Mariam was five years old the first time she heard the wordharami.
It happened on a Thursday. It must have, because Mariamremembered that she had been restless and preoccupied thatday, the way she was only on Thursdays, the day when Jalilvisited her at thekolba. To pass the time until the moment thatshe would see him at last, crossing the knee-high grass in theclearing and waving, Mariam had climbed a chair and takendown her mother's Chinese tea set. The tea set was the solerelic that Mariam's mother, Nana, had of her own mother, whohad died when Nana was two. Nana cherished eachblue-and-white porcelain piece, the graceful curve of the pot'sspout, the hand-painted finches and chrysanthemums, thedragon on the sugar bowl, meant to ward off evil.
It was this last piece that slipped from Mariam's fingers, thatfell to the wooden floorboards of thekolba and shattered.
When Nana saw the bowl, her face flushed red and herupper lip shivered, and her eyes, both the lazy one and thegood, settled on Mariam in a flat, unblinking way. Nana lookedso mad that Mariam feared the jinn would enter her mother'sbody again. But the jinn didn't come, not that time. Instead,Nana grabbed Mariam by the wrists, pulled her close, and,through gritted teeth, said, "You are a clumsy little harami Thisis my reward for everything I've endured An heirloom-breaking,clumsy little harami."At the time, Mariam did not understand. She did not knowwhat this word harami-bastard -meant Nor was she oldenough to appreciate the injustice, to see that it is the creatorsof theharami who are culpable, not theharami, whose only sinis being born. Mariam did surmise, by the way Nana said theword, that it was an ugly, loath-some thing to be harami, likean insect, like the scurrying cockroaches Nana was alwayscursing and sweeping out of thekolba.
Later, when she was older, Mariam did understand. It wasthe way Nana uttered the word-not so much saying it asspitting it at her-that made Mariam feel the full sting of it. Sheunderstood then what Nana meant, that aharami was anunwanted thing; that she, Mariam, was an illegitimate personwho would never have legitimate claim to the things otherpeople had, things such as love, family, home, acceptance.
Jalil never called Mariam this name. Jalil said she was his littleflower. He was fond of sitting her on his lap and telling herstories, like the time he told her that Herat, the city whereMariam was bom, in 1959, had once been the cradle ofPersian culture, the home of writers, painters, and Sufis.
You couldn't stretch a leg here without poking a poet in theass, he laughed.
Jalil told her the story of Queen Gauhar Shad, who hadraised the famous minarets as her loving ode to Herat back inthe fifteenth century. He described to her the green wheatfields of Herat, the orchards, the vines pregnant with plumpgrapes, the city's crowded, vaulted bazaars.
There is a pistachio tree, Jalil said one day, "and beneath it,Mariam jo, is buried none other than the great poet Jami." Heleaned in and whispered, "Jami lived over five hundred yearsago. He did. I took you there once, to the tree. You were little.
You wouldn't remember."It was true. Mariam didn't remember. And though she wouldlive the first fifteen years of her life within walking distance ofHerat, Mariam would never see this storied tree. She wouldnever see the famous minarets up close, and she would neverpick fruit from Herat's orchards or stroll in its fields of wheat.
But whenever Jalil talked like this, Mariam would listen withenchantment. She would admire Jalil for his vast and worldlyknowledge. She would quiver with pride to have a father whoknew such things.
What rich lies! Nana said after Jalil left. "Rich man tellingrich lies. He never took you to any tree. And don't let himcharm you. He betrayed us, your beloved father. He cast usout. He cast us out of his big fancy house like we werenothing to him. He did it happily."Mariam would listen dutifully to this. She never dared say toNana how much she disliked her talking this way about Jalil.
The truth was that around Jalil, Mariam did not feel at all likeaharami. For an hour or two every Thursday, when Jalil cameto see her, all smiles and gifts and endearments, Mariam feltdeserving of all the beauty and bounty that life had to give.
And, for this, Mariam loved Jalil.
* * *Even if she had to share him.
Jalil had three wives and nine children, nine legitimatechildren, all of whom were strangers to Mariam. He was oneof Herat's wealthiest men. He owned a cinema, which Mariamhad never seen, but at her insistence Jalil had described it toher, and so she knew that the fa9ade was made ofblue-and-tan terra-cotta tiles, that it had private balcony seatsand a trellised ceiling. Double swinging doors opened into atiled lobby, where posters of Hindi films were encased in glassdisplays. On Tuesdays, Jalil said one day, kids got free icecream at the concession standNana smiled demurely when he said this. She waited until hehad left thekolba, before snickering and saying, "The children ofstrangers get ice cream. What do you get, Mariam? Stories ofice cream."In addition to the cinema, Jalil owned land in Karokh, land inFarah, three carpet stores, a clothing shop, and a black 1956Buick Roadmaster. He was one of Herat's best-connected men,friend of the mayor and the provincial governor. He had acook, a driver, and three housekeepers.
Nana had been one of the housekeepers. Until her bellybegan to swell.
When that happened, Nana said, the collective gasp of Jalil'sfamily sucked the air out of Herat. His in-laws swore bloodwould flow. The wives demanded that he throw her out.
Nana's own father, who was a lowly stone carver in thenearby village of Gul Daman, disowned her. Disgraced, hepacked his things and boarded a bus to Bran, never to beseen or heard from again.
Sometimes, Nana said early one morning, as she wasfeeding the chickens outside thekolba, "I wish my father hadhad the stomach to sharpen one of his knives and do thehonorable thing. It might have been better for me." She tossedanother handful of seeds into the coop, paused, and looked atMariam. "Better for you too, maybe. It would have spared youthe grief of knowing that you are what you are. But he was acoward, my father. He didn't have thedil, the heart, for it."Jalil didn't have thedil either, Nana said, to do the honorablething. To stand up to his family, to his wives and inlaws, andaccept responsibility for what he had done. Instead, behindclosed doors, a face-saving deal had quickly been struck. Thenext day, he had made her gather her few things from theservants' quarters, where she'd been living, and sent her off.
You know what he told his wives by way of defense? ThatIforced myself on him. That it was my fault.Didi? You see? Thisis what it means to be a woman in this world.Nana put down the bowl of chicken feed. She lifted Mariam'schin with a finger.
Look at me, Mariam.Reluctantly, Mariam did.
Nana said, "Learn this now and learn it well, my daughter:
Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusingfinger always finds a woman. Always. You remember that,Mariam."
To Jalil and his wives, I was a pokeroot. A mugwort. You too.
And you weren't even born yet.""What's a mugwort?" Mariam asked"A weed," Nana said. "Something you rip out and toss aside."Mariam frowned internally. Jalil didn't treat her as a weed. Henever had. But Mariam thought it wise to suppress this protest.
Unlike weeds, I had to be replanted, you see, given food andwater. On account of you. That was the deal Jalil made withhis family.Nana said she had refused to live in Herat.
For what? To watch him drive hiskinchini wives around townall day?She said she wouldn't live in her father's empty house either,in the village of Gul Daman, which sat on a steep hill twokilometers north of Herat. She said she wanted to livesomewhere removed, detached, where neighbors wouldn't stareat her belly, point at her, snicker, or, worse yet, assault herwith insincere kindnesses.
And, believe me, Nana said, "it was a relief to your fatherhaving me out of sight. It suited him just fine."It was Muhsin, Jalil's eldest son by his first wife, Khadija, whosuggested the clearing- It was on the outskirts of Gul Daman.
To get to it, one took a rutted, uphill dirt track that branchedoff the main road between Herat and Gul Daman. The trackwas flanked on either side by knee-high grass and speckles ofwhite and bright yellow flowers. The track snaked uphill andled to a flat field where poplars and cottonwoods soared andwild bushes grew in clusters. From up there, one could makeout the tips of the rusted blades of Gul Daman's windmill, onthe left, and, on the right, all of Herat spread below. The pathended perpendicular to a wide, trout-filled stream, which rolleddown from the Safid-koh mountains surrounding Gul Daman.
Two hundred yards upstream, toward the mountains, there wasa circular grove of weeping willow trees. In the center, in theshade of the willows, was the clearing.
Jalil went there to have a look. When he came back, Nanasaid, he sounded like a warden bragging about the clean wallsand shiny floors of his prison.
And so, your father built us this rathole.* * *Nana had almost married once, when she was fifteen. Thesuitor had been a boy from Shindand, a young parakeet seller.
Mariam knew the story from Nana herself, and, though Nanadismissed the episode, Mariam could tell by the wistful light inher eyes that she had been happy. Perhaps for the only timein her life, during those days leading up to her wedding, Nanahad been genuinely happy.
As Nana told the story, Mariam sat on her lap and picturedher mother being fitted for a wedding dress. She imagined heron horseback, smiling shyly behind a veiled green gown, herpalms painted red with henna, her hair parted with silver dust,the braids held together by tree sap. She saw musiciansblowing theshahnai flute and banging ondohol drums, streetchildren hooting and giving chase.
Then, a week before the wedding date,ajinn had enteredNana's body. This required no description to Mariam. She hadwitnessed it enough times with her own eyes: Nana collapsingsuddenly, her body tightening, becoming rigid, her eyes rollingback, her arms and legs shaking as if something were throttlingher from the inside, the froth at the corners of her mouth,white, sometimes pink with blood. Then the drowsiness, thefrightening disorientation, the incoherent mumbling.
When the news reached Shindand, the parakeet seller's familycalled off the wedding.
They got spooked was how Nana put it.
The wedding dress was stashed away. After that, there wereno more suitors.
* * *In the clearing, Jalil and two of his sons, Farhad and Muhsin,built the smallkolba where Mariam would live the first fifteenyears of her life. They raised it with sun-dried bricks andplastered it with mud and handfuls of straw. It had twosleeping cots, a wooden table, two straight-backed chairs, awindow, and shelves nailed to the walls where Nana placed claypots and her beloved Chinese tea set. Jalil put in a newcast-iron stove for the winter and stacked logs of choppedwood behind thekolba He added a tandoor outside for makingbread and a chicken coop with a fence around it. He broughta few sheep, built them a feeding trough. He had Farhad andMuhsin dig a deep hole a hundred yards outside the circle ofwillows and built an outhouse over it.
Jalil could have hired laborers to build thekolba. Nana said,but he didn't.
His idea of penance.* * *LstNana'S account of the day that she gave birth to Mariam,no one came to help. It happened on a damp, overcast day inthe spring of 1959, she said, the twenty-sixth year of KingZahir Shah's mostly uneventful forty-year reign. She said thatJalil hadn't bothered to summon a doctor, or even a midwife,even though he knew thatthejinn might enter her body andcause her to have one of her fits in the act of delivering. Shelay all alone on thekolba's floor, a knife by her side, sweatdrenching her body.
When the pain got bad, I'd bite on a pillow and scream intoit until I was hoarse. And still no one came to wipe my faceor give me a drink of water. And you, Mariam jo, you were inno rush. Almost two days you made me lay on that cold, hardfloor. I didn't eat or sleep, all I did was push and pray thatyou would come out."I'm sorry, Nana."I cut the cord between us myself. That's why I had a knife."I'm sorry.Nana always gave a slow, burdened smile here, one oflingering recrimination or reluctant forgiveness, Mariam couldnever tell It did not occur to young Mariam to ponder theunfairness of apologizing for the manner of her own birth.
By the time itdid occur to her, around the time she turnedten, Mariam no longer believed this story of her birth. Shebelieved JaliPs version, that though he'd been away he'darranged for Nana to be taken to a hospital in Herat whereshe had been tended to by a doctor. She had lain on a clean,proper bed in a well-lit room. Jalil shook his head with sadnesswhen Mariam told him about the knife.
Mariam also came to doubt that she had made her mothersuffer for two full days.
They told me it was all over within under an hour, Jalilsaid. "You were a good daughter, Mariam jo. Even in birthyou were a good daughter.""He wasn't even there!" Nana spat. "He was in Takht-e-Safar,horseback riding with his precious friends."When they informed him that he had a new daughter, Nanasaid, Jalil had shrugged, kept brushing his horse's mane, andstayed in Takht-e-Safar another two weeks.
The truth is, he didn't even hold you until you were amonth old. And then only to look down once, comment onyour longish face, and hand you back to me.Mariam came to disbelieve this part of the story as well. Yes,Jalil admitted, he had been horseback riding in Takht-e-Safar,but, when they gave him the news, he had not shrugged. Hehad hopped on the saddle and ridden back to Herat. He hadbounced her in his arms, run his thumb over her flakyeyebrows, and hummed a lullaby. Mariam did not picture Jalilsaying that her face was long, though it was true that it waslong.
Nana said she was the one who'd picked the name Mariambecause it had been the name of her mother. Jalil said hechose the name because Mariam, the tuberose, was a lovelyflower.
Your favorite? Mariam asked.
Well, one of, he said and smiled.
One of Mariam's earliest memories was the sound of awheelbarrow's squeaky iron wheels bouncing over rocks. Thewheelbarrow came once a month, filled with rice, flour, tea,sugar, cooking oil, soap, toothpaste. It was pushed by two ofMariam's half brothers, usually Muhsin and Ramin, sometimesRamin and Farhad. Up the dirt track, over rocks and pebbles,around holes and bushes, the boys took turns pushing untilthey reached the stream. There, the wheelbarrow had to beemptied and the items hand-carried across the water. Then theboys would transfer the wheelbarrow across the stream andload it up again. Another two hundred yards of pushingfollowed, this time through tall, dense grass and around thicketsof shrubs. Frogs leaped out of their way. The brothers wavedmosquitoes from their sweaty faces.
He has servants, Mariam said. "He could send a servant.""His idea of penance," Nana said.
The sound of the wheelbarrow drew Mariam and Nanaoutside. Mariam would always remember Nana the way shelooked on Ration Day: a tall, bony, barefoot woman leaning inthe doorway, her lazy eye narrowed to a slit, arms crossed ina defiant and mocking way. Her short-cropped, sunlit hairwould be uncovered and uncombed. She would wear anill-fitting gray shirt buttoned to the throat. The pockets werefilled with walnut-sized rocks.
The boys sat by the stream and waited as Mariam and Nanatransferred the rations to thekolba They knew better than toget any closer than thirty yards, even though Nana's aim waspoor and most of the rocks landed well short of their targets.
Nana yelled at the boys as she carried bags of rice inside, andcalled them names Mariam didn't understand. She cursed theirmothers, made hateful faces at them. The boys never returnedthe insults.
Mariam felt sorry for the boys. How tired their arms and legsmust be, she thought pityingly, pushing that heavy load. Shewished she were allowed to offer them water. But she saidnothing, and if they waved at her she didn't wave back. Once,to please Nana, Mariam even yelled at Muhsin, told him hehad a mouth shaped like a lizard's ass-and was consumed laterwith guilt, shame, and fear that they would tell Jalil. Nana,though, laughed so hard, her rotting front tooth in full display,that Mariam thought she would lapse into one of her fits. Shelooked at Mariam when she was done and said, "You're agood daughter."When the barrow was empty, the boys scuffled back andpushed it away. Mariam would wait and watch them disappearinto the tall grass and flowering weeds.
Are you coming?"Yes, Nana."They laugh at you. They do. I hear them."I'm coming."You don't believe me?"Here I am."You know I love you, Mariam jo.* * *In the mornings, they awoke to the distant bleating of sheepand the high-pitched toot of a flute as Gul Daman's shepherdsled their flock to graze on the grassy hillside. Mariam andNana milked the goats, fed the hens, and collected eggs. Theymade bread together. Nana showed her how to knead dough,how to kindle the tandoor and slap the flattened dough ontoits inner walls. Nana taught her to sew too, and to cook riceand all the different toppings:shalqam stew with turnip,spinachsabzi, cauliflower with ginger.
Nana made no secret of her dislike for visitors-and, in fact,people in general-but she made exceptions for a select few.
And so there was Gul Daman's leader, the villagearbab, HabibKhan, a small-headed, bearded man with a large belly whocame by once a month or so, tailed by a servant, who carrieda chicken, sometimes a pot ofkichiri rice, or a basket of dyedeggs, for Mariam.
Then there was a rotund, old woman that Nana called Bibi jo,whose late husband had been a stone carver and friends withNana's father. Bibi jo was invariably accompanied by one ofher six brides and a grandchild or two. She limped and huffedher way across the clearing and made a great show of rubbingher hip and lowering herself, with a pained sigh, onto the chairthat Nana pulled up for her. Bibi jo too always broughtMariam something, a box ofdishlemeh candy, a basket ofquinces. For Nana, she first brought complaints about herfailing health, and then gossip from Herat and Gul Daman,delivered at length and with gusto, as her daughter-in-lawsatlistening quietly and dutifully behind her.
But Mariam's favorite, other than Jalil of course, was MullahFaizullah, the elderly village Koran tutor, itsakhund He came byonce or twice a week from Gul Daman to teach Mariam thefive dailynamaz prayers and tutor her in Koran recitation, justas he had taught Nana when she'd been a little girl It wasMullah Faizullah who had taught Mariam to read, who hadpatiently looked over her shoulder as her lips worked thewords soundlessly, her index finger lingering beneath eachword, pressing until the nail bed went white, as though shecould squeeze the meaning out of the symbols. It was MullahFaizullah who had held her hand, guided the pencil in it alongthe rise of eachalef, the curve of eachbeh, the three dots ofeachseh.
He was a gaunt, stooping old man with a toothless smile anda white beard that dropped to his navel. Usually, he camealone to thekolba, though sometimes with his russet-haired sonHamza, who was a few years older than Mariam. When heshowed up at thekolba, Mariam kissed Mullah Faizullah'shand-which felt like kissing a set of twigs covered with a thinlayer of skin-and he kissed the top of her brow before theysat inside for the day's lesson. After, the two of them satoutside thekolba, ate pine nuts and sipped green tea, watchedthe bulbul birds darting from tree to tree. Sometimes they wentfor walks among the bronze fallen leaves and alder bushes,along the stream and toward the mountains. Mullah Faizullahtwirled the beads of histasbeh rosary as they strolled, and, inhis quivering voice, told Mariam stories of all the things he'dseen in his youth, like the two-headed snake he'd found inIran, on Isfahan's Thirty-three Arch Bridge, or the watermelonhe had split once outside the Blue Mosque in Mazar, to findthe seeds forming the wordsAllah on one half,Akbar on theother.
Mullah Faizullah admitted to Mariam that, at times, he did notunderstand the meaning of the Koran's words. But he said heliked the enchanting sounds the Arabic words made as theyrolled off his tongue. He said they comforted him, eased hisheart.
They'll comfort you too, Mariam jo, he said. "You cansummon them in your time of need, and they won't fail you.
God's words will never betray you, my girl"Mullah Faizullah listened to stories as well as he told them.
When Mariam spoke, his attention never wavered He noddedslowly and smiled with a look of gratitude, as if he had beengranted a coveted privilege. It was easy to tell Mullah Faizullahthings that Mariam didn't dare tell Nana.
One day, as they were walking, Mariam told him that shewished she would be allowed to go to school.
I mean a real school,akhund sahib. Like in a classroom. Likemy father's other kids.Mullah Faizullah stopped.
The week before, Bibi jo had brought news that Jalil'sdaughters Saideh and Naheed were going to the Mehri Schoolfor girls in Herat. Since then, thoughts of classrooms andteachers had rattled around Mariam's head, images ofnotebooks with lined pages, columns of numbers, and pens thatmade dark, heavy marks. She pictured herself in a classroomwith other girls her age. Mariam longed to place a ruler on apage and draw important-looking lines.
Is that what you want? Mullah Faizullah said, looking at herwith his soft, watery eyes, his hands behind his stooping back,the shadow of his turban falling on a patch of bristlingbuttercups.
'Yes.
And you want me to ask your mother for permission.Mariam smiled. Other than Jalil, she thought there was noone in the world who understood her better than her oldtutor.
Then what can I do? God, in His wisdom, has given us eachweaknesses, and foremost among my many is that I ampowerless to refuse you, Mariam jo, he said, tapping hercheek with one arthritic finger.
But later, when he broached Nana, she dropped the knifewith which she was slicing onions. "What for?""If the girl wants to learn, let her, my dear. Let the girl havean education.""Learn? Learn what, Mullah sahib?" Nana said sharply. "Whatis there to learn?"She snapped her eyes toward Mariam.
Mariam looked down at her hands.
"What's the sense schooling a girl like you? It's like shining aspittoon. And you'll learn nothing of value in those schools. There is only one, only one skill a woman like you and meneeds in life, and they don't teach it in school. Look at me.""You should not speak like this to her, my child, MullahFaizullah said.
"Look at me.Mariam did.
Only one skill And it's this:iahamuL Endure."Endure what, Nana?"Oh, don't you fret aboutthat, Nana said. "There won't beany shortage of things."She went on to say how Mil's wives had called her an ugly,lowly stone carver's daughter. How they'd made her washlaundry outside in the cold until her face went numb and herfingertips burned.
It's our lot in life, Mariam. Women like us. We endure. It'sall we have. Do you understand? Besides, they'll laugh at youin school. They will. They'll call youharaml They'll say the mostterrible things about you. I won't have it.Mariam nodded.
And no more talk about school. You're all I have. I won'tlose you to them. Lookat me. No more talk about school."Be reasonable- Come now. If the girl wants- Mullah Faizullahbegan.
"And you,akhund sahib, with all due respect, you should knowbetter than to encourage these foolish ideas of hers. Ifyou reallycare about her, then you make her see that she belongs hereat home with her mother. Thereis nothing out there for her. Nothing but rejection and heartache. I know,akhund sahib. Iknow.
"Mariam loved having visitors at thekolba. The villagearbab andhis gifts, Bibi jo and her aching hip and endless gossiping, and,of course, Mullah Faizullah. But there was no one, no one, thatMariam longed to see more than Jalil.
The anxiety set in on Tuesday nights. Mariam would sleeppoorly, fretting that some business entanglement would preventJalil from coming on Thursday, that she would have to wait awhole other week to see him. On Wednesdays, she pacedoutside, around thekolba, tossed chicken feed absentmindedlyinto the coop. She went for aimless walks, picking petals fromflowers and batting at the mosquitoes nibbling on her arms.
Finally, on Thursdays, all she could do was sit against a wall,eyes glued to the stream, and wait. If Jalil was running late, aterrible dread filled her bit by bit. Her knees would weaken,and she would have to go somewhere and lie down.
Then Nana would call, "And there he is, your father. In allhis glory."Mariam would leap to her feet when she spotted him hoppingstones across the stream, all smiles and hearty waves. Mariamknew that Nana was watching her, gauging her reaction, and italways took effort to stay in the doorway, to wait, to watchhim slowly make his way to her, to not run to him. Sherestrained herself, patiently watched him walk through the tallgrass, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, the breeze liftinghis red necktie.
When Jalil entered the clearing, he would throw his jacket onthe tandoor and open his arms. Mariam would walk, thenfinally run, to him, and he would catch her under the armsand toss her up high. Mariam would squeal.
Suspended in the air, Mariam would see Jalil's upturned facebelow her, his wide, crooked smile, his widow's peak, his cleftchin-a perfect pocket for the tip of her pinkie-his teeth, thewhitest in a town of rotting molars. She liked his trimmedmustache, and she liked that no matter the weather he alwayswore a suit on his visits-dark brown, his favorite color, with thewhite triangle of a handkerchief in the breast pocket-and cufflinks too, and a tie, usually red, which he left loosened Mariamcould see herself too, reflected in the brown of Jalil's eyes: herhair billowing, her face blazing with excitement, the sky behindher.
Nana said that one of these days he would miss, that she,Mariam, would slip through his fingers, hit the ground, andbreak a bone. But Mariam did not believe that Jalil would dropher. She believed that she would always land safely into herfather's clean, well-manicured hands.
They sat outside thekolba, in the shade, and Nana servedthem tea. Jalil and she acknowledged each other with anuneasy smile and a nod. Jalil never brought up Nana's rockthrowing or her cursing.
Despite her rants against him when he wasn't around, Nanawas subdued and mannerly when Jalil visited. Her hair wasalways washed. She brushed her teeth, wore her besthijab forhim. She sat quietly on a chair across from him, hands foldedon her lap. She did not look at him directly and never usedcoarse language around him. When she laughed, she coveredher mouth with a fist to hide the bad tooth.
Nana asked about his businesses. And his wives too. Whenshe told him that she had heard, through Bibi jo, that hisyoungest wife, Nargis, was expecting her third child, Jalil smiledcourteously and nodded.
Well. You must be happy, Nana said. "How many is thatfor you, now? Ten, is it,mashallah1? Ten?"Jalil said yes, ten.
Eleven, if you count Mariam, of course.Later, after Jalil went home, Mariam and Nana had a smallfight about this. Mariam said she had tricked him.
After tea with Nana, Mariam and Jalil always went fishing inthe stream. He showed her how to cast her line, how to reelin the trout. He taught her the proper way to gut a trout, toclean it, to lift the meat off the bone in one motion. He drewpictures for her as they waited for a strike, showed her howto draw an elephant in one stroke without ever lifting the penoff the paper. He taught her rhymes. Together they sang:
Lili Mi birdbath, Sitting on a dirt path, Minnow sat on the rimand drank, Slipped, and in the water she sankJalil brought clippings from Herat's newspaper,Iiiifaq-i Islam,and read from them to her. He was Mariam's link, her proofthat there existed a world at large, beyond thekolba, beyondGul Daman and Herat too, a world of presidents withunpronounceable names, and trains and museums and soccer,and rockets that orbited the earth and landed on the moon,and, every Thursday, Jalil brought a piece of that world withhim to thekolba.
He was the one who told her in the summer of 1973, whenMariam was fourteen, that King Zahir Shah, who had ruledfrom Kabul for forty years, had been overthrown in a bloodlesscoup.
His cousin Daoud Khan did it while the king was in Italygetting medical treatment- You remember Daoud Khan, right? Itold you about him. He was prime minister in Kabul when youwere bom. Anyway, Afghanistan is no longer a monarchy,Mariam. You see, it's a republic now, and Daoud Khan is thepresident. There are rumors that the socialists in Kabul helpedhim take power. Not that he's a socialist himself, mind you, butthat they helped him. That's the rumor anyway.Mariam asked him what a socialist was and Jalil begantoexplain, but Mariam barely heard him.
Are you listening?"I am.He saw her looking at the bulge in his coat's side pocket.
Ah. Of course. Well. Here, then. Without further ado…He fished a small box from his pocket and gave it to her. Hedid this from time to time, bring her small presents. Acarnelian bracelet cuff one time, a choker with lapis lazuli beadsanother. That day, Mariam opened the box and found aleaf-shaped pendant, tiny coins etched with moons and starshanging from it.
Try it on, Mariam jo.She did. "What do you think?"Jalil beamed "I think you look like a queen."After he left, Nana saw the pendant around Mariam's neck.
Nomad jewelry, she said. "I've seen them make it. Theymelt the coins people throw at them and make jewelry. Let'ssee him bring you gold next time, your precious father. Let'ssee him."When it was time for Jalil to leave, Mariam always stood inthe doorway and watched him exit the clearing, deflated at thethought of the week that stood, like an immense, immovableobject, between her and his next visit. Mariam always held herbreath as she watched him go. She held her breath and, inher head, counted seconds. She pretended that for each secondthat she didn't breathe, God would grant her another day withJalil.
At night, Mariam lay in her cot and wondered what his housein Herat was like. She wondered what it would be like to livewith him, to see him every day. She pictured herself handinghim a towel as he shaved, telling him when he nicked himself.
She would brew tea for him. She would sew on his missingbuttons. They would take walks in Herat together, in thevaulted bazaar where Jalil said you could find anything youwanted. They would ride in his car, and people would pointand say, "There goes Jalil Khan with his daughter." He wouldshow her the famed tree that had a poet buried beneath it.
One day soon, Mariam decided, she would tell Jalil thesethings. And when he heard, when he saw how much shemissed him when he was gone, he would surely take her withhim. He would bring her to Herat, to live in his house, justlike his other children.
I know what I want," Mariam said to Jalil.
It was the spring of 1974, the year Mariam turned fifteen.
The three of them were sitting outside thekolba, in a patch ofshade thrown by the willows, on folding chairs arranged in atriangle.
For my birthday…I know what I want."You do? said Jalil, smiling encouragingly.
Two weeks before, at Mariam's prodding, Jalil had let on thatan American film was playing at his cinema. It wasa specialkind of film, what he'd called a cartoon. The entire film was aseries of drawings, he said, thousands of them, so that whenthey were made into a film and projected onto a screen youhad the illusion that the drawings were moving. Jalil said thefilm told the story of an old, childless toymaker who is lonelyand desperately wants a son. So he carves a puppet, a boy,who magically comes to life. Mariam had asked him to tell hermore, and Jalil said that the old man and his puppet had allsorts of adventures, that there was a place called PleasureIsland, and bad boys who turned into donkeys. They even gotswallowed by a whale at the end, the puppet and his father.
Mariam had told Mullah Faizullah all about this film.
I want you to take me to your cinema, Mariam said now. "Iwant to see the cartoon. I want to see the puppet boy."With this, Mariam sensed a shift in the atmosphere. Herparents stirred in their seats. Mariam could feel themexchanging looks.
That's not a good idea, said Nana. Her voice was calm, hadthe controlled, polite tone she used around Jalil, but Mariamcould feel her hard, accusing glare.
Jalil shifted on his chair. He coughed, cleared his throat.
You know, he said, "the picture quality isn't that good.
Neither is the sound. And the projector's been malfunctioningrecently. Maybe your mother is right. Maybe you can think ofanother present, Mariam jo.""Aneh,"Nana said. "You see? Your father agrees."* * *But later, at the stream, Mariam said, "Take me.""I'll tell you what," Jalil said. "I'll send someone to pick youup and take you. I'll make sure they get you a good seat andall the candy you want.""Nay.Iwant you to take me.""Mariam jo-""And I want you to invite my brothers and sisters too. I wantto meet them. I want us all to go, together. It's what I want."Jalil sighed. He was looking away, toward the mountains.
Mariam remembered him telling her that on the screen ahuman face looked as big as a house, that when a carcrashed up there you felt the metal twisting in your bones. Shepictured herself sitting in the private balcony seats, lapping atice cream, alongside her siblings and Jalil. "It's what I want,"she said.
Jalil looked at her with a forlorn expression.
"Tomorrow. At noon. I'll meet you at this very spot. All right? Tomorrow?""Come here, he said. He hunkered down, pulled her to him,and held her for a long, long time.
"* * *At first. Nana paced around thekolba, clenching andunclenching her fists.
Of all the daughters I could have had, why did God give mean ungrateful one like you? Everything I endured for you! Howdare you! How dare you abandon me like this, youtreacherous littleharamilThen she mocked.
What a stupid girl you are! You think you matter to him,that you're wanted in his house? You think you're a daughterto him? That he's going to take you in? Let me tell yousomething- A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing,Mariam. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed, it won'tstretch to make room for you. I'm the only one who lovesyou. I'm all you have in this world, Mariam, and when I'mgone you'll have nothing. You'll have nothing. Youare nothing!Then she tried guilt.
I'll die if you go.The jinn will come, and I'll have one of myfits. You'll see, I'll swallow my tongue and die. Don't leave me,Mariam jo. Please stay. I'll die if you go.Mariam said nothing.
You know I love you, Mariam jo.Mariam said she was going for a walk.
She feared she might say hurtful things if she stayed: that sheknewthe jinn was a lie, that Jalil had told her that what Nanahad was a disease with a name and that pills could make itbetter. She might have asked Nana why she refused to seeJalil's doctors, as he had insisted she do, why she wouldn'ttake the pills he'd bought for her. If she could articulate it, shemight have said to Nana that she was tired of being aninstrument, of being lied to, laid claim to, used. That she wassick of Nana twisting the truths of their life and making her,Mariam, another of her grievances against the world.
You 're afraid, Nana,she might have said.You 're afraid that 1might find the happiness you never had. And you don 'i wantme to be happy. You don't want a good life for me. You 'rethe one with the wretched heart* * *There was A lookout, on the edge of the clearing, whereMariam liked to go. She sat there now, on dry, warm grass.
Herat was visible from here, spread below her like a child'sboard game: the Women's Garden to the north of the city,Char-suq Bazaar and the ruins of Alexander the Great's oldcitadel to the south. She could make out the minarets in thedistance, like the dusty fingers of giants, and the streets thatshe imagined were milling with people, carts, mules. She sawswallows swooping and circling overhead. She was envious ofthese birds. They had been to Herat. They had flown over itsmosques, its bazaars. Maybe they had landed on the walls ofJalil's home, on the front steps of his cinema.
She picked up ten pebbles and arranged them vertically, inthree columns. This was a game that she played privately fromtime to time when Nana wasn't looking. She put four pebblesin the first column, for Khadija's children, three for Afsoon's,and three in the third column for Nargis's children. Then sheadded a fourth column. A solitary, eleventh pebble.
* * *The next morning, Mariam wore a cream-colored dress thatfell to her knees, cotton trousers, and a greenhijab over herhair. She agonized a bit over thehijab, its being green and notmatching the dress, but it would have to do-moths had eatenholes into her white one.
She checked the clock. It was an old hand-wound clock withblack numbers on a mint green face, a present from MullahFaizullah. It was nine o'clock. She wondered where Nana was.
She thought about going outside and looking for her, but shedreaded the confrontation, the aggrieved looks. Nana wouldaccuse her of betrayal. She would mock her for her mistakenambitions.
Mariam sat down. She tried to make time pass by drawing anelephant in one stroke, the way Jalil had shown her, over andover. She became stiff from all the sitting but wouldn't lie downfor fear that her dress would wrinkle.
When the hands finally showed eleven-thirty, Mariam pocketedthe eleven pebbles and went outside. On her way to thestream, she saw Nana sitting on a chair, in the shade, beneaththe domed roof of a weeping willow. Mariam couldn't tellwhether Nana saw her or not.
At the stream, Mariam waited by the spot they had agreed onthe day before. In the sky, a few gray, cauliflower-shapedclouds drifted by. Jalil had taught her that gray clouds got theircolor by being so dense that their top parts absorbed thesunlight and cast their own shadow along the base.That's whatyou see, Mariam jo, he had said,the dark in their underbelly.
Some time passed.
Mariam went back to thekolba This time, she walked aroundthe west-facing periphery of the clearing so she wouldn't haveto pass by Nana. She checked the clock. It was almost oneo'clock.
He's a businessman,Mariam thought.Something has come up.
She went back to the stream and waited awhile longer.
Blackbirds circled overhead, dipped into the grass somewhere.
She watched a caterpillar inching along the foot of an immaturethistle.
She waited until her legs were stiff. This time, she did not goback to thekolba She rolled up the legs of her trousers to theknees, crossed the stream, and, for the first time in her life,headed down the hill for Herat.
* * *Nana was "wrong about Herat too. No one pointed. No onelaughed. Mariam walked along noisy, crowded, cypress-linedboulevards, amid a steady stream of pedestrians, bicycle riders,and mule-drawngaris, and no one threw a rock at her. No onecalled her aharami. Hardly anyone even looked at her. Shewas, unexpectedly, marvelously, an ordinary person here.
For a while, Mariam stood by an oval-shaped pool in thecenter of a big park where pebble paths crisscrossed. Withwonder, she ran her fingers over the beautiful marble horsesthat stood along the edge of the pool and gazed down at thewater with opaque eyes. She spied on a cluster of boys whowere setting sail to paper ships. Mariam saw flowerseverywhere, tulips, lilies, petunias, their petals awash in sunlight.
People walked along the paths, sat on benches and sipped tea.
Mariam could hardly believe that she was here. Her heart wasbattering with excitement. She wished Mullah Faizullah could seeher now. How daring he would find her. How brave! She gaveherself over to the new life that awaited her in this city, a lifewith a father, with sisters and brothers, a life in which shewould love and be loved back, without reservation or agenda,without shame.
Sprightly, she walked back to the wide thoroughfare near thepark. She passed old vendors with leathery faces sitting underthe shade of plane trees, gazing at her impassively behindpyramids of cherries and mounds of grapes. Barefoot boysgave chase to cars and buses, waving bags of quinces. Mariamstood at a street corner and watched the passersby, unable tounderstand how they could be so indifferent to the marvelsaround them.
After a while, she worked up the nerve to ask the elderlyowner of a horse-drawngari if he knew where Jalil, thecinema's owner, lived. The old man had plump cheeks andwore a rainbow-stripedchapan. "You're not from Herat, areyou?" he said companionably. "Everyone knows where JalilKhan lives.""Can you point me?"He opened a foil-wrapped toffee and said, "Are you alone?""Yes.""Climb on. I'll take you.""I can't pay you. I don't have any money."He gave her the toffee. He said he hadn't had a ride in twohours and he was planning on going home anyway. Jalil'shouse was on the way.
Mariam climbed onto thegari. They rode in silence, side byside. On the way there, Mariam saw herb shops, andopen-fronted cubbyholes where shoppers bought oranges andpears, books, shawls, even falcons. Children played marbles incircles drawn in dust. Outside teahouses, on carpet-coveredwooden platforms, men drank tea and smoked tobacco fromhookahs.
The old man turned onto a wide, conifer-lined street. Hebrought his horse to a stop at the midway point.
There. Looks like you're in luck,dokhiarjo. That's his car.Mariam hopped down. He smiled and rode on.
* * *Mariam had never before touched a car. She ran her fingersalong the hood of Jalil's car, which was black, shiny, withglittering wheels in which Mariam saw a flattened, widenedversion of herself. The seats were made of white leather.
Behind the steering wheel, Mariam saw round glass panels withneedles behind them.
For a moment, Mariam heard Nana's voice in her head,mocking, dousing the deep-seated glow of her hopes. Withshaky legs, Mariam approached the front door of the house.
She put her hands on the walls. They were so tall, soforeboding, Jalil's walls. She had to crane her neck to seewhere the tops of cypress trees protruded over them from theother side. The treetops swayed in the breeze, and sheimagined they were nodding their welcome to her. Mariamsteadied herself against the waves of dismay passing throughher.
A barefoot young woman opened the door. She had a tattoounder her lower lip.
I'm here to see Jalil Khan. I'm Mariam. His daughter.A look of confusion crossed the girl's face. Then, a flash ofrecognition. There was a faint smile on her lips now, and anair of eagerness about her, of anticipation. "Wait here," the girlsaid quickly.
She closed the door.
A few minutes passed. Then a man opened the door. He wastall and square-shouldered, with sleepy-looking eyes and a calmface.
I'm Jalil Khan's chauffeur, he said, not unkindly.
His what?"His driver. Jalil Khan is not here."I see his car, Mariam said.
He's away on urgent business."When will he be back?"He didn't say.Mariam said she would wait-He closed the gates. Mariam sat,and drew her knees to her chest. It was early evening already,and she was getting hungry. She ate thegaridriver's toffee. Awhile later, the driver came out again.
You need to go home now, he said. "It'll be dark in lessthan an hour.""I'm used to the dark.""It'll get cold too. Why don't you let me drive you home? I'lltell him you were here."Mariam only looked at him.
I'll take you to a hotel, then. You can sleep comfortablythere. We'll see what we can do in the morning."Let me in the house."I've been instructed not to. Look, no one knows when he'scoming back. It could be days.Mariam crossed her arms.
The driver sighed and looked at her with gentle reproach.
Over the years, Mariam would have ample occasion to thinkabout how things might have turned out if she had let thedriver take her back to thekolba But she didn't. She spent thenight outside Jalil's house. She watched the sky darken, theshadows engulf the neighboring housefronts. The tattooed girlbrought her some bread and a plate of rice, which Mariamsaid she didn't want. The girl left it near Mariam. From time totime, Mariam heard footsteps down the street, doors swingingopen, muffled greetings. Electric lights came on, and windowsglowed dimly. Dogs barked. When she could no longer resistthe hunger, Mariam ate the plate of rice and the bread. Thenshe listened to the crickets chirping from gardens. Overhead,clouds slid past a pale moon.
In the morning, she was shaken awake. Mariam saw thatduring the night someone had covered her with a blanket.
It was the driver shaking her shoulder.
This is enough. You've made a scene.Bos. It's time to go.Mariam sat up and rubbed her eyes. Her back and neckwere sore. "I'm going to wait for him.""Look at me," he said. "Jalil Khan says that I need to takeyou back now. Right now. Do you understand? Jalil Khan saysso."He opened the rear passenger door to the car."Bia Come on,"he said softly.
I want to see him, Mariam said. Her eyes were tearing over.
The driver sighed. "Let me take you home. Comeon,dokhtarjo. "Mariam stood up and walked toward him. But then, at thelast moment, she changed direction and ran to the front gates.
She felt the driver's fingers fumbling for a grip at her shoulder.
She shed him and burst through the open gates.
In the handful of seconds that she was in Jalil's garden,Mariam's eyes registered seeing a gleaming glass structure withplants inside it, grape vines clinging to wooden trellises, afishpond built with gray blocks of stone, fruittrees, and bushes of brightly colored flowers everywhere. Hergaze skimmed over all of these things before they found a face,across the garden, in an upstairs window. The face was therefor only an instant, a flash, but long enough. Long enough forMariam to see the eyes widen, the mouth open. Then itsnapped away from view. A hand appeared and franticallypulled at a cord. The curtains fell shut.
Then a pair of hands buried into her armpits and she waslifted off the ground. Mariam kicked. The pebbles spilled fromher pocket. Mariam kept kicking and crying as she was carriedto the car and lowered onto the cold leather of the backseat.
* * *The driver talked in a muted, consoling tone as he drove.
Mariam did not hear him. All during the ride, as she bouncedin the backseat, she cried. They were tears of grief, of anger,of disillusionment. But mainly tears of a deep, deep shame athow foolishly she had given herself over to Jalil, how she hadfretted over what dress to wear, over the mismatchinghijab,walking all the way here, refusing to leave, sleeping on thestreet like a stray dog. Andshe was ashamed of how she had dismissed her mother'sstricken looks, her puffy eyes. Nana, who had warned her, whohad been right all along.
Mariam kept thinking of his face in the upstairs window. Helet her sleep on the street.On the street Mariam cried lyingdown. She didn't sit up, didn't want to be seen. She imaginedall of Herat knew this morning how she'd disgraced herself.
She wished Mullah Faizullah were here so she could put herhead on his lap and let him comfort her.
After a while, the road became bumpier and the nose of thecar pointed up. They were on the uphill road between Heratand Gul Daman.
What would she say to Nana, Mariam wondered. How wouldshe apologize? How could she even face Nana now?
The car stopped and the driver helped her out. "I'll walkyou," he said.
She let him guide her across the road and up the track.
There was honeysuckle growing along the path, and milkweedtoo. Bees were buzzing over twinkling wildflowers. The drivertook her hand and helped her cross the stream. Then he letgo, and he was talking about how Herat's famous one hundredand twenty days' winds would start blowing soon, frommidmorning to dusk, and how the sand flies would go on afeeding frenzy, and then suddenly he was standing in front ofher, trying to cover her eyes, pushing her back the way theyhad come and saying, "Go back! No. Don't look now. Turnaround! Go back!"But he wasn't fast enough. Mariam saw. A gust of wind blewand parted the drooping branches of the weeping willow like acurtain, and Mariam caught a glimpse of what was beneath thetree: the straight-backed chair, overturned. The rope droppingfrom a high branch. Nana dangling at the end of it.
1 hey buried Nana in a corner of the cemetery in GulDaman. Mariam stood beside Bibi jo, with the women, asMullah Faizullah recited prayers at the graveside and the menlowered Nana's shrouded body into the ground-Afterward, Jalilwalked Mariam to thekolba, where, in front of the villagers whoaccompanied them, he made a great show of tending toMariam. He collected a few of her things, put them in asuitcase. He sat beside her cot, where she lay down, andfanned her face. He stroked her forehead, and, with awoebegone expression on his face, asked if sheneededanything? anything? - he said it like that, twice.
I want Mullah Faizullah, Mariam said.
Of course. He's outside. I'll get him for you.It was when Mullah Faizullah's slight, stooping figure appearedin thekolba's doorway that Mariam cried for the first time thatday.
Oh, Mariam jo.He sat next to her and cupped her face in his hands. "Yougo on and cry, Mariam jo. Go on. There is no shame in it.
But remember, my girl, what the Koran says, 'Blessed is He inWhose hand is the kingdom, and He Who has power over allthings, Who created death and life that He may try you.' TheKoran speaks the truth, my girl.
Behind every trial and every sorrow that He makes usshoulder, God has a reason."But Mariam could not hear comfort in God's words. Not thatday. Not then. All she could hear was Nana saying,I'll die ifyou go. I'll just die. All she could do was cry and cry and lether tears fall on the spotted, paper-thin skin of MullahFaizullah's hands.
* * *On the ride to his house, Jalil sat in the backseat of his carwith Mariam, his arm draped over her shoulder.
You can stay with me, Mariam jo, he said. "I've asked themalready to clean a room for you. It's upstairs. You'll like it, Ithink. You'll have a view of the garden."For the first time, Mariam could hear him with Nana's ears.
She could hear so clearly now the insincerity that had alwayslurked beneath, the hollow, false assurances. She could notbring herself to look at him.
When the car stopped before Jalil's house, the driver openedthe door for them and carried Mariam's suitcase. Jalil guidedher, one palm cupped around each of her shoulders, throughthe same gates outside of which, two days before, Mariam hadslept on the sidewalk waiting for him. Two days before-whenMariam could think of nothing in the world she wanted morethan to walk in this garden with Jalil-felt like another lifetime.
How could her life have turned upside down so quickly,Mariam asked herself. She kept her gaze to the ground, onher feet, stepping on the gray stone path. She was aware ofthe presence of people in the garden, murmuring, steppingaside, as she and Jalil walked past. She sensed the weight ofeyes on her, looking down from the windows upstairs.
Inside the house too, Mariam kept her head down. Shewalked on a maroon carpet with a repeating blue-and-yellowoctagonal pattern, saw out of the corner of her eye the marblebases of statues, the lower halves of vases, the frayed ends ofrichly colored tapestries hanging from walls. The stairs she andJalil took were wide and covered with asimilar carpet, naileddown at the base of each step. At the top of the stairs, Jalilled her to the left, down another long, carpeted hallway. Hestopped by one of the doors, opened it, and let her in.
Your sisters Niloufar and Atieh play here sometimes, Jalilsaid, "but mostly we use this as a guest room. You'll becomfortable here, I think. It's nice, isn't it?"The room had a bed with a green-flowered blanket knit in atightly woven, honeycomb design. The curtains, pulled back toreveal the garden below, matched the blanket. Beside the bedwas a three-drawer chest with a flower vase on it. There wereshelves along the walls, with framed pictures of people Mariamdid not recognize. On one of the shelves, Mariam saw acollection of identical wooden dolls, arranged in a line in orderof decreasing size.
Jalil saw her looking."Matryoshka dolls. I got them in Moscow.
You can play with them, if you want. No one will mind."Mariam sat down on the bed.
Is there anything you want? Jalil said.
Mariam lay down. Closed her eyes. After a while, she heardhim softly shut the door.
* * *Except for "when she had to use the bathroom down thehall, Mariam stayed in the room. The girl with the tattoo, theone who had opened the gates to her, brought her meals ona tray: lamb kebab,sabzi, aush soup. Most of it went uneaten.
Jalil came by several times a day, sat on the bed beside her,asked her if she was all right.
You could eat downstairs with the rest of us, he said, butwithout much conviction. He understood a little too readilywhen Mariam said she preferred to eat alone.
From the window, Mariam watched impassively what she hadwondered about and longed to see for most of her life: thecomings and goings of Jalil's daily life. Servants rushed in andout of the front gates. A gardener was always trimming bushes,watering plants in the greenhouse. Cars with long, sleek hoodspulled up on the street. From them emerged men in suits,inchapcms and caracul hats, women inhijabs, children withneatly combed hair. And as Mariam watched Jalil shake thesestrangers' hands, as she saw him cross his palms on his chestand nod to their wives, she knew that Nana had spoken thetruth. She did not belong here.
But where do I belong? What am I going to do now?
I'm all you have in this world, Mariam, and when I'm goneyou'll have nothing. You'll have nothing. Youarenothing!
Like the wind through the willows around thekolba, gusts ofan inexpressible blackness kept passing through Mariam.
On Mariam's second full day at Jalil's house, a little girl cameinto the room.
I have to get something, she said.
Mariam sat up on the bed and crossed her legs, pulled theblanket on her lap.
The girl hurried across the room and opened the closet door.
She fetched a square-shaped gray box.
You know what this is? she said. She opened the box. "It'scalled a gramophone.Gramo. Phone. It plays records. You know,music. A gramophone.""You're Niloufar. You're eight."The little girl smiled. She had Jalil's smile and his dimpledchin. "How did you know?"Mariam shrugged. She didn't say to this girl that she'd oncenamed a pebble after her.
Do you want to hear a song?Mariam shrugged again.
Niloufar plugged in the gramophone. She fished a small recordfrom a pouch beneath the box's lid. She put it on, lowered theneedle. Music began to play.
1 will use a flower petal for paper, And write you the sweetestletter, You are the sultan of my heart, the sultan of my heart"Do you know it?""No.""It's from an Iranian film. I saw it at my father's cinema. Hey,do you want to see something?"Before Mariam could answer, Niloufar had put her palms andforehead to the ground She pushed with her soles and thenshe was standing upside down, on her head, in a three-pointstance.
Can you do that? she said thickly.
No.Niloufar dropped her legs and pulled her blouse back down.
I could teach you, she said, pushing hair from her flushedbrow. "So how long will you stay here?""I don't know.""My mother says you're not really my sister like you say youare.""I never said I was," Mariam lied.
She says you did. I don't care. What I mean is, I don't mindif you did say it, or if you are my sister. I don't mind.Mariam lay down. "I'm tired now.""My mother saysa jinn made your mother hang herself.""You can stop that now," Mariam said, turning to her side.
The music, I mean.Bibi jo came to see her that day too. It was raining by thetime she came. She lowered her large body onto the chairbeside the bed, grimacing.
This rain, Mariam jo, it's murder on my hips. Just murder, Itell you. I hope…Oh, now, come here, child. Come here to Bibijo. Don't cry. There, now. You poor thing.Ask You poor, poorthing.That night, Mariam couldn't sleep for a long time. She lay inbed looking at the sky, listening to the footsteps below, thevoices muffled by walls and the sheets of rain punishing thewindow. When she did doze off, she was startled awake byshouting. Voices downstairs, sharp and angry. Mariam couldn'tmake out the words. Someone slammed a door.
The next morning, Mullah Faizullah came to visit her. Whenshe saw her friend at the door, his white beard and hisamiable, toothless smile, Mariam felt tears stinging the cornersof her eyes again. She swung her feet over the side of the bedand hurried over. She kissed his hand as always and he herbrow. She pulled him up a chair-He showed her the Koran hehad brought with him and opened it. "I figured no sense inskipping our routine, eh?""You know I don't need lessons anymore, Mullah sahib. Youtaught me everysurrah andayat in the Koran years ago."He smiled, and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Iconfess, then. I've been found out. But I can think of worseexcuses to visit you.""You don't need excuses. Not you.""You're kind to say that, Mariam jo."He passed her his Koran. As he'd taught her, she kissed itthree times-touching it to her brow between each kiss-and gaveit back to him.
How are you, my girl?"I keep, Mariam began. She had to stop, feeling like a rockhad lodged itself in her throat. "I keep thinking of what shesaid to me before I left. She-""Nay, nay, nay."Mullah Faizullah put his hand on her knee.
"Your mother, may Allah forgive her, was a troubled andunhappy woman, Mariam jo. She did a terrible thing to herself. To herself, to you, and also to Allah. He will forgive her, forHe is all-forgiving, but Allah is saddened by what she did. Hedoes not approve of the taking of life, be it another's or one'sown, for He says that life is sacred You see- He pulled hischair closer, took Mariam's hand in both of his own. ""You see,I knew your mother before you were born, when she was alittle girl, and I tell you that she was unhappy then. The seedfor what she did was planted long ago, I'm afraid. What Imean to say is that this was not your fault. It wasn't yourfault, my girl.""""I shouldn't have left her. I should have-""""You stop that. These thoughts are no good, Mariam jo. Youhear me, child? No good. They will destroy you. It wasn't yourfault. It wasn't your fault. No.""Mariam nodded, but as desperately as she wanted to shecould not bring herself to believe him.
"* * *One apternoon, a week later, there was a knock on the door,and a tall woman walked in. She was fair-skinned, had reddishhair and long fingers.
I'm Afsoon, she said. "Niloufar's mother. Why don't youwash up, Mariam, and come downstairs?"Mariam said she would rather stay in her room.
"No,nafahmidi, you don't understand. Youmedio come down. We have to talk to you. It's important.
"