They sat across from her, Jalil and his wives, at a long, darkbrown table. Between them, in the center of the table, was acrystal vase of fresh marigolds and a sweating pitcher of water.
The red-haired woman who had introduced herself as Niloufar'smother, Afsoon, was sitting on Jalil's right. The other two,Khadija and Nargis, were on his left. The wives each had on aflimsy black scarf, which they wore not on their heads but tiedloosely around the neck like an afterthought. Mariam, whocould not imagine that they would wear black for Nana,pictured one of them suggesting it, or maybe Jalil, just beforeshe'd been summoned.
Afsoon poured water from the pitcher and put the glassbefore Mariam on a checkered cloth coaster. "Only spring andit's warm already," she said. She made a fanning motion withher hand.
Have you been comfortable? Nargis, who had a small chinand curly black hair, asked. "We hope you've been comfortable.
This… ordeal…must be very hard for you. So difficult."The other two nodded. Mariam took in their pluckedeyebrows, the thin, tolerant smiles they were giving her. Therewas an unpleasant hum in Mariam's head. Her throat burned.
She drank some of the water.
Through the wide window behind Jalil, Mariam could see arow of flowering apple trees. On the wall beside the windowstood a dark wooden cabinet. In it was a clock, and a framedphotograph of Jalil and three young boys holding a fish. Thesun caught the sparkle in the fish's scales. Jalil and the boyswere grinning.
Well, Afsoon began. "I-that is, we-have brought you herebecause we have some very good news to give you."Mariam looked up.
She caught a quick exchange of glances between the womenover Jalil, who slouched in his chair looking unseeingly at thepitcher on the table. It was Khadija, the oldest-looking of thethree, who turned her gaze to Mariam, and Mariam had theimpression that this duty too had been discussed, agreed upon,before they had called for her.
You have a suitor, Khadija said.
Mariam's stomach fell. "A what?" she said through suddenlynumb lips.
Akhasiegar. A suitor. His name is Rasheed, Khadija went on.
"He is a friend of a business acquaintance of your father's. He's a Pashtun, from Kandahar originally, but he lives in Kabul,in the Deh-Mazang district, in a two-story house that he owns.Afsoon was nodding. ""And he does speak Farsi, like us, likeyou. So you won't have to learn Pashto.""Mariam's chest was tightening. The room was reeling up anddown, the ground shifting beneath her feet.
"He's a shoemaker, Khadija was saying now. "But not somekind of ordinary street-sidemoochi, no, no. He has his ownshop, and he is one of the most sought-after shoemakers inKabul He makes them for diplomats, members of thepresidential family-that class of people. So you see, he will haveno trouble providing for you."Mariam fixed her eyes on Jalil, her heart somersaulting in herchest. "Is this true? What she's saying, is it true?"But Jalil wouldn't look at her. He went on chewing the cornerof his lower lip and staring at the pitcher.
Now heis a little older than you, Afsoon chimed in. "But hecan't be more than…forty. Forty-five at the most. Wouldn't yousay,Nargis?""Yes. But I've seen nine-year-old girls given to men twentyyears older than your suitor, Mariam. We all have. What areyou, fifteen? That's a good, solid marrying age for a girl."There was enthusiastic nodding at this. It did not escapeMariam that no mention was made of her half sisters Saidehor Naheed, both her own age, both students in the MehriSchool in Herat, both with plans to enroll in Kabul University.
Fifteen, evidently, was not a good, solid marrying age for them.
What's more, Nargis went on, "he too has had a great lossin his life. His wife, we hear, died during childbirth ten yearsago. And then, three years ago, his son drowned in a lake.""It's very sad, yes. He's been looking for a bride the last fewyears but hasn't found anyone suitable.""I don't want to," Mariam said. She looked at Jalil. "I don'twant this. Don't make me." She hated the sniffling, pleadingtone of her voice but could not help it.
Now, be reasonable, Mariam, one of the wives said.
Mariam was no longer keeping track of who was saying what.
She went on staring at Jalil, waiting for him to speak up, tosay that none of this was true.
You can't spend the rest of your life here."Don't you want a family of your own?"Yes. A home, children of your own?"You have to move on."True that it would be preferable that you marry a local, aTajik, but Rasheed is healthy, and interested in you. He has ahome and a job. That's all that really matters, isn't it? AndKabul is a beautiful and exciting city. You may not get anotheropportunity this good.Mariam turned her attention to the wives.
I'll live with Mullah Faizullah, she said. "He'll take me in. Iknow he will.""That's no good," Khadija said. "He's old and so…" Shesearched for the right word, and Mariam knew then that whatshe really wanted to say wasHef s so close. She understoodwhat they meant to do.You may not get another opportunitythis good And neither would they. They had been disgraced byher birth, and this was their chance to erase, once and for all,the last trace of their husband's scandalous mistake. She wasbeing sent away because she was the walking, breathingembodiment of their shame.
He's so old and weak, Khadija eventually said. "And whatwill you do when he's gone? You'd be a burden to his family."As you are now to us.Mariam almostsaw the unspoken wordsexit Khadija's mouth, like foggy breath on a cold day.
Mariam pictured herself in Kabul, a big, strange, crowded citythat, Jalil had once told her, was some six hundred and fiftykilometers to the east of Herat.Six hundred and fifty kilometers.
The farthest she'd ever been from thekolba was thetwo-kilometer walk she'd made to Jalil's house. She picturedherself living there, in Kabul, at the other end of thatunimaginable distance, living in a stranger's house where shewould have to concede to his moods and his issued demands.
She would have to clean after this man, Rasheed, cook forhim, wash his clothes. And there would be other chores aswell-Nana had told her what husbands did to their wives. Itwas the thought of these intimacies in particular, which sheimagined as painful acts of perversity, that filled her with dreadand made her break out in a sweat.
She turned to Jalil again. "Tell them. Tell them you won't letthem do this.""Actually, your father has already given Rasheed his answer,"Afsoon said. "Rasheed is here, in Herat; he has come all theway from Kabul. Thenikka will be tomorrow morning, and thenthere is a bus leaving for Kabul at noon.""Tell them!" Mariam criedThe women grew quiet now. Mariam sensed that they werewatching him too. Waiting. A silence fell over the room. Jalilkept twirling his wedding band, with a bruised, helpless look onhis face. From inside the cabinet, the clock ticked on and on.
Jalil jo? one of the women said at last.
Mil's eyes lifted slowly, met Mariam's, lingered for a moment,then dropped. He opened his mouth, but all that came forthwas a single, pained groan.
Say something, Mariam said.
Then Jalil did, in a thin, threadbare voice. "Goddamn it,Mariam, don't do this to me," he said as though he was theone to whom something was being done.
And, with that, Mariam felt the tension vanish from the room.
As JaliPs wives began a new-and more sprightly-round ofreassuring, Mariam looked down at the table. Her eyes tracedthe sleek shape of the table's legs, the sinuous curves of itscorners, the gleam of its reflective, dark brown surface. Shenoticed that every time she breathed out, the surface fogged,and she disappeared from her father's table.
Afsoon escorted her back to the room upstairs. When Afsoonclosed the door, Mariam heard the rattling of a key as itturned in the lock.
In the morning, Mariam was given a long-sleeved, dark greendress to wear over white cotton trousers. Afsoon gave her agreen hijab and a pair of matching sandals.
She was taken to the room with the long, brown table, exceptnow there was a bowl of sugar-coated almond candy in themiddle of the table, a Koran, a green veil, and a mirror. Twomen Mariam had never seen before- witnesses, shepresumed-and a mullah she did not recognize were alreadyseated at the table.
Jalil showed her to a chair. He was wearing a light brownsuit and a red tie. His hair was washed. When he pulled outthe chair for her, he tried to smile encouragingly. Khadija andAfsoon sat on Mariam's side of the table this time.
The mullah motioned toward the veil, and Nargis arranged iton Mariam's head before taking a seat. Mariam looked downat her hands.
You can call him in now, Jalil said to someone.
Mariam smelled him before she saw him. Cigarette smoke andthick, sweet cologne, not faint like Jalil's. The scent of it floodedMariam's nostrils. Through the veil, from the corner of her eye,Mariam saw a tall man, thick-bellied and broad-shouldered,stooping in the doorway. The size of him almost made hergasp, and she had to drop her gaze, her heart hammeringaway. She sensed him lingering in the doorway. Then his slow,heavy-footed movement across the room. The candy bowl onthe table clinked in tune with his steps. With a thick grunt, hedropped on a chair beside her. He breathed noisily.
The mullah welcomed them. He said this would not be atraditional nikka"I understand that Rasheedagha has tickets for the bus toKabul that leaves shortly. So, in the interest of time, we willbypass some of the traditional steps to speed up theproceedings."The mullah gave a few blessings, said a few words about theimportance of marriage. He asked Jalil if he had any objectionsto this union, and Jalil shook his head. Then the mullah askedRasheed if he indeed wished to enter into a marriage contractwith Mariam. Rasheed said, "Yes." His harsh, raspy voicereminded Mariam of the sound of dry autumn leaves crushedunderfoot.
And do you, Mariam jan, accept this man as your husband?Mariam stayed quiet. Throats were cleared.
She does, a female voice said from down the table.
Actually, the mullah said, "she herself has to answer. Andshe should wait until I ask three times. The point is, he'sseeking her, not the other way around."He asked the question two more times. When Mariam didn'tanswer, he asked it once more, this time moreforcefully- Mariam could feel Jalil beside her shifting on hisseat, could sense feet crossing and uncrossing beneath thetable. There was more throat clearing. A small, white handreached out and flicked a bit of dust off the table.
Mariam, Jalil whispered.
Yes, she said shakily.
A mirror was passed beneath the veil. In it, Mariam saw herown face first, the archless, unshapely eyebrows, the flat hair,the eyes, mirthless green and set so closely together that onemight mistake her for being cross-eyed. Her skin was coarseand had a dull, spotty appearance. She thought her brow toowide, the chin too narrow, the lips too thin. The overallimpression was of a long face, a triangular face, a bithoundlike. And yet Mariam saw that, oddly enough, the wholeof these unmemorable parts made for a face that was notpretty but, somehow, not unpleasant to look at either.
In the mirror, Mariam had her first glimpse of Rasheed: thebig, square, ruddy face; the hooked nose; the flushed cheeksthat gave the impression of sly cheerfulness; the watery,bloodshot eyes; the crowded teeth, the front two pushedtogether like a gabled roof; the impossibly low hairline, barelytwo finger widths above the bushy eyebrows; the wall of thick,coarse, salt-and-pepper hair.
Their gazes met briefly in the glass and slid away.
This is the face of my husband,Mariam thought.
They exchanged the thin gold bands that Rasheed fished fromhis coat pocket. His nails were yellow-brown, like the inside ofa rotting apple, and some of the tips were curling, lifting.
Mariam's hands shook when she tried to slip the band ontohis finger, and Rasheed had to help her. Her own band was alittle tight, but Rasheed had no trouble forcing it over herknuckles.
There, he said.
It's a pretty ring, one of the wives said. "It's lovely, Mariam.""All that remains now is the signing of the contract," themullah said.
Mariam signed her name-themeem, thereh, the 3^ andthemeem again-conscious of all the eyes on her hand. The nexttime Mariam signed her name to a document, twenty-sevenyears later, a mullah would again be present.
You are now husband and wife, the mullah said."Tabreek.
Congratulations."* * *Rasheed waited in the multicolored bus. Mariam could not seehim from where she stood with Jalil, by the rear bumper, onlythe smoke of his cigarette curling up from the open window.
Around them, hands shook and farewells were said. Koranswere kissed, passed under. Barefoot boys bounced betweentravelers, their faces invisible behind their trays of chewing gumand cigarettes.
Jalil was busy telling her that Kabul was so beautiful, theMoghul emperor Babur had asked that he be buried there.
Next, Mariam knew, he'd go on about Kabul's gardens, and itsshops, its trees, and its air, and, before long, she would be onthe bus and he would walk alongside it, waving cheerfully,unscathed, spared.
Mariam could not bring herself to allow it.
I used to worship you, she said.
Jalil stopped in midsentence. He crossed and uncrossed hisarms. A young Hindi couple, the wife cradling a boy, thehusband dragging a suitcase, passed between them. Jalilseemed grateful for the interruption. They excused themselves,and he smiled back politely.
On Thursdays, I sat for hours waiting for you. I worriedmyself sick that you wouldn't show up."It's a long trip. You should eat something. He said he couldbuy her some bread and goat cheese.
I thought about you all the time. I used to pray that you'dlive to be a hundred years old. I didn't know. I didn't knowthat you were ashamed of me.Jalil looked down, and, like an overgrown child, dug atsomething with the toe of his shoe.
You were ashamed of me."I'll visit you, he muttered "I'll come to Kabul and see you.
We'll-""No. No," she said. "Don't come. I won't see you. Don't youcome. I don't want to hear from you. Ever.Ever. "He gave her a wounded look.
It ends here for you and me. Say your good-byes."Don't leave like this, he said in a thin voice.
You didn't even have the decency to give me the time to saygood-bye to Mullah Faizullah.She turned and walked around to the side of the bus. Shecould hear him following her. When she reached the hydraulicdoors, she heard him behind her.
Mariamjo.She climbed the stairs, and though she could spot Jalil out ofthe corner of her eye walking parallel to her she did not lookout the window. She made her way down the aisle to theback, where Rasheed sat with her suitcase between his feet.
She did not turn to look when Jalil's palms pressed on theglass, when his knuckles rapped and rapped on it. When thebus jerked forward, she did not turn to see him trottingalongside it. And when the bus pulled away, she did not lookback to see him receding, to see him disappear in the cloud ofexhaust and dust.
Rasheed, who took up the window and middle seat, put histhick hand on hers.
There now, girl There. There, he said. He was squinting outthe window as he said this, as though something moreinteresting had caught his eye.
It was early evening the following day by the time theyarrived at Rasheed's house.
We're in Deh-Mazang, he said. They were outside, on thesidewalk. He had her suitcase in one hand and was unlockingthe wooden front gate with the other. "In the south and westpart of the city. The zoo is nearby, and the university too."Mariam nodded. Already she had learned that, though shecould understand him, she had to pay close attention when hespoke. She was unaccustomed to the Kabuli dialect of his Farsi,and to the underlying layer of Pashto accent, the language ofhis native Kandahar. He, on the other hand, seemed to haveno trouble understanding her Herati Farsi.
Mariam quickly surveyed the narrow, unpaved road alongwhich Rasheed's house was situated. The houses on this roadwere crowded together and shared common walls, with small,walled yards in front buffering them from the street. Most ofthe homes had flat roofs and were made of burned brick,some of mud the same dusty color as the mountains thatringed the city. Gutters separated the sidewalk from the roadon both sides and flowed with muddy water. Mariam saw smallmounds of flyblown garbage littering the street here and there.
Rasheed's house had two stories. Mariam could see that it hadonce been blue.
When Rasheed opened the front gate, Mariam found herselfin a small, unkempt yard where yellow grass struggled up inthin patches. Mariam saw an outhouse on the right, in a sideyard, and, on the left, a well with a hand pump, a row ofdying saplings. Near the well was a toolshed, and a bicycleleaning against the wall.
Your father told me you like to fish, Rasheed said as theywere crossing the yard to the house. There was no backyard,Mariam saw. "There are valleys north of here. Rivers with lotsoffish. Maybe I'll take you someday."He unlocked the front door and let her into the house.
Rasheed's house was much smaller than Jalil's, but, comparedto Mariam and Nana'skolba, it was a mansion. There was ahallway, a living room downstairs, and a kitchen in which heshowed her pots and pans and a pressure cooker and akeroseneLshiop. The living room had a pistachio green leathercouch. It had a rip down its side that had been clumsily sewntogether. The walls were bare. There was a table, two cane-seatchairs, two folding chairs, and, in the corner, a black, cast-ironstove.
Mariam stood in the middle of the living room, lookingaround. At thekolba, she could touch the ceiling with herfingertips. She could lie in her cot and tell the time of day bythe angle of sunlight pouring through the window. She knewhow far her door would open before its hinges creaked. Sheknew every splinter and crack in each of the thirty woodenfloorboards. Now all those familiar things were gone. Nana wasdead, and she was here, in a strange city, separated from thelife she'd known by valleys and chains of snow-cappedmountains and entire deserts. She was in a stranger's house,with all its different rooms and its smell of cigarette smoke,with its unfamiliar cupboards full of unfamiliar utensils, itsheavy, dark green curtains, and a ceiling she knew she couldnot reach. The space of it suffocated Mariam. Pangs of longingbore into her, for Nana, for Mullah Faizullah, for her old life.
Then she was crying.
What's this crying about? Rasheed said crossly. He reachedinto the pocket of his pants, uncurled Mariam's fingers, andpushed a handkerchief into her palm. He lit himself a cigaretteand leaned against the wall. He watched as Mariam pressedthe handkerchief to her eyes.
Done?Mariam nodded.
Sure?"Yes.He took her by the elbow then and led her to the living-roomwindow.
This window looks north, he said, tapping the glass with thecrooked nail of his index finger. "That's the Asmai mountaindirectly in front of us-see?-and, to the left, is the Ali Abadmountain. The university is at the foot of it. Behind us, east,you can't see from here, is the Shir Darwaza mountain. Everyday, at noon, they shoot a cannon from it. Stop your crying,now. I mean it."Mariam dabbed at her eyes.
That's one thing I can't stand, he said, scowling, "the soundof a woman crying. I'm sorry. I have no patience for it.""I want to go home," Mariam said.
Rasheed sighed irritably. A puff of his smoky breath hitMariam's face. "I won't take that personally. This time."Again, he took her by the elbow, and led her upstairs.
There was a narrow, dimly lit hallway there and twobedrooms. The door to the bigger one was ajar. Through itMariam could see that it, like the rest of the house, wassparsely furnished: bed in the corner, with a brown blanketand a pillow, a closet, a dresser. The walls were bare exceptfor a small mirror. Rasheed closed the door.
This is my room.He said she could take the guest room. "I hope you don'tmind. I'm accustomed to sleeping alone."Mariam didn't tell him how relieved she was, at least aboutthis.
The room that was to be Mariam's was much smaller thanthe room she'd stayed in at Jalil's house. It had a bed, an old,gray-brown dresser, a small closet. The window looked into theyard and, beyond that, the street below. Rasheed put hersuitcase in a corner.
Mariam sat on the bed.
You didn't notice, he said He was standing in the doorway,stooping a little to fit.
Look on the windowsill. You know what kind they are? I putthem there before leaving for Herat.Only now Mariam saw a basket on the sill. White tuberosesspilled from its sides.
You like them? They please you?"Yes."You can thank me then."Thank you. I'm sorry.Tashakor -"You're shaking. Maybe I scare you. Do I scare you? Are youfrightened of me?Mariam was not looking at him, but she could hear somethingslyly playful in these questions, like a needling. She quicklyshook her head in what she recognized as her first lie in theirmarriage.
No? That's good, then. Good for you. Well, this is your homenow. You're going to like it here. You'll see. Did I tell you wehave electricity? Most days and every night?He made as if to leave. At the door, he paused, took a longdrag, crinkled his eyes against the smoke. Mariam thought hewas going to say something. But he didn't. He closed the door,left her alone with her suitcase and her flowers.
The first few days, Mariam hardly left her room. She wasawakened every dawn for prayer by the distant cry ofazan,after which she crawled back into bed. She was still in bedwhen she heard Rasheed in the bathroom, washing up, whenhe came into her room to check on her before he went to hisshop. From her window, she watched him in the yard, securinghis lunch in the rear carrier pack of his bicycle, then walkinghis bicycle across the yard and into the street. She watchedhim pedal away, saw his broad, thick-shouldered figuredisappear around the turn at the end of the street.
For most of the days, Mariam stayed in bed, feeling adrift andforlorn. Sometimes she went downstairs to the kitchen, ran herhands over the sticky, grease-stained counter, the vinyl, floweredcurtains that smelled like burned meals. She looked through theill-fitting drawers, at the mismatched spoons and knives, thecolander and chipped, wooden spatulas, these would-beinstruments of her new daily life, all of it reminding her of thehavoc that had struck her life, making her feel uprooted,displaced, like an intruder on someone else's life.
At thekolba, her appetite had been predictable. Here, herstomach rarely growled for food. Sometimes she took a plate ofleftover white rice and a scrap of bread to the living room, bythe window. From there, she could see the roofs of theone-story houses on their street. She could see into their yardstoo, the women working laundry lines and shooing theirchildren, chickens pecking at dirt, the shovels and spades, thecows tethered to trees.
She thought longingly of all the summer nights that she andNana had slept on the flat roof of thekolba, looking at themoon glowing over Gul Daman, the night so hot their shirtswould cling to their chests like a wet leaf to a window. Shemissed the winter afternoons of reading in thekolba with MullahFaizullah, the clink of icicles falling on her roof from the trees,the crows cawing outside from snow-burdened branches.
Alone in the house, Mariam paced restlessly, from the kitchento the living room, up the steps to her room and down again.
She ended up back in her room, doing her prayers or sittingon the bed, missing her mother, feeling nauseated andhomesick.
It was with the sun's westward crawl that Mariam's anxietyreally ratcheted up. Her teeth rattled when she thought of thenight, the time when Rasheed might at last decide to do to herwhat husbands did to their wives. She lay in bed, wracked withnerves, as he ate alone downstairs.
He always stopped by her room and poked his head in.
You can't be sleeping already. It's only seven. Are youawake? Answer me. Come, now.He pressed on until, from the dark, Mariam said, "I'm here."He slid down and sat in her doorway. From her bed, shecould see his large-framed body, his long legs, the smokeswirling around his hook-nosed profile, the amber tip of hiscigarette brightening and dimming.
He told her about his day. A pair of loafers he hadcustom-made for the deputy foreign minister-who, Rasheed said,bought shoes only from him. An order for sandals from aPolish diplomat and his wife. He told her of the superstitionspeople had about shoes: that putting them on a bed inviteddeath into the family, that a quarrel would follow if one put onthe left shoe first.
Unless it was done unintentionally on a Friday, he said.
And did you know it's supposed to be a bad omen to tieshoes together and hang them from a nail?Rasheed himself believed none of this. In his opinion,superstitions were largely a female preoccupation.
He passed on to her things he had heard on the streets, likehow the American president Richard Nixon had resigned overa scandal.
Mariam, who had never heard of Nixon, or the scandal thathad forced him to resign, did not say anything back. Shewaited anxiously for Rasheed to finish talking, to crush hiscigarette, and take his leave. Only when she'd heard him crossthe hallway, heard his door open and close, only then wouldthe metal fist gripping her belly let go-Then one night hecrushed his cigarette and instead of saying good night leanedagainst the doorway.
Are you ever going to unpack that thing? he said, motioningwith his head toward her suitcase. He crossed his arms. "Ifigured you might need some time. But this is absurd. Aweek's gone and…Well, then, as of tomorrow morning I expectyou to start behaving like a wife.Fahmidi? Is that understood?"Mariam's teeth began to chatter.
I need an answer."Yes."Good, he said. "What did you think? That this is a hotel?
That I'm some kind of hotelkeeper? Well, it…Oh. Oh.
La illah u ilillah.What did I say about the crying? Mariam.
What did I say to you about the crying?"* * *The next morning, after Rasheed left for work, Mariamunpacked her clothes and put them in the dresser. She drew apail of water from the well and, with a rag, washed thewindows of her room and the windows to the living roomdownstairs- She swept the floors, beat the cobwebs fluttering inthe corners of the ceiling. She opened the windows to air thehouse.
She set three cups of lentils to soak in a pot, found a knifeand cut some carrots and a pair of potatoes, left them too tosoak. She searched for flour, found it in the back of one ofthe cabinets behind a row of dirty spice jars, and made freshdough, kneading it the way Nana had shown her, pushing thedough with the heel of her hand, folding the outer edge,turning it, and pushing it away again. Once she had flouredthe dough, she wrapped it in a moist cloth, put on ahijab, andset out for the communal tandoor.
Rasheed had told her where it was, down the street, a leftthen a quick right, but all Mariam had to do was follow theflock of women and children who were headed the same way.
The children Mariam saw, chasing after their mothers orrunning ahead of them, wore shirts patched and patched again.
They wore trousers that looked too bigor too small, sandals with ragged straps that flapped back andforth. They rolled discarded old bicycle tires with sticks.
Their mothers walked in groups of three or four, some inburqas, others not. Mariam could hear their high-pitchedchatter, their spiraling laughs. As she walked with her headdown, she caught bits of their banter, which seemingly alwayshad to do with sick children or lazy, ungrateful husbands.
As if the meals cook themselves.
Wallah o billah,never a moment's rest!
And he says to me, I swear it, it's true, he actually saystome…This endless conversation, the tone plaintive but oddly cheerful,flew around and around in a circle. On it went, down thestreet, around the corner, in line at the tandoor. Husbandswho gambled. Husbands who doted on their mothers andwouldn't spend a rupiah on them, the wives. Mariam wonderedhow so many women could suffer the same miserable luck, tohave married, all of them, such dreadful men. Or was this awifely game that she did not know about, a daily ritual, likesoaking rice or making dough? Would they expect her soon tojoin in?
In the tandoor line, Mariam caught sideways glances shot ather, heard whispers. Her hands began to sweat. She imaginedthey all knew that she'd been born aharami, a source ofshame to her father and his family. They all knew that she'dbetrayed her mother and disgraced herself.
With a corner of herhijab, she dabbed at the moisture aboveher upper lip and tried to gather her nerves. For a fewminutes, everything went well-Then someone tapped her on theshoulder. Mariam turned around and found a light-skinned,plump woman wearing ahijab, like her. She had short, wiryblack hair and a good-humored, almost perfectly round face.
Her lips were much fuller than Mariam's, the lower one slightlydroopy, as though dragged down by the big, dark mole justbelow the lip line. She had big greenish eyes that shone atMariam with an inviting glint.
You're Rasheed jan's new wife, aren't you? the woman said,smiling widely.
"The one from Herat. You're so young! Mariam jan, isn't it? My name is Fariba. I live on your street, five houses to yourleft, the one with the green door. This is my sonNoor.The boy at her side had a smooth, happy face and wiry hairlike his mother's. There was a patch of black hairs on the lobeof his left ear. His eyes had a mischievous, reckless light inthem. He raised his hand.""Salaam, Khala Jan.""""Noor is ten. I have an older boy too, Ahmad.""""He's thirteen,"" Noor said.
"Thirteen going on forty. The woman Fariba laughed. "Myhusband's name is Hakim," she said. "He's a teacher here inDeh-Mazang. You should come by sometime, we'll have a cup-"And then suddenly, as if emboldened, the other womenpushed past Fariba and swarmed Mariam, forming a circlearound her with alarming speed"So you're Rasheed jan's young bride-""How do you like Kabul?""I've been to Herat. I have a cousin there""Do you want a boy or a girl first?""The minarets! Oh, what beauty! What a gorgeous city!""Boy is better, Mariam jan, they carry the family name-""Bah! Boys get married and run off. Girls stay behind andtake care of you when you're old""We heard you were coming.""Have twins. One of each! Then everyone's happy."Mariam backed away. She was hyperventilating. Her earsbuzzed, her pulse fluttered, her eyes darted from one face toanother. She backed away again, but there was nowhere to goto-she was in the center of a circle. She spotted Fariba, whowas frowning, who saw that she was in distress.
Let her be! Fariba was saying. "Move aside, let her be!
You're frightening her!"Mariam clutched the dough close to her chest and pushedthrough the crowd around her.
"Where are you going,hamshira?” She pushed until somehow she was in the clear and then sheran up the street. It wasn't until she'd reached the intersectionthat she realized she'd run the wrong way. She turned aroundand ran back in the other direction, head down, tripping onceand scraping her knee badly, then up again and running,bolting past the women. What's the matter with you?""""You're bleeding,hamshiral""Mariam turned one corner, then the other. She found thecorrect street but suddenly could not remember which wasRasheed's house. She ran up then down the street, panting,near tears now, began trying doors blindly. Some were locked,others opened only to reveal unfamiliar yards, barking dogs,and startled chickens. She pictured Rasheed coming home tofind her still searching this way, her knee bleeding, lost on herown street. Now she did start crying. She pushed on doors,muttering panicked prayers, her face moist with tears, until oneopened, and she saw, with relief, the outhouse, the well, thetoolshed. She slammed the door behind her and turned thebolt. Then she was on all fours, next to the wall, retching.
"When she was done, she crawled away, sat against the wall,with her legs splayed before her. She had never in her life feltso alone.
* * *When Rasheed came home that night, he brought with him abrown paper bag. Mariam was disappointed that he did notnotice the clean windows, the swept floors, the missingcobwebs. But he did look pleased that she had already set hisdinner plate, on a cleansofrah spread on the living-room floor.
I madedaal Mariam said.
Good. I'm starving.She poured water for him from theafiawa to wash his handswith. As he dried with a towel, she put before him a steamingbowlof daal and a plate of fluffy white rice. This was the firstmeal she had cooked for him, and Mariam wished she hadbeen in a better state when she made it. She'd still beenshaken from the incident at the tandoor as she'd cooked, andall day she had fretted about thedaal'% consistency, its color,worried that he would think she'd stirred in too much gingeror not enough turmeric.
He dipped his spoon into the gold-coloreddaal.
Mariam swayed a bit. What if he was disappointed or angry?
What if he pushed his plate away in displeasure?
Careful, she managed to say. "It's hot."Rasheed pursed his lips and blew, then put the spoon into hismouth.
It's good, he said. "A little undersalted but good. Maybebetter than good, even."Relieved, Mariam looked on as he ate. A flare of pride caughther off guard. She had done well -maybe better than good,even- and it surprised her, this thrill she felt over his smallcompliment- The day's earlier unpleasantness receded a bit.
Tomorrow is Friday, Rasheed said. "What do you say Ishow you around?""Around Kabul?""No. Calcutta."Mariam blinked.
It's a joke. Of course Kabul. Where else? He reached intothe brown paper bag. "But first, something I have to tell you."He fished a sky blue burqa from the bag. The yards ofpleated cloth spilled over his knees when he lifted it. He rolledup the burqa, looked at Mariam.
I have customers, Mariam, men, who bring their wives to myshop. The women come uncovered, they talk to me directly,look me in the eye without shame. They wear makeup andskirts that show their knees. Sometimes they even put their feetin front of me, the women do, for measurements, and theirhusbands stand there and watch. They allow it. They thinknothing of a stranger touching their wives' bare feet! Theythink they're being modern men, intellectuals, on account oftheir education, I suppose. They don't see that they're spoilingtheir ownnang andnamoos, their honor and pride.He shook his head.
Mostly, they live in the richer parts of Kabul. I'll take youthere. You'll see. But they're here too, Mariam, in this veryneighborhood, these soft men. There's a teacher living downthe street, Hakim is his name, and I see his wife Fariba all thetime walking the streets alone with nothing on her head but ascarf. It embarrasses me, frankly, to see a man who's lostcontrol of his wife.He fixed Mariam with a hard glare.
"But I'm a different breed of man, Mariam. Where I comefrom, one wrong look, one improper word, and blood is spilled. Where I come from, a woman's face is her husband's businessonly. I want you to remember that. Do you understand?Mariam nodded. When he extended the bag to her, she tookit.
"The earlier pleasure over his approval of her cooking hadevaporated. In its stead, a sensation of shrinking. This man'swill felt to Mariam as imposing and immovable as the Safid-kohmountains looming over Gul Daman.
Rasheed passed the paper bag to her. "We have anunderstanding, then. Now, let me have some more of thatdaal."
Mariam had never before worn a burqa. Rasheed had to helpher put it on. The padded headpiece felt tight and heavy onher skull, and it was strange seeing the world through a meshscreen. She practiced walking around her room in it and keptstepping on the hem and stumbling. The loss of peripheralvision was unnerving, and she did not like the suffocating waythe pleated cloth kept pressing against her mouth.
You'll get used to it, Rasheed said. "With time, I bet you'lleven like it."They took a bus to a place Rasheed called the Shar-e-NauPark, where children pushed each other on swings and slappedvolleyballs over ragged nets tied to tree trunks. They strolledtogether and watched boys fly kites, Mariam walking besideRasheed, tripping now and then on the burqa's hem. Forlunch, Rasheed took her to eat in a small kebab house near amosque he called the Haji Yaghoub. The floor was sticky andthe air smoky. The walls smelled faintly of raw meat and themusic, which Rasheed described to her aslogari, was loud. Thecooks were thin boys who fanned skewers with one hand andswatted gnats with the other. Mariam, who had never beeninside a restaurant, found it odd at first to sit in a crowdedroom with so many strangers, to lift her burqa to put morselsof food into her mouth. A hint of the same anxiety as the dayat the tandoor stirred in her stomach, but Rasheed's presencewas of some comfort, and, after a while, she did not mind somuch the music, the smoke, even the people. And the burqa,she learned to her surprise, was also comforting. It was like aone-way window. Inside it, she was an observer, buffered fromthe scrutinizing eyes of strangers. She no longer worried thatpeople knew, with a single glance, all the shameful secrets ofher past.
On the streets, Rasheed named various buildings withauthority; this is the American Embassy, he said, that theForeign Ministry. He pointed to cars, said their names andwhere they were made: Soviet Volgas, American Chevrolets,German Opels.
Which is your favorite? he askedMariam hesitated, pointed to a Volga, and Rasheed laughedKabul was far more crowded than the little that Mariam hadseen of Herat. There were fewer trees and fewergaris pulled byhorses, but more cars, taller buildings, more traffic lights andmore paved roads. And everywhere Mariam heard the city'speculiar dialect: "Dear" wasjon insteadof jo, "sister"becamehamshira instead ofhamshireh, and so on.
From a street vendor, Rasheed bought her ice cream. It wasthe first time she'd eaten ice cream and Mariam had neverimagined that such tricks could be played on a palate. Shedevoured the entire bowl, the crushed-pistachio topping, the tinyrice noodles at the bottom. She marveled at the bewitchingtexture, the lapping sweetness of it.
They walked on to a place called Kocheh-Morgha, ChickenStreet. It was a narrow, crowded bazaar in a neighborhoodthat Rasheed said was one of Kabul's wealthier ones.
"Around here is where foreign diplomats live, richbusinessmen, members of the royal family-that sort of people. Not like you and me.""I don't see any chickens, Mariam said.
"That's the one thing you can't find on Chicken Street.Rasheed laughedThe street was lined with shops and little stalls that soldlambskin hats and rainbow-coloredchapans. Rasheed stopped tolook at an engraved silver dagger in one shop, and, in another,at an old rifle that the shopkeeper assured Rasheed was a relicfrom the first war against the British.
And I'm Moshe Dayan, Rasheed muttered. He half smiled,and it seemed to Mariam that this was a smile meant only forher. A private, married smile.
They strolled past carpet shops, handicraft shops, pastryshops, flower shops, and shops that sold suits for men anddresses for women, and, in them, behind lace curtains, Mariamsaw young girls sewing buttons and ironing collars. From timeto time, Rasheed greeted a shopkeeper he knew, sometimes inFarsi, other times in Pashto. As they shook hands and kissedon the cheek, Mariam stood a few feet away. Rasheed did notwave her over, did not introduce her.
He asked her to wait outside an embroidery shop. "I knowthe owner," he said. "I'll just go in for a minute, saymysalaam. "Mariam waited outside on the crowded sidewalk. She watchedthe cars crawling up Chicken Street, threading through thehorde of hawkers and pedestrians, honking at children anddonkeys who wouldn't move. She watched the bored-lookingmerchants inside their tiny stalls, smoking, or spitting into brassspittoons, their faces emerging from the shadows now and thento peddle textiles and fur-collaredpoosiincoats to passersby.
But it was the women who drew Mariam's eyes the most.
The women in this part of Kabul were a different breed fromthe women in the poorer neighborhoods-like the one where sheand Rasheed lived, where so many of the women covered fully.
These women were-what was the word Rasheed hadused?-"modern." Yes, modern Afghan women married tomodern Afghan men who did not mind that their wives walkedamong strangers with makeup on their faces and nothing ontheir heads. Mariam watched them cantering uninhibited downthe street, sometimes with a man, sometimes alone, sometimeswith rosy-cheeked children who wore shiny shoes and watcheswith leather bands, who walked bicycles with high-risehandlebars and gold-colored spokes-unlike the children inDeh-Mazang, who bore sand-fly scars on their cheeks androlled old bicycle tires with sticks.
These women were all swinging handbags and rustling skirts.
Mariam even spotted one smoking behind the wheel of a car.
Their nails were long, polished pink or orange, their lips red astulips. 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 of their perfume.
She imagined that they all had university degrees, that theyworked in office buildings, behind desks of their own, wherethey typed and smoked and made important telephone calls toimportant people. These women mystified Mariam. They madeher aware of her own lowliness, her plain looks, her lack ofaspirations, her ignorance of so many things.
Then Rasheed was tapping her on the shoulder and handingher something here.
It was a dark maroon silk shawl with beaded fringes andedges embroidered with gold thread"Do you like it?"Mariam looked up. Rasheed did a touching thing then. Heblinked and averted her gaze.
Mariam thought of Jalil, of the emphatic, jovial way in whichhe'd pushed his jewelry at her, the overpowering cheerfulnessthat left room for no response but meek gratitude. Nana hadbeen right about Mil's gifts. They had been halfhearted tokensof penance, insincere, corrupt gestures meant more for his ownappeasement than hers. This shawl, Mariam saw, was a truegift.
It's beautiful, she said.
* * *That night, Rasheed visited her room again. But instead ofsmoking in the doorway, he crossed the room and sat besideher where she lay on the bed. The springs creaked as the bedtilted to his side.
There was a moment of hesitation, and then his hand was onher neck, his thick fingers slowly pressing the knobs in theback of it. His thumb slid down, and now it was stroking thehollow above her collarbone, then the flesh beneath it. Mariambegan shivering. His hand crept lower still, lower, his fingernailscatching in the cotton of her blouse.
I can't, she croaked, looking at his moonlit profile, his thickshoulders and broad chest, the tufts of gray hair protrudingfrom his open collar.
His hand was on her right breast now, squeezing it hardthrough the blouse, and she could hear him breathing deeplythrough the nose.
He slid under the blanket beside her. She could feel his handworking at his belt, at the drawstring of her trousers. Her ownhands clenched the sheets in fistfuls. He rolled on top of her,wriggled and shifted, and she let out a whimper. Mariam closedher eyes, gritted her teeth.
The pain was sudden and astonishing. Her eyes sprang open.
She sucked air through her teeth and bit on the knuckle ofher thumb. She slung her free arm over Rasheed's back andher fingers dug at his shirt.
Rasheed buried his face into her pillow, and Mariam stared,wide-eyed, at the ceiling above his shoulder, shivering, lipspursed, feeling the heat of his quick breaths on her shoulder.
The air between them smelled of tobacco, of the onions andgrilled lamb they had eaten earlier. Now and then, his earrubbed against her cheek, and she knew from the scratchy feelthat he had shaved it.
When it was done, he rolled off her, panting. He dropped hisforearm over his brow. In the dark, she could see the bluehands of his watch. They lay that way for a while, on theirbacks, not looking at each other.
There is no shame in this, Mariam, he said, slurring a little.
It's what married people do. It's what the Prophet himself andhis wives did There is no shame.A few moments later, he pushed back the blanket and left theroom, leaving her with the impression of his head on herpillow, leaving her to wait out the pain down below, to look atthe frozen stars in the sky and a cloud that draped the face ofthe moon like a wedding veil.
Jtvamadan came in the fall that year, 1974. For the first timein her life, Mariam saw how the sighting of the new crescentmoon could transform an entire city, alter its rhythm andmood. She noticed a drowsy hush overtaking Kabul Trafficbecame languid, scant, even quiet. Shops emptied. Restaurantsturned off their lights, closed their doors. Mariam saw nosmokers on the streets, no cups of tea steaming from windowledges. And atifiar, when the sun dipped in the west and thecannon fired from the Shir Darwaza mountain, the city brokeits fast, and so did Mariam, with bread and a date, tasting forthe first time in her fifteen years the sweetness of sharing in acommunal experience.
Except for a handful of days, Rasheed didn't observe the fast.
The few times he did, he came home in a sour mood. Hungermade him curt, irritable, impatient. One night, Mariam was afew minutes late with dinner, and he started eating bread withradishes. Even after Mariam put the rice and the lamb andokraqurma in front of him, he wouldn't touch it. He saidnothing, and went on chewing the bread, his temples working,the vein on his forehead, full and angry. He went on chewingand staring ahead, and when Mariam spoke to him he lookedat her without seeing her face and put another piece of breadinto his mouth.
Mariam was relieved when Ramadan ended.
Back at thekolba, on the first of three days of Eid-ul-Fitrcelebration that followed Ramadan, Jalil would visit Mariam andNana. Dressed in suit and tie, he would come bearing Eidpresents. One year, he gave Mariam a wool scarf. The three ofthem would sit for tea and then Jalil would excuse himself "Offto celebrate Eid with his real family," Nana would say as hecrossed the stream and waved-Mullah Faizullah would cometoo. He would bring Mariam chocolate candy wrapped in foil, abasketful of dyed boiled eggs, cookies. After he was gone,Mariam would climb one of the willows with her treats. Perchedon a high branch, she would eat Mullah Faizullah's chocolatesand drop the foil wrappers until they lay scattered about thetrunk of the tree like silver blossoms. When the chocolate wasgone, she would start in on the cookies, and, with a pencil, shewould draw faces on the eggs he had brought her now. Butthere was little pleasure in this for her. Mariam dreaded Eid,this time of hospitality and ceremony, when families dressed intheir best and visited each other. She would imagine the air inHerat crackling with merriness, and high-spirited, bright-eyedpeople showering each other with endearments and goodwill. Aforlornness would descend on her like a shroud then andwould lift only when Eid had passed.
This year, for the first time, Mariam saw with her eyes theEid of her childhood imaginings.
Rasheed and she took to the streets. Mariam had neverwalked amid such liveliness. Undaunted by the chilly weather,families had flooded the city on their frenetic rounds to visitrelatives. On their own street, Mariam saw Fariba and her sonNoor, who was dressed in a suit. Fariba, wearing a white scarf,walked beside a small-boned, shy-looking man with eyeglasses.
Her older son was there too-Mariam somehow rememberedFariba saying his name, Ahmad, at the tandoor that first time.
He had deep-set, brooding eyes, and his face was morethoughtful, more solemn, than his younger brother's, a face assuggestive of early maturity as his brother's was of lingeringboyishness. Around Ahmad's neck was a glittering allahpendant.
Fariba must have recognized her, walking in burqa besideRasheed. She waved, and called out,"Eidmubarak!"From inside the burqa, Mariam gave her a ghost of a nod.
So you know that woman, the teacher's wife? Rasheed saidMariam said she didn't.
Best you stay away. She's a nosy gossiper, that one. And thehusband fancies himself some kind of educated intellectual Buthe's a mouse. Look at him. Doesn't he look like a mouse?They went to Shar-e-Nau, where kids romped about in newshirts and beaded, brightly colored vests and compared Eidgifts. Women brandished platters of sweets. Mariam saw festivelanterns hanging from shopwindows, heard music blaring fromloudspeakers. Strangers called out"Eidmubarak" to her as theypassed.
That night they went toChaman, and, standing behindRasheed, Mariam watched fireworks light up the sky, in flashesof green, pink, and yellow. She missed sitting with MullahFaizullah outside thekolba, watching the fireworks explode overHerat in the distance, the sudden bursts of color reflected inher tutor's soft, cataract-riddled eyes. But, mostly, she missedNana. Mariam wished her mother were alive to see this. Toseeher, amid all of it. To see at last that contentment andbeauty were not unattainable things. Even for the likes of them.
* * *They had Eid visitors at the house. They were all men, friendsof Rasheed's. When a knock came, Mariam knew to goupstairs to her room and close the door. She stayed there, asthe men sipped tea downstairs with Rasheed, smoked, chatted.
Rasheed had told Mariam that she was not to come downuntil the visitors had leftMariam didn't mind. In truth, she was even flattered. Rasheedsaw sanctity in what they had together. Her honor, hernamoos,was something worth guarding to him. She felt prized by hisprotectiveness. Treasured and significant.
On the third and last day of Eid, Rasheed went to visit somefriends. Mariam, who'd had a queasy stomach all night, boiledsome water and made herself a cup of green tea sprinkledwith crushed cardamom. In the living room, she took in theaftermath of the previous night's Eid visits: the overturnedcups, the half-chewed pumpkin seeds stashed betweenmattresses, the plates crusted with the outline of last night'smeal. Mariam set about cleaning up the mess, marveling athow energetically lazy men could be.
She didn't mean to go into Rasheed's room. But the cleaningtook her from the living room to the stairs, and then to thehallway upstairs and to his door, and, the next thing she knew,she was in his room for the first time, sitting on his bed,feeling like a trespasser.
She took in the heavy, green drapes, the pairs of polishedshoes lined up neatly along the wall, the closet door, where thegray paint had chipped and showed the wood beneath. Shespotted a pack of cigarettes atop the dresser beside his bed.
She put one between her lips and stood before the small ovalmirror on the wall. She puffed air into the mirror and madeash-tapping motions. She put it back. She could never managethe seamless grace with which Kabuli women smoked. On her,it looked coarse, ridiculous.
Guiltily, she slid open the top drawer of his dresser.
She saw the gun first. It was black, with a wooden grip anda short muzzle. Mariam made sure to memorize which way itwas facing before she picked it up. She turned it over in herhands. It was much heavier than it looked. The grip feltsmooth in her hand, and the muzzle was cold. It wasdisquieting to her that Rasheed owned something whose solepurpose was to kill another person. But surely he kept it fortheir safety. Her safety.
Beneath the gun were several magazines with curling corners.
Mariam opened one. Something inside her dropped. Her mouthgaped of its own will.
On every page were women, beautiful women, who wore noshirts, no trousers, no socks or underpants. They wore nothingat all. They lay in beds amid tumbled sheets and gazed backat Mariam with half-lidded eyes. In most of the pictures, theirlegs were apart, and Mariam had a full view of the dark placebetween. In some, the women were prostrated as if-God forbidthis thought-insujda for prayer. They looked back over theirshoulders with a look of bored contempt.
Mariam quickly put the magazine back where she'd found it.
She felt drugged. Who were these women? How could theyallow themselves to be photographed this way? Her stomachrevolted with distaste. Was this what he did then, those nightsthat he did not visit her room? Had she been adisappointment to him in this particular regard? And whatabout all his talk of honor and propriety, his disapproval of thefemale customers, who, after all, were only showing him theirfeet to get fitted for shoes?A woman's face, he'd said,is herhusband's business only. Surely the women on these pages hadhusbands, some of them must. At the least, they had brothers.
If so, why did Rasheed insist thatshe cover when he thoughtnothing of looking at the private areas of other men's wivesand sisters?
Mariam sat on his bed, embarrassed and confused Shecupped her face with her hands and closed her eyes. Shebreathed and breathed until she felt calmer.
Slowly, an explanation presented itself He was a man, after all,living alone for years before she had moved in. His needsdiffered from hers. For her, all these months later, theircoupling was still an exercise in tolerating pain. His appetite, onthe other hand, was fierce, sometimes bordering on the violent.
The way he pinned her down, his hard squeezes at herbreasts, how furiously his hips worked. He was a man. Allthose years without a woman. Could she fault him for beingthe way God had created him?
Mariam knew that she could never talk to him about this. Itwas unmentionable. But was it unforgivable? She only had tothink of the other man in her life. Jalil, a husband of threeand father of nine at the time, having relations with Nana outof wedlock. Which was worse, Rasheed's magazine or what Jalilhad done? And what entitled her anyway, a villager, aharami,to pass judgment?
Mariam tried the bottom drawer of the dresser.
It was there that she found a picture of the boy, Yunus. Itwas black-and-white. He looked four, maybe five. He waswearing a striped shirt and a bow tie. He was a handsomelittle boy, with a slender nose, brown hair, and dark, slightlysunken eyes. He looked distracted, as though something hadcaught his eye just as the camera had flashed.
Beneath that, Mariam found another photo, alsoblack-and-white, this one slightly more grainy. It was of aseated woman and, behind her, a thinner, younger Rasheed,with black hair. The woman was beautiful. Not as beautiful asthe women in the magazine, perhaps, but beautiful. Certainlymore beautiful than her, Mariam. She had a delicate chin andlong, black hair parted in the center. High cheekbones and agentle forehead. Mariam pictured her own face, her thin lipsand long chin, and felt a flicker of jealousy.
She looked at this photo for a long time. There wassomething vaguely unsettling about the way Rasheed seemed toloom over the woman. His hands on her shoulders. Hissavoring, tight-lipped smile and her unsmiling, sullen face. Theway her body tilted forward subtly, as though she were tryingto wriggle free of his hands.
Mariam put everything back where she'd found it.
Later, as she was doing laundry, she regretted that she hadsneaked around in his room. For what? What thing ofsubstance had she learned about him? That he owned a gun,that he was a man with the needs of a man? And sheshouldn't have stared at the photo of him and his wife for aslong as she had. Her eyes had read meaning into what wasrandom body posture captured in a single moment of time.
What Mariam felt now, as the loaded clotheslines bouncedheavily before her, was sorrow for Rasheed. He too had had ahard life, a life marked by loss and sad turns of fate. Herthoughts returned to his boy Yunus, who had once builtsnowmen in this yard, whose feet had pounded these samestairs. The lake had snatched him from Rasheed, swallowed himup, just as a whale had swallowed the boy's namesake prophetin the Koran. It pained Mariam-it pained her considerably-topicture Rasheed panic-stricken and helpless, pacing the banks ofthe lake and pleading with it to spit his son back onto dryland. And she felt for the first time a kinship with herhusband. She told herself that they would make goodcompanions after all.