrossthewindow.
***
The dark was total,impenetrable and constant,without layer or texture.Rasheedhadfilledthecracksbetween the boards withsomething, put a large andimmovable object at the footof the door so no light camefromunderit.Somethinghadbeenstuffedinthekeyhole.
Lailafoundit impossible totell the passage of time withher eyes, so she did it withher good ear.Azan andcrowing roosters signaledmorning. The sounds ofplatesclankinginthekitchendownstairs,theradioplaying,meantevening.
The first day, they gropedandfumbledforeachotherinthe dark. Laila couldn't seeAziza when she cried, when
shewentcrawling.
"Aishee,"Azizamewled."Aishee."
"Soon." Laila kissed herdaughter, aiming for theforehead, finding the crownof her head instead. "We'llhavemilk soon. You just bepatient. Be a good, patientlittlegirlforMammy,andI'llgetyousomeaishee."
Lailasangherafewsongs.
Azanrangoutasecondtimeand still Rasheed had notgiven them any food, and,worse, nowater. That day, athick,suffocatingheatfellonthem.Theroomturnedintoapressure cooker. Lailadraggedadrytongueoverherlips, thinking of the welloutside, the water cold andfresh.Aziza kept crying, andLaila noticedwith alarm that
when she wiped her cheeksherhandscamebackdry.ShestrippedtheclothesoffAziza,triedtofindsomethingtofanher with, settled for blowingonheruntilshebecamelight-headed. Soon, Aziza stoppedcrawling around. She slippedinandoutofsleep.
Severaltimesthatday,Lailabanged her fists against thewalls, used up her energyscreaming for help, hoping
that a neighbor would hear.But no one came, and hershrieking only frightenedAziza, who began to cryagain, a weak, croakingsound. Laila slid to theground. She thought guiltilyof Mariam, beaten andbloodied, locked in this heatinthetoolshed.
Laila fell asleep at somepoint,herbodybaking in theheat. She had a dream that
she and Aziza had run intoTariq. He was across acrowded street from them,beneath the awning of atailor's shop. He was sittingonhishaunchesandsamplingfrom a crate of figs.That'syour father, Laila said.Thatmanthere,youseehim?He'syourrealbaba.Shecalledhisname, but the street noisedrownedhervoice,andTariqdidn'thear.
She woke up to thewhistlingofrocketsstreakingoverhead. Somewhere, thesky she couldn't see eruptedwith blasts and the long,frantic hammering ofmachine-gun fire. Lailaclosed her eyes. She wokeagain to Rasheed's heavyfootsteps in the hallway. Shedragged herself to the door,slappedherpalmsagainstit.
"Just one glass, Rasheed.
Notforme.Doitforher.Youdon'twantherbloodonyourhands." He walked past-Shebegantopleadwithhim.Shebeggedforforgiveness,madepromises. She cursed him.His door closed. The radiocameon.
The muezzin calledazan athird time. Again the heat.Aziza became even morelistless. She stopped crying,stoppedmovingaltogether.
Laila put her ear overAziza'smouth,dreadingeachtime that shewould not hearthe shallow whooshing ofbreath. Even this simple actof lifting herself made herhead swim. She fell asleep,had dreams she could notremember. When she wokeup,shecheckedonAziza,felttheparchedcracksofherlips,thefaintpulseatherneck,laydown again. Theywould diehere, of that Laila was sure
now, but what she reallydreaded was that she wouldoutlastAziza,whowasyoungand brittle. How much morecould Aziza take? Azizawould die in this heat, andLailawouldhavetoliebesideher stiffening little body andwaitforherowndeath.Againshefellasleep.Wokeup.Fellasleep. The line betweendream and wakefulnessblurred.
Itwasn'troostersorazanthatwoke her up again but thesound of something heavybeing dragged. She heard arattling- Suddenly, the roomwas flooded with light. Hereyes screamed in protest.Lailaraisedherhead,winced,and shielded her eyes.Through the cracks betweenher fingers, she saw a big,blurrysilhouettestandinginarectangle of light. Thesilhouette moved. Now there
wasashapecrouchingbesideher, looming over her, and avoicebyherear.
"You try this again and Iwill find you. I swear on theProphet'snamethatIwillfindyou. And, when I do, thereisn't a court in thisgodforsakencountry thatwillholdmeaccountableforwhatI will do. To Mariam first,then to her, and you last. I'llmake you watch. You
understand me?I'll make youwatch."
And, with that, he left theroom. But not beforedeliveringakick to the flankthatwouldhaveLailapissingbloodfordays.
37.
MadamSEPTEMBER1996
Iwo and a half years later,Mariam awoke on themorning of September 27 tothesoundsofshoutingand
whistling, firecrackers and
music. She ran to the livingroom, found Laila already atthe window, Aziza mountedonhershoulders.Lailaturnedandsmiled.
"TheTalibanarehere," shesaid.
***
Mariam had first heard oftheTaliban twoyearsbefore,in October 1994, when
Rasheed had brought homenews that they hadoverthrown the warlords inKandahar and taken the city.They were a guerrilla force,he said, made up of youngPashtun men whose familieshad fled to Pakistan duringthe war against the Soviets.Most of them had beenraised-some even born-inrefugee camps along thePakistani border, and inPakistani madrasas, where
they were schooled inShari'abymullahs.Their leaderwasa mysterious, illiterate, one-eyed recluse named MullahOmar, who, Rasheed saidwithsomeamusement,calledhimselfAmeer-ul-MumineenyLeaderoftheFaithful.
"It's true that these boyshave norisha, no roots,"Rasheed said, addressingneither Mariam nor Laila.Ever since the failed escape,
two and a half years ago,Mariam knew that she andLailahadbecomeoneandthesame being to him, equallywretched, equally deservingofhisdistrust,hisdisdainanddisregard. When he spoke,Mariamhadthesensethathewas having a conversationwith himself, or with someinvisible presence in theroom, who, unlike her andLaila, was worthy of hisopinions.
"Theymayhavenopast,"hesaid,smokingandlookingupat the ceiling. "They mayknownothingoftheworldorthis country's history. Yes.And, compared to them,Mariamheremightaswellbea university professor. Ha!All
true. But look around you.What do you see? Corrupt,greedy Mujahideencommanders, armed to the
teeth, rich off heroin,declaring jihad on oneanother and killing everyonein between-that's what. AtleasttheTalibanarepureandincorruptible.At least they'redecent Muslim boys.Wallah,when they come, they willclean up this place. They'llbringpeaceandorder.Peoplewon'tgetshotanymoregoingout for milk. No morerockets!Thinkofit."
For two years now, theTaliban had been makingtheir way toward Kabul,taking cities from theMujahideen, ending factionalwar wherever they'd settled.TheyhadcapturedtheHazaracommanderAbdulAliMazariand executed him. Formonths, they'd settled in thesouthern outskirts of Kabul,firingonthecity,exchangingrockets with Ahmad ShahMassoud. Earlier in that
September of 1996, they hadcaptured the cities ofJalalabadandSarobi.
The Taliban had one thingthe Mujahideen did not,Rasheed said. They wereunited.
"Let them come," he said."I, forone,will shower themwithrosepetals."
***
They"wentourthatday,thefourofthem,Rasheedleadingthem from one bus to thenext,togreettheirnewworld,their new leaders. In everybattered neighborhood,Mariam found peoplematerializing from the rubbleand moving into the streets.She saw an old womanwasting handfuls of rice,tossing it at passersby, adrooping, toothless smile onher face. Two men were
hugging by the remains of agutted building, in the skyabove them thewhistle, hiss,andpopofafewfirecrackersset off by boys perched onrooftops.Thenationalanthemplayed on cassette decks,competing with the honkingofcars.
"Look, Mayam!" Azizapointed to a group of boysrunning down JadehMaywand. They were
pounding their fists into theair and dragging rusty canstied to strings. They wereyelling that Massoud andRabbanihadwithdrawn fromKabul.
Everywhere, there wereshouts:Ailah-u-akbar!
Mariam saw a bedsheethanging from a window onJadeh Maywand. On it,someone had painted three
words in big, black letters:zendabaad taliban! Long livetheTaliban!
As theywalked the streets,Mariam spotted more signs-paintedonwindows,nailedtodoors, billowing from carantennas-that proclaimed thesame.
***
Mariam sawher first of the
Taliban later that day, atPashtunistan Square, withRasheed,Laila,andAziza.Ameleeofpeoplehadgatheredthere. Mariam saw peoplecraning their necks, peoplecrowded around the bluefountain in the center of thesquare,peopleperchedon itsdry bed.Theywere trying toget a view of the end of thesquare, near the old KhyberRestaurant.
Rasheed used his size topush and shove past theonlookers, and led them towheresomeonewasspeakingthroughaloudspeaker.
WhenAzizasaw,sheletouta shriek and buried her faceinMariam'sburqa.
The loudspeaker voicebelonged to a slender,bearded young man whowore a black turban.Hewas
standing on some sort ofmakeshift scaffolding. In hisfree hand, he held a rocketlauncher. Beside him, twobloodied men hung fromropes tied to traffic-lightposts.Their clotheshadbeenshredded.Theirbloatedfaceshadturnedpurple-blue.
"Iknowhim,"Mariamsaid,"theoneontheleft."
Ayoungwomaninfrontof
Mariam turned around andsaid it was Najibullah. Theother man was his brother.Mariam rememberedNajibullah's plump,mustachioed face, beamingfrombillboardsandstorefrontwindows during the Sovietyears.
ShewouldlaterhearthattheTaliban had draggedNajibullahfromhissanctuaryat the UN headquarters near
Darulaman Palace. That theyhad tortured him for hours,then tied his legs to a truckanddraggedhis lifelessbodythroughthestreets.
"He killed many, manyMuslims!" the young Talibwas shouting through theloudspeaker. He spoke Farsiwith a Pashto accent, thenwould switch to Pashto. Hepunctuated his words bypointing to the corpses with
his weapon. "His crimes areknowntoeverybody.Hewasa communist and akqfir Thisis what we do with infidelswho commit crimes againstIslam!"
Rasheedwassmirking.
In Mariam's arms, Azizabegantocry.
***
The following day, Kabulwas overrun by trucks. InKhair khana, in Shar-e-Nau,in Karteh-Parwan, in WazirAkbarKhanandTaimani,redToyota trucks weavedthrough the streets. Armedbeardedmeninblackturbanssat in their beds. From eachtruck, a loudspeaker blaredannouncements,firstinFarsi,then Pashto. The samemessage played fromloudspeakers perched atop
mosques, and on the radio,whichwasnowknownastheVoice ofShort 'a. Themessage was also written inflyers, tossed into the streets.Mariam found one in theyard.
Ourwatanis now known asthe Islamic Emirate ofAfghanistan. These are thelawsthatwewillenforceandyouwillobey:
Ail citizensmust pray fivetimes a day. If it is prayertime and you are caughtdoing something other, youwillbebeaten.
Ail men will grow theirbeards. The correct length isat least one clenched fistbeneath the chin. If you donotabidebythis,youwillbebeaten.
Ml boyswillwear turbans.
Boysingradeonethroughsixwill wear black turbans,higher grades will wearwhite. Ail boys will wearIslamic clothes. Shirt collarswillbebuttoned.
Singingisforbidden.
Dancingisforbidden.
Playingcards,playingchess,gambling, and kiteflying areforbidden.
Writing books, watchingfilms, and painting picturesareforbidden.
If you keep parakeets, youwill be beaten. Your birdswillbekilled.
Ifyousteal,yourhandwillbecutoffat thewrist. Ifyousteal again, your footwill becutoff.
If you are not Muslim, do
notworshipwhereyoucanbeseen byMuslims. If you do,you will be beaten andimprisoned.IfyouarecaughttryingtoconvertaMuslimtoyour faith, you will beexecuted.
Attentionwomen:
You will stay inside yourhomes at all times. It is notproper for women to wanderaimlesslyabout thestreets. If
you go outside, youmust beaccompanied by amahram,amale relative. If you arecaught alone on the street,you will be beaten and senthome.
You will not, under anycircumstance, show yourface. You will cover withburqawhenoutside.Ifyoudonot, you will be severelybeaten.
Cosmeticsareforbidden.
Jewelryisforbidden.
Youwillnotwearcharmingclothes.
You will not speak unlessspokento.
You will not make eyecontactwithmen.
Youwillnotlaughinpublic.
Ifyoudo,youwillbebeaten.
You will not paint yournails.Ifyoudo,youwillloseafinger.
Girls are forbidden fromattending school All schoolsfor girls will be closedimmediately.
Womenare forbidden fromworking.
If you are found guilty ofadultery, you will be stonedtodeath
Listen. Listen well.Obey.Allah-u-akbar.
Rasheed turned off theradio. They were sitting onthe living-room floor, eatingdinner less than aweek afterthey'd seen Najibullah'scorpsehangingbyarope.
"They can't make half thepopulation stayhomeanddonothing,"Lailasaid.
"Why not?" Rasheed said.For once, Mariam agreedwithhim.He'ddonethesametoherandLaila,ineffect,hadhenot?SurelyLailasawthat.
"This isn't some village.This isKabul. Women hereused to practice law andmedicine; they held office in
the
government-"
Rasheed grinned. "Spokenlikethearrogantdaughterofapoetry-reading universityman that you are. Howurbane, how Tajik, of you.You think this is some new,radical idea the Taliban arebringing? Have you everlivedoutsideofyourpreciouslittle shell in Kabul, mygull
Ever cared to visit therealAfghanistan, the south, theeast, along the tribal borderwith Pakistan? No? I have.And I can tell you that thereare many places in thiscountry that have alwayslived this way, or closeenoughanyhow.Notthatyouwouldknow."
"Irefusetobelieveit,"Lailasaid"They'renotserious."
"What the Taliban did toNajibullah looked serious tome,"Rasheedsaid."Wouldn'tyouagree?"
"He was a communist! Hewas the head of the SecretPolice."
Rasheedlaughed.
Mariamheardtheanswerinhis laugh: that in the eyes ofthe Taliban, being a
communist and the leader ofthe dreaded KHAD madeNajibullah onlyslightly morecontemptiblethanawoman.
38.
Laila
JLaila was glad, when theTaliban went to work, thatBabiwasn'taroundtowitnessit. It would have crippledhim.
Men wielding pickaxesswarmed the dilapidatedKabulMuseum and smashedpre-Islamic statues to rubble-that is, those that hadn'talready been looted by theMujahideen. The universitywas shut down and itsstudentssenthome.Paintingswere ripped from walls,shredded with blades.Television screens werekicked in. Books, except theKoran,wereburnedinheaps,
the stores that sold themclosed down. The poems ofKhalili, Pajwak,Ansari, HajiDehqan, Ashraqi, Beytaab,Hafez, Jami, Nizami, Rumi,Khayyam, Beydel, and morewentupinsmoke.
Laila heard of men beingdragged from the streets,accused of skippingnamaz,andshovedintomosques.Shelearned that Marco PoloRestaurant, near Chicken
Street, had been turned intoan interrogation center.Sometimes screaming washeard from behind its black-painted windows.Everywhere,theBeardPatrolroamed the streets in Toyotatrucks on the lookout forclean-shavenfacestobloody.
Theyshutdownthecinemastoo. Cinema Park. Ariana.Aryub. Projection roomswere ransacked and reels of
films set to fire. Lailarememberedall thetimessheand Tariq had sat in thosetheaters and watched Hindifilms, all thosemelodramatictales of lovers separated bysome tragic turn of fate, oneadrift in some faraway land,the other forced intomarriage, the weeping, thesinginginfieldsofmarigolds,the longing for reunions.Sheremembered how Tariqwouldlaughatherforcrying
atthosefilms.
"Iwonderwhatthey'vedoneto my father's cinema,"Mariam said to her one day."Ifit'sstillthere,thatis.Orifhestillownsit."
Kharabat, Kabul's ancientmusic ghetto, was silenced.Musicians were beaten andimprisoned,theirrubab%›iamboura%› andharmoniums trampled upon.
TheTalibanwenttothegraveof Tariq's favorite singer,Ahmad Zahir, and firedbulletsintoit.
"He's been dead for almosttwenty years," Laila said toMariam. "Isn't dying onceenough?"
***
Rasheed wasnt botheredmuch by the Taliban. All he
had to dowas grow a beard,which he did, and visit themosque, which he also did.RasheedregardedtheTalibanwith a forgiving, affectionatekind of bemusement, as onemightregardanerraticcousinpronetounpredictableactsofhilarityandscandal.
Every Wednesday night,RasheedlistenedtotheVoiceofShari'a when the Talibanwouldannouncethenamesof
those scheduled forpunishment. Then, onFridays, he went to GhaziStadium,boughtaPepsi,andwatchedthespectacle.Inbed,he made Laila listen as hedescribedwithaqueersortofexhilaration the hands he'dseensevered,thelashings,thehangings,thebeheadings.
"I sawaman today slit thethroat of his brother'smurderer,"he saidonenight,
blowinghalosofsmoke.
"They're savages," Lailasaid.
"You think?" he said"Compared to what? TheSoviets killed a millionpeople. Do you know howmany people theMujahideenkilled in Kabul alone theselast four years? FiftythousandFifty thousand! Is itsoinsensible,bycomparison,
to chop the hands off a fewthieves?Eyeforaneye,toothfor a tooth. It's in theKoran.Besides, tell me this: Ifsomeone killed Aziza,wouldn'tyouwantthechancetoavengeher?"
Laila shot him a disgustedlook.
"I'm making a point," hesaid.
"You'rejustlikethem."
"It'saninterestingeyecolorshe has, Aziza. Don't youthink? It's neither yours normine."
Rasheed rolledover to faceher, gently scratched herthighwiththecrookednailofhisindexfinger.
"Let me explain," he said."If the fancy should strike
me-andI'mnotsayingitwill,but it could, it could-Iwouldbe within my rights to giveAzizaaway.Howwouldyoulikethat?OrIcouldgototheTalibanoneday, justwalkinand say that I have mysuspicions about you. That'sallitwouldtake.Whoseworddo you think they wouldbelieve? What do you thinkthey'ddotoyou?"
Laila pulledher thigh from
him.
"Not thatIwould,"hesaid."I wouldn't.Nay. Probablynot.Youknowme."
"You're despicable," Lailasaid.
"That's a big word,"Rasheed said. "I've alwaysdisliked thataboutyou.Evenwhen you were little, whenyou were running around
withthatcripple,youthoughtyouweresoclever,withyourbooksandpoems.Whatgoodare all your smarts to younow?What'skeepingyouoffthe streets, your smarts orme? I'mdespicable?Half thewomeninthiscitywouldkillto have a husband like me.Theywouldkillforit."
He rolled back and blewsmoketowardtheceiling.
"You like big words? I'llgive you one: perspective.That's what I'm doing here,Laila.Making sure you don'tloseperspective."
WhatturnedLaila'sstomachthe rest of thenightwas thatevery word Rasheed haduttered, every last one, wastrue.
But,inthemorning,andforseveral mornings after that,
the queasiness in her gutpersisted, then worsened,became somethingdismayinglyfamiliar.
***
Onecold,overcastafternoonsoon after, Laila lay on herback on the bedroom floor.Mariam was napping withAzizainherroom.
InLaila'shandswasametal
spokeshehadsnappedwithapair of pliers from anabandoned bicycle wheelShe'd found it in the samealley where she had kissedTariq years back. For a longtime, Laila lay on the floor,suckingair throughherteeth,legsparted
She'dadoredAzizafromthemoment when she'd firstsuspected her existence.There had been none of this
self-doubt, this uncertainty.What a terrible thing it was,Laila thought now, for amother to fear that she couldnotsummonloveforherownchild. What an unnaturalthing. And yet she had towonder, as she lay on thefloor, her sweaty handspoised to guide the spoke, ifindeed she could ever loveRasheed's child as she hadTariq's.
Intheend,Lailacouldn'tdoit.
Itwasn'tthefearofbleedingto death that made her dropthe spoke, or even the ideathat the act was damnable-which she suspected it was.Laila dropped the spokebecause she could not acceptwhat the Mujahideen readilyhad: that sometimes in warinnocent lifehadtobetaken.HerwarwasagainstRasheed.
Thebabywasblameless.Andtherehadbeenenoughkillingalready. Laila had seenenough killing of innocentscaught in the cross fire ofenemies.
39.
MadamSeptember1997
Ihishospitalnolongertreatswomen," the guard barked.Hewasstandingatthetopofthe stairs, lookingdown icilyon the crowd gathered infrontofMalalaiHospital.
A loudgroanrosefromthecrowd.
"But this is a women'shospital!" a woman shoutedbehind Mariam. Cries ofapprovalfollowedthis.
Mariam shiftedAziza fromonearmtotheother.Withherfreearm,shesupportedLaila,who was moaning, and hadher own arm flung aroundRasheed'sneck.
"Not anymore," the Talibsaid.
"Mywifeishavingababy!"a heavyset man yelled."Would you have her givebirth here on the street,brother?"
Mariam had heard theannouncement, in January ofthat year, that men andwomen would be seen indifferent hospitals, that all
female staff would bedischarged from Kabul'shospitals and sent towork inone central facility. No onehad believed it, and theTaliban hadn't enforced thepolicy.Untilnow.
"What about Ali AbaciHospital?"anothermancried.
Theguardshookhishead.
"WazirAkbarKhan?"
"Menonly,"hesaid.
"What are we supposed todo?"
"Go to Rabia Balkhi," theguardsaid.
A young woman pushedforward,saidshehadalreadybeenthere.Theyhadnocleanwater, she said, no oxygen,nomedications,noelectricity."Thereisnothingthere."
"That's where you go," theguardsaid.
Thereweremoregroansandcries, an insult or two.Someonethrewarock.
The Talib lifted hisKalashnikovandfiredroundsinto the air. Another Talibbehind him brandished awhip.
The crowd dispersed
quickly.
***
Thewaiting room atRabiaBalkhi was teeming withwomen in burqas and theirchildren. The air stank ofsweat and unwashed bodies,of feet, urine, cigarettesmoke, and antiseptic.Beneath the idle ceiling fan,children chased each other,hopping over the stretched-
outlegsofdozingfathers.
Mariam helped Laila sitagainst a wall from whichpatchesofplastershapedlikeforeigncountrieshad slidoffLaila rocked back and forth,hands pressing against herbelly.
"I'llgetyouseen,Lailajo.Ipromise."
"Bequick,"saidRasheed.
Before the registrationwindow was a horde ofwomen, shovingandpushingagainst each other. Somewere still holding theirbabies. Some broke from themass and charged the doubledoorsthatledtothetreatmentrooms.AnarmedTalibguardblocked theirway, sent themback.
Mariamwaded in. She dugin her heels and burrowed
against the elbows, hips, andshoulder blades of strangers.Someone elbowed her in theribs,andsheelbowedback.Ahandmadeadesperategrabatherface.Sheswatteditaway.To propel herself forward,Mariam clawed at necks, atarmsandelbows,athair,and,whenawomannearbyhissed,Mariamhissedback.
Mariam saw now thesacrifices a mother made.
Decency was but one. Shethought ruefully of Nana, ofthesacrificesthatshetoohadmade.Nana,whocouldhavegivenheraway,ortossedherinaditchsomewhereandrun.Butshehadn't. Instead,Nanahad endured the shame ofbearing aharami, had shapedher life around the thanklesstaskofraisingMariamand,inher own way, of loving her.And, in theend,Mariamhadchosen Jalil over her.As she
fought her way withimpudent resolve to the frontof themelee,Mariamwishedshe had been a betterdaughtertoNana.Shewishedshe'd understood then whatshe understood now aboutmotherhood-She foundherself face-to-face with anurse,whowascoveredheadto toe in a dirty gray burqa.The nurse was talking to ayoung woman, whose burqaheadpiecehadsoakedthrough
withapatchofmattedblood
"Mydaughter'swaterbrokeand the baby won't come,"Mariamcalled.
"I'mtalking to her!" thebloodied youngwoman cried"Waityourturn!"
The whole mass of themswayed side to side, like thetall grass around thekolbawhenthebreezesweptacross
theclearing.AwomanbehindMariam was yelling that hergirl had broken her elbowfalling from a tree. Anotherwoman cried that she waspassingbloodystools.
"Doesshehaveafever?"thenurseasked.IttookMariamamoment to realize she wasbeingspokento.
"No,"Mariamsaid.
Bleeding?
"No."
"Whereisshe?"
Over the covered heads,Mariam pointed to whereLaila was sitting withRasheed.
"We'llgettoher,"thenursesaid
"How long?"Mariam criedSomeonehadgrabbedherbytheshouldersandwaspullingherback.
"I don't know,"the nursesaid. She said they had onlytwo doctorsand both wereoperatingatthemoment.
"She's in pain," Mariamsaid.
"Me too!" thewomanwith
the bloodied scalp cried."Waityourturn!"
Mariamwas being draggedback. Her view of the nursewas blocked now byshoulders and the backs ofheads. She smelled a baby'smilkyburp.
"Take her for awalk," thenurseyelled."Andwait."
***
Itwas dark outsidewhen anurse finally called them in.The delivery room had eightbeds, on which womenmoanedandtwistedtendedtobyfullycoverednurses.Twoofthewomenwereintheactof delivering. There were nocurtains between the beds.Lailawas given a bed at thefar end, beneath a windowthat someone had paintedblack. There was a sinknearby, cracked and dry, and
a string over the sink fromwhich hung stained surgicalgloves. In the middle of theroom Mariam saw analuminumtable.Thetopshelfhadasoot-coloredblanketonit; the bottom shelf wasempty.
One of the women sawMariamlooking.
"They put the live ones onthetop,"shesaidtiredly.
The doctor, in a dark blueburqa, was a small, harriedwoman with birdlikemovements. Everything shesaid came out soundingimpatient,urgent.
"Firstbaby."Shesaiditlikethat,notasaquestionbutasastatement.
"Second,"Mariamsaid.
Lailaletoutacryandrolled
on her side. Her fingersclosedagainstMariam's.
"Anyproblemswiththefirstdelivery?"
'No.
"You'rethemother?"
"Yes,"Mariamsaid.
The doctor lifted the lowerhalf of her burqa and
produced a metallic, cone-shapedinstrument-SheraisedLaila's burqa and placed thewideendoftheinstrumentonher belly, the narrow end toherownear.Shelistenedfor
almost a minute, switchedspots, listened again,switchedspotsagain.
"I have to feel the babynow,hamshira"
Sheputononeofthegloveshungbyaclothespinoverthesink. She pushed on Laila'sbelly with one hand and slidthe other inside. Lailawhimpered.When the doctorwasdone,shegavetheglovetoanurse,whorinseditand
pinneditbackonthestring.
"Your daughter needs acaesarian.Doyouknowwhatthat is?Wehave toopenher
womband take thebabyout,because it is in the breechposition."
"I don't understand,"Mariamsaid.
The doctor said the babywaspositionedso itwouldn'tcome out on its own. "Andtoomuch time has passed asis. We need to go to theoperatingroomnow."
Lailagaveagrimacingnod,and her head drooped to oneside.
"ThereissomethingIhavetotellyou,"thedoctorsaid.Shemoved closer to Mariam,leaned in, and spoke in alower,moreconfidentialtone.There was a hint ofembarrassment in her voicenow.
"Whatisshesaying?"Laila
groaned."Issomethingwrongwiththebaby?"
"Buthowwillshestandit?"Mariamsaid.
Thedoctormusthaveheardaccusation in this question,judgingbythedefensiveshiftinhertone.
"You think I want it thisway?"shesaid."Whatdoyouwant me to do? They won't
giveme what I need. I haveno X-ray either, no suction,no oxygen, not even simpleantibiotics.WhenNGOsoffermoney,theTalibanturnthemaway. Or they funnel themoneytotheplacesthatcatertomen."
"But, Doctor sahib, isn'ttheresomethingyoucangiveher?"Mariamasked.
"What's going on?" Laila
moaned.
"Youcanbuy themedicineyourself,but-"
"Write the name," Mariamsaid. "Youwrite itdownandI'llgetit."
Beneath the burqa, thedoctorshookherheadcurtly."There is no time," she said."For one thing, none of thenearbypharmacieshaveit.So
you'd have to fight throughtraffic from one place to thenext, maybe all the wayacross town, with littlelikelihoodthatyou'deverfindit. It's almost eight-thirtynow, so you'll probably getarrested for breaking curfew.Even if you find themedicine, chances are youcan't afford it. Or you'll findyourselfinabiddingwarwithsomeone just as desperate.There is no time. This baby
needstocomeoutnow."
"Tellmewhat's going on!"Laila said She had proppedherselfuponherelbows.
The doctor took a breath,then told Laila that thehospitalhadnoanesthetic.
"But if we delay, you willloseyourbaby."
"Then cut me open," Laila
said.Shedroppedbackonthebed and drew up her knees."Cut me open and give memybaby."
***
Inside the old, dingyoperating room, Laila lay ona gurney bed as the doctorscrubbedherhandsinabasin.Lailawasshivering.Shedrewinair throughherteetheverytime the nurse wiped her
bellywithaclothsoakedinayellow-brownliquid.Anothernurse stood at the door. Shekeptcrackingitopentotakeapeekoutside.
The doctor was out of herburqa now, andMariam sawthatshehadacrestofsilveryhair, heavy-lidded eyes, andlittlepouchesoffatigueatthecornersofhermouth.
"Theywantustooperatein
burqa," the doctor explained,motioning with her head tothe nurse at the door. "Shekeeps watch. She sees themcoming;Icover."
Shesaidthisinapragmatic,almost indifferent, tone, andMariam understood that thiswas a woman far pastoutrage. Here was a woman,she thought, who hadunderstoodthatshewasluckytoevenbeworking,thatthere
was always something,something else, that theycouldtakeaway.
There were two vertical,metallicrodsoneithersideofLaila's shoulders. Withclothespins, the nurse who'dcleansed Laila's belly pinneda sheet to them. It formed acurtainbetweenLailaandthedoctor.
Mariam positioned herself
behind the crown of Laila'sheadandloweredherfacesotheir cheeks touched. Shecould feel Laila's teethrattling. Their hands lockedtogether.
Through the curtain,Mariam saw the doctor'sshadow move to Laila's left,the nurse to the right. Laila'slipshadstretchedall thewayback. Spit bubbles formedandpoppedon thesurfaceof
herclenched teeth.Shemadequick,littlehissingsounds.
The doctor said, "Takeheart,littlesister."
ShebentoverLaila.
Laila's eyes snapped open.Then hermouth opened. Sheheld like this, held, held,shivering, the cords in herneck stretched, sweatdripping from her face, her
fingerscrushingMariam's.
Mariam would alwaysadmire Laila for how muchtime passed before shescreamed.
40.
LailaFall1999
ItwasMariam's idea todigthe hole. One morning, shepointed to a patch of soilbehindthetoolshed."Wecando ithere,"shesaid."This isagoodspot"
Theytookturnsstrikingtheground with a spade, thenshovelingtheloosedirtaside.Theyhadn'tplannedonabighole, or a deep one, so thework of digging shouldn'thavebeenasdemandingasitturnedout.Itwasthedrought,started in 1998, in its secondyear now, thatwaswreakinghavoc everywhere. It hadhardly snowed that pastwinter and didn't rain at allthat spring. All over the
country,farmerswereleavingbehind their parched lands,selling off their goods,roaming from village tovillage looking for water.They moved to Pakistan orIran. They settled in Kabul.Butwater tableswere low inthe city too, and the shallowwellshaddriedup.The linesat the deep wells were solong, Laila and Mariamwould spend hours waitingtheir turn. The Kabul River,
without its yearly springfloods, had turned bone-dry.It was a public toilet now,nothinginitbuthumanwasteandrubble.
So they kept swinging thespade and striking, but thesun-blistered ground hadhardened like a rock, thedirtunyielding, compressed,almostpetrified.
Mariamwasfortynow.Her
hair,rolledupaboveherface,hadafewstripesofgrayinit.Pouches sagged beneath hereyes, brown and crescent-shaped. She'd lost two frontteeth. One fell out, the otherRasheed knocked out whenshe'd accidentally droppedZalmai. Her skin hadcoarsened,tannedfromallthetime they were spending inthe yardsitting beneath thebrazen sun. They would sitand watch Zalmai chase
Aziza.
Whenitwasdone,whentheholewasdug,theystoodoveritandlookeddown.
"Itshoulddo,"Mariamsaid.
***
Zalmaiwastwonow.Hewasa plump little boywith curlyhair. He had smallbrownisheyes,anda rosy tint
tohischeeks,likeRasheed,nomattertheweather.Hehadhisfather'shairline too, thick andhalf-moon-shaped,set low onhisbrow.
WhenLailawasalonewithhim,Zalmaiwassweet,good-humored, and playful. Heliked to climbLaila'sshoulders, play hide-and-seekintheyardwithherand Aziza. Sometimes, inhiscalmer moments, he liked
tosit on Laila's lap and haveher sing tohim. His favoritesong was "MullahMohammad Jan." He swunghis meaty little feet as shesang into his curly hair andjoinedinwhenshegot to thechorus, singing what wordshecouldmakewithhisraspyvoice:
Comeandlei'sgotoMazar,Mullah Mohammadjan, Tosee the fields of tulips, o
belovedcompanion.
LailalovedthemoistkissesZalmaiplantedonhercheeks,lovedhisdimpledelbowsandstout little toes. She lovedticklinghim,buildingtunnelswithcushionsandpillowsforhim to crawl through,watching him fall asleep inher arms with one of hishands always clutching herear.Herstomachturnedwhenshethoughtofthatafternoon,
lying on the floor with thespoke of a bicycle wheelbetween her legs.How closeshe'd come. It wasunthinkable to her now thatshe could have evenentertained the idea.Her sonwasablessing,andLailawasrelieved to discover that herfears had proved baseless,that she loved Zalmai withthemarrowofherbones,justasshedidAziza.
But Zalmaiworshipped hisfather, and, because he did,hewas transformedwhenhisfatherwas around to dote onhim. Zalmai was quick thenwith a defiant cackle or animpudent grin. In his father'spresence, he was easilyoffended. He held grudges.He persisted in mischief inspite of Laila's scolding,which he never did whenRasheedwasaway.
Rasheed approved of all ofit."Asignofintelligence,"hesaid. He said the same ofZalmai's recklessness-whenhe swallowed, then pooped,marbles;whenhelitmatches;when he chewed onRasheed'scigarettes.
When Zalmai was born,RasheedhadmovedhimintothebedhesharedwithLaila.He had bought him a newcrib and had lions and
crouchingleopardspaintedonthesidepanels.He'dpaidfornewclothes,newrattles,newbottles, new diapers, eventhough they could not affordthem and Aziza's old oneswere still serviceable. Oneday, he came home with abattery-runmobile,which hehung over Zalmai's crib.Little yellow-and-blackbumblebees dangled from asunflower, and they crinkledandsqueakedwhensqueezed.
A tune played when it wasturnedon.
"Ithoughtyousaidbusinesswasslow,"Lailasaid.
"I have friends I canborrowfrom," hesaiddismissively.
"Howwill you pay themback?"
"Thingswill turn around.
They always do. Look,helikesit.See?"
Mostdays, Laila wasdeprived ofher son. Rasheedtookhimto theshop, lethimcrawl around under hiscrowded workbench, playwith old rubber soles andspare scraps of leather.Rasheed drove in his ironnails and turned thesandpaper wheel, and kept awatchful eye on him. If
Zalmai toppled a rack ofshoes, Rasheed scolded himgently,inacalm,half-smilingway. If he did it again,Rasheed put downhishammer, sat him up on hisdesk,andtalkedtohimsoftly.
HispatiencewithZalmaiwasawellthatrandeepandneverdried.
Theycamehometogetherinthe evening, Zalmai's head
bouncing on Rasheed'sshoulder, both of themsmelling of glue and leather.Theygrinned thewaypeoplewho share a secret do,slyly,like they'dsatin thatdimshoeshopalldaynotmakingshoesatallbutdevisingsecretplots.Zalmai liked to sit besidehisfather at dinner, where theyplayed private games, asMariam, Laila, and Azizasetplatesonthesojrah.Theytookturnspokingeachotheronthe
chest, giggling, pelting eachother with bread crumbs,whispering things the otherscouldn't hear. If Laila spoketothem, Rasheed looked upwith displeasure at theunwelcome intrusion. If sheasked to hold Zalmai-or,worse,if Zalmai reached forher-Rasheedgloweredather.
Laila walked away feelingstung.
***
Thenonenight,afewweeksafter Zalmai turned two,Rasheed came home with atelevision and a VCR. Theday had been warm, almostbalmy, but the evening wascoolerandalreadythickeningintoastarless,chillynight-Heset it down on the living-room table. He said he'dboughtitontheblackmarket."Another loan?" Laila asked.
"It'saMagnavox."
Aziza came into the room.When she saw the TV, sheran to it. "Careful,Aziza jo,"saidMariam."Don'ttouch."
Aziza's hair hadbecomeaslight as Laila's. Laila couldsee her own dimples on hercheeks.Azizahadturnedintoa calm, pensive little girl,withademeanorthattoLailaseemedbeyondhersixyears.
Laila marveled at herdaughter'smanner of speech,her cadence and rhythm, herthoughtful pauses andintonations, so adult, so atoddswiththeimmaturebodythat housed the voice. ItwasAziza who with lightheadedauthority had taken it uponherself towakeZalmaieveryday, to dress him, feed himhis breakfast, comb his hair.Shewastheonewhoputhimdown to nap, who played
even-temperedpeacemakertoher volatile sibling. Aroundhim, Aziza had taken togiving an exasperated,queerlyadultheadshake.
Aziza pushed the TV'spower button. Rasheedscowled, snatched her wristand set it on the table, notgentlyatall.
"This is Zalmai's TV," hesaid.
Azizawentover toMariamand climbed in her lap. Thetwoofthemwereinseparablenow. Of late, with Laila'sblessing, Mariam had startedteaching Aziza verses fromthe Koran. Aziza couldalready recite by heart thesurah ofikhlas, the surahof'fatiha,and already knewhowtoperformthefourruqatsofmorningprayer.
It's oil I have to give
her,Mariam had said toLaila,this knowledge, theseprayers.They'retheonlytruepossessionI'veeverhad.
Zalmai came into the roomnow. As Rasheed watchedwith anticipation, the waypeoplewait the simple tricksof street magicians, Zalmaipulled on the TV's wire,pushed the buttons, pressedhispalmstotheblankscreen.When he lifted them, the
condensed little palms fadedfrom the glass. Rasheedsmiledwithpride,watchedasZalmai kept pressing hispalms and lifting them, overandover.
The Taliban had bannedtelevision. Videotapes hadbeen gouged publicly, thetapesrippedoutandstrungonfence posts. Satellite disheshad been hung fromlampposts. But Rasheed said
just because things werebanned didn't mean youcouldn'tfindthem.
"I'll start looking for somecartoonvideostomorrow,"hesaid. "It won't be hard. Youcan buy anything inundergroundbazaars."
"Thenmaybeyou'llbuyusanewwell,"Lailasaid,andthiswonherascornfulgazefromhim.
It was later, after anotherdinnerofplainwhitericehadbeen consumed and teaforgone again on account ofthe drought, after Rasheedhad smoked a cigarette, thathe told Laila about hisdecision.
"No,"Lailasaid.
Hesaidhewasn'tasking.
"I don't care if you are or
not."
"Youwouldifyouknewthefullstory."
He said he had borrowedfrommorefriendsthanheleton, that the money from theshop alone was no longerenough to sustain the five ofthem."Ididn'ttellyouearliertospareyoutheworrying."
"Besides,"hesaid,"you'dbe
surprisedhowmuchtheycanbringin."
Laila said no again. Theywere in the living room.Mariamandthechildrenwerein the kitchen. Laila couldhear the clatter of dishes,Zalmai's high-pitched laugh,Aziza saying something toMariam in her steady,reasonablevoice.
"There will be others like
her, younger even," Rasheedsaid. "Everyone in Kabul isdoingthesame."
Laila told him she didn'tcare what other people didwiththeirchildren.
"I'll keep a close eye onher," Rasheed said, lesspatiently now. "It's a safecorner. There's a mosqueacrossthestreet."
"I won't let you turn mydaughter into a streetbeggar!"Lailasnapped.
The slap made a loudsmacking sound, the palm ofhis thick-fingered handconnecting squarely with themeatofLaila'scheek.Itmadeher head whip around. Itsilenced the noises from thekitchen. For a moment, thehouse was perfectly quiet.Then a flurry of hurried
footsteps in the hallwaybefore Mariam and thechildren were in the livingroom,theireyesshiftingfromhertoRasheedandback.
ThenLailapunchedhim.
It was the first time she'dstruck anybody, discountingthe playful punches she andTariqusedtotrade.Butthosehad been open-fisted, morepats than punches, self-
consciously friendly,comfortable expressions ofanxieties that were bothperplexingandthrilling.TheywouldaimforthemusclethatTariq,inaprofessorialvoice,calledthedeltoid
Laila watched the arch ofher closed fist, slicingthrough the air, felt thecrinkle of Rasheed's stubbly,coarse skin under herknuckles. It made a sound
likedroppingaricebagtothefloor. She hit him hard. Theimpact actually made himstaggertwostepsbackward.
From the other side of theroom, a gasp, a yelp, and ascream. Laila didn't knowwho had made which noise.At the moment, she was tooastounded to notice or care,waitingforhermindtocatchup with what her hand haddone. When it did, she
believed she might havesmiled. She mighthavegrinned when, to herastonishment, Rasheedcalmly walked out of theroom.
Suddenly,itseemedtoLailathat the collective hardshipsof their lives-hers, Aziza's,Mariam's-simply droppedaway,vaporizedlikeZalmai'spalms from theTVscreen. Itseemed worthwhile, if
absurdly so, to have enduredallthey'denduredforthisonecrowningmoment,forthisactof defiance that would endthe suffering of allindignities.
Laila did not notice thatRasheed was back in theroom. Until his hand wasaround her throat. Until shewas lifted off her feet andslammedagainstthewall.
Up close, his sneering faceseemed impossibly large.Laila noticed how muchpuffier it was getting withage, howmanymore brokenvessels charted tiny paths onhis nose. Rasheed didn't sayanything. And, really, whatcould be said, what neededsaying, when you'd shovedthe barrel of your gun intoyourwife'smouth?
***
Itwas the raids, the reasontheywereintheyarddigging.Sometimes monthly raids,sometimes weekly. Of late,almost daily. Mostly, theTaliban confiscated stuff,gaveakicktosomeone'srear,whacked the back of a heador two. But sometimes therewerepublicbeatings,lashingsofsolesandpalms.
"Gently,"Mariamsaidnow,herkneesovertheedge.They
lowered theTV into theholebyeachclutchingoneendofthe plastic sheet in which itwaswrapped
"Thatshoulddoit,"Mariamsaid.
They patted the dirt whenthey were done, filling thehole up again. They tossedsome of it around so itwouldn'tlookconspicuous.
"There," Mariam said,wiping her hands on herdress.
When it was safer, they'dagreed,when theTaliban cutdown on their raids, in amonth or two or six, ormaybelonger,theywoulddigtheTVup.
***
In Laila'S dream, she and
Mariam are out behind thetoolshed digging again. But,this time, it's Aziza they'relowering into the ground.Aziza's breath fogs the sheetofplastic inwhich theyhavewrapped her. Laila sees herpanicked eyes, the whitenessofherpalmsastheyslapandpush against the sheet.Azizapleads. Laila can't hear herscreams.Onlyforawhile,shecalls down,it's only for awhile.It'stheraids,don'tyou
know, my love? When theraids are over, Mammy andKhala Mariam will dig youout.Ipromise,mylove.Thenwecanplay.Wecanplayallyouwant.Shefillstheshovel.Lailawokeup,outofbreath,with a taste of soil in hermouth, when the firstgranular lumpsofdirthit theplastic.
41.
Madam
In thesummerof2000, thedrought reached its third andworstyear.
In Helmand, Zabol,Kandahar, villages turned
into herds of nomadiccommunities,alwaysmoving,searchingforwaterandgreenpastures for their livestock.When they found neither,when their goats and sheepandcowsdiedoff,theycameto Kabul They took to theKareh-Ariana hillside, livinginmakeshiftslums,packedinhuts, fifteen or twenty at atime.
That was also the summer
ofTitanic, the summer thatMariam and Aziza were atangle of limbs, rolling andgiggling, Aziza insistingshegettobeJack.
"Quiet,Azizajo."
"Jack!Saymyname,KhalaMariam.Say it. Jack!""Yourfather will be angry if youwakehim."
"Jack!Andyou'reRose."
It would end with Mariamon her back, surrendering,agreeing again to be Rose."Fine, you be Jack," sherelented"Youdieyoung,andIgettolivetoaripeoldage."
"Yes,butIdieahero,"saidAziza,"whileyou,Rose,youspend your entire, miserablelife longing for me." Then,straddling Mariam's chest,she'd announce, "Now wemust kiss!"Mariamwhipped
her head side to side, andAziza,delightedwithherownscandalous behavior, cackledthroughpuckeredlips.
Sometimes Zalmai wouldsaunter in and watch thisgame.What didhe get to be,heasked
"You can be the iceberg,"saidAziza.
That summer,Titanic fever
gripped Kabul. Peoplesmuggled pirated copies ofthe film from Pakistan-sometimes in theirunderwear. After curfew,everyone locked their doors,turned out the lights, turneddownthevolume,andreapedtears for Jack and Rose andthepassengersofthedoomedship. If there was electricalpower, Mariam, Laila, andthechildrenwatchedittoo.Adozen times or more, they
unearthed the TV frombehind the toolshed, late atnight,with the lightsout andquilts pinned over thewindows.
AttheKabulRiver,vendorsmoved into the parchedriverbed. Soon, from theriver's sunbaked hollows, itwas possible to buyTitaniccarpets, andTitanic cloth,from bolts arranged inwheelbarrows. There
wasTitanic deodorant,Titanictoothpaste,Titanicperfume,Titanicpakora,evenTitanic burqas. Aparticularly persistent beggarbegancallinghimself"TitanicBeggar."
"TitanicCity"wasborn.
It'sthesong,theysaid.
No,thesea.Theluxury.Theship.
It'sthesex,theywhispered
Leo,said Azizasheepishly.It'sallaboutLeo.
"Everybody wants Jack,"Lailasaid toMariam."That'swhat it is. Everybody wantsJack to rescue them fromdisaster.ButthereisnoJack.Jackisnotcomingback.Jackisdead."
***
Then, late that summer, afabric merchant fell asleepand forgot to put out hiscigarette. He survived thefire,buthisstoredidnot.Thefire took the adjacent fabricstore as well, a secondhandclothing store, a smallfurnitureshop,abakery.
TheytoldRasheedlaterthatif the winds had blown eastinstead of west, his shop,whichwasatthecornerofthe
block, might have beenspared.
***
Theysoldeverything.
First to go were Mariam'sthings, then Laila's. Aziza'sbaby clothes, the few toysLaila had fought Rasheed tobuy her. Aziza watched theproceedings with a docilelook. Rasheed's watch too
was sold, his old transistorradio,hispairofneckties,hisshoes, and his wedding ring.Thecouch,thetable,therug,and the chairs went too.Zalmai threw a wickedtantrum when Rasheed soldtheTV.
After the fire,Rasheedwashome almost every day. Heslapped Aziza. He kickedMariam.Hethrewthings.Hefound fault with Laila, the
wayshesmelled,thewayshedressed, thewayshecombedherhair,heryellowingteeth.
"What's happened to you?"he said. "I marriedapart, andnow I'm saddled with a hag.You'returningintoMariam."
Hegotfiredfromthekebabhouse near Haji YaghoubSquare because he and acustomer got into a scuffle.The customer complained
that Rasheed had rudelytossed thebreadonhis table.Harsh words had passed.Rasheed had called thecustomer a monkey-facedUzbek. A gun had beenbrandished.Askewerpointedin return. In Rasheed'sversion, he held the skewer.Mariamhadherdoubts.
Firedfromtherestaurant inTaimani because customerscomplained about the long
waits,Rasheed said the cookwasslowandlazy.
"You were probably outbacknapping,"saidLaila.
"Don't provoke him, Lailajo,"Mariamsaid.
"I'mwarningyou,woman,"hesaid.
"Eitherthatorsmoking."
"IsweartoGod."
"Youcan'thelpbeingwhatyouare."
And then hewas on Laila,pummeling her chest, herhead, her belly with fists,tearing at her hair, throwingher to the wall. Aziza wasshrieking,pullingathisshirt;Zalmai was screaming too,trying to get him off hismother. Rasheed shoved the
children aside, pushed Lailato the ground, and begankicking her. Mariam threwherself onLaila.Hewent onkicking, kicking Mariamnow, spittle flying from hismouth, his eyes glitteringwith murderous intent,kicking until he couldn'tanymore.
"I swear you're going tomakeme kill you, Laila," hesaid, panting. Then he
stormedoutofthehouse.
***
When the money ran out,hunger began to cast a pallover their lives. It wasstunning to Mariam howquickly alleviating hungerbecame the crux of theirexistence.
Rice,boiledplainandwhite,withnomeatorsauce,wasa
rare treat now. They skippedmeals with increasing andalarming regularity.Sometimes Rasheed broughthome sardines in a can andbrittle,driedbreadthat tastedlike sawdust. Sometimes astolen bag of apples, at theriskofgettinghishandsawedoff. In grocery stores, hecarefully pocketed cannedravioli, which they split fiveways, Zalmai getting thelion's share. They ate raw
turnips sprinkled with salt.Limp leaves of lettuce andblackenedbananasfordinner.
Death from starvationsuddenly became a distinctpossibility.Somechosenottowaitforit.Mariamheardofaneighborhood widow whohadgroundsomedriedbread,laced it with rat poison, andfed it to all seven of herchildren. She had saved thebiggestportionforherself.
Aziza's ribs began to pushthrough the skin, and the fatfrom her cheeks vanished.Her calves thinned, and hercomplexion turned the colorof weak tea. When Mariampickedherup, she could feelher hip bone poking throughthe taut skin. Zalmai layaroundthehouse,eyesdulledand half closed, or in hisfather's lap limpasa rag.Hecried himself to sleep, whenhe could muster the energy,
but his sleep was fitful andsporadic. White dots leapedbefore Mariam's eyeswhenever she got up. Herhead spun, and her ears rangall thetime.Sherememberedsomething Mullah Faizullahused to say about hungerwhen Ramadan started:Eventhe snakebiiien man findssleep,butnotthehungry.
"My children are going todie,"Lailasaid."Rightbefore
myeyes."
"They are not," Mariamsaid. "I won't let them. It'sgoingtobeallright,Lailajo.Iknowwhattodo."
***
One blistering-hot day,Mariamputonherburqa,andshe and Rasheed walked tothe Intercontinental Hotel.Busfarewasanun-affordable
luxurynow,andMariamwasexhausted by the time theyreached the top of the steephill. Climbing the slope, shewas struck by bouts ofdizziness, and twice she hadtostop,waitforittopass.
At the hotel entrance,Rasheed greeted and huggedoneofthedoormen,whowasdressed in a burgundy suitand visor cap. There wassome friendly-looking talk
betweenthem.Rasheedspokewith his hand on thedoorman's elbow. Hemotioned toward Mariam atone point, and they bothlooked her way briefly.Mariam thought there wassomething vaguely familiaraboutthedoorman.
When the doorman wentinside, Mariam and Rasheedwaited. From this vantagepoint,Mariam had a view of
thePolytechnicInstitute,and,beyond that, the old KhairkhanadistrictandtheroadtoMazar. To the south, shecould see the bread factory,Silo,longabandoned,itspaleyellow fa9ade pocked withyawning holes from all theshelling it had endured.Farthersouth,shecouldmakeout the hollow ruins ofDarulaman Palace, where,many years back, Rasheedhad taken her for a picnic.
Thememoryof that daywasa relic from a past that nolongerseemedlikeherown.
Mariam concentrated onthesethings,theselandmarks.Shefearedshemightlosehernerve if she let her mindwander.
Every few minutes, jeepsand taxis drove up to thehotel entrance. Doormenrushed to greet the
passengers, who were allmen, armed, bearded,wearing turbans, all of themstepping out with the sameself-assured, casual air ofmenace.Mariamheardbitsoftheirchatteras theyvanishedthroughthehotel'sdoors.Sheheard Pashto and Farsi, butUrduandArabictoo.
"Meet ourreal masters,"Rasheedsaidinalow-pitchedvoice. "Pakistani and Arab
Islamists. The Taliban arepuppets.These are the bigplayers and Afghanistan istheirplayground."
Rasheed said he'd heardrumors that theTalibanwereallowing these people to setup secret camps all over thecountry, where young menwerebeingtrainedtobecomesuicide bombers and jihadifighters.
"What's taking him solong?"Mariamsaid.
Rasheed spat, and kickeddirtonthespit.
An hour later, they wereinside,Mariam andRasheed,followingthedoorman.Theirheels clicked on the tiledfloor as theywere led acrossthe pleasantly cool lobby.Mariam saw twomen sittingon leatherchairs, riflesanda
coffee table between them,sipping black tea and eatingfrom a plate of syrup-coatedjelabi, rings sprinkledwith powdered sugar. Shethought of Aziza, wholovedjelabi,andtorehergazeaway.
The doorman led themoutside to a balcony. Fromhis pocket, he produced asmall black cordless phoneand a scrap of paper with a
number scribbled on it. Hetold Rasheed it was hissupervisor'ssatellitephone.
"Igotyoufiveminutes,"hesaid."Nomore."
"Tashakor,"Rasheedsaid."Iwon'tforgetthis."
The doorman nodded andwalkedaway.Rasheeddialed.HegaveMariamthephone.
As Mariam listened to thescratchy ringing, her mindwandered. Itwandered to thelast time she'd seen Jalil,thirteenyearsearlier,back inthespringof1987.He'dstoodon the street outside herhouse, leaning on a cane,besidetheblueBenzwiththeHerat license plates and thewhite stripe bisecting theroof, the hood, and trunk.He'd stood there for hours,waitingforher,nowandthen
calling her name, just as shehad once calledhis nameoutsidehishouse.Mariamhadpartedthecurtainonce,justabit, and caught a glimpse ofhim.Onlyaglimpse,butlongenough to see that his hairhad turned fluffy white, andthat he'd started to stoop.Hewore glasses, a red tie, asalways, and the usual whitehandkerchief triangle in hisbreast pocket. Most striking,hewasthinner,muchthinner,
than she remembered, thecoat of his dark brown suitdrooping over his shoulders,the trousers pooling at hisankles.
Jalilhadseenhertoo,ifonlyforamoment.Theireyeshadmet briefly through a part inthe curtains, as they hadmetmany years earlier through apart in another pair ofcurtains. But then Mariamhad quickly closed the
curtains. She had sat on thebed,waitedforhimtoleave.
She thought now of theletter Jalil had finally left ather door. She had kept it fordays, beneath her pillow,picking it up now and then,turning it over in her hands.In the end, she had shreddeditunopened.
Andnowhereshewas,afteralltheseyears,callinghim.
Mariam regretted herfoolish, youthful pride now.Shewishednowthatshehadlet him in.Whatwould havebeen the harm to let him in,sitwithhim,lethimsaywhathe'dcometosay?Hewasherfather. He'd not been a goodfather, it was true, but howordinary his faults seemednow, how forgivable, whencompared to Rasheed'smalice,ortothebrutalityandviolence that she had seen
meninflictononeanother.
She wished she hadn'tdestroyedhisletter.
Aman'sdeepvoicespokeinherearandinformedher thatshe'd reached the mayor'sofficeinHerat.
Mariam cleared herthroat."Salaam, brother, I amlooking for someone wholives in Herat. Or he did,
manyyears ago.Hisname isJalilKhan.He lived inShar-e-Nauandownedthecinema.Doyouhaveanyinformationastohiswhereabouts?"
Theirritationwasaudibleinthe man's voice. "This iswhyyou call the mayor'soffice?"
Mariamsaidshedidn'tknowwhoelsetocall."Forgiveme,brother. I know you have
important things to tend to,but it is life and death, aquestion of life and death Iamcallingabout."
"I don't know him. Thecinema's been closed formanyyears."
"Maybe there's someonethere who might know him,someone-"
"Thereisnoone."
Mariam closed her eyes."Please, brother. There arechildren involved. Smallchildren."
Alongsigh.
"Maybesomeonethere-"
"There's a groundskeeperhere.Ithinkhe'slivedhereallofhislife."
"Yes,askhim,please."
"Callbacktomorrow."
Mariamsaidshecouldn't."Ihave this phone for fiveminutesonly.Idon't-"
There was a click at theother end, and Mariamthought he had hung up.Butshe couldhear footsteps, andvoices,adistantcarhorn,andsome mechanical hummingpunctuated by clicks, maybean electric fan. She switched
the phone to her other ear,closedhereyes.
She pictured Jalil smiling,reachingintohispocket.
Ah. Of course. Well Herethen.WithoutJuriherado…
A leaf-shapedpendant, tinycoinsetchedwithmoonsandstarshangingfromit.
Tryiton,Mariamjo.
Whatdoyouthink?
Ithinkyoulooklikeaqueen.
Afewminutespassed.Thenfootsteps, a creaking sound,and a click. "He does knowhim."
"Hedoes?"
"It'swhathesays."
"Whereishe?"Mariamsaid.
"Does this man know whereJalilKhanis?"
Therewasapause."Hesayshe died years ago, back in1987."
Mariam'sstomachfell.She'dconsidered the possibility, ofcourse.Jalilwouldhavebeeninhismid-tolateseventiesbynow,but…1987.
Hewasdying then.Hehad
drivenallthewayfromHerattosaygood-bye.
She moved to the edge ofthe balcony. From up here,shecouldseethehotel'sonce-famous swimming pool,empty and grubby now,scarred by bullet holes anddecayingtiles.Andtherewasthe battered tennis court, theraggednetlyinglimplyinthemiddle of it like dead skinshedbyasnake.
"I have to go now," thevoiceattheotherendsaid
"I'msorry tohavebotheredyou," Mariam said, weepingsoundlessly into the phone.She saw Jalil waving to her,skipping from stone to stoneas he crossed the stream, hispockets swollen with gifts.Allthetimesshehadheldherbreath for him, for God togranthermoretimewithhim."Thank you," Mariam began
to say, but the man at theother end had already hungup.
Rasheedwaslookingather.Mariamshookherhead.
"Useless,"hesaid,snatchingthe phone from her. "Likedaughter,likefather."
On their way out of thelobby, Rasheed walkedbriskly to the coffee table,
which was now abandoned,and pocketed the last ringofjelabi. He took it home andgaveittoZalmai.
42.
Laila
In a paper bag, Azizapacked these things: herflowered shirt and her lonepairofsocks,hermismatchedwool gloves, an old,pumpkin-colored blanket
dottedwith starsandcomets,a splintered plastic cup, abanana,hersetofdice-ItwasacoolmorninginApril2001,shortlybeforeLaila's twenty-thirdbirthday.Theskywasatranslucentgray,andgustsofa clammy, cold wind keptrattlingthescreendoor.
This was a few days afterLailaheardthatAhmadShahMassoud had gone to Franceand spoken to the European
Parliament. Massoud wasnow in his nativeNorth, andleading the NorthernAlliance, the sole oppositiongroup still fighting theTaliban. In Europe,Massoudhad warned the West aboutterrorist camps inAfghanistan, and pleadedwith the U.S. to help himfighttheTaliban.
"If President Bush doesn'thelp us," he had said, "these
terrorists will damage theU.S.andEuropeverysoon."
Amonth before that, Lailahad learned that the Talibanhad planted TNT in thecrevicesofthegiantBuddhasin Bamiyan and blown themapart, calling themobjectsofidolatryandsin.Therewasanoutcryaroundtheworld,fromthe U.S. to China.Governments, historians, andarchaeologists from all over
the globe had written letters,pleadedwith the Taliban notto demolish the two greatesthistorical artifacts inAfghanistan. But the Talibanhadgoneaheadanddetonatedtheir explosives inside thetwo-thousand-year-oldBuddhas. They hadchantedAllah-u-akbar witheachblast,cheeredeach timethe statues lost an arm or aleg in a crumbling cloud ofdust. Laila remembered
standing atop the bigger ofthe two Buddhas with Babiand Tariq, back in 1987, abreezeblowingintheirsunlitfaces, watching a hawkgliding in circles over thesprawling valley below. Butwhen she heard the news ofthestatues'demise,Lailawasnumb to it. It hardly seemedtomatter.Howcouldshecareabout statues when her ownlifewascrumblingdust?
Until Rasheed told her itwas time to go, Laila sat onthe floor in a comer of thelivingroom,notspeakingandstone-faced, her hair hangingaround her face in stragglycurls. No matter how muchshe breathed in and out, itseemed to Laila that shecouldn't fill her lungs withenoughair.
***
On theway toKarteh-Seh,Zalmai bounced inRasheed'sarms, and Aziza heldMariam'shandasshewalkedquicklybesideher.ThewindblewthedirtyscarftiedunderAziza's chin and rippled thehem of her dress. Aziza wasmore grim now, as thoughshe'd begun to sense, witheachstep, that shewasbeingduped. Laila had not foundthe strength to tell Aziza thetruth. She had told her that
shewas going to a school, aspecial school where thechildren ate and slept anddidn't comehomeafter class.NowAzizakeptpeltingLailawith the same questions shehadbeenaskingfordays.Didthestudentssleepindifferentroomsor all in onegreat bigroom? Would she makefriends?Was she, Laila, surethat the teachers would benice?
And, more than once,HowlongdoIhavetostay?
They stopped two blocksfromthesquat,barracks-stylebuilding.
"Zalmai and I will waithere," Rasheed said. "Oh,beforeIforget…"
He fished a stick of gumfrom his pocket, a partinggift, and held it out toAziza
withastiff,magnanimousair.Aziza took it andmuttered athank-you. Laila marveled atAziza's grace, Aziza's vastcapacity for forgiveness, andher eyes filled. Her heartsqueezed, and she was faintwith sorrow at the thoughtthat this afternoon Azizawouldnotnapbesideher,thatshewouldnotfeel theflimsyweightofAziza'sarmonherchest, the curve of Aziza'shead pressing into her ribs,
Aziza's breath warming herneck, Aziza's heels pokingherbelly.
WhenAzizawas ledaway,Zalmaibeganwailing,crying,Ziza!Ziza!He squirmed andkicked in his father's arms,called for his sister, until hisattention was diverted by anorgan-grinder's monkeyacrossthestreet.
They walked the last two
blocks alone, Mariam, Laila,and Aziza. As theyapproached the building,Laila could see its splinteredfa9ade, the sagging roof, theplanksofwoodnailedacrossframes with missingwindows, the top of a swingsetoveradecayingwall.
They stopped by the door,and Laila repeated to Azizawhatshehadtoldherearlier.
"Andiftheyaskaboutyourfather,whatdoyousay?"
"The Mujahideen killedhim," Aziza said, her mouthsetwithwariness.
"That'sgood.Aziza,doyouunderstand?"
"Because this is a specialschool,"AzizasaidNowthatthey were here, and thebuilding was a reality, she
looked shaken.Her lower lipwas quivering and her eyesthreatened to well up, andLaila saw how hard she wasstrugglingtobebrave."Ifwetellthetruth,"Azizasaidinathin, breathless voice, "theywon't take me. It's a specialschool.Iwanttogohome."
"I'llvisitallthetime,"Lailamanagedtosay."Ipromise."
"Me too," said Mariam.
"We'llcometoseeyou,Azizajo, and we'll play together,justlikealways.It'sonlyforawhile, until your father findswork."
"They have food here,"Laila said shakily. She wasglad for the burqa, glad thatAziza couldn't see how shewas falling apart inside it."Here, you won't go hungry.Theyhavericeandbreadandwater,andmaybeevenfruit."
"Butyouwon't be here.AndKhalaMariamwon't be withme."
"I'll come and see you,"Laila said. "All the time.Look atme,Aziza. I'll comeandseeyou.I'myourmother.If it kills me, I'll come andseeyou."
***
Theorphanagedirectorwas
a stooping, narrow-chestedman with a pleasantly linedface. He was balding, had ashaggybeard, eyes likepeas.His name was Zaman. Heworeaskullcap.Theleftlensof his eyeglasses waschipped.
Asheledthemtohisoffice,he asked Laila and Mariamtheirnames,askedforAziza'sname too, her age. Theypassed through poorly lit
hallways where barefootchildren stepped aside andwatchedTheyhaddisheveledhair or shaved scalps. Theywore sweaters with frayedsleeves, ragged jeans whoseknees had worn down tostrings, coats patched withduct tape.Laila smelled soapand talcum, ammonia andurine, and risingapprehension in Aziza, whohadbegunwhimpering.
Laila had a glimpse of theyard: weedy lot, ricketyswingset,oldtires,adeflatedbasketball. The rooms theypassed were bare, thewindowscoveredwith sheetsofplastic.AboydartedfromoneoftheroomsandgrabbedLaila's elbow, and tried toclimb up into her arms. Anattendant, who was cleaningupwhat looked likeapuddleof urine, put down his mopandpriedtheboyoff.
Zaman seemed gentlyproprietarywith the orphans.Hepatted theheadsof some,ashepassedby,saidacordialwordor two to them, tousledtheir hair, withoutcondescension. The childrenwelcomedhistouch.Theyalllookedathim,Laila thought,inhopeofapproval.
He showed them into hisoffice,aroomwithonlythreefolding chairs, and a
disorderly desk with piles ofpaperscatteredatopit.
"You'refromHerat,"Zamansaid to Mariam. "I can tellfromyouraccent."
He leanedback inhischairand laced his hands over hisbelly, and said he had abrother-in-law who used tolive there. Even in theseordinarygestures,Lailanoteda laborious quality to his
movements. And though hewas smiling faintly, Lailasensed something troubledand wounded beneath,disappointment and defeatglossedoverwithaveneerofgoodhumor.
"He was a glassmaker,"Zaman said. "Hemade thesebeautiful, jade green swans.Youheldthemuptosunlightand theyglittered inside, liketheglasswas filledwith tiny
jewels.Haveyoubeenback?"
Mariamsaidshehadn't.
"I'mfromKandaharmyself.Have you ever been toKandahar,hamshira1?No?It'slovely. What gardens! Andthe grapes! Oh, the grapes.Theybewitchthepalate."
Afewchildrenhadgatheredbythedoorandwerepeekingin. Zaman gently shooed
themaway,inPashto.
"OfcourseIloveHerattoo.City of artists and writers,Sufisandmystics.Youknowthe old joke, that you can'tstretcha leginHeratwithoutpokingapoetintherear."
NexttoLaila,Azizasnorted.
Zamanfeignedagasp."Ah,there. I've made you laugh,littlehamshira. That's usually
the hard part. I was worried,there, for a while. I thoughtI'd have to cluck like achicken or bray like adonkey. But, there you are.Andsolovelyyouare."
Hecalledinanattendanttolook after Aziza for a fewmoments. Aziza leaped ontoMariam's lap and clung toher.
"We'rejustgoingtotalk,my
love,"Laila said. "I'll be righthere.Allright?Righthere."
"Why don't we go outsidefor a minute, Aziza jo?"Mariam said. "Your motherneeds to talk toKakaZamanhere.Just for a minute. Now,comeon."
When they were alone,ZamanaskedforAziza'sdateof birth, history of illnesses,allergies. He asked about
Aziza's father, and Laila hadthe strange experience oftellingaliethatwasreallythetruth. Zaman listened, hisexpression revealing neitherbelief nor skepticism.He ranthe orphanage on the honorsystem,he said. If ahamshirasaid her husband was deadand she couldn't care for herchildren,hedidn'tquestionit.
Lailabegantocry.
Zamanputdownhispen.
"I'm ashamed," Lailacroaked, her palm pressed tohermouth.
"Lookatme,hamshira"
"What kind of motherabandonsherownchild?"
"Lookatme."
Lailaraisedhergaze.
"It isn't your fault. Do youhear me? Not you. It'sthosesavages, thosewahshis,whoaretoblame.Theybringshame on me as a Pashtun.They've disgraced the nameofmypeople.Andyou'renotalone,hamshira We getmotherslikeyouallthetime-all the time-mothers whocome here who can't feedtheir children because theTalibanwon'tletthemgooutand make a living. So you
don't blameyourself.Noonehere blames you. Iunderstand." He leanedforward."Hamshira Iunderstand."
Laila wiped her eyes withtheclothofherburqa.
"As for this place," Zamansighed, motioning with hishand,"youcanseethatit'sindire state. We're alwaysunderfunded, always
scrambling, improvising. Weget little or no support fromthe Taliban. Butwemanage.Like you, we do what wehavetodo.Allahisgoodandkind,andAllahprovides,and,as long He provides, I willseetoitthatAzizaisfedandclothed.ThatmuchIpromiseyou."
Lailanodded.
"Allright?"
He was smilingcompanionably. "But don'tcry,hamshiraDon'tletherseeyoucry."
Lailawipedhereyesagain."God bless you," she saidthickly. "God bless you,brother."
***
But "when the time forgood-byes came, the scene
eruptedpreciselyasLailahaddreaded.
Azizapanicked.
All the way home, leaningon Mariam, Laila heardAziza's shrill cries. In herhead, she sawZaman's thick,calloused hands close aroundAziza's arms; she saw thempull, gently at first, thenharder,thenwithforcetopryAziza loose from her. She
sawAzizakickinginZaman'sarms as he hurriedly turnedthe corner, heard Azizascreamingasthoughshewereabouttovanishfromthefaceof the earth. And Laila sawherself running down thehallway, head down, a howlrisingupherthroat.
"I smell her," she toldMariam at home. Her eyesswam unseeingly pastMariam's shoulder, past the
yard, the walls, to themountains,brownassmoker'sspit."Ismellhersleepsmell.Doyou?Doyousmellit?"
"Oh,Lailajo,"saidMariam."Don't. What good is this?Whatgood?"
***
At first, Rasheed humoredLaila, and accompaniedthem-her, Mariam, and
Zalmai-to the orphanage,thoughhemadesure,as theywalked, that she had aneyeful of his grievous looks,an earful of his rants overwhat a hardship she wasputting him through, howbadly his legs and back andfeet ached walking to andfromtheorphanage.Hemadesure she knew how awfullyputouthewas.
"I'm not a young man
anymore," he said. "Not thatyoucare.You'drunmetotheground, ifyouhadyourway.But you don't, Laila. Youdon'thaveyourway."
They parted ways twoblocks from the orphanage,and he never spared themmorethanfifteenminutes."Aminute late," he said, "and Istartwalking.Imeanit."
Laila had to pester him,
plead with him, in order tospin out the allotted minuteswith Aziza a bit longer. Forherself,andforMariam,whowasdisconsolateoverAziza'sabsence, though, as always,Mariam chose to cradle herown suffering privately andquietly. And for Zalmai too,whoaskedforhissistereveryday, and threw tantrums thatsometimes dissolved intoinconsolablefitsofcrying.
Sometimes, on the way tothe orphanage, Rasheedstopped and complained thathis leg was sore. Then heturned around and startedwalkinghomeinlong,steadystrides,without somuchasalimp. Or he clucked histongue and said, "It's mylungs, Laila. I'm short ofbreath. Maybe tomorrow I'llfeel better, or the day after.We'llsee."Heneverbotheredtofeignasingleraspybreath.
Often, as he turned back andmarched home, he lit acigarette.Lailawouldhavetotail him home, helpless,trembling with resentmentandimpotentrage.
Thenonedayhe toldLailahewouldn'ttakeheranymore."I'm too tired from walkingthe streets all day," he said,"lookingforwork."
"Then I'll go by myself,"
Laila said. "You can't stopme, Rasheed. Do you hearme? You can hit me all youwant, but I'll keep goingthere."
"Do as you wish. But youwon't get past the Taliban.Don'tsayIdidn'twarnyou."
"I'm coming with you,"Mariamsaid.
Laila wouldn't allow it.
"YouhavetostayhomewithZalmai. If we get stopped…Idon'twanthimtosee."
AndsoLaila'slifesuddenlyrevolvedaroundfindingwaysto see Aziza. Half the time,she never made it to theorphanage. Crossing thestreet,shewasspottedbytheTaliban and riddled withquestions-What is yourname?Whereareyougoing?Whyareyoualone?Whereis
yourmahram?-beforeshewassent home. If shewas lucky,she was given a tongue-lashingorasinglekicktotherear, a shove in the back.Other times, she met withassortmentsofwoodenclubs,fresh tree branches, shortwhips,slaps,oftenfists.
Oneday,ayoungTalibbeatLaila with a radio antenna.Whenhewasdone,hegaveafinalwhacktothebackofher
neck and said, "I see youagain, I'llbeatyouuntilyourmother's milk leaks out ofyourbones."
Thattime,Lailawenthome.She lay on her stomach,feeling like a stupid, pitiableanimal,andhissedasMariamarranged damp cloths acrossherbloodiedbackandthighs.But,usually,Laila refused tocave in. She made as if sheweregoinghome,thentooka
different route down sidestreets. Sometimes she wascaught, questioned, scolded-two,three,evenfourtimesina single day.Then thewhipscame down and the antennasslicedthroughtheair,andshetrudged home, bloodied,withoutsomuchasaglimpseofAziza. Soon Laila took towearing extra layers, even inthe heat, two, three sweatersbeneath the burqa, forpaddingagainstthebeatings.
ButforLaila,thereward,ifshemade it past theTaliban,wasworthit.Shecouldspendas much time as she likedthen-hours,even-with Aziza.They sat in the courtyard,near the swing set, amongother children and visitingmothers, and talked aboutwhat Aziza had learned thatweek.
Aziza said Kaka Zamanmadeitapointtoteachthem
somethingeveryday,readingand writing most days,sometimesgeography,abitofhistoryor science, somethingaboutplants,animals.
"But we have to pull thecurtains,"Aziza said, "so theTaliban don't see us." KakaZaman had knitting needlesand balls of yarn ready, shesaid, in case of a Talibaninspection."Weputthebooksawayandpretendtoknit."
Oneday,duringavisitwithAziza, Laila saw a middle-aged woman, her burqapushed back, visiting withthree boys and a girl. Lailarecognizedthesharpface,theheavy eyebrows, if not thesunkenmouth and gray hair.She remembered the shawls,the black skirts, the curtvoice, how she used to wearherjet-blackhairtiedinabunsothatyoucouldseethedarkbristles on the back of her
neck. Laila remembered thiswoman once forbidding thefemale students fromcovering, saying women andmen were equal, that therewasnoreasonwomenshouldcoverifmendidn't.
At one point, KhalaRangmaal looked up andcaught her gaze, but Lailasaw no lingering, no light ofrecognition, in her oldteacher'seyes.
***
"They'refracturesalongtheearth's crust," said Aziza.'They'recalledfaults."
Itwas awarmafternoon, aFriday,inJuneof2001.Theywere sitting in theorphanage'sbacklot,thefourof them, Laila, Zalmai,Mariam, and Aziza. Rasheedhad relented this time-as heinfrequently did-and
accompanied the four ofthem. He was waiting downthestreet,bythebusstop.
Barefoot kids scamperedabout around them. A flatsoccer ball was kickedaround,chasedafterlistlessly.
"And, on either side of thefaults, there are these sheetsof rock that make up theearth's crust," Aziza wassaying.
Someonehadpulledthehairback from Aziza's face,braided it, and pinned itneatly on top of her head.Lailabegrudgedwhoeverhadgotten to sit behind herdaughter, to flip sections ofher hair one over the other,hadaskedhertositstill.
Azizawasdemonstratingbyopeningherhands,palmsup,and rubbing them againsteach other. Zalmai watched
thiswithintenseinterest.
"Kectonic plates, they'recalled?"
"Tectonic,"Lailasaid.Ithurttotalk.Herjawwasstillsore,herbackandneckached.Herlip was swollen, and hertonguekeptpokingtheemptypocket of the lower incisorRasheed had knocked loosetwo days before. BeforeMammy and Babi had died
and her life turned upsidedown, Laila never wouldhave believed that a humanbody could withstand thismuch beating, this viciously,this regularly, and keepfunctioning.
"Right.Andwhentheyslidepast each other, they catchand slip-see,Mammy?-and itreleasesenergy,which
travelstotheearth'ssurface
andmakesitshake."
"You're getting so smart,"Mariam said "So muchsmarter than yourdumbkhala"
Aziza's face glowed,broadened."You'renotdumb,Khala Mariam. And KakaZaman says that, sometimes,the shifting of rocks is deep,deepbelow,andit'spowerfulandscarydown there,butall
we feel on the surface is aslight tremor. Only a slighttremor."
Thevisitbefore thisone, itwas oxygen atoms in theatmosphere scattering theblue light from the sun.If theearth had no atmosphere,Aziza had said a littlebreathlessly,theskywouldn‘tbe blue at all but a pitch-black sea and the sun a bigbrightstarinthedark
"IsAzizacominghomewithusthistime?"Zalmaisaid.
"Soon,mylove,"Lailasaid."Soon."
Laila watched him wanderaway,walkinglikehisfather,stoopingforward, toes turnedin. He walked to the swingset, pushed an empty seat,ended up sitting on theconcrete, rippingweeds fromacrack.
Water evaporates from theleaves-Mammy, did youknow?-the way it does fromlaundry hanging from a line.And that drives the flow ofwater up the tree. From thegroundandthroughtheroots,then all the way up the treetrunk, through the branchesandintotheleaves.It'scalledtranspiration.
More than once, Laila hadwondered what the Taliban
would do about KakaZaman'sclandestinelessonsiftheyfoundout.
During visits, Aziza didn'tallow for much silence. Shefilled all the spaces witheffusive speech, delivered inahigh,ringingvoice.Shewastangentialwithhertopics,andherhandsgesticulatedwildly,flying upwith a nervousnessthatwasn'tlikeheratall.Shehad a new laugh, Aziza did.
Not somuch a laugh, really,as nervous punctuation,meant, Laila suspected, toreassure.
And there were otherchanges. Laila would noticethe dirt under Aziza'sfingernails, and Aziza wouldnotice her noticing and buryher hands under her thighs.Wheneverakidcriedintheirvicinity,snotoozingfromhisnose, or if a kid walked by
bare-assed,hairclumpedwithdirt, Aziza's eyelids flutteredandshewasquick toexplainit away. She was like ahostess embarrassed in frontof her guests by the squalorofherhome,theuntidinessofherchildren.
Questions of how she wascoping were met with vaguebutcheerfulreplies.
DoingJim,KhalaI'mfine.
Dokidspickonyou?
They dont Mammy.Everyoneisnice.
Areyoueating?Sleepingallright?
Eating. Sleeping too. Yes.We had lamb last nightMaybeitwaslastweek.
WhenAzizaspokelikethis,Lailasawmorethanalittleof
Mariaminher.
Aziza stammered now.Mariamnoticeditfirst.Itwassubtle but perceptible, andmorepronouncedwithwordsthatbeganwith/.LailaaskedZaman about it. He frownedand said, "I thought she'dalwaysdonethat."
TheylefttheorphanagewithAziza that Friday afternoonfor a short outing and met
Rasheed,whowaswaitingforthem by the bus stop.WhenZalmai spotted his father, heutteredanexcitedsqueakandimpatiently wriggled fromLaila's arms.Aziza'sgreetingtoRasheedwas rigid but nothostile.
Rasheed said they shouldhurry,hehadonly twohoursbefore he had to report backto work. This was his firstweek as a doorman for the
Intercontinental. From noonto eight, six days a week,Rasheed opened car doors,carried luggage, mopped upthe occasional spill.Sometimes, at day's end, thecook at the buffet-stylerestaurant let Rasheed bringhomea few leftovers-as longas he was discreet about it-coldmeatballssloshinginoil;friedchickenwings,thecrustgone hard and dry; stuffedpasta shells turned chewy;
stiff, gravelly rice. RasheedhadpromisedLaila thatoncehehadsomemoneysavedup,Aziza could move backhome.
Rasheed was wearing hisuniform, a burgundy redpolyester suit, white shirt,clip-ontie,visorcappressingdown on his white hair. Inthis uniform, Rasheed wastransformed. He lookedvulnerable, pitiably
bewildered, almost harmless.Like someone who hadaccepted without a sigh ofprotesttheindignitieslifehaddoled out to him. Someoneboth pathetic and admirableinhisdocility.
TheyrodethebustoTitanicCity. They walked into theriverbed, flanked on eitherside by makeshift stallsclinging to the dry banks.Nearthebridge,astheywere
descending the steps, abarefoot man dangled deadfromacrane,hisearscutoff,his neck bent at the endof arope.Intheriver,theymeltedinto the horde of shoppersmilling about, the moneychangers and bored-lookingNGO workers, the cigarettevendors, the covered womenwho thrust fake antibioticprescriptions at people andbegged for money to fillthem. Whip-toting,naswar-
chew'mg Talibs patrolledTitanic City on the lookoutfor the indiscreet laugh, theunveiledface.
From a toy kiosk,betweenapoosieen coatvendor and a fake-flowerstand, Zalmai picked out arubberbasketballwithyellowandblueswirls.
"Pick something," RasheedsaidtoAziza.
Azizahedged,stiffenedwithembarrassment.
"Hurry.Ihavetobeatworkinanhour."
Aziza chose a gum-ballmachine-the same coin couldbeinsertedtogetcandy,thenretrieved from the flap-doorcoinreturnbelow.
Rasheed'seyebrowsshotupwhen the seller quoted him
the price. A round ofhagglingensued,attheendofwhichRasheed said toAzizacontentiously,asifitwereshewho'd haggled him, "Give itback.Ican'taffordboth."
On the way back, Aziza'shigh-spirited fa9ade wanedthe closer they got to theorphanage. The handsstoppedflying
up.Herfaceturnedheavy.It
happened every time. It wasLaila's turn now, withMariam pitching in, to takeup the chattering, to laughnervously, to fill themelancholy quiet withbreathless, aimless banter-Later, after Rasheed haddroppedthemoffandtakenabus to work, Laila watchedAziza wave good-bye andscuff along the wall in theorphanage back lot. ShethoughtofAziza'sstutter,and
ofwhatAzizahadsaidearlierabout fractures and powerfulcollisions deep down andhowsometimesallweseeonthesurfaceisaslighttremor.
***
"Getaway, you!" Zalmaicried.
"Hush,"Mariamsaid"Whoareyouyellingat?"
He pointed. "There. Thatman."
Laila followed his finger.Therewas a man at the frontdoor of the house, leaningagainst it. His head turnedwhen he saw themapproaching. He uncrossedhisarms.Limpedafewstepstowardthem.
Lailastopped.
A choking noise came upher throat. Her kneesweakened. Laila suddenlywanted,needed, to grope forMariam's arm, her shoulder,her wrist, something,anything, to leanon.But shedidn't. She didn't dare. Shedidn't dare move a muscle.She didn't dare breathe, orblink even, for fear that hewas nothing but a mirageshimmeringinthedistance,abrittle illusion that would
vanish at the slightestprovocation. Laila stoodperfectly still and looked atTariq until her chestscreamedforairandhereyesburned to blink. And,somehow,miraculously,aftershe tookabreath,closedandopenedher eyes, hewas stillstandingthere.Tariqwasstillstandingthere.
Lailaallowedherselftotakea step toward him. Then
another. And another. Andthenshewasrunning.
43.
Madam
Upstairs,inMariam'sroom,Zalmai was wound up. Hebounced his new rubberbasketballaroundforawhile,onthefloor,againstthewalls.Mariamaskedhimnotto,but
he knew that she had noauthority to exert over himand so he went on bouncinghisball,hiseyesholdinghersdefiantly. For a while, theypushed his toy car, anambulance with bold redletteringonthesides,sendingit back and forth betweenthemacrosstheroom.
Earlier,when they hadmetTariqatthedoor,Zalmaihadclutched the basketball close
tohischestandstuckathumbin his mouth-something hedidn't do anymore exceptwhen he was apprehensive.He had eyed Tariq withsuspicion.
"Whois thatman?"hesaidnow."Idon'tlikehim."
Mariam was going toexplain, say something abouthim and Laila growing uptogether, but Zalmai cut her
off and said to turn theambulance around, so thefront grille faced him, and,when she did, he said hewantedhisbasketballagain.
"Where is it?" he said."Where is the ball Baba jangot me?Where is it? I wantit!Iwantit!"hisvoicerisingand
becoming more shrill witheachword.
"It was just here,"Mariamsaid, and he cried, "No, it'slost,Iknowit.Ijustknowit'slost! Where is it? Where isit?"
"Here," she said, fetchingtheballfromtheclosetwhereit had rolled to. But Zalmaiwas bawling now andpoundinghisfists,cryingthatit wasn't the same ball, itcouldn't be, because his ballwas lost, and thiswasa fake
one, where had his real ballgone? Where? Where wherewhere?
HescreameduntilLailahadtocomeupstairstoholdhim,to rock him and run herfingersthroughhistight,darkcurls,todryhismoistcheeksand cluck her tongue in hisear.
Mariam waited outside theroom. From atop the
staircase,allshecouldseeofTariqwere his long legs, therealoneandtheartificialone,in khaki pants, stretched outon the uncarpeted living-room floor. It was then thatsherealizedwhythedoormanattheContinentalhadlookedfamiliar the day she andRasheed had gone there toplace the call to Jalil. He'dbeen wearing a cap andsunglasses, that was why ithadn't come to her earlier.
But Mariam rememberednow, fromnine years before,remembered him sittingdownstairs, patting his browwith a handkerchief andasking for water. Now allmanner of questions racedthrough her mind: Had thesulfapillstoobeenpartoftheruse?Whichoneofthemhadplotted the lie, provided theconvincing details?And howmuch had Rasheed paidAbdulSharif-ifthatwaseven
his name-to come and crushLailawiththestoryofTariq'sdeath?
44.
Laila
Iariq said that one of themenwhosharedhiscellhadacousin who'd been publiclyflogged once for paintingflamingos. He, the cousin,had a seemingly incurable
thingforthem.
"Entire sketchbooks,"Tariqsaid."Dozensofoilpaintingsof them, wading in lagoons,sunbathing in marshlands.Flying into sunsets too, I'mafraid."
"Flamingos,"Lailasaid.Shelooked at him sitting againstthewall,hisgoodlegbentatthe knee. She had an urge totouch him again, as she had
earlierbythefrontgatewhenshe'd run to him. Itembarrassedhernowtothinkofhowshe'dthrownherarmsaroundhisneckandweptintohis chest, how she'd said hisname over and over in aslurring,thickvoice.Hadsheacted too eagerly, shewondered, too desperately?Maybe so. But she hadn'tbeenabletohelpit.Andnowshe longed to touch himagain, to prove to herself
againthathewasreallyhere,that he was not a dream, anapparition.
"Indeed," he said."Flamingos."
WhentheTalibanhadfoundthe paintings, Tariq said,they'd taken offense at thebirds' long, bare legs. Afterthey'd tied the cousin's feetandfloggedhissolesbloody,theyhadpresentedhimwitha
choice: Either destroy thepaintings or make theflamingos decent. So thecousin had picked up hisbrushandpaintedtrousersoneverylastbird
"And there you have it.Islamic flamingos," Tariqsaid-Laughter came up, butLaila pushed it back down.She was ashamed of heryellowing teeth, the missingincisor-Ashamed of her
withered looks and swollenlip.Shewishedshe'dhad thechance to wash her face, atleastcombherhair.
"But he'll have the lastlaugh,thecousin,"Tariqsaid-"He painted those trouserswith watercolor. When theTaliban are gone, he'll justwash them off" He smiled-Laila noticed that he had amissing toothofhisown-andlooked down at his hands.
"Indeed"
He was wearingapakol onhis head, hiking boots, and ablack wool sweater tuckedinto thewaist of khaki pants.Hewashalfsmiling,noddingslowly.Lailadidn'trememberhim saying this before, thiswordindeed, and this pensivegesture,the fingers making atentinhislap,thenodding,itwas new too. Such an adultword, such an adult gesture,
and why should it be sostartling? Hewas an adultnow, Tariq, a twenty-five-year-old man with slowmovementsandatirednesstohis smile. Tall, bearded,slimmerthaninherdreamsofhim, but with strong-lookinghands,workman'shands,withtortuous, full veins. His facewas still lean and handsomebut not fair-skinned anylonger; his brow had aweathered look to it,
sunburned, like his neck, thebrowof a traveler at the endof a long and wearyingjourney.Hispakolwaspushedback on his head, and shecould see that he'd started tolosehishair.Thehazelofhiseyes was duller than sheremembered, paler, orperhaps it was merely thelightintheroom.
Laila thought of Tariq'smother, her unhurried
manners, the clever smiles,the dull purple wig. And hisfather,with his squinty gaze,hiswryhumor.Earlier,atthedoor, with a voice full oftears, tripping over her ownwords, she'd told Tariq whatshe thought had happened tohim and his parents, and hehadshakenhishead.Sonowsheaskedhimhowtheyweredoing, his parents. But sheregretted the question whenTariq looked down and said,
a bit distractedly, "Passedon."
"I'msosorry."
"Well.Yes.Me too.Here."He fished a small paper bagfromhispocketandpasseditto her. "Compliments ofAlyona." Inside was a blockofcheeseinplasticwrap.
"Alyona.It'saprettyname."Laila tried to say this next
without wavering. "Yourwife?"
"Mygoat."Hewas smilingat her expectantly, as thoughwaiting for her to retrieve amemory.
Then Laila remembered.The Soviet film. Alyona hadbeen the captain's daughter,the girl in lovewith the firstmate. That was the day thatshe, Tariq, and Hasina had
watched Soviet tanks andjeeps leave Kabul, the dayTariq had worn thatridiculousRussianfurhat.
"Ihadtotiehertoastakeinthe ground," Tariq wassaying. "And build a fence.Becauseofthewolves.Inthefoothills where I live, there'sawoodedareanearby,maybeaquarterofamileaway,pinetrees mostly, some fir,deodars.Theymostlystickto
thewoods,thewolvesdo,butableatinggoat,onethatlikesto go wandering, that candraw themout.So the fence.Thestake."
Laila asked him whichfoothills.
"Pir PanjaL Pakistan," hesaid "Where I live is calledMurree;it'sasummerretreat,an hour from Islamabad. It'shilly and green, lots of trees,
high above sea level So it'scool in the summer. Perfectfortourists."
TheBritishhadbuilt itasahillstationneartheirmilitaryheadquarters in Rawalpindi,he said, for theVictorians toescape the heat. You couldstill spot a few relics of thecolonialtimes,Tariqsaid,theoccasional tearoom, tin-roofed bungalows, calledcottages, that sort of thing.
Thetownitselfwassmallandpleasant.Themainstreetwascalled the Mall, where therewasapostoffice,abazaar,afew restaurants, shops thatovercharged tourists forpaintedglassandhandknottedcarpets.Curiously, theMall'sone-waytrafficflowedinonedirection one week, theopposite direction the nextweek.
"ThelocalssaythatIreland's
traffic is like that too inplaces," Tariq said. "Iwouldn't know. Anyway, it'snice.It'sa
plainlife,butIlikeit.Ilikelivingthere."
"With your goat. WithAlyona."
Laila meant this less as ajoke than as a surreptitiousentryintoanotherlineoftalk,
such as who else was therewith him worrying aboutwolves eating goats. ButTariqonlywentonnodding.
"I'm sorry about yourparentstoo,"hesaid.
"Youheard."
"I spoke to someneighborsearlier," he said. A pause,duringwhichLailawonderedwhat else the neighbors had
told him. "I don't recognizeanybody.Fromtheolddays,Imean."
"They'reallgone.There'snooneleftyou'dknow."
"Idon'trecognizeKabul."
"Neither do I," Laila said."AndIneverleft."
***
"Mammyhasanewfriend,"Zalmai said after dinner laterthat same night, after Tariqhadleft."Aman."
Rasheed looked up."Doesshe,now?"
***
Tariqaskedifhecouldsmoke.
They had stayed awhile attheNasir Bagh refugee camp
near Peshawar, Tariq said,tapping ash into a saucer.There were sixty thousandAfghans living there alreadywhen he and his parentsarrived.
"Itwasn'tasbadassomeofthe other camps like, Godforbid, Jalozai," he said. "Iguessatonepointitwaseven
some kind ofmodel camp,back during theColdWar, a
placetheWestcouldpointtoand prove to the world theyweren't just funnel ing armsintoAfghanistan."
ButthathadbeenduringtheSoviet war, Tariq said, thedays of jihad and worldwideinterestandgenerousfundingand visits from MargaretThatcher.
"You know the rest, Laila.Afterthewar,theSovietsfell
apart, and the West movedon. There was nothing atstakefortheminAfghanistananymoreandthemoneydriedup.NowNasirBagh is tents,dust,andopensewers.Whenwegot there, they handedusa stick and a sheet of canvasandtoldustobuildourselvesatent."
Tariq said what herememberedmostaboutNasirBagh,where they had stayed
for a year, was the colorbrown. "Brown tents. Brownpeople. Brown dogs. Brownporridge."
Therewasaleaflesstreeheclimbed every day,where hestraddled a branch andwatched the refugees lyingabout in the sun, their soresandstumpsinplainview.Hewatchedlittleemaciatedboyscarrying water in their jerrycans,gatheringdogdroppings
tomakefire,carvingtoyAK-47s out of wood with dullknives, lugging the sacks ofwheatflourthatnoonecouldmake bread from that heldtogether. All around therefugee town, thewindmadethe tents flap. It hurledstubblesofweedeverywhere,lifted kites flown from theroofsofmudhovels.
"A lot of kids died.Dysentery, TB, hunger-you
name it. Mostly, that damndysentery. God, Laila. I sawsomany kids buried. There'snothing worse a person cansee."
Hecrossedhislegs.Itgrewquietagainbetween themforawhile.
"My father didn't survivethatfirstwinter,"hesaid."Hediedinhissleep.Idon'tthinktherewasanypain."
That same winter, he said,hismothercaughtpneumoniaand almost died,would havedied,ifnotforacampdoctorwho worked out of a stationwagon made into a mobileclinic.Shewouldwakeupallnightlong,feverish,coughingout thick, rust-coloredphlegm. The queues werelong to see the doctor, Tariqsaid.Everyonewas shiveringin line, moaning, coughing,somewithshit runningdown
their legs, others too tired orhungry or sick to makewords.
"But hewas a decentman,the doctor. He treated mymother, gave her some pills,savedherlifethatwinter."
Thatsamewinter,Tariqhadcorneredakid.
"Twelve, maybe thirteenyearsold,"he saidevenly. "I
held a shard of glass to histhroat and took his blanketfrom him. I gave it to mymother."
Hemadeavow tohimself,Tariq said, after hismother'sillness, that they would notspendanotherwinterincamp.He'd work, save, move themto an apartment in Peshawarwithheatingandcleanwater.Whenspringcame,helookedforwork.From time to time,
atruckcametocampearlyinthemorningandroundedupacouple of dozen boys, tookthemtoafieldtomovestonesor an orchard to pick applesin exchange for a littlemoney, sometimes a blanket,a pair of shoes. But theyneverwantedhim,Tariqsaid.
"One look atmy leg and itwasover."
There were other jobs.
Ditches to dig, hovels tobuild,watertocarry,fecestoshovel from outhouses. Butyoungmenfoughtover thesejobs,andTariqneverstoodachance-Then he met ashopkeeper one day, that fallof1993.
"He offered me money totakea leathercoat toLahore.Notalotbutenough,enoughforoneormaybetwomonths'apartmentrent."
Theshopkeepergavehimabusticket,Tariqsaid,andtheaddressofastreetcornerneartheLahoreRailStationwherehewastodeliverthecoattoafriendoftheshopkeeper's.
"Iknewalready.OfcourseIknew," Tariq said. "He saidthat if Igot caught, Iwasonmy own, that I shouldremember that he knewwhere my mother lived. Butthe money was too good to
pass up. And winter wascomingagain."
"How far did you get?"Lailaasked.
"Not far," he said andlaughed,soundingapologetic,ashamed."Neverevengotonthe bus. But I thought I wasimmune, you know, safe.Asthough there was someaccountant up theresomewhere, a guy with a
pencil tucked behind his earwho kept track of thesethings,who tallied thingsup,and he'd look down and say,'Yes, yes, he can have this,we'llletitgo.He'spaidsomeduesalready,thisone.'"
It was in the seams, thehashish,anditspilledalloverthe street when the policetookaknifetothecoat.
Tariq laughed again when
hesaidthis,aclimbing,shakykind of laugh, and Lailaremembered how he used tolaugh like this when theywere little, to cloakembarrassment,tomakelightof thingshe'ddone thatwerefoolhardyorscandalous.
***
"He has A limp," Zalmaisaid. "Is this who Ithink itis?"
"He was only visiting,"Mariamsaid.
"Shut up, you," Rasheedsnapped, raising a finger.Heturned back to Laila. "Well,whatdoyouknow?LailiandMajnoon reunited. Just likeold times." His face turnedstony. "So you let him in.Here. In my house. You lethim in. He was in here withmyson."
"Youdupedme.Youliedtome," Laila said, gritting herteeth. "You had that man sitacross from me and… Youknew I would leave if Ithoughthewasalive."
"AND YOU DIDN'T LIETO ME?" Rasheed roared."You think I didn't figure itout? About yourharamil Youtake me for a fool, youwhore?"
***
Themore Tariq talked, themore Laila dreaded themomentwhenhewouldstop.The silence that wouldfollow, the signal that it washer turn to give account, toprovidethewhyandhowandwhen, to make official whathe surely already knew. Shefelt a faint nausea wheneverhe paused. She averted hiseyes.Shelookeddownathis
hands, at the coarse, darkhairsthathadsproutedontheback of them in theinterveningyears.
Tariq wouldn't say muchabouthisyearsinprisonsavethat he'd learned to speakUrdu there. When Lailaasked, he gave an impatientshake of his head. In thisgesture, Laila saw rusty barsandunwashedbodies,violentmen and crowded halls, and
ceilings rotting with moldydeposits.Shereadinhisfacethat it had been a place ofabasement, of degradationanddespair.
Tariq said hismother triedtovisithimafterhisarrest.
"Threetimesshecame.ButI never got to see her," hesaid.
Hewroteheraletter,anda
few more after that, eventhough he doubted that shewouldreceivethem.
"AndIwroteyou."
"Youdid?"
"Oh,volumes," he said."Your friend Rumi wouldhave enviedmy production."Then he laughed again,uproariously this time, asthoughhewasbothstartledat
his own boldness andembarrassed by what he hadleton.
Zalmai began bawlingupstairs.
***
"Just like old times, then,"Rasheed said. "The two ofyou. I suppose you let himseeyourface."
"She did," said Zalmai.Then, to Laila, "You did,Mammy.Isawyou."
***
"Your son doesn't care forme much," Tariq said whenLailareturneddownstairs.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It'snotthat.Hejust…Don'tmindhim." Then quickly shechanged the subject because
itmadeher feelperverseandguilty to feel that aboutZalmai, who was a child, alittle boy who loved hisfather, whose instinctiveaversion to this stranger wasunderstandable andlegitimate.
AndIwroteyou.
Volumes.Volumes.
"Howlonghaveyoubeenin
Murree?"
"Less than a year," Tariqsaid-He befriended an olderman in prison, he said, afellow named Salim, aPakistani, a former fieldhockey player who had beeninandoutofprisonforyearsand who was serving tenyears for stabbing anundercover policeman. Everyprison has aman like Salim,Tariqsaid.Therewasalways
someone who was cunningand connected, who workedthe system and found youthings, someone aroundwhom the air buzzed withboth opportunity and danger-ItwasSalimwhohadsentoutTariq's queries about hismother, Salim who had sathimdownand toldhim, in asoft, fatherly voice, that shehaddiedofexposure.
Tariq spent seven years in
thePakistaniprison."Igotoffeasy," he said. "I was lucky.Thejudgesittingonmycase,it turned out, had a brotherwho'd married an Afghanwoman. Maybe he showedmercy.Idon'tknow."
WhenTariq's sentencewasup, early in the winter of2000, Salim gave him hisbrother's address and phonenumber. The brother's namewasSayeed.
"He said Sayeed owned asmallhotel inMurree,"Tariqsaid. "Twenty rooms and alounge, a little place to caterto tourists.Hesaid tellhimIsentyou."
Tariq had liked Murree assoon as he'd stepped off thebus: the snow-laden pines;the cold, crisp air; theshuttered wooden cottages,smoke curling up fromchimneys.
Herewasaplace,Tariqhadthought, knocking onSayeed's door, a place notonly worlds removed fromthewretchednesshe'dknownbut one that made even thenotionofhardshipandsorrowsomehow obscene,unimaginable.
"I said tomyself, here is aplace where a man can geton."
Tariqwashiredasa janitorand handyman. He did well,hesaid,duringtheone-monthtrial period, at half pay, thatSayeedgrantedhim.AsTariqspoke, Laila saw Sayeed,whom she imagined narrow-eyed and ruddy-faced,standing at the receptionoffice window watchingTariq chop wood and shovelsnow off the driveway. ShesawhimstoopingoverTariq'slegs, observing, as Tariq lay
beneath the sink fixing aleaky pipe. She pictured himchecking the register formissingcash.
Tariq'sshackwasbesidethecook's little bungalow, hesaid. The cook was amatronly old widow namedAdiba. Both shacks weredetachedfromthehotelitself,separated from the mainbuilding by a scattering ofalmond trees, a park bench,
and a pyramid-shaped stonefountain that, in the summer,gurgled water all day. Lailapictured Tariq in his shack,sitting up in bed, watchingthe leafy world outside hiswindow.
At the end of the graceperiod, Sayeed raised Tariq'spay to full, told him hisluncheswerefree,gavehimawool coat, and fitted him fora new leg. Tariq said he'd
weptattheman'skindness.
With his first month's fullsalary in his pocket, TariqhadgonetotownandboughtAlyona.
"Herfurisperfectlywhite,"Tariq said, smiling. "Somemornings, when it's snowedall night, you look out thewindowandallyouseeofheristwoeyesandamuzzle."
Laila nodded Anothersilence ensued Upstairs,Zalmai had begun bouncinghis ball again against thewall.
"I thought youwere dead,"Lailasaid.
"Iknow.Youtoldme."
Laila'svoicebroke.Shehadto clear her throat, collectherself. "Themanwho came
to give the news, he was soearnest…Ibelieved him,Tariq. I wish I hadn't, but Idid.And then I felt so aloneand scared. Otherwise, Iwouldn't have agreed tomarry Rasheed. I wouldn'thave…"
"Youdon'thavetodothis,"he said softly, avoiding hereyes. There was no hiddenreproach,norecrimination,intheway he had said this.No
suggestionofblame.
"ButIdo.BecausetherewasabiggerreasonwhyImarriedhim. There's something youdon'tknow,Tariq.Someone.Ihavetotellyou."
***
"Did you srr and talk withhim too?" Rasheed askedZalmai.
Zalmai said nothing. Lailasaw hesitation anduncertainty in his eyes now,as ifhehad just realized thatwhat he'd disclosed hadturned out to be far biggerthanhe'dthought.
"I asked you a question,boy."
Zalmaiswallowed.Hisgazekeptshifting."Iwasupstairs,playingwithMariam."
"Andyourmother?"
Zalmai looked at Lailaapologetically, on the vergeoftears.
"It'sallright,Zalmai,"Lailasaid."Tellthetruth."
"She was…She wasdownstairs, talking to thatman,"he said in a thinvoicehardlylouderthanawhisper.
"I see," said Rasheed."Teamwork."
***
As he was leaving, Tariqsaid, "I want to meet her. Iwanttoseeher."
"I'llarrangeit,"Lailasaid.
"Aziza.Aziza."He smiled,tasting the word. WheneverRasheed uttered her
daughter's name, it came outsounding unwholesome toLaila,almostvulgar.
"Aziza.It'slovely."
"Soisshe.You'llsee."
"I'llcounttheminutes."
Almosttenyearshadpassedsince theyhad last seen eachother.Laila'smind flashed toallthetimesthey'dmetinthe
alley, kissing in secret. Shewonderedhowshemustseemtohimnow.Didhe still findher pretty? Or did she seemwithered to him, reduced,pitiable, like a fearful,shufflingoldwoman?Almosttenyears.But,foramoment,standing there with Tariq inthesunlight,itwasasthoughthose years had neverhappened. Her parents'deaths, her marriage toRasheed, the killings, the
rockets, the Taliban, thebeatings,thehunger,evenherchildren,allofitseemedlikea dream, a bizarre detour, amere interlude between thatlast afternoon together andthismoment.
Then Tariq's face changed,turned grave. She knew thisexpression. It was the samelookhe'dhadonhisfacethatday,allthoseyearsagowhenthey'd both been children,
whenhe'd unstrappedhis legand gone after Khadim. Hereached with one hand nowandtouchedthecomerofherlowerlip.
"Hedidthistoyou,"hesaidcoldly.
At his touch, Lailaremembered the frenzy ofthat afternoon again whenthey'd conceived Aziza. Hisbreath on her neck, the
muscles of his hips flexing,hischestpressingagainstherbreasts, their handsinterlocked.
"I wish I'd taken you withme,"Tariqnearlywhispered.
Lailahadtolowerhergaze,trynottocry.
"I know you're a marriedwoman and a mother now.AndhereIam,afterallthese
years, after all that'shappened,showingupatyourdoorstep. Probably, it isn'tproper, or fair, but I've comesuch a long way to see you,and… Oh, Laila, I wish I'dneverleftyou."
"Don't,"shecroaked.
"Ishouldhavetriedharder.Ishould have married youwhen I had the chance.Everything would have been
different,then."
"Don'ttalkthisway.Please.Ithurts."
Henodded,startedtotakeasteptowardher, thenstoppedhimself. "I don't want toassumeanything.AndIdon'tmean to turnyour lifeupsidedown,appearing like thisoutof nowhere. If you want metoleave,ifyouwantmetogoback to Pakistan, say the
word,Laila. Imean it.Say itand I'll go. I'll never troubleyouagain.I'll-"
"No!" Laila said moresharply than she'd intendedto.Shesawthatshe'dreachedfor his arm, that she wasclutchingit. She dropped herhand."No.Don'tleave,Tariq.No.Pleasestay."
Tariqnodded.
"He works from noon toeight. Come back tomorrowafternoon. I'll take you toAziza."
"I'mnot afraid of him, youknow."
"I know. Come backtomorrowafternoon."
"Andthen?"
"And then…Idon't know. I
havetothink.Thisis…"
"I know it is," he said. "Iunderstand. I'm sorry. I'msorryforalotofthings."
"Don't be. You promisedyou'd come back. And youdid."
Hiseyeswatered."It'sgoodtoseeyou,Laila."
She watched him walk
away, shivering where shestood. She thought,Volumes,and another shudder passedthrough her, a current ofsomething sad and forlorn,butalsosomethingeagerandrecklesslyhopeful.
45.
Madam
Iwasupstairs,playingwithMariam,"Zalmaisaid.
"Andyourmother?"
"She was…She was
downstairs, talking to thatman."
"I see," said Rasheed."Teamwork."
Mariam watched his facerelax, loosen. She watchedthefoldsclearfromhisbrow.Suspicion and misgivingwinkedoutofhiseyes.Hesatup straight, and, for a fewbrief moments, he appearedmerely thoughtful, like a
captaininformedofimminentmutiny taking his time toponderhisnextmove.
Helookedup.
Mariam began to saysomething, but he raised ahand,and,withoutlookingather, said, "It's too late,Mariam."
To Zalmai he said coldly,"You'regoingupstairs,boy."
On Zalmai's face, Mariamsaw alarm. Nervously, helookedaroundat the threeofthem.Hesensednowthathistattletale game had letsomething serious-adultserious-intotheroom.Hecasta despondent, contrite glancetoward Mariam, then hismother.
In a challenging voice,Rasheedsaid,"Now!"
He took Zalmai by theelbow. Zalmai meekly lethimselfbeledupstairs.
They stood frozen,MariamandLaila,eyestotheground,as though looking at eachotherwouldgivecredence tothewayRasheed saw things,that while he was openingdoors and lugging baggagefor people who wouldn'tspare him a glance a lewdconspiracy was shaping
behindhisback,inhishome,inhisbelovedson'spresence.Neither one of them said aword. They listened to thefootsteps in the hallwayabove, one heavy andforeboding, the other thepattering of a skittish littleanimal. They listened tomuted words passed, asqueaky plea, a curt retort, adoor shut, the rattle of a keyas it turned. Then one set offootsteps returning, more
impatientlynow.
Mariam saw his feetpounding the steps as hecame down. She saw himpocketing the key, saw hisbelt, the perforated endwrapped tightly around hisknuckles. The fake brassbuckle dragged behind him,bouncingonthesteps.
Shewenttostophim,butheshovedherbackandblewby
her. Without saying a word,heswungthebeltatLaila.Hediditwithsuchspeedthatshehadnotimetoretreatorduck,or even raise a protectivearm.Lailatouchedherfingersto her temple, looked at theblood, looked at Rasheed,with astonishment. It lastedonly a moment or two, thislook of disbelief, before itwas replaced by somethinghateful.
Rasheed swung the beltagain.
This time, Laila shieldedherself with a forearm andmade a grab at the belt. Shemissed, andRasheedbroughtthe belt down again. Lailacaught it briefly beforeRasheed yanked it free andlashed at her again. ThenLailawasdashingaroundtheroom, and Mariam wasscreaming words that ran
together and imploringRasheed, as he chased Laila,as he blocked her way andcrackedhisbeltather.Atonepoint, Laila ducked andmanaged to land a punchacross his ear, which madehim spit a curse and pursueher even more relentlessly.He caught her, threw her upagainst the wall, and struckher with the belt again andagain, the buckle slammingagainst her chest, her
shoulder,herraisedarms,herfingers, drawing bloodwhereveritstruck.
Mariam lost count of howmany times the belt cracked,how many pleading wordsshecriedouttoRasheed,howmany times she circledaround the incoherent tangleof teeth and fists and belt,before she saw fingersclawing at Rasheed's face,chippednailsdiggingintohis
jowls and pulling at his hairand scratching his forehead.Howlongbeforesherealized,with both shock and relish,thatthefingerswerehers.
HeletgoofLailaandturnedon her.At first, he looked ather without seeing her, thenhis eyes narrowed, appraisedMariam with interest. Thelook in them shifted frompuzzlement to shock, thendisapproval, disappointment
even, lingering there amoment.
Mariam remembered thefirst time she had seen hiseyes,undertheweddingveil,in the mirror, with Jalillooking on, how their gazeshad slid across the glass andmet, his indifferent, hersdocile, conceding, almostapologetic.
Apologetic.
Mariam saw now in thosesame eyes what a fool shehadbeen.
Had she been a deceitfulwife? she asked herself. Acomplacent wife? Adishonorable woman?Discreditable? Vulgar? Whatharmful thing had shewillfully done to thisman towarrant his malice, hiscontinual assaults, the relishwithwhichhetormentedher?
Hadshenot lookedafterhimwhen he was ill? Fed him,and his friends, cleaned upafterhimdutifully?
Hadshenotgiventhismanheryouth?
Hadsheeverjustlydeservedhismeanness?
The belt made a thumpwhen Rasheed dropped it tothegroundandcame forher.
Some jobs, thatthump said,were meant to be done withbarehands.
But just as hewas bearingdown on her, Mariam sawLaila behind him picksomething up from theground. She watched Laila'shandriseoverhead,hold,thencomeswoopingdownagainstthe side of his face. Glassshattered.Thejaggedremainsof the drinking glass rained
down to the ground. Therewas blood on Laila's hands,blood flowing from the opengash on Rasheed's cheek,blood down his neck, on hisshirt. He turned around, allsnarling teeth and blazingeyes.
Theycrashedtotheground,Rasheed and Laila, thrashingabout. He ended up on top,his hands already wrappedaroundLaila'sneck.
Mariamclawedathim.Shebeat at his chest. She hurledherself against him. Shestruggledtouncurlhisfingersfrom Laila's neck. She bitthem. But they remainedtightly clamped aroundLaila's wind-pipe, andMariamsawthathemeant tocarrythisthrough.
Hemeant to suffocate her,and there was nothing eitherofthemcoulddoaboutit.
Mariam backed away andleft theroom.Shewasawareof a thumping sound fromupstairs, aware that tinypalmswereslappingagainstalocked door. She ran downthe hallway. She burstthrough the front door.Crossedtheyard.
In the toolshed, Mariamgrabbedtheshovel.
Rasheed didn't notice her
coming back into the room.Hewas still on top of Laila,his eyes wide and crazy, hishands wrapped around herneck.Laila'sfacewasturningblue now, and her eyes hadrolledback.Mariamsawthatshe was no longerstruggling.He's going to killher, she thought.He reallymeans to.AndMariamcouldnot, would not, allow that tohappen. He'd taken so muchfrom her in twenty-seven
yearsofmarriage.ShewouldnotwatchhimtakeLailatoo.
Mariam steadied her feetandtightenedhergriparoundthe shovel's handle. Sheraised it. She said his name.Shewantedhimtosee.
"Rasheed."
Helookedup.
Mariamswung.
She hit him across thetemple. The blow knockedhimoffLaila.
Rasheed touched his headwiththepalmofhishand.Helooked at the blood on hisfingertips, then at Mariam.She thought she sawhis facesoften. She imagined thatsomething had passedbetweenthem,thatmaybeshehad quite literally knockedsome understanding into his
head. Maybe he sawsomething in her face too,Mariam thought, somethingthatmadehimhedge.Maybehe saw some trace of all theself-denial, all the sacrifice,all the sheer exertion it hadtakenhertolivewithhimforall these years, live with hiscontinual condescension andviolence,his faultfindingandmeanness. Was that respectshesawinhiseyes?Regret?
Butthenhisupperlipcurledbackintoaspitefulsneer,andMariam knew then thefutility, maybe even theirresponsibility, of notfinishing this. If she let himwalk now, how long beforehe fetched the key from hispocket andwent for thatgunof his upstairs in the roomwhere he'd locked Zalmai?HadMariambeencertainthathe would be satisfied withshooting only her, that there
wasachancehewouldspareLaila, she might havedropped the shovel. But inRasheed's eyes she sawmurderforthemboth.
And so Mariam raised theshovel high, raised it as highas she could, arching it so ittouchedthesmallofherback.She turned it so the sharpedgewasvertical,and,asshedid,itoccurredtoherthatthiswasthefirsttimethatshewas
deciding the course of herownlife.
And, with that, MariambroughtdowntheshovelThistime, she gave it everythingshehad.
46.
Laila
Lailawasawareofthefaceoverher,allteethandtobaccoandforebodingeyes.Shewasdimlyaware, too,ofMariam,a presence beyond the face,of her fists raining down.
Above themwas the ceiling,and it was the ceiling Lailawas drawn to, the darkmarkings of mold spreadingacross it like ink on a dress,the crack in the plaster thatwasastolidsmileorafrown,depending on which end ofthe room you looked at itfrom.Laila thoughtofall thetimes she had tied a ragaround the end of a broomand cleaned cobwebs fromthis ceiling. The three times
sheandMariamhadputcoatsofwhitepaintonit.Thecrackwasn'tasmileanylongernowbut a mocking leer. And itwasreceding.Theceilingwasshrinking,lifting,risingawayfrom her and toward somehazydimnessbeyond. It roseuntilitshranktothesizeofapostage stamp, white andbright, everything around itblotted out by the shuttereddarkness. In the dark,Rasheed's face was like a
sunspot.
Brieflittleburstsofblindinglight before her eyes now,like silver stars exploding.Bizarre geometric forms inthe light, worms, egg-shapedthings,movingupanddown,sideways, melting into eachother, breaking apart,morphing into somethingelse, then fading, givingwaytoblackness.
Voicesmuffledanddistant.
Behindthe lidsofhereyes,herchildren'sfacesflaredandfizzled. Aziza, alert andburdened,knowing,secretive.Zalmai, looking up at hisfather with quiveringeagerness.
Itwouldendlikethis, then,Lailathought.Whatapitiableend-But then the darknessbegan to lift. She had a
sensation of rising up, ofbeinghoistedup.Theceilingslowlycameback, expanded,and now Laila could makeout the crack again, and itwasthesameolddullsmile.
She was being shaken.Areyouallright?Answerme,areyou all right?Mariam's face,engraved with scratches,heavy with worry, hoveredoverLaila.
Laila tried a breath. Itburned her throat. She triedanother. It burned evenmorethis time, and not just herthroat but her chest too.Andthen she was coughing, andwheezing. Gasping. Butbreathing.Hergoodearrang.
***
Thefirstthingshesawwhenshe sat up was Rasheed. Hewaslyingonhisback,staring
atnothingwithanunblinking,fish-mouthed expression. Abitof foam, lightlypink,haddribbled from his mouthdownhischeek.The frontofhis pants was wet. She sawhisforehead.
Thenshesawtheshovel.
A groan came out of her."Oh," she said, tremulously,barely able to make a voice,"Oh,Mariam."
***
Laila paced, moaning andbanging her hands together,asMariam sat near Rasheed,herhandsinherlap,calmandmotionless.Mariamdidn'tsayanythingforalongtime.
Laila'smouthwas dry, andshe was stammering herwords, trembling all over.ShewilledherselfnottolookatRasheed,attherictusofhis
mouth, his open eyes, at theblood congealing in thehollowofhiscollarbone.
Outside, the light wasfading, the shadowsdeepening. Mariam's facelookedthinanddrawninthislight, but she did not appearagitatedorfrightened,merelypreoccupied, thoughtful, soself-possessedthatwhenaflylandedonherchinshepaiditnoattention.Shejustsatthere
withherbottomlipstuckout,thewayshedidwhenshewasabsorbedinthought.
Atlast,shesaid,"Sitdown,Lailajo."
Lailadid,obediently.
"We have to move him.Zalmaican'tseethis."
***
Mariamfishedthebedroomkey from Rasheed's pocketbeforetheywrappedhiminabedsheet. Laila took him bythe legs, behind the knees,and Mariam grabbed himunder the arms. They triedlifting him, but he was tooheavy, and they ended updragging him. As they werepassing through the frontdoor and into the yard,Rasheed'sfootcaughtagainstthe doorframe and his leg
bent sideways. They had toback up and try again, andthen something thumpedupstairsandLaila's legsgaveout. She dropped Rasheed.She slumped to the ground,sobbing and shaking, andMariamhadtostandoverher,hands on hips, and say thatshe had to get herselftogether.Thatwhatwasdonewas done-After a time, Lailagot up and wiped her face,and they carried Rasheed to
the yard without furtherincident. They took him intothe toolshed. They left himbehind the workbench, onwhichsathissaw,somenails,a chisel, a hammer, and acylindricalblockofwoodthatRasheedhadbeenmeaningtocarve into something forZalmai but had never gottenaround to doing-Then theywent back inside. Mariamwashed her hands, ran themthroughherhair, tookadeep
breathand let itout."Letmetend to your wounds now.You'reallcutup,Lailajo."
***
Mahiamsaidsheneededthenighttothinkthingsover.Together thoughts togetheranddeviseaplan.
"There is away," she said,"andIjusthavetofindit."
"Wehavetoleave!Wecan'tstay here," Laila said in abroken, husky voice. Shethought suddenly of thesound the shovel must havemadestrikingRasheed'shead,andherbodypitchedforward.Bilesurgedupherchest.
Mariam waited patientlyuntil Laila felt better. Thenshe had Laila lie down, and,as she stroked Laila's hair inher lap, Mariam said not to
worry, that everythingwouldbe fine. She said that theywould leave-she, Laila, thechildren,andTariqtoo.Theywould leave this house, andthis unforgiving city. Theywould leave this despondentcountry altogether, Mariamsaid, running her handsthrough Laila's hair, and gosomeplace remote and safewhere no one would findthem, where they coulddisown their past and find
shelter.
"Somewherewithtrees,"shesaid."Yes.Lotsoftrees."
Theywould live in a smallhouse on the edge of sometown they'd never heard of,Mariam said, or in a remotevillage where the road wasnarrowandunpavedbutlinedwithallmannerofplantsandshrubs.Maybetherewouldbeapathtotake,apaththatled
to a grass field where thechildrencouldplay,ormaybea graveled road that wouldtakethemtoaclearbluelakewhere trout swam and reedspoked through the surface.They would raise sheep andchickens, and they wouldmake bread together andteach the children to read.They would make new livesfor themselves-peaceful,solitary lives-and there theweight of all that they'd
enduredwouldliftfromthem,and theywould be deservingof all the happiness andsimple prosperity theywouldfind.
Laila murmuredencouragingly.Itwouldbeanexistence rife withdifficulties, shesaw,butofapleasurable kind, difficultiesthey could take pride in,possess, value, as one woulda family heirloom. Mariam's
soft maternal voice went on,brought a degree of comfortto her.There is a way, she'dsaid, and, in the morning,Mariam would tell her whatneeded to be done and theywould do it, and maybe bytomorrow this time theywouldbeontheirwaytothisnewlife,alifeluxuriantwithpossibility and joy andwelcomed difficulties. LailawasgratefulthatMariamwasin charge, unclouded and
sober, able to think thisthroughforbothofthem.Herown mind was a jittery,muddledmess.
Mariamgotup."Youshouldtendtoyoursonnow."Onherwas the most strickenexpression Laila had everseenonahumanface.
***
Lailafoundhiminthedark,
curleduponRasheed'ssideofthe mattress. She slippedbeneaththecoversbesidehimand pulled the blanket overthem.
"Areyouasleep?"
Without turning around tofaceher,hesaid,"Can'tsleepyet. Baba jan hasn't saidtheBabalooprayerswithme."
"MaybeIcansaythemwith
youtonight."
"Youcan'tsaythemlikehecan."
She squeezed his littleshoulder. Kissed the nape ofhisneck."Icantry."
"WhereisBabajan?"
"Baba jan has gone away,"Laila said, her throat closingupagain.
Andthereitwas,spokenforthe first time, the great,damning lie.Howmanymoretimes would this lie have tobe told? Laila wonderedmiserably. How many moretimes would Zalmai have tobe deceived? She picturedZalmai, his jubilant, runningwelcomes when Rasheedcame home and Rasheedpickinghimupbytheelbowsand swinging him round androunduntilZalmai'slegsflew
straight out, the two of themgiggling afterward whenZalmai stumbled around likeadrunk.She thoughtof theirdisorderly games and theirboisterous laughs, theirsecretiveglances.
A pall of shame and griefforhersonfelloverLaila.
"Wheredidhego?"
"Idon'tknow,mylove."
Whenwashecomingback?Would Baba jan bring apresent with him when hereturned?
She did the prayers withZalmai. Twenty-oneBismallah-e-rahman-erahims -one for eachknuckleofsevenfingers.Shewatched him cup his handsbeforehisfaceandblowintothem, then place the back ofboth hands on his forehead
and make a casting-awaymotion, whispering,Babaloo,be gone, do notcome to Zalmai, he has nobusiness with you.Babaloo,be gone. Then, tofinish off, they saidAilah-u-akbar three times. And later,much later that night, Lailawas startled by a mutedvoice:Did Babajan leavebecause of me? Because ofwhatIsaid,aboutyouandthemandownstairs?
She leaned over him,meaningtoreassure,meaningto sayIt had nothing to dowith you, Zalmai. No.Nothing isyour fault.Buthewas asleep, his small chestrisingandsinking.
***
When Laila "went to bed,her mind was muffled up,clouded, incapable ofsustained rational thought.
Butwhenshewokeup,tothemuezzin's call for morningprayer, much of the dullnesshadlifted.
She sat up and watchedZalmai sleep for awhile, theballofhisfistunderhischin.Laila pictured MariamsneakingintotheroominthemiddleofthenightassheandZalmai had slept, watchingthem, making plans in herhead.
Laila slipped out of bed. Ittook effort to stand. Sheached everywhere.Her neck,her shoulders, her back, herarms,herthighs,allengravedwith the cuts of Rasheed'sbelt buckle. Wincing, shequietlyleftthebedroom.
InMariam's room, the lightwasashadedarkerthangray,the kind of light Laila hadalways associated withcrowing roosters and dew
rolling off blades of grass.Mariam was sitting in acorner,onaprayerrugfacingthe window. Slowly, Lailaloweredherselftotheground,sittingdownacrossfromher.
"You should go and visitAziza thismorning,"Mariamsaid.
"I knowwhat youmean todo."
"Don't walk. Take the bus,you'll blend in.Taxis are tooconspicuous. You're sure togetstoppedforridingalone."
"What you promised lastnight…"
Laila could not finish. Thetrees, the lake, the namelessvillage.A delusion, she saw.A lovely liemeant to soothe.Like cooing to a distressedchild.
"Imeantit,"Mariamsaid."Imeantitforyou,Lailajo."
"I don't want any of itwithoutyou,"Lailacroaked.
Mariamsmiledwanly.
"Iwantittobejustlikeyousaid,Mariam,allofusgoingtogether, you, me, thechildren.TariqhasaplaceinPakistan. We can hide outthere for a while, wait for
thingstocalmdown-"
"That's not possible,"Mariam said patiently, like aparent to awell-meaning butmisguidedchild.
"We'll take care of eachother,"Lailasaid,chokingonthewords, her eyeswetwithtears. "Likeyousaid.No. I'lltakecareofyouforachange."
"Oh,Lailajo."
Lailawentonastammeringrant. She bargained. Shepromised. She would do allthecleaning,shesaid,andallthecooking."Youwon'thavetodoathing.Everagain.Yourest, sleep in, plant a garden.Whatever youwant, you askand I'll get it for you. Don'tdo this,Mariam. Don't leaveme. Don't break Aziza'sheart."
"They chop off hands for
stealing bread," Mariam said"Whatdoyouthinkthey'lldowhen they find a deadhusband and two missingwives?"
"No one will know," Lailabreathed. "No one will findus."
"Theywill.Sooneror later.They're bloodhounds."Mariam's voice was low,cautioning; it made Laila's
promises sound fantastical,trumped-up,foolish.
"Mariam,please-"
"When theydo, they'll findyou as guilty as me. Tariqtoo. I won't have the two ofyou living on the run, likefugitives. What will happento your children if you'recaught?"
Laila's eyes brimming,
stinging.
"Whowilltakecareofthemthen? The Taliban? Thinklikeamother,Lailajo.Thinklikeamother.Iam."
"Ican't."
"Youhaveto."
"Itisn'tfair,"Lailacroaked.
"Butitis.Comehere.Come
liehere."
Laila crawled to her andagain put her head onMariam's lap. Sheremembered all theafternoons they'd spenttogether,braidingeachother'shair, Mariam listeningpatiently to her randomthoughts and ordinary storieswith an air of gratitude,withthe expressionof aperson towhom a unique and coveted
privilege had been extended"Itis fair,"Mariamsaid. "I'vekilled our husband. I'vedeprived your son of hisfather.Itisn'trightthatIrun.Ican't. Even if they nevercatch us, I'll never…" Herlips trembled. "I'll neverescape your son's grief Howdo I look at him? How do Iever bring myself to look athim,Lailajo?"
Mariamtwiddledastrandof
Laila's hair, untangled astubborncurl.
"For me, it ends here.There's nothingmore Iwant.Everything I'd ever wishedfor as a little girl you'vealready given me. You andyour children have made meso very happy. It's all right,Laila jo. This is all right.Don'tbesad."
Laila could find no
reasonable answer foranything Mariam said. Butshe rambled on anyway,incoherently, childishly,about fruit trees that awaitedplanting and chickens thatawaited raising. Shewent onabout small houses inunnamedtowns,andwalkstotrout-filled lakes.And, in theend,whenthewordsdriedup,thetearsdidnot,andallLailacould do was surrender andsob like a child over-
whelmed by an adult'sunassailable logic. All shecould do was roll herself upand bury her face one lasttime in the welcomingwarmthofMariam'slap.
***
Laterthatmorning,Mariampacked Zalmai a small lunchof bread and dried figs. ForAziza too she packed somefigs, and a few cookies
shaped like animals. She putitallinapaperbagandgaveittoLaila.
"Kiss Aziza for me," shesaid. "Tell her she is thenoorofmy eyes and the sultan ofmyheart.Willyoudothatforme?"
Laila nodded, her lipspursedtogether.
"Take the bus, like I said,
andkeepyourheadlow."
"When will I see you,Mariam? I want to see youbefore I testify. I'll tell themhow it happened. I'll explainthat itwasn'tyour fault.Thatyou had to do it. They'llunderstand, won't they,Mariam?They'llunderstand."
Mariamgaveherasoftlook.
She hunkered down to eye
level with Zalmai. He waswearinga redT-shirt, raggedkhakis, and a used pair ofcowboy boots Rasheed hadboughthimfromMandaii.Hewas holding his newbasketball with both hands.Mariamplantedakissonhischeek.
"Youbeagood,strongboy,now," she said. "You treatyour mother well." Shecupped his face. He pulled
backbutsheheldon."Iamsosorry, Zalmai jo. Believemethat I'm so very sorry for allyourpainandsadness."
LailaheldZalmai'shandasthey walked down the roadtogether. Just before theyturned the corner, Lailalooked
backandsawMariamatthedoor.Mariamwaswearing awhite scarf over her head, a
darkbluesweaterbuttonedinthe front, and white cottontrousers.A crest of gray hairhad fallen loose over herbrow. Bars of sunlightslashed across her face andshoulders. Mariam wavedamiably.
Theyturnedthecorner,andLaila never saw Mariamagain.
47.
Madam
Back in akolba, it seemed,afteralltheseyears.
The Walayat women'sprison was a drab, square-shaped building in Shar-e-
Nau near Chicken Street. Itsat in the center of a largercomplex that housed maleinmates. A padlocked doorseparated Mariam and theother women from thesurrounding men. Mariamcounted five working cells.They were unfurnishedrooms, with dirty, peelingwalls,andsmallwindowsthatlooked into the courtyard.The windows were barred,even though the doors to the
cells were unlocked and thewomenwerefreetocomeandgo to the courtyard as theypleased.Thewindowshadnoglass.Therewerenocurtainseither,whichmeanttheTalibguards who roamed thecourtyardhadaneyefuloftheinterior of the cells. Someofthe women complained thatthe guards smoked outsidethe window and leered in,with their inflamed eyes andwolfish smiles, that they
muttered indecent jokes toeach other about them.Because of this, most of thewomen wore burqas all dayand lifted them only aftersundown, after themaingatewas locked and the guardshadgonetotheirposts.
At night, the cell Mariamshared with five women andfour children was dark. Onthose nights when there waselectricalpower, theyhoisted
Naghma, a short, flat-chestedgirlwithblackfrizzyhair,upto the ceiling. There was awire there from which thecoating had been stripped.Naghma would hand-wrapthe livewirearound thebaseof the lightbulb then tomakeacircuit.
The toilets were closet-sized, the cement floorcracked There was a small,rectangular hole in the
ground, at the bottom ofwhich was a heap of feces.Fliesbuzzedinandoutofthehole-In the middle of theprison was an open,rectangularcourtyard,and, inthemiddleofthat,awellThewell had no drainage,meaning the courtyard wasoftena swampand thewatertasted rotten. Laundry lines,loaded with handwashedsocks and diapers, slashedacross each other in the
courtyard. This was whereinmates met visitors, wherethey boiled the rice theirfamilies brought them-theprison provided no food Thecourtyard was also thechildren's playground-Mariam had learned thatmany of the children hadbeen born in Walayat, hadnever seen the world outsidethesewalls.Mariamwatchedthem chase each otheraround, watched their
shoeless feet sling mud. Allday, theyranaround,makingup lively games, unaware ofthe stench of feces and urinethat permeated Walayat andtheir own bodies, unmindfulof theTalib guards until onesmackedthem.
Mariam had no visitors.That was the first and onlythingshehadaskedtheTalibofficialshere.Novisitors.
***
None of the women inMariam's cell were servingtime for violent crime-theywereallthereforthecommonoffense of "running awayfrom home." As a result,Mariam gained somenotoriety among them,became a kind of celebrity.The women eyed her with areverent, almost awestruck,expression. They offered her
their blankets. Theycompeted to share their foodwithher.
ThemostavidwasNaghma,whowasalwayshuggingherelbowsandfollowingMariameverywhere she went.Naghma was the sort ofperson who found itentertaining todispensenewsofmisfortune,whetherothers'or her own. She said herfather had promised her to a
tailor some thirty years olderthanher.
"Hesmellslikegoh,andhasfewer teeth than fingers,"Naghmasaidofthetailor.
She'd tried to elope toGardez with a young manshe'd fallen in lovewith, thesonofa localmullah.They'dbarelymade it out of Kabul.When they were caught andsent back, the mullah's son
was flogged before herepented and said thatNaghma had seduced himwith her feminine charms.She'd cast a spell onhim, hesaid. He promised he wouldrededicate himself to thestudy of the Koran. Themullah's son was freed.Naghma was sentenced tofiveyears.
Itwasjustaswell,shesaid,herbeinghere inprison.Her
fatherhadswornthat thedayshe was released he wouldtakeaknifetoherthroat.
Listening to Naghma,Mariam remembered the dimglimmerofcoldstarsandthestringy pink clouds streakingovertheSafid-kohmountainsthat long-ago morning whenNana had said to her,Like acompass needle that pointsnorth,aman'saccusingfingeralways finds a woman.
Always. You remember that,Mariam.
***
Mamam'S trial had takenplace theweekbefore.Therewas no legal council, nopublic hearing, no cross-examining of evidence, noappeals.Mariamdeclinedherright towitnesses.The entirething lasted less than fifteenminutes.
Themiddle judge,abrittle-lookingTalib,wastheleader.Hewasstrikinglygaunt,withyellow, leathery skin and acurly red beard. He woreeyeglasses thatmagnified hiseyesandrevealedhowyellowthe whites were. His necklookedtoothintosupporttheintricatelywrapped turbanonhishead.
"You admit tothis,hamshira?I he asked
againinatiredvoice.
"Ido,"Mariamsaid.
Themannodded.Ormaybehe didn't. It was hard to tell;hehadapronouncedshakingof his hands and head thatreminded Mariam of MullahFaizullah's tremor. When hesipped tea, he did not reachfor his cup. He motioned tothesquare-shoulderedman tohis left, who respectfully
brought it to his lips. After,the Talib closed his eyesgently, a muted and elegantgestureofgratitude.
Mariam found a disarmingquality about him. When hespoke, itwaswith a tinge ofguile and tenderness. Hissmilewaspatient.Hedidnotlook at Mariam despisingly.He did not address her withspiteoraccusationbutwithasofttoneofapology.
"Do you fully understandwhat you're saying?" thebony-faced Talib to thejudge's right, not the teagiver, said.This onewas theyoungest of the three. Hespoke quickly and withemphatic, arrogantconfidence. He'd beenirritated that Mariam couldnot speak Pashto. He struckMariam as the sort ofquarrelsome youngmanwhorelished his authority, who
saw offenses everywhere,thought it his birthright topassjudgment.
"I do understand,"Mariamsaid.
"Iwonder,"theyoungTalibsaid. "God has made usdifferently, you women andus men. Our brains aredifferent.Youarenotabletothink like we can. Westerndoctorsandtheirsciencehave
proven this. This is why werequireonlyonemalewitnessbuttwofemaleones."
"I admit to what I did,brother," Mariam said. "But,if I hadn't, he would havekilled her.Hewas stranglingher."
"So you say. But, then,women swear to all sorts ofthingsallthetime."
"It'sthetruth."
"Do you have witnesses?Otherthanyourambagh?’'
"Idonot,"saidMariam.
"Well, then." He threw uphishandsandsnickered.
Itwas thesicklyTalibwhospokenext.
"I have a doctor in
Peshawar," he said. "A fine,youngPakistanifellow.Isawhim a month ago, and thenagain last week. I said, tellme the truth, friend, and hesaid to me, three months,Mullah sahib, maybe six atmost-all God's will, ofcourse."
Henoddeddiscreetlyat thesquare-shoulderedmanonhisleft and took another sip ofthe tea he was offered. He
wiped his mouth with theback of his tremulous hand."It does not frighten me toleave this life that my onlyson left five years ago, thislife that insists we bearsorrow upon sorrow longafter we can bear no more.No, I believe I shall gladlytakemy leavewhen the timecomes.
"What frightensme,hamshira, is the day God
summonsmebeforeHimandasks,WhydidyounotdoasIsaid, Mullah? Why did younotobeymylaws?HowshallI explain myself toHim,hamshira1?Whatwillbemy defense for not heedingHiscommands?AllIcando,all any of us can do, in thetimewearegranted, is togoonabidingbythelawsHehasset for us. The clearer I seemyend,hamshira,thenearerIam to my day of reckoning,
the more determined I growto carry out His word.However painful it mayprove."
He shifted on his cushionandwinced.
"Ibelieveyouwhenyousaythatyourhusbandwasamanof disagreeabletemperament," he resumed,fixing Mariam with hisbespectacled eyes, his gaze
bothsternandcompassionate."But I cannot help but bedisturbed by the brutality ofyour action,hamshira I amtroubled by what you havedone; I am troubled that hislittle boywas crying for himupstairswhenyoudidit.
"Iamtiredanddying,andIwanttobemerciful.Iwanttoforgive you. But when Godsummonsme and says,But itwasn't for you to forgive,
Mullah,whatshallIsay?"
Hiscompanionsnoddedandlooked at him withadmiration.
"Somethingtellsmeyouarenot a wickedwoman,hamshira But youhave done a wicked thing.And you must pay for thisthingyouhavedone.Shari'aisnot vague on this matter. ItsaysImustsendyouwhereI
willsoonjoinyoumyself.
"Do youunderstand,hamshira?"
Mariamlookeddownatherhands.Shesaidshedid.
"MayAllahforgiveyou."
Before they led her out,Mariam was given adocument, told to signbeneathherstatementandthe
mullah's sentence. As thethree Taliban watched,Mariam wrote it out, hername-themeem, thereh,theyah, and themeem -remembering the last timeshe'd signed her name to adocument, twenty-sevenyears before, at Jalil's table,beneath thewatchful gaze ofanothermullah.
***
Mahiam spent ten days inprison.Shesatbythewindowofthecell,watchedtheprisonlife in the courtyard. Whenthe summer winds blew, shewatched bits of scrap paperridethecurrentsinafrenzied,corkscrew motion, as theywerehurledthiswayandthat,high above the prison walls.She watched the winds stirmutiny in the dust,whippingit into violent spirals thatripped through thecourtyard.
Everyone-the guards, theinmates, the children,Mariam-burrowed their facesin the hook of their elbows,but the dust would not bedenied.Itmadehomesofearcanals and nostrils, ofeyelashes and skin folds, ofthe space between molars.Only at dusk did the windsdiedown.Andthenifanightbreezeblew,itdidsotimidly,asiftoatonefortheexcessesofitsdaytimesibling.
On Mariam's last day atWalayat,Naghmagaveher atangerine. She put it inMariam'spalmandclosedherfingers around it. Then sheburstintotears.
"You're the best friend Ieverhad,"shesaid.
Mariamspenttherestoftheday by the barred windowwatching the inmates below.Someone was cooking a
meal,andastreamofcumin-scented smoke and warm airwafted through the window.Mariam could see thechildrenplayingablindfoldedgame. Two little girls weresingingarhyme,andMariamremembered it from herchildhood, remembered Jalilsinging it toher as they'd saton a rock, fishing in thestream:
LiliMibirdbath,Sittingona
dirt path,Minnow sat on therim and drank, Slipped, andinthewatershesank
Mariam had disjointeddreams that last night. Shedreamedofpebbles,elevenofthem, arranged vertically.Jalil, young again, allwinning smiles and dimpledchinsandsweatpatches,coatflungoverhisshoulder,comeat last to take his daughteraway for a ride in his shiny
black Buick Roadmaster.MullahFaizullah twirling hisrosary beads, walking withher along the stream, theirtwin shadows gliding on thewaterandonthegrassybankssprinkled with a blue-lavenderwildiristhat,inthisdream, smelled like cloves.She dreamed of Nana in thedoorway of thekolba, hervoicedimanddistant,callingher to dinner, as Mariamplayed in cool, tangled grass
where ants crawled andbeetles scurried andgrasshoppersskippedamidallthedifferent shadesofgreen.Thesqueakofawheelbarrowlaboring up a dusty path.Cowbells clanging. Sheepbaaingonahill.
***
On the way to GhaziStadium,Mariambounced inthe bed of the truck as it
skidded around potholesandits wheels spat pebbles.The bouncing hurt hertailbone. A young, armedTalib sat across from herlookingather.
Mariam wondered if hewould be the one, thisamiable-looking young manwith the deep-set bright eyesand slightly pointed face,with the black-nailed indexfinger drumming the side of
thetruck.
"Are youhungry,mother?"hesaid.
Mariamshookherhead.
"I have a biscuit. It's good.You can have it if you'rehungry.Idon'tmind."
"No.Tashakor,brother."
He nodded, looked at her
benignly. "Are you afraid,mother?"
A lump closed off herthroat. In a quivering voice,Mariamtoldhimthetruth.
"Yes.I'mveryafraid."
"I have a picture of myfather," he said. "I don'tremember him. He was abicycle repairman once, Iknow that much. But I don't
remember how he moved,youknow,howhelaughedorthe sound of his voice." Helooked away, then back atMariam."Mymotherused tosay that he was the bravestman she knew. Like a lion,she'dsay.
But she told me he wascrying like a child themorningthecommuniststookhim. I'm telling you so youknow that it's normal to be
scared. It's nothing to beashamedof,mother."
For the first time that day,Mariamcriedalittle.
***
Thousands of eyes boredownonher. In the crowdedbleachers, neckswere cranedfor the benefit of a betterview. Tongues clucked. Amurmuring sound rippled
through the stadium whenMariam was helped downfrom the truck. Mariamimaginedheadsshakingwhenthe loudspeaker announcedher crime. But she did notlook up to see whether theywere shaking withdisapproval or charity, withreproach or pity. Mariamblindedherselftothemall.
Earlier that morning, shehad been afraid that she
wouldmakeafoolofherself,that she would turn into apleading, weeping spectacle.Shehadfearedthatshemightscreamor vomit or evenwetherself, that, in her lastmoments, she would bebetrayedbyanimalinstinctorbodilydisgrace.Butwhenshewas made to descend fromthe truck, Mariam's legs didnot buckle.Her armsdid notflail. She did not have to bedragged. And when she did
feel herself faltering, shethought of Zalmai, fromwhomshehadtakentheloveof his life, whose days nowwould be shaped by thesorrow of his father'sdisappearance. And thenMariam's stride steadied andshe could walk withoutprotest.
An armedman approachedher and told her to walktowardthesoutherngoalpost.
Mariam could sense thecrowd tightening up withanticipation.Shedidnotlookup. She kept her eyes to theground, on her shadow, onher executioner's shadowtrailinghers.
Though there had beenmoments of beauty in it,Mariamknewthatlifeforthemostparthadbeenunkindtoher. But as she walked thefinal twentypaces, she could
nothelpbutwishformoreofit. She wished she could seeLaila again, wished to heartheclangorofherlaugh,tositwithheroncemore for apotofchai and leftoverhalwaunder a starlit sky. Shemourned that she wouldnever see Aziza grow up,would not see the beautifulyoungwomanthatshewouldone day become, would notget to paint her hands withhennaandtossnoqulcandyat
her wedding. She wouldnever play with Aziza'schildren. She would haveliked that very much, to beold and play with Aziza'schildren.
Near the goalpost, themanbehindher askedher to stop.Mariam did. Through thecrisscrossing grid of theburqa, she saw his shadowarms lift his shadowKalashnikov.
Mariamwishedforsomuchin those final moments. Yetassheclosedhereyes,itwasnot regret any longer but asensation of abundant peacethat washed over her. Shethoughtofher entry into thisworld, theharami child of alowlyvillager, anunintendedthing, a pitiable, regrettableaccident. A weed. And yetshewas leaving theworld asawomanwhohad lovedandbeen loved back. She was
leaving it as a friend, acompanion, a guardian. Amother. A person ofconsequence at last. No. Itwas not so bad, Mariamthought, that she should diethis way. Not so bad. Thiswasa legitimateend toa lifeofillegitimatebeginnings.
Mariam's final thoughtswere a few words from theKoran, which she mutteredunderherbreath.
Hehas created theheavensand the earth with the truth;Hemakesthenightcovertheday and makes the dayovertake the night, and Hehas made the sun and themoon subservient; each oneruns on to an assigned term;nowsurelyHeistheMighty,theGreatForgiver.
"Kneel,"theTalibsaid
O my Lord! Forgive and
have mercy, for you are thebestofthemercifulones.
"Kneel here,hamshira Andlookdown."
One last time,Mariam didasshewastold.
PARTFOUR
48.
Tariqhasheadachesnow.
Somenights,Lailaawakensand findshimon theedgeoftheir bed, rocking, hisundershirt pulled over hisheadTheheadachesbeganinNasir Bagh, he says, then
worsened in prison.Sometimes they make himvomit, blind him in one eye.He says it feels like abutcher's knife burrowing inone temple, twisting slowlythroughhisbrain,thenpokingouttheotherside.
"Icantastethemetal,even,whentheybegin."
Sometimes Laila wets acloth and lays it on his
forehead and that helps alittle. The little round whitepills Sayeed's doctor gaveTariq help too. But somenights, all Tariq can do ishold his head and moan, hiseyes bloodshot, his nosedripping. Laila sits with himwhenhe'sinthegripofitlikethat, rubs the back of hisneck, takes his hand in hers,themetalofhisweddingbandcoldagainstherpalm.
They married the day thatthey arrived in Murree.Sayeed looked relievedwhenTariq told him they would.Hewouldnothave tobroachwithTariqthedelicatematterofanunmarriedcouplelivingin his hotel. Sayeed is not atallasLailahadpicturedhim,ruddy-facedandpea-eyed.Hehas a salt-and-peppermustachewhoseendsherollstoasharptip,andashockoflong gray hair combed back
from the brow. He is a soft-spoken, mannerly man, withmeasuredspeechandgracefulmovements.
It was Sayeecl whosummoned a friend and amullah for thenikka that day,Sayeed who pulled Tariqaside and gave him money.Tariq wouldn't take it, butSayeedinsisted.TariqwenttotheMall thenandcamebackwith two simple, thin
weddingbands.Theymarriedlater that night, after thechildrenhadgonetobed.
In the mirror, beneath thegreen veil that the mullahdraped over their heads,Laila's eyes met Tariq's.There were no tears, nowedding-day smiles, nowhispered oaths of long-lasting love. In silence, Lailalooked at their reflection, atfaces that had aged beyond
their years, at the pouchesand lines and sags that nowmarked their once-scrubbed,youthful faces. Tariq openedhis mouth and began to saysomething,but,justashedid,someone pulled the veil, andLailamissedwhat itwasthathewasgoingtosay.
That night, they lay in bedas husband and wife, as thechildren snored below themon sleeping cots. Laila
remembered the ease withwhich they would crowd theairbetweenthemwithwords,she and Tariq, when theywere younger, the haywire,brisk flow of their speech,always interrupting eachother, tugging each other'scollar to emphasize a point,the quickness to laugh, theeagernesstodelight.Somuchhad happened since thosechildhooddays,somuch thatneeded to be said. But that
first night the enormity of itall stole the words from her.That night, it was blessingenough to be beside him. Itwasblessingenoughtoknowthat he was here, to feel thewarmthofhimnexttoher,tolie with him, their headstouching,hisrighthandlacedinherleft.
In themiddle of the night,when Laila woke up thirsty,she found their hands still
clamped together, in thewhite-knuckle, anxious wayof children clutching balloonstrings.
***
Laila likes Mukree'S cool,foggy mornings and itsdazzling twilights, the darkbrillianceof the skyatnight;thegreenofthepinesandthesoft brown of the squirrelsdarting up and down the
sturdytreetrunks;thesuddendownpoursthatsendshoppersin the Mall scrambling forawning cover. She likes thesouvenir shops, and thevarious hotels that housetourists, even as the localsbemoan the constantconstruction,theexpansionofinfrastructure that they say iseating away at Murree'snatural beauty. Laila finds itoddthatpeopleshouldlamentthebuilding of buildings. In
Kabul, they would celebrateit.
She likes that they have abathroom, not an outhousebut an actual bathroom,withatoiletthatflushes,ashower,and a sink too, with twinfaucets from which she candraw, with a flick of herwrist, water, either hot orcold. She likeswaking up tothe soundofAlyonableatingin the morning, and the
harmlessly cantankerouscook, Adiba, who worksmarvelsinthekitchen.
Sometimes,asLailawatchesTariq sleep, as her childrenmutter and stir in their ownsleep, a great big lump ofgratitude catches in herthroat,makeshereyeswater.
In the mornings, Lailafollows Tariq from room toroom.Keysjinglefromaring
clipped to his waist and aspray bottle of windowcleanerdangles from thebeltloops of his jeans. Lailabrings apail filledwith rags,disinfectant, a toilet brush,and spray wax for thedressers. Aziza tags along, amop in one hand, the bean-stuffed doll Mariam hadmade for her in the other.Zalmaitrailsthemreluctantly,sulkily, always a few stepsbehind.
Laila vacuums, makes thebed, and dusts. Tariqwashesthe bathroom sink and tub,scrubsthetoiletandmopsthelinoleumfloor.Hestocks theshelves with clean towels,miniature shampoo bottles,and bars of almond-scentedsoap.Azizahas laid claim tothe task of spraying andwipingthewindows.Thedollis never far from where sheworks.
LailatoldAzizaaboutTariqafewdaysafterthenikka
It is strange, Laila thinks,almost unsettling, the thingbetween Aziza and Tariq.Already, Aziza is finishinghissentencesandhehers.Shehands him things before heasks for them. Private smilesshoot between them acrossthedinnertableasiftheyarenot strangers at all butcompanions reunited after a
lengthyseparation.
Aziza looked downthoughtfully at her handswhenLailatoldher.
"Ilikehim,"shesaid,afteralongpause.
"Helovesyou."
"Hesaidthat?"
"Hedoesn'thaveto,Aziza."
"Tellme the rest,Mammy.TellmesoIknow."
AndLailadid.
"Yourfatherisagoodman.He is the best man I've everknown."
"What if he leaves?"Azizasaid
"Hewill never leave.Lookatme,Aziza.Yourfatherwill
never hurt you, and he willneverleave."
The relief on Aziza's facebrokeLaila'sheart.
***
Tariq has bought Zalmai arocking horse, built him awagon.Fromaprisoninmate,he learned to make paperanimals,andsohehasfolded,cut, and tucked countless
sheetsofpaperintolionsandkangaroos for Zalmai, intohorses and brightly plumedbirds.But theseoverturesaredismissed by Zalmaiunceremoniously, sometimesvenomously.
"You'readonkey!"hecries."Idon'twantyourtoys!"
"Zalmai!"Lailagasps.
"It's all right," Tariq says.
"Laila,it'sallright.Lethim."
"You're not my Baba jan!MyrealBaba jan isawayonatrip,andwhenhegetsbackhe's going to beat you up!Andyouwon'tbeabletorunaway, because he has twolegsandyouonlyhaveone!"
Atnight,LailaholdsZalmaiagainst her chest andrecitesBabaloo prayers withhim.When he asks, she tells
himthelieagain,tellshimhisBaba jan has gone away andshe doesn't know when hewouldcomeback.Sheabhorsthis task, abhors herself forlyinglikethistoachild
Laila knows that thisshameful lie will have to betold again and again. It willhave to because Zalmai willask, hopping down from aswing, waking from anafternoon nap, and, later,
when he's old enough to tiehis own shoes, to walk toschoolbyhimself,theliewillhavetobedeliveredagain.
Atsomepoint,Lailaknows,the questions will dry up.Slowly, Zalmai will ceasewonderingwhyhisfatherhasabandoned him. He will notspot his father any longer attraffic lights, in stooping oldmenshufflingdownthestreetorsippingteainopen-fronted
samovarhouses.Andonedayitwillhithim,walkingalongsome meandering river, orgazing out at an untrackedsnowfield, that his father'sdisappearanceisnolongeranopen,rawwound.That ithasbecome something elsealtogether, something moresoft-edgedand indolent.Likea lore. Something to berevered,mystifiedby.
Laila is happy here in
Murree.But it isnot aneasyhappiness. It is not ahappinesswithoutcost.
***
Onhisdaysoff,TariqtakesLaila and the children to theMall, along which are shopsthat sell trinkets and next towhich is an Anglican churchbuilt in the mid-nineteenthcentury. Tariq buys themspicychapli kebabs from
street vendors. They strollamidthecrowdsoflocals,theEuropeans and their cellularphones and digital cameras,the Punjabis who come hereto escape the heat of theplains.
Occasionally, they board abus to Kashmir Point. Fromthere, Tariq shows them thevalley of the Jhelum River,the pine-carpeted slopes, andthe lush, densely wooded
hills,wherehesaysmonkeyscan still be spotted hoppingfrom branch to branch. Theygo to the mapleclad NathiaGali too, some thirtykilometers from Murree,where Tariq holds Laila'shand as they walk the tree-shadedroadtotheGovernor'sHouse. They stop by the oldBritish cemetery, or take ataxiupamountainpeakforaview of the verdant, fog-shroudedvalleybelow.
Sometimesontheseoutings,when they pass by a storewindow, Laila catches theirreflections in it. Man, wife,daughter, son. To strangers,she knows, theymust appearlike the most ordinary offamilies, free of secrets, lies,andregrets.
***
Azizahas nightmares fromwhich she wakes up
shrieking. Laila has to liebesideheronthecot,dryhercheeks with her sleeve,sootheherbacktosleep.
Laila has her own dreams.Inthem,she'salwaysbackatthe house in Kabul, walkingthehall,climbingthestairs.
Sheisalone,butbehindthedoors she hears the rhythmichiss of an iron, bedsheetssnapped, then folded.
Sometimes she hears awoman's low-pitchedhumming of an old Heratisong.Butwhenshewalksin,the room is empty. There isnoonethere.
The dreams leave Lailashaken.Shewakesfromthemcoated in sweat, her eyesprickling with tears. It isdevastating. Every time, it isdevastating.
49.
OneSundaythatSeptember,Laila is putting Zalmai, whohas a cold, down for a napwhen Tariq bursts into theirbungalow.
"Did you hear?" he says,panting a little. "They killed
him. Ahmad Shah Massoud.He'sdead."
"What?"
From the doorway, Tariqtellsherwhatheknows.
"They say he gave aninterview to a pair ofjournalists who claimed theywereBelgiansoriginallyfromMorocco. As they're talking,a bomb hidden in the video
camera goes off. KillsMassoud and one of thejournalists. They shoot theother one as he tries to run.They're saying now thejournalistswereprobablyAl-Qaedamen."
Laila remembers the posterofAhmadShahMassoudthatMammy had nailed to thewall of her bedroom.Massoud leaning forward,oneeyebrowcocked,hisface
furrowed in concentration, asthough he was respectfullylistening to someone. Lailaremembers how gratefulMammy was that Massoudhadsaidagravesideprayerathersons'burial,howshetoldeveryone about it.Even afterwar broke out between hisfaction and the others,Mammyhadrefusedtoblamehim.He's a good man, sheusedtosay.
Hewantspeace.HewantstorebuildAfghanistan.Buttheywon'tlethim.Theyjustwon't let him.For Mammy, evenin the end, even aftereverything went so terriblywrongandKabullayinruins,MassoudwasstilltheLionofPanjshir.
Laila is not as forgiving-Massoud's violent end bringsher no joy, but sheremembers too well the
neighborhoods razed underhiswatch,thebodiesdraggedfrom the rubble, the handsand feet of childrendiscoveredonrooftopsorthehighbranchofsometreedaysafter their funeral Sheremembers too clearly thelook on Mammy's own facemoments before the rocketslammedinand,muchasshehas tried to forget, Babi'sheadless torso landingnearby, the bridge tower
printed on his T-shirt pokingthroughthickfogandblood.
"There is going to be afuneral,"Tariqissaying."I'msure of it. Probably inRawalpindi.It'llbehuge."
Zalmai, who was almostasleep, is sitting up now,rubbing his eyes with balledfists.
Two days later, they are
cleaning a room when theyhear a commotion. Tariqdrops the mop and hurriesout.Lailatailshim.
Thenoiseiscomingfromthehotellobby.Thereisaloungearea to the right of thereception desk, with severalchairs and two couchesupholsteredinbeigesuede.Inthe corner, facing thecouches, is a television, andSayeed, the concierge, and
severalguestsaregatheredinfrontof.
Laila and Tariq work theirwayin.
TheTVistunedtoBBC.Onthe screen is a building, atower,blacksmokebillowingfromitstopfloors.Tariqsayssomething to Sayeed andSayeedisinmidreplywhenaplaneappearsfromthecornerof the screen. It crashes into
theadjacenttower,explodingintoafireballthatdwarfsanyballoffirethatLailahaseverseen. A collective yelp risesfromeveryoneinthelobby.
Inlessthantwohours,bothtowershavecollapsed
SoonalltheTVstationsaretalkingaboutAfghanistanandthe Taliban and Osama binLaden.
***
"Did you hear what theTaliban said?" Tariq asks."AboutbinLaden?"
Aziza is sittingacross fromhim on the bed, consideringthe board. Tariq has taughther to play chess. She isfrowning and tapping herlowerlipnow,mimickingthebody language her fatherassumes when he's deciding
onamove.
Zalmai's cold is a littlebetter.Heisasleep,andLailaisrubbingVicksonhischest.
"Iheard,"shesays.
TheTalibanhaveannouncedthat theywon't relinquishbinLaden because he isamehman, a guest, who hasfound sanctuary inAfghanistan and it is against
thePashiunwalicodeofethicsto turn over a guest. Tariqchuckles bitterly, and Lailahearsinhischucklethatheisrevolted by this distortion ofanhonorablePashtuncustom,this misrepresentation of hispeople'sways.
Afewdaysaftertheattacks,Laila and Tariq are in thehotellobbyagain.OntheTVscreen, George W. Bush isspeaking. There is a big
Americanflagbehindhim.Atone point, his voice wavers,and Laila thinks he is goingtoweep.
Sayeed,whospeaksEnglish,explains to them that Bushhasjustdeclaredwar.
"Onwhom?"saysTariq.
"On your country, to beginwith."
***
"It may not be such a badthing,"Tariqsays.
They have finishedmakinglove. He's lying beside her,hisheadonherchest,hisarmdraped over her belly. Thefirst few times they tried,there was difficulty. Tariqwas all apologies, Laila allreassurances. There are stilldifficulties, not physical now
butlogistical.Theshacktheyshare with the children issmall. The children sleep oncotsbelowthemandsothereis little privacy. Most times,LailaandTariqmake love insilence, with controlled,muted passion, fully clothedbeneath the blanket as aprecaution againstinterruptions by the children.Theyare foreverwaryof therustling sheets, the creakingbedsprings. But for Laila,
being with Tariq is worthweathering theseapprehensions. When theymake love, Laila feelsanchored, she feels sheltered.Her anxieties, that their lifetogether is a temporaryblessing, that soon it willcomelooseagaininstripsandtatters, are allayed.Her fearsofseparationvanish.
"What do you mean?" shesaysnow.
"What's going on backhome.Itmaynotbesobadintheend."
Back home, bombs arefalling once again, this timeAmerican bombs-Laila hasbeenwatching images of thewar every day on thetelevision as she changessheets and vacuums. TheAmericans have armed thewarlords once more, andenlisted the help of the
Northern Alliance to driveout the Taliban and find binLaden.
But it rankles Laila, whatTariqissaying.Shepusheshisheadroughlyoffherchest.
"Notsobad?Peopledying?Women,children,oldpeople?Homes destroyed again? Notsobad?"
"Shh.You'll wake the
children."
"How can you say that,Tariq?" she snaps. "After theso-called blunder in Karam?A hundred innocent people!You saw the bodies foryourself!"
"No,"Tariq says.Hepropshimself up on his elbow,looks down at Laila. "Youmisunderstand.What Imeantwas-"
"Youwouldn'tknow,"Lailasays. She is aware that hervoice is rising, that they arehaving their first fight ashusband and wife. "You leftwhen the Mujahideen beganfighting, remember? I'm theone who stayed behind. Me.Iknow war.I lost my parentsto war. Myparents, Tariq.Andnowtohearyousaythatwarisnotsobad?"
"I'msorry,Laila.I'msorry."
Hecupsherfaceinhishands."You're right. I'm sorry.Forgive me. What I meantwas
that maybe there will behope at the other end of thiswar, that maybe for the firsttimeinalongtime-"
"I don't want to talk aboutthis anymore," Laila says,surprised at how she haslashed out at him. It's unfair,
she knows, what she said tohim-hadn't war taken hisparents too?-and whateverflared in her is softeningalready. Tariq continues tospeak gently, and, when hepullshertohim,sheletshim.When he kisses her hand,then her brow, she lets him.Sheknowsthatheisprobablyright. She knows how hiscomment was intended.Maybe thisis necessary.Maybe theremil be hope
when Bush's bombs stopfalling. But she cannot bringherself to say it, not whenwhat happened to Babi andMammy is happening tosomeonenowinAfghanistan,not when some unsuspectinggirl or boy back home hasjust been orphaned by arocket as she was. Lailacannotbringherselftosayit.It's hard to rejoice. It seemshypocritical,perverse.
Thatnight,Zalmaiwakesupcoughing. Before Laila canmove, Tariq swings his legsover the side of the bed. Hestraps on his prosthesis andwalks over to Zalmai, liftshim up into his arms. Fromthebed,LailawatchesTariq'sshapemovingbackand forthin the darkness. She sees theoutline of Zalmai's head onhis shoulder, the knot of hishands at Tariq's neck, hissmall feet bouncing by
Tariq'ship.
WhenTariq comes back tobed, neither of them saysanything. Laila reaches overand touches his face. Tariq'scheeksarewet.
50.
ForLaila, life inMurree isone of comfort andtranquillity. The work is notcumbersome, and, on theirdays off, she and Tariq takethe children to ride thechairlifttoPatriatahill,orgoto Pindi Point, where, on a
clear day, you can see as faras Islamabad and downtownRawalpindi. There, theyspreadablanketon thegrassand eat meatball sandwicheswith cucumbers and drinkcoldgingerale.
It is a good life,Laila tellsherself, a life to be thankfulfor.Itis,infact,preciselythesortoflifesheusedtodreamforherselfinherdarkestdayswith Rasheed. Every day,
Lailaremindsherselfofthis.
ThenonewarmnightinJuly2002,sheandTariqarelyingin bed talking in hushedvoices about all the changesback home. There have beensomany.ThecoalitionforceshavedriventheTalibanoutofevery major city, pushedthem across the border toPakistanandtothemountainsin the south and east ofAfghanistan. ISAF, an
international peacekeepingforce,hasbeensenttoKabul.The country has an interimpresidentnow,HamidKarzai.
LailadecidesthatnowisthetimetotellTariq.
Ayearago,shewouldhavegladlygivenanarmtogetoutofKabul.But in the last fewmonths,shehasfoundherselfmissing the city of herchildhood. She misses the
bustle of Shor Bazaar, theGardensofBabur, thecallofthe water carriers luggingtheir goatskin bags. Shemisses the garment hagglersat Chicken Street and themelon hawkers in Karteh-Parwan.
But it isn't merehomesickness or nostalgiathat has Laila thinking ofKabul so much these days.She has become plagued by
restlessness. She hears ofschools built inKabul, roadsrepaved, women returning towork, and her life here,pleasant as it is, grateful asshe is for it, seems…insufficient to her.Inconsequential Worse yet,wasteful. Of late, she hasstartedhearingBabi'svoiceinherhead.Youcanbeanythingyou want, Laila, he says.Iknow this about you. AndIalsoknowthatwhenthiswar
is over,Afghanistan is goingtoneedyou.
LailahearsMammy'svoicetoo. She remembersMammy's response to Babiwhen he would suggest thatthey leave Afghanistan.Iwantto see my sons' dream cometrue. Iwant tobe therewhenithappens,whenAfghanistanisfree,sotheboysseeittoo.They'll see it through myeyes.There isapartofLaila
now that wants to return toKabul,forMammyandBabi,for them to see it throughhereyes.
And then, mostcompellingly for Laila, thereis Mariam. Did Mariam diefor this? Laila asks herself.Did she sacrifice herself soshe,Laila,couldbeamaidina foreign land? Maybe itwouldn't matter to MariamwhatLailadidas longasshe
and the children were safeand happy. But it matters toLaila. Suddenly, it mattersverymuch.
"I want to go back," shesays.
Tariq sits up in bed andlooksdownather.
Lailaisstruckagainbyhowbeautiful he is, the perfectcurve of his forehead, the
slender muscles of his arms,hisbrooding,intelligenteyes.A year has passed, and stillthere are times, at momentslike this, when Laila cannotbelieve that they have foundeach other again, that he isreally here, with her, that heisherhusband.
"Back?ToKabul?"heasks.
"Onlyifyouwantittoo."
"Are you unhappy here?You seem happy. Thechildrentoo."
Lailasitsup.Tariqshiftsonthebed,makesroomforher.
"Iamhappy,"Lailasays."Ofcourse I am. But…where dowegofromhere,Tariq?Howlong do we stay? This isn'thome. Kabul is, and backtheresomuchishappening,alotof it good. Iwant tobe a
part of it all. I want todosomething. I want tocontribute. Do youunderstand?"
Tariq nods slowly. "This iswhat youwant, then?You'resure?"
"Iwantit,yes,I'msure.Butit'smore than that. I feel likeIhave to go back. Stayinghere, it doesn't feel rightanymore."
Tariq looks at his hands,thenbackupather.
"But only-only-if youwanttogotoo."
Tariq smiles. The furrowsfromhisbrowclear,andforabrief moment he is the oldTariq again, the Tariq whodid not get headaches, whohad once said that in Siberiasnotturnedtoicebeforeithitthe ground. It may be her
imagination, but Lailabelieves there are morefrequent sightings of this oldTariqtheseclays.
"Me?" he says. "I'll followyou to the end of the world,Laila."
She pulls him close andkisses his lips. She believesshehasneverlovedhimmorethan at this moment. "Thankyou," she says, her forehead
restingagainsthis.
"Let'sgohome."
"But first, I want to go toHerat,"shesays.
"Herat?"
Lailaexplains.
***
The children need
reassuring, each in their ownway. Laila has to sit downwith an agitated Aziza, whostill has nightmares, who'dbeenstartledtotearstheweekbefore when someone hadshot rounds into the sky at aweddingnearby.Laila has toexplain to Aziza that whenthey return to Kabul theTaliban won't be there, thattherewillnotbeanyfighting,and that shewill not be sentbacktotheorphanage."We'll
all live together.Your father,me,Zalmai.Andyou,Aziza.You'llnever,ever,havetobeapart from me again. Ipromise." She smiles at herdaughter. "Until the dayyouwant to, that is. When youfall in lovewith someyoungmanandwanttomarryhim."
On the day they leaveMurree, Zalmai isinconsolable.Hehaswrappedhis arms around Alyona's
neckandwillnotletgo.
"I can't pry him off of her,Mammy,"saysAziza.
"Zalmai. We can't take agoat on the bus," Lailaexplainsagain.
It isn't until Tariq kneelsdown beside him, until hepromises Zalmai that he willbuy him a goat just likeAlyonainKabul, thatZalmai
reluctantlyletsgo.
There are tearful farewellswithSayeedaswellForgoodluck,heholdsaKoranbythedoorwayforTariq,Laila,andthe children to kiss threetimes, then holds it high sothey can pass under it. Hehelps Tariq load the twosuitcasesintothetrunkofhiscar. It is Sayeed who drivesthem to the station, whostands on the curb waving
good-bye as the bus sputtersandpullsaway.
As she leans back andwatches Sayeed receding inthe rear window of the bus,Lailahearsthevoiceofdoubtwhispering in her head. Arethey being foolish, shewonders, leaving behind thesafetyofMurree?Goingbackto the landwhereherparentsand brothers perished, wherethe smoke of bombs is only
nowsettling?
Andthen,fromthedarkenedspirals of her memory, risetwo lines of poetry, Babi'sfarewellodetoKabul:
One could not count themoons that shimmer on herroofs, Or the thousandsplendid suns that hidebehindher-walls.
Lailasettlesbackinherseat,
blinkingthewetnessfromhereyes. Kabul is waiting.Needing. This journey homeistherightthingtodo.
But first there is one lastfarewelltobesaid.
***
The wars in Afghanistanhave ravaged the roadsconnectingKabul,Herat, andKandahar.Theeasiestwayto
Herat now is throughMashad,inIran.Lailaandherfamily are there onlyovernight. They spend thenightatahotel,and,thenextmorning, they board anotherbus.
Mashad is a crowded,bustlingcity.Lailawatchesasparks, mosques, andchelokebab restaurants pass by.When the bus passes theshrine to Imam Reza, the
eighth Shi'a imam, Lailacraneshernecktogetabetterviewofitsglisteningtiles,theminarets, the magnificentgolden dome, all of itimmaculately and lovinglypreserved. She thinks of theBuddhas in her owncountry.They are grains of dust now,blowing about the BamiyanValleyinthewind.
Thebusride to theIranian-Afghan border takes almost
ten hours. The terrain growsmore desolate, more barren,as they near Afghanistan.Shortly before they cross theborder into Herat, they passanAfghan refugee camp. ToLaila, it is a blur of yellowdust and black tents andscanty structures made ofcorrugated-steel sheets. Shereaches across the seat andtakesTariq'shand.
***
InHerat,mostofthestreetsarepaved,linedwithfragrantpines. There are municipalparks and libraries inreconstruction, manicuredcourtyards, freshly paintedbuildings. The traffic lightswork, and, most surprisinglytoLaila, electricity is steady.Laila has heard that Herat'sfeudal-style warlord, IsmailKhan, has helped rebuild thecity with the considerablecustoms revenue that he
collectsattheAfghan-Iranianborder, money that Kabulsaysbelongsnottohimbuttothecentralgovernment.Thereis both a reverential andfearful tone when the taxidriver who takes them toMuwaffaq Hotel mentionsIsmailKhan'sname.
The two-night stay at theMuwaffaq will cost themnearlyafifthoftheirsavings,but the trip fromMashadhas
been long andwearying, andthe children are exhausted.The elderly clerk at the desktells Tariq, as he fetches theroomkey, that theMuwaffaqis popular with journalistsandNGOworkers.
"BinLadenslepthereonce,"heboasts.
Theroomhastwobeds,andabathroomwithrunningcoldwater. There is a painting of
the poet Khaja AbdullahAnsary on the wall betweenthe beds. From the window,Laila has a view of the busystreet below, and of a parkacross the street with pastel-colored-brick paths cuttingthrough thick clusters offlowers. The children, whohave grown accustomed totelevision, are disappointedthat there isn't one in theroom. Soon enough, though,theyareasleep.Soonenough,
Tariq and Laila too havecollapsed. Laila sleepssoundly in Tariq's arms,exceptforonceinthemiddleof the nightwhen shewakesfrom a dream she cannotremember.
***
The next morning, after abreakfast of tea with freshbread,quincemarmalade,andboiledeggs,Tariqfindshera
taxi.
"Are you sure you don'twant me to come along?"Tariq says. Aziza is holdinghis hand Zalmai isn't, but heis standing close to Tariq,leaning one shoulder onTariq'ship.
"I'msure."
"Iworry."
"I'll be fine,"Laila says. "Ipromise.Takethechildrentoa market. Buy themsomething."
Zalmai begins to crywhenthe taxi pulls away, and,when Laila looks back, shesees that he is reaching forTariq.Thatheisbeginningtoaccept Tariq both eases andbreaksLaila'sheart.
***
"You'renotfromherat,"thedriversays.
Hehasdark,shoulder-lengthhair-a common thumbing ofthe nose at the departedTaliban, Laila hasdiscovered-and some kind ofscarinterruptinghismustacheon the left side. There is aphototapedtothewindshield,on his side. It's of a younggirlwithpinkcheeksandhairparted down the middle into
twinbraids.
Laila tells him that she hasbeen in Pakistan for the lastyear, that she is returning toKabul."Deh-Mazang."
Throughthewindshield,shesees coppersmiths weldingbrass handles to jugs,saddlemakers laying out cutsofrawhidetodryinthesun.
"Have you lived here long,
brother?"sheasks.
"Oh, my whole life. I wasborn here. I've seeneverything. You remembertheuprising?"
Laila says she does, but hegoeson.
"This was back in March1979, about nine monthsbefore the Soviets invaded.Some angry Heratis killed a
few Soviet advisers, so theSoviets sent in tanks andhelicopters and pounded thisplace. For threedays,hamshira, they fired onthe city. They collapsedbuildings, destroyed one oftheminarets,killedthousandsof people.Thousands. I losttwo sisters in those threedays.Oneofthemwastwelveyearsold."He taps thephotoon his windshield. "That'sher."
"I'm sorry," Laila says,marveling at how everyAfghan story is marked bydeath and loss andunimaginable grief. And yet,shesees,peoplefindawaytosurvive,togoon.Lailathinksof her own life and all thathashappened toher, and sheisastonished thatshe toohassurvived,thatsheisaliveandsittinginthistaxilisteningtothisman's
story.
***
GulDamanisavillageofafew walled houses risingamong flatkolbas built withmud and straw. Outsidethekolbas, Laila seessunburned women cooking,their faces sweating in steamrising from big blackenedpots set on makeshiftfirewood grills. Mules eat
fromtroughs.Childrengivingchase to chickens beginchasing the taxi. Laila seesmen pushing wheelbarrowsfilled with stones. They stopand watch the car pass by.The driver takes a turn, andthey pass a cemetery with aweather-worn mausoleum inthe center of it. The drivertellsher thatavillageSufi isburiedthere.
There is awindmill too. In
the shadow of its idle, rust-colored vanes, three littleboys are squatting, playingwith mud. The driver pullsover and leans out of thewindow. The oldest-lookingofthethreeboysistheonetoanswer.Hepoints to ahousefarther up the road. Thedriver thanks him, puts thecarbackingear.
Heparksoutsidethewalled,one-story house. Laila sees
thetopsoffigtreesabovethewalls, some of the branchesspillingovertheside.
"Iwon't be long," she saystothedriver.
***
The middle-agedman whoopens the door is short, thin,russet-haired. His beard isstreaked with parallel stripesof gray. He is wearing
achapan over hispirhan-tumban.
They exchangesalaamalaykums.
"Is this Mullah Faizullah'shouse?"Lailaasks.
"Yes.Iamhisson,Hamza.Is there something I can doforyou,hamshireh?”
"I'vecomehereaboutanold
friend of your father's,Mariam."
Hamza blinks. A puzzledlook passes across his face."Mariam…"
"JalilKhan'sdaughter."
He blinks again. Then heputs a palm tohis cheek andhisfacelightsupwithasmilethat reveals missing androttingteeth."Oh!"hesays.It
comes out soundinglikeOhhhhhh,likeanexpelledbreath. "Oh! Mariam! Areyouherdaughter?Isshe-"Heis twisting his neck now,looking behind her eagerly,searching. "Is she here? It'sbeen so long! Is Mariamhere?"
"She has passed on, I'mafraid."
The smile fades from
Hamza'sface.
For a moment, they standthere,atthedoorway,Hamzalooking at the ground. Adonkeybrayssomewhere.
"Comein,"Hamzasays.Heswingsthedooropen."Pleasecomein."
***
They srr on the floor in a
sparsely furnished room.There is a Herati rug on thefloor, beaded cushions to siton, and a framed photo ofMecca on the wall They sitby the open window, oneithersideofanoblongpatchof sunlight- Laila hearswomen's voices whisperingfrom another room. A littlebarefoot boy places beforethem a platter of green teaand pistachiogaaz nougats.Hamzanodsathim.
"Myson."
Theboyleavessoundlessly.
"So tell me," Hamza saystiredly.
Laila does. She tells himeverything. It takes longerthan she'd imagined. Towardthe end, she struggles tomaintain composure. It stillisn't easy, one year later,talkingaboutMariam.
When she's done, Hamzadoesn't say anything for alongtime.Heslowlyturnshisteacuponitssaucer,oneway,thentheother.
"My father,may he rest inpeace, was so very fond ofher,"hesaysatlast."Hewasthe onewho sangazan in herear when she was born, youknow. He visited her everyweek, never missed.Sometimes he took me with
him. He was her tutor, yes,but he was a friend too. Hewas a charitable man, myfather. It nearly broke himwhen Jalil Khan gave heraway."
"I'msorrytohearaboutyourfather. May God forgivehim."
Hamzanodshisthanks."Helived to be a very old man.He outlived Jalil Khan, in
fact. We buried him in thevillagecemetery,notfarfromwhere Mariam's mother isburied.Myfatherwasadear,dear man, surely heaven-bound."
Lailalowershercup.
"MayIaskyousomething?"
"Ofcourse."
"Can you show me?" she
says. "Where Mariam lived.Canyoutakemethere?"
***
The driver agrees to waitawhilelonger.
Hamza and Laila exit thevillageandwalkdownhillonthe road that connects GulDamantoHerat.Afterfifteenminutes or so, he points to anarrow gap in the tall grass
that flanks the road on bothsides.
"That'showyouget there,"he says. "There is a paththere."
Thepathisrough,winding,and dim, beneath thevegetation and undergrowth.ThewindmakesthetallgrassslamagainstLaila'scalvesasshe and Hamza climb thepath,taketheturns.Oneither
sideofthemisakaleidoscopeof wilciflowers swaying inthe wind, some tall withcurved petals, others low,fan-leafed. Here and there afew ragged buttercups peepthroughthelowbushes.Lailahears the twitter of swallowsoverheadandthebusychatterofgrasshoppersunderfoot.
They walk uphill this wayfor two hundred yards ormore. Then the path levels,
andopens intoa flatterpatchofland.Theystop,catchtheirbreath.Lailadabsatherbrowwith her sleeve and bats at aswarm of mosquitoeshovering in frontofher face.Here she sees the low-slungmountains in the horizon, afew cottonwoods, somepoplars, various wild bushesthatshecannotname.
"There used to be a streamhere,"Hamzasays,alittleout
ofbreath."But it's longdriedupnow."
He says he will wait here.He tells her to cross the drystreambed, walk toward themountains.
"I'll wait here," he says,sitting on a rock beneath apoplar."Yougoon."
"Iwon't-"
"Don't worry. Take yourtime.Goon,hamshireh."
Laila thanks him. Shecrosses the streambed,stepping from one stone toanother. She spots brokensoda bottles amid the rocks,rusted cans, and a mold-coatedmetalliccontainerwitha zinc lid half buried in theground.
She heads toward the
mountains, toward theweeping willows, which shecan see now, the longdrooping branches shakingwitheachgustofwind.Inherchest,herheart isdrumming.Shesees that thewillowsarearrangedasMariamhadsaid,in a circular grove with aclearing in the middle. Lailawalks faster, almost runningnow.ShelooksbackoverhershoulderandseesthatHamzais a tiny figure, hischapan a
burst of color against thebrownof the trees' bark.Shetripsover a stone andalmostfalls,thenregainsherfooting.She hurries the rest of theway with the legs of hertrousers pulled up. She ispanting by the time shereachesthewillows.
Mariam'skolbaisstillhere.
When she approaches it,Laila sees that the lone
windowpane is empty andthatthedoorisgone.Mariamhaddescribedachickencoopand a tandoor, a woodenouthouse too, but Laila seesno sign of them. She pausesat the entrance to thekolbaShe can hear flies buzzinginside.
Togetin,shehastosidestepa large fluttering spiderweb.It's dim inside. Laila has togivehereyesafewmoments
to adjust.When they do, shesees that the interior is evensmaller than she'd imagined.Only half of a single rotting,splintered board remains ofthefloorboards.Therest, sheimagines, have been rippedup for burning as firewood.The floor is carpeted nowwith dry-edged leaves,broken bottles, discardedchewing gumwrappers,wildmushrooms, old yellowedcigarette butts. But mostly
with weeds, some stunted,some springing impudentlyhalfwayupthewalls.
Fifteen years, Laila thinks.Fifteenyearsinthisplace.
Lailasitsdown,herbacktothe wall. She listens to thewind filtering through thewillows. There are morespiderwebs stretched acrossthe ceiling. Someone hasspray-painted something on
oneofthewalls,butmuchofithassloughedoff,andLailacannot decipherwhat it says.Then she realizes the lettersare Russian. There is adeserted bird's nest in onecorner and a bat hangingupside down in anothercorner,where thewallmeetsthelowceiling.
Lailacloseshereyesandsitsthereawhile.
In Pakistan, itwas difficultsometimes to remember thedetails of Mariam's face.Thereweretimeswhen,likeawordonthetipofhertongue,Mariam'sfaceeludedher.Butnow, here in this place, it'seasy to summon Mariambehind the lids of her eyes:the soft radianceofhergaze,the long chin, the coarsenedskin of her neck, the tight-lipped smile.Here, Laila canlayhercheekon the softness
of Mariam's lap again, canfeel Mariam swaying backand forth, reciting versesfrom theKoran, can feel thewords vibrating downMariam's body, to her knees,andintoherownears.
Then, suddenly, the weedsbegin to recede, as ifsomething ispulling thembythe roots from beneath theground.They sink lower andlower until the earth in
thekolba has swallowed thelastoftheirspinyleaves.Thespiderwebs magically unspinthemselves. The bird's nestself-disassembles, the twigssnapping loose one by one,flying out of thekolba endover end.An invisible eraserwipes theRussiangraffitioffthewall.
The floorboards are back.Laila sees a pair of sleepingcots now, a wooden table,
two chairs, a cast-iron stovein the corner, shelves alongthe walls, on which sit claypots and pans, a blackenedteakettle, cups and spoons.She hears chickens cluckingoutside, the distant gurglingofthestream.
AyoungMariamissittingatthetablemakingadollbytheglow of an oil lamp. She'shumming something. Herface is smooth and youthful,
her hair washed, combedback.Shehasallherteeth.
LailawatchesMariamgluestrandsofyamontoherdoll'shead.Inafewyears,thislittlegirlwillbeawomanwhowillmake small demands on life,whowillneverburdenothers,whowillneverletonthatshetoo has had sorrows,disappointments, dreams thathave been ridiculed. Awoman who will be like a
rock in a riverbed, enduringwithout complaint, her gracenot sullied butshaped by theturbulence that washes overher. Already Laila seessomething behind this younggirl'seyes,somethingdeepinhercore,thatneitherRasheednortheTalibanwillbeabletobreak.Somethingashardandunyielding as a block oflimestone.Something that, inthe end, will beher undoingandLaila'ssalvation.
Thelittlegirllooksup.Putsdownthedoll.Smiles.
Lailajo?
Laila'seyessnapopen.Shegasps, and her body pitchesforward. She startles the bat,which zips from one end ofthekolba to the other, itsbeating wings like thefluttering pages of a book,beforeitfliesoutthewindow.
Lailagets toher feet,beatsthedead leavesfromtheseatofher trousers.Shestepsoutof thekolbaOutside, the lighthasshiftedslightly.Awindisblowing, making the grassripple and the willowbranchesclick.
Before she leaves theclearing, Laila takes one lastlook at thekolba whereMariam had slept, eaten,dreamed, held her breath for
Jalil. On sagging walls, thewillowscastcrookedpatternsthat shift with each gust ofwind. A crow has landed onthe flat roof. It pecks atsomething,squawks,fliesoff.
"Good-bye,Mariam."
And,withthat,unawarethatshe is weeping, Laila beginstorunthroughthegrass.
ShefindsHamzastillsitting
on the rock. When he spotsher,hestandsup.
"Let's go back," he says.Then, "I have something togiveyou."
***
LailawattsforHamzainthegardenbythefrontdoor.Theboywhohadservedthemteaearlier is standing beneathoneof thefig treesholdinga
chicken, watching herimpassively. Laila spies twofaces, an old woman and ayoung girl inhijab observingherdemurelyfromawindow.
Thedoortothehouseopensand Hamza emerges. He iscarryingabox.
HegivesittoLaila.
"JalilKhangave this tomyfatheramonthorsobeforehe
died/'Hamzasays."Heaskedmy father to safeguard it forMariam until she came toclaimit.Myfatherkeptitfortwo years. Then, just beforehepassedaway,hegaveittome, and asked me to save itfor Mariam. But she…youknow,shenevercame."
Laila looks down at theoval-shaped tin box. It lookslikeanoldchocolatebox.It'solive green, with fading gilt
scrolls all around the hingedlidThereisalittlerustonthesides, and two tiny dents onthefront rimof the lid.Lailatries toopen thebox,but thelatchislocked.
"What'sinit?"sheasks.
Hamza puts a key in herpalm. "My father neverunlocked it. Neither did1.Isuppose it was God's willthatitbeyou."
***
Backatthehotel,Tariqandthechildrenarenotbackyet.
Lailasitsonthebed,theboxon her lap. Part of herwantsto leave it unopened, letwhatever Jalil had intendedremain a secret. But, in theend, the curiosity proves toostrong.She slides in thekey.It takes some rattling andshaking, but she opens the
box.
In it,shefinds threethings:an envelope, a burlap sack,andavideocassette.
Lailatakesthetapeandgoesdown to the reception desk.She learns from the elderlyclerk who had greeted themthe day before that the hotelhas only one VCR, in itsbiggest suite. The suite isvacantatthemoment,andhe
agrees to take her.He leavesthe desk to a mustachioedyoung man in a suit who istalkingonacellularphone.
TheoldclerkleadsLailatothesecondfloor, toadoorattheendofalonghallway.Heworksthelock,letsherin.
Laila's eyes find the TV inthe corner. They registernothing else about the suite-SheturnsontheTV,turnson
theVCR.Putsthetapeinandpushes the play button. Thescreen is blank for a fewmoments,andLailabeginstowonderwhyJalilhadgonetothetroubleofpassingablanktape to Mariam. But thenthere is music, and imagesbegintoplayonthescreen.
Laila frowns. She keepswatchingforaminuteortwo.Then she pushes stop, fast-forwardsthetape,andpushes
playagain.It'sthesamefilm.
The old man is looking atherquizzically.
The film playing on thescreen is WaltDisney'sPinocchio.Lailadoesnotunderstand.
***
Tariqandthechildrencomebacktothehoteljustaftersix
o'clock. Aziza runs to Lailaandshowsherthe
earrings Tariq has boughtforher,silverwithanenamelbutterfly on each. Zalmai isclutching an inflatabledolphinthatsqueakswhenitssnoutissqueezed.
"Howareyou?"Tariqasks,putting his arm around hershoulder.
"I'm fine," Laila says. "I'lltellyoulater."
Theywalktoanearbykebabhouse to eat. It's a smallplace, with sticky, vinyltablecloths, smoky and loudBut the lamb is tender andmoistandthebreadhot.Theywalk the streets for a whileafter.Tariqbuys thechildrenrosewater ice cream from astreet-side kiosk. They eat,sitting on a bench, the
mountains behind themsilhouettedagainst thescarletredofdusk.Theair iswarm,rich with the fragrance ofcedar.
Laila had opened theenvelope earlier when she'dcome back to the room afterviewing the videotape. In itwas a letter, handwritten inblue ink on a yellow, linedsheetofpaper.
Itread:
May13,1987
MydearMariam:
I pray that this letter findsyouingoodhealth
As you kno w, I came toKabul a month ago to speakwithyou.Buiyouwouldnotseeme.Iwasdisappointedbutcouldnotblameyou.Inyour
place, Imight have done thesame. Ilost the privilege ofyourgoodgracesa longtimeago and for that I only havemyself to blame. Bui if youare reading this letter, thenyou have read the letter thatIlefi at your door. You havereaditandyouhavecometoseeMullahFaizullah,asIhadasked that you do. Iamgratefulthatyoudid,Mariamjo. Iam grateful for thischancetosayafewwordsto
you.
WheredoIbegin?
Your father has known somuch sorrow since we lastspoke, Mariamjo. YourstepmotherAfsoonwaskilledon the first day of the 1979uprising.AstraybulletkilledyoursisterNiloufarthatsameday. Ican still see her, myUtile Niloufar, doingheadsiands to impressguests.
Your brother Farhad joinedthe jihad in J 980. TheSoviets killed him in J 982,just outside ofHelmand. Inever got to see his body. Idon 'i know if you havechildren of your own,Mariamjo, but if you do IpraythatGodlookafterthemand spare you the grief thatIhaveknown.Istilldreamofthem.Istilldreamofmydeadchildren.
I have dreams of you too,Mariam jo. Imiss you. Imissthesoundofyourvoice,yourlaughter. I miss reading toyou, and all those times wefished together. Do youremember all those timeswefished together? You were agood daughter, Mariam jo,andIcannoteverthinkofyouwithout feeling shame andregret. Regret… When itcomes to you, Mariamjo, Ihaveoceansofit.Iregretthat
Ididnotseeyouthedayyoucame toHerat. I regret that Idid not open the door andtakeyouin.IregretthatIdidnot make you a daughter tome, ihatl leiyou live in thatplace for all those years.Andfor what? Fear of losingface? Of staining my so-calledgoodname?HowUtilethosethingsmattertomenowafter all the loss, all theterrible things Ihave seen inthis cursedwar. Bui now, of
course, it is too late.Perhapsthis is just punishment forthose who have beenheartless, to understand onlywhennothingcanbeundone.Now all Ican do is say thatyou were a good daughter,Mariamjo, and that Ineverdeserved you. Now all I cando is ask for yourforgiveness. So forgive me,Mariamjo. Forgive me.Forgiveme.Forgiveme.
I am not the wealthy manyou once knew. Thecommunists confiscated somuch of my land, and all ofmy stores as well. But it ispetty to complain, for God-for reasons that I do notunderstand-has still blessedme with far more than mostpeople.SincemyreturnfromKabul, Ihavemanaged tosellwhat Utile remained of myland.Ihaveenclosedforyouyourshareof the inheritance.
Youcanseethatitisfarfromafortune, but it is something.It is something. (You willalso notice that I have takenthe liberty of exchanging themoney into dollars. I think itis for the best God aloneknows the fate of our ownbeleagueredcurrency.)
IhopeyoudonotthinkthatI am trying to buy yourforgiveness. I hope you willcredit me with knowing that
your forgiveness is not forsale. It never was. I ammerely giving you, ifbelatedly,whatwasrightfullyyours all along. I was not adutiful father to you in life.PerhapsindeathIcanbe.
Ah, death. I won't burdenyouwithdetails, butdeath iswithin sight for me now.Weak heart, the doctors say.Itisafittingmannerofdeath,Ithink,foraweakman.
Mariamjo,
I dare, I dare allowmyselfthe hope that, after you readthis, you will be morecharitable to me than I everwas to you. That you mightfind it in your heart to comeandseeyourfather.Thatyouwill knock on my door onemore time and give me thechancetoopenitthistime,towelcome you, to take you inmy arms, my daughter, as I
should have all those yearsago. It is a hope as weak asmyheart.This I know.But Iwill be waiting. I will belisteningforyourknockIwillbehoping.
MayGod grant you a longand prosperous life, mydaughter.MayGod give youmany healthy and beautifulchildren. May you find thehappiness, peace, andacceptancethatIdidnotgive
you. Be well. I leave you inthelovinghandsofGod.
Your undeserving father,Jalil
Thatnight,aftertheyreturntothehotel,afterthechildrenhaveplayedandgonetobed,Laila tells Tariq about theletter. She shows him themoney in the burlap sack.When she begins to cry, hekissesher face andholdsher
inhisarms.
51.
April2003
Thedrought has ended. Itsnowed at last this pastwinter, kneedeep, and now ithasbeenrainingfordays.TheKabul River is flowing onceagain. Its spring floods have
washedawayTitanicCity.
There ismudon the streetsnow. Shoes squish. Cars gettrapped.Donkeysloadedwithapples slog heavily, theirhoovessplatteringmuckfromrain puddles. But no one iscomplaining about the mud,no one is mourning TitanicCity.We need Kabul to begreenagain,peoplesay.
Yesterday, Laila watched
her children play in thedownpour,hopping fromonepuddle to another in theirbackyard beneath a lead-colored sky. She waswatching from the kitchenwindow of the small two-bedroom house that they arerenting in Deh-Mazang.There is a pomegranate treein the yard and a thicket ofsweetbriar bushes. Tariq haspatched the walls and builtthe children a slide, a swing
set, a little fenced area forZalmai's new goat. Lailawatched the rain slide offZalmai's scalp-he has askedthathebeshaved, likeTariq,who is in charge now ofsaying theBabaloo prayers.The rain flattened Aziza'slong hair, turned it intosodden tendrils that sprayedZalmaiwhenshesnappedherhead.
Zalmai isalmost six.Aziza
is ten. They celebrated herbirthday last week, took herto Cinema Park, where, atlast,Titanic was openlyscreened for the people ofKabul.
***
"Come on, children, we'regoing tobe late,"Laila calls,putting their lunches in apaperbag-It'seighto'clockinthemorning.Lailawas up at
five.Asalways, itwasAzizawho shook her awake formorningnamaz. The prayers,Lailaknows,areAziza'swayof clinging to Mariam, herwayofkeepingMariamcloseawhileyetbeforetimehasitsway, before it snatchesMariam from the garden ofher memory like a weedpulledbyitsroots.
Afternamaz,Lailahadgoneback to bed, and was still
asleep when Tariq left thehouse. She vaguelyremembers him kissing hercheek. Tariq has foundworkwith a French NGO that fitsland mine survivors andamputees with prostheticlimbs.
ZalmaicomeschasingAzizaintothekitchen.
"Youhaveyournotebooks,you two? Pencils?
Textbooks?"
"Right here," Aziza says,lifting her backpack. Again,Laila notices how her stutterislessening.
"Let'sgo,then."
Lailaletsthechildrenoutofthe house, locks the door.They step out into the coolmorning. It isn't rainingtoday. The sky is blue, and
Laila sees no clumps ofclouds in the horizon.Holding hands, the three ofthem make their way to thebusstop.Thestreetsarebusyalready, teeming with asteady stream of rickshaws,taxicabs, UN trucks, buses,ISAF jeeps. Sleepy-eyedmerchantsareunlockingstoregates that had been rolleddown for the night-Vendorssit behind towers of chewinggum and cigarette packs.
Already the widows haveclaimed their spots at streetcorners, asking the passersbyforcoins.
Laila finds it strange to beback in Kabul The city haschanged Every day now sheseespeopleplantingsaplings,painting old houses, carryingbricksfornewones.Theydiggutters and wells. Onwindowsills, Laila spotsflowers potted in the empty
shells of old Mujahideenrockets-rocket flowers,Kabulis call them. Recently,Tariq took Laila and thechildren to the Gardens ofBabur, which are beingrenovated. For the first timeinyears,LailahearsmusicatKabul's street corners,rubaband tabla,dooiar, harmoniumand tamboura, old AhmadZahirsongs.
Laila wishes Mammy and
Babi were alive to see thesechanges.But,likeMil'sletter,Kabul's penance has arrivedtoolate.
Laila and the children areabouttocrossthestreettothebus stop when suddenly ablack Land Cruiser withtinted windows blows by. Itswervesatthelastinstantandmisses Laila by less than anarm's length. It splatters tea-coloredrainwateralloverthe
children'sshirts.
Laila yanks her childrenbackonto thesidewalk,heartsomersaultinginherthroat.
The Land Cruiser speedsdownthestreet,honks twice,andmakesasharpleft.
Lailastands there, trying tocatch her breath, her fingersgripped tightly around herchildren'swrists.
It slays Laila. It slays herthat the warlords have beenallowed back to Kabul Thatherparents'murderers live inposh homes with walledgardens, that they have beenappointedministerofthisanddeputy minister of that, thatthey ride with impunity inshiny, bulletproof SUVsthrough neighborhoods thattheydemolished.Itslaysher.
But Laila has decided that
she will not be crippled byresentment.Mariamwouldn'twant it that way.What's thesense? she would say with asmile both innocent andwise.What good is it, Lailajo?AndsoLailahasresignedherselftomovingon.Forherownsake, forTariq's, forherchildren's. And for Mariam,who still visits Laila in herdreams, who is never morethan a breath or two belowher consciousness. Laila has
movedon.Becauseintheendshe knows that's all she cando.Thatandhope.
***
Zamanisstandingatthefreethrow line, his knees bent,bouncing a basketball. He isinstructingagroupofboysinmatching jerseys sitting in asemicircle on the court.Zaman spots Laila, tucks theball under his arm, and
waves.He says something totheboys,whothenwaveandcry out,"Salaam, moalimsahib!"
Lailawavesback.
The orphanage playgroundhas a row of apple saplingsnow along the east-facingwall. Laila is planning toplant someon the southwallaswellassoonasitisrebuilt.Thereisanewswingset,new
monkey bars, and a junglegym.
Laila walks back insidethroughthescreendoor.
They have repainted boththeexteriorandtheinteriorofthe orphanage. Tariq andZaman have repaired all theroof leaks,patched thewalls,replaced the windows,carpetedtheroomswherethechildren sleep and play. This
past winter, Laila bought afew beds for the children'ssleepingquarters,pillowstoo,and proper wool blankets.She had cast-iron stovesinstalledforthewinter.
Anis,one of Kabul'snewspapers, had run a storythe month before on therenovation of the orphanage.They'd taken a photo too, ofZaman,Tariq,Laila, andoneof the attendants, standing in
a row behind the children.When Laila saw the article,she'd thought of herchildhood friends Giti andHasina,andHasinasaying,Bythe time we're twenty, Gitiand I, we'll have pushed outfour, five kids eachBui you,Laila, you'll make us twodummies proud. You 'regoing to be somebody. Iknow one day I'll pick up anewspaper and find yourpictureon the frontpage.The
photo hadn't made the frontpage, but there it wasnevertheless, as Hasina hadpredicted.
Lailatakesaturnandmakesher way down the samehallway where, two yearsbefore, she and Mariam haddelivered Aziza to Zaman.Laila still remembers howthey had to pry Aziza'sfingers from her wrist. Sheremembersrunningdownthis
hallway,holdingbackahowl,Mariam calling after her,Aziza screaming with panic.The hallway's walls arecoverednowwithposters, ofdinosaurs,cartooncharacters,theBuddhasofBamiyan,anddisplays of artwork by theorphans. Many of thedrawingsdepicttanksrunningover huts, men brandishingAK-47s, refugee camp tents,scenesofjihad.
Laila turns a corner in thehallwayandseesthechildrennow, waiting outside theclassroom. She is greeted bytheir scarves, their shavedscalps covered by skullcaps,their small, lean figures, thebeautyoftheirdrabness.
When the children spotLaila, they come running.Theycomerunningatfulltilt.Laila is swarmed. There is aflurry of high-pitched
greetings, of shrill voices, ofpatting, clutching, tugging,groping, of jostling with oneanother to climb into herarms. There are outstretchedlittle hands and appeals forattention. Some of them callherMother. Laila does notcorrectthem.
IttakesLailasomeworkthismorning tocalm thechildrendown, to get them to form aproper queue, to usher them
intotheclassroom.
ItwasTariqandZamanwhobuilt the classroom byknocking down the wallbetween two adjacent rooms.The floor is still badlycrackedandhasmissingtiles.For the time being, it iscovered with tarpaulin, butTariqhaspromisedtocementsomenewtilesand laydowncarpetingsoon.
Nailedabove theclassroomdoorway is a rectangularboard, which Zaman hassanded and painted ingleamingwhite.Onit,withabrush,Zamanhaswrittenfourlines of poetry, his answer,Laila knows, to those whogrumblethatthepromisedaidmoney to Afghanistan isn'tcoming,that therebuildingisgoingtooslowly,thatthereiscorruption, that the Talibanare regrouping already and
will come back with avengeance,thattheworldwillforget once again aboutAfghanistan. The lines arefrom his favorite ofHafez'sghazals:
Joseph shall return toCanaan, grieve not, Hovelsshall turn to rose gardens,grieve not. If a flood shouldarrive, to drown all that'salive, Noah is your guide inthetyphoon'seye,grievenot
Laila passes beneath thesignandenterstheclassroom.The children are taking theirseats, flipping notebooksopen, chattering- Aziza istalking to a girl in theadjacent row. A paperairplane floats across theroom inahigharc.Someonetossesitback.
"Open your Farsi books,children," Laila says,dropping her own books on
herdesk.
To a chorus of flippingpages, Laila makes her wayto the curtainless window.Through the glass, she cansee the boys in theplayground lining up topractice their free throws.Above them, over themountains,themorningsunisrising. It catches themetallicrim of the basketball hoop,the chain link of the tire
swings, the whistle hangingaround Zaman's neck, hisnew, unchipped spectacles.Laila flattens her palmsagainstthewarmglasspanes.Closes her eyes. She lets thesunlight fall on her cheeks,hereyelids,herbrow.
When they first came backto Kabul, it distressed Lailathat she didn't know wherethe Taliban had buriedMariam. She wished she
couldvisitMariam'sgrave,tosit with her awhile, leave afloweror two.ButLailaseesnow that it doesn't matter.Mariamisneververyfar.Sheishere,inthesewallsthey'verepainted, in the trees they'veplanted, in the blankets thatkeep the children warm, inthese pillows and books andpencils. She is in thechildren's laughter. She is inthe verses Aziza recites andin the prayers she mutters
when she bows westward.But, mostly, Mariam is inLaila's own heart, where sheshines with the burstingradianceofathousandsuns.
Someone has been callingher name,Laila realizes. Sheturns around, instinctivelytiltsherhead,liftinghergoodearjustatad.It'sAziza.
"Mammy? Are you allright?"
Theroomhasbecomequiet.The children are watchingher.
Laila is about to answerwhen her breath suddenlycatches. Her hands shootdown. They pat the spotwhere, a moment before,she'd felt a wave go throughher.Shewaits.Butthereisnomoremovement.
"Mammy?"
"Yes, my love." Lailasmiles. "I'm all right. Yes.Verymuch."
Asshewalkstoherdeskatthe front of the class, Lailathinks of the naming gamethey'd played again overdinnerthenightbefore.Ithasbecome a nightly ritual eversinceLailagaveTariqandthechildren the news. Back andforth they go,making a casefor their own choice. Tariq
likes Mohammad. Zalmai,who has recentlywatchedSupermanon tape, ispuzzledas towhyanAfghanboy cannot be named Clark.Aziza is campaigning hardforAman.LailalikesOmar.
But thegameinvolvesonlymalenames.Because,ifit'sagirl,Lailahasalreadynamedher.
Afterword
For almost three decadesnow, the Afghan refugeecrisis has been one of themostseverearoundtheglobe.War, hunger, anarchy, andoppression forcedmillionsofpeople-like Tariq and hisfamilyinthistale-toabandontheir homes and fleeAfghanistan to settle inneighboring Pakistan andIran. At the height of theexodus, as many as eightmillion Afghans were living
abroad as refugees. Today,more than two millionAfghan refugees remain inPakistan.
Over the past year, I havehad the privilege of workingasaU.S.envoyforUNHCR,the UN refugee agency, oneof the world's foremosthumanitarian agencies.UNHCR's mandate is toprotectthebasichumanrightsof refugees, provide
emergencyrelief,and tohelprefugeesrestarttheirlivesinasafe environment. UNHCRprovides assistance to morethantwentymilliondisplacedpeople around theworld, notonly in Afghanistan but alsoin places such as Colombia,Burundi, the Congo, Chad,and the Datfur region ofSudan. Working withUNHCRtohelprefugeeshasbeen one of the mostrewarding and meaningful
experiencesofmylife.
Tohelp, or simply to learnmore about UNHCR, itswork, or the plight ofrefugees in general, pleasevisit:www.UNrefugees.org.
Thankyou.
KhaledHosseiniJanuary31,2007
Acknowledgments
AfewclarificationsbeforeIgive thanks. The village ofGul Daman is a fictionalplace-asfarasIknow.Thosewhoarefamiliarwiththecityof Herat will notice that Ihave taken minor libertiesdescribing the geographyaround it. Last, the title ofthisnovelcomesfromapoemcomposed by Saeb-e-Tabrizi,aseventeenth-centuryPersianpoet. Those who know theoriginal Farsi poem will
doubtless note that theEnglishtranslationofthelinecontaining the title of thisnovelisnotaliteralone.Butit is the generally acceptedtranslation, by Dr. JosephineDavis,andIfounditlovely.Iamgratefultoher.
I would like to thankQayoum Sarwar, HekmatSadat, Elyse Hathaway,Rosemary Stasek, LawrenceQuill, and Haleema Jazmin
Quill for their assistance andsupport.
Very special thanks to myfather, Baba, for reading thismanuscript, for his feedback,and,asever, forhis loveandsupport. And to my mother,whose selfless, gentle spiritpermeates this tale. You aremy reason, Mother jo. Mythanks go to my in-laws fortheir generosity and manykindnesses.Totherestofmy
wonderful family, I remainindebtedandgrateful toeachandeveryoneofyou.
I wish to thank my agent,Elaine Koster, for always,always believing, JodyHotchkiss (Onward!), DavidGrossman,HelenHeller, andthe tireless ChandlerCrawford. I am grateful andindebted to every singleperson at Riverhead Books.In particular, Iwant to thank
Susan Petersen Kennedy andGeoffrey Kloske for theirfaith in this story. Myheartfelt thanks also go toMarilynDucksworth,Mih-HoCha, Catharine Lynch, CraigD. Burke, Leslie Schwartz,Honi Werner, and WendyPearl. Special thanks to mysharp-eyedcopyeditor,TonyDavis,whomisses
nothing, and, lastly, to mytalented editor, Sarah
McGrath, for her patience,foresight,andguidance.
Finally, thank you, Roya.For reading this story, againandagain,forweatheringmyminor crises of confidence(andacoupleofmajorones),forneverdoubting.Thisbookwould not be without you. Iloveyou.
TableofContents
PARTONE1.2.3.4.5.6.7.
8.9.10.11.12.13.14.15.PartTwo16.17.18.19.20.
21.22.23.24.25.26.PARTTHREE27.28.29.30.31.32.33.
34.35.36.37.38.39.40.41.42.43.44.45.46.47.
