On the bus ride home from the doctor, the strangest thingwas happening to Mariam. Everywhere she looked, she sawbright colors: on the drab, gray concrete apartments, on thetin-roofed, open-fronted stores, in the muddy water flowing inthe gutters. It was as though a rainbow had melted into hereyes.
Rasheed was drumming his gloved fingers and humming asong. Every time the bus bucked over a pothole and jerkedforward, his hand shot protectively over her belly.
What about Zalmai? he said. "It's a good Pashtun name.""What if it's a girl?" Mariam said.
I think it's a boy. Yes. A boy.A murmur was passing through the bus. Some passengerswere pointing at something and other passengers were leaningacross seats to see.
Look, said Rasheed, tapping a knuckle on the glass. He wassmiling. "There. See?"On the streets, Mariam saw people stopping in their tracks. Attraffic lights, faces emerged from the windows of cars, turnedupward toward the falling softness. What was it about aseason's first snowfall, Mariam wondered, that was soentrancing? Was it the chance to see something as yetunsoiled, untrodden? To catch the fleeting grace of a newseason, a lovely beginning, before it was trampled andcorrupted?
If it's a girl, Rasheed said, "and it isn't, but, if itis a girl,then you can choose whatever name you want."* * *Mahiam awoke the next morning to the sound of sawing andhammering- She wrapped a shawl around her and went outinto the snowblown yard. The heavy snowfall of the previousnight had stopped. Now only a scattering of light, swirling flakestickled her cheeks. The air was windless and smelled likeburning coal. Kabul was eerily silent, quilted in white, tendrils ofsmoke snaking up here and there.
She found Rasheed in the toolshed, pounding nails into aplank of wood. When he saw her, he removed a nail from thecorner of his mouth.
It was going to be a surprise. He'll need a crib. You weren'tsupposed to see until it was done.Mariam wished he wouldn't do that, hitch his hopes to itsbeing a boy. As happy as she was about this pregnancy, hisexpectation weighed on her. Yesterday, Rasheed had gone outand come home with a suede winter coat for a boy, linedinside with soft sheepskin, the sleeves embroidered with fine redand yellow silk thread.
Rasheed lifted a long, narrow board. As he began to saw it inhalf, he said the stairs worried him. "Something will have to bedone about them later, when he's old enough to climb." Thestove worried him too, he said. The knives and forks wouldhave to be stowed somewhere out of reach. "You can't be toocareful Boys are reckless creatures."Mariam pulled the shawl around her against the chill.
* * *The next morning, Rasheed said he wanted to invite hisfriends for dinner to celebrate. All morning, Mariam cleanedlentils and moistened rice. She sliced eggplants forborani, andcooked leeks and ground beef foraushak. She swept the floor,beat the curtains, aired the house, despite the snow that hadstarted up again. She arranged mattresses and cushions alongthe walls of the living room, placed bowls of candy and roastedalmonds on the table.
She was in her room by early evening before the first of themen arrived. She lay in bed as the hoots and laughter andbantering voices downstairs began to mushroom. She couldn'tkeep her hands from drifting to her belly. She thought of whatwas growing there, and happiness rushed in like a gust ofwind blowing a door wide open. Her eyes watered.
Mariam thought of her six-hundred-and-fifty-kilometer bus tripwith Rasheed, from Herat in the west, near the border withIran, to Kabul in the east. They had passed small towns andbig towns, and knots of little villages that kept springing up oneafter another. They had gone over mountains and acrossraw-burned deserts, from one province to the next. And hereshe was now, over those boulders and parched hills, with ahome of her own, a husband of her own, heading toward onefinal, cherished province: Motherhood. How delectable it was tothink ofthis baby,her baby,their baby. How glorious it was to knowthat her love for it already dwarfed anything she had ever feltas a human being, to know that there was no need anylonger for pebble games.
Downstairs, someone was tuning a harmonium. Then theclanging of a hammer tuning a tabla. Someone cleared histhroat. And then there was whistling and clapping and yippingand singing.
Mariam stroked the softness of her belly.No bigger thanafingernail, the doctor had said.
I'm going to be a mother,she thought.
I'm going to be a mother, she said. Then she was laughingto herself, and saying it over and over, relishing the words.
When Mariam thought of this baby, her heart swelled insideof her. It swelled and swelled until all the loss, all the grief, allthe loneliness and self-abasement of her life washed away. Thiswas why God had brought her here, all the way across thecountry. She knew this now. She remembered a verse fromthe Koran that Mullah Faizullah had taught her:And Allah isthe East and the West, therefore wherever you turn there isAllah's purpose … She laid down her prayer rug anddidnamaz. When she was done, she cupped her hands beforeher face and asked God not to let all this good fortune slipaway from her.
* * *It was Rasheed'S idea to go to thehamam. Mariam had neverbeen to a bathhouse, but he said there was nothing finer thanstepping out and taking that first breath of cold air, to feel theheat rising from the skin.
In the women'shamam, shapes moved about in the steamaround Mariam, a glimpse of a hip here, the contour of ashoulder there. The squeals of young girls, the grunts of oldwomen, and the trickling of bathwater echoed between thewalls as backs were scrubbed and hair soaped. Mariam sat inthe far corner by herself, working on her heels with a pumicestone, insulated by a wall of steam from the passing shapes.
Then there was blood and she was screaming.
The sound of feet now, slapping against the wet cobblestones.
Faces peering at her through the steam. Tongues clucking.
Later that night, in bed, Fariba told her husband that whenshe'd heard the cry and rushed over she'd found Rasheed'swife shriveled into a corner, hugging her knees, a pool of bloodat her feet.
You could hear the poor girl's teeth rattling, Hakim, she wasshivering so hard.When Mariam had seen her, Fariba said, she had asked in ahigh, supplicating voice,It's normal, isn't it? Isn't it? Isn 'i itnormal?
* * *Another bus ride with Rasheed. Snowing again. Falling thickthis time. It was piling in heaps on sidewalks, on roofs,gathering in patches on the bark of straggly trees. Mariamwatched the merchants plowing snow from their storefronts- Agroup of boys was chasing a black dog. They waved sportivelyat the bus. Mariam looked over to Rasheed. His eyes wereclosed He wasn't humming. Mariam reclined her head andclosed her eyes too. She wanted out of her cold socks, out ofthe damp wool sweater that was prickly against her skin. Shewanted away from this bus.
At the house, Rasheed covered her with a quilt when she layon the couch, but there was a stiff, perfunctory air about thisgesture.
What kind of answer is that? he said again. "That's what amullah is supposed to say. You pay a doctor his fee, you wanta better answer than 'God's will.'"Mariam curled up her knees beneath the quilt and said heought to get some rest.
God's will, he simmered.
He sat in his room smoking cigarettes all day.
Mariam lay on the couch, hands tucked between her knees,watched the whirlpool of snow twisting and spinning outside thewindow. She remembered Nana saying once that eachsnowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved womansomewhere in the world. That all the sighs drifted up the sky,gathered into clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silentlyon the people below.
As a reminder of how women like us suffer,she'd said.Howquietly we endure all that falls upon us.
The grief kept surprising Mariam. All it took to unleash it washer thinking of the unfinished crib in the toolshed or the suedecoat in Rasheed's closet. The baby came to life then and shecould hear it, could hear its hungry grunts, its gurgles andjabbering- She felt it sniffing at her breasts. The grief washedover her, swept her up, tossed her upside down. Mariam wasdumbfounded that she could miss in such a crippling manner abeing she had never even seen.
Then there were days when the dreariness didn't seem quiteas unrelenting to Mariam. Days when the mere thought ofresuming the old patterns of her life did not seem soexhausting, when it did not take enormous efforts of will to getout of bed, to do her prayers, to do the wash, to make mealsfor Rasheed.
Mariam dreaded going outside. She was envious, suddenly, ofthe neighborhood women and their wealth of children. Somehad seven or eight and didn't understand how fortunate theywere, how blessed that their children had flourished in theirwombs, lived to squirm in their arms and take the milk fromtheir breasts. Children that they had not bled away with soapywater and the bodily filth of strangers down some bathhousedrain. Mariam resented them when she overheard themcomplaining about misbehaving sons and lazy daughters.
A voice inside her head tried to soothe her with well-intendedbut misguided consolation.
You 'll have others,Inshallah.You 're young. Surely you‘ll havemany other chances.
But Mariam's grief wasn't aimless or unspecific. Mariamgrieved forthis baby, this particular child, who had made her sohappy for a while-Some days, she believed that the baby hadbeen an undeserved blessing, that she was being punished forwhat she had done to Nana. Wasn't it true that she might aswell have slipped that noose around her mother's neck herself?
Treacherous daughters did not deserve to be mothers, and thiswas just punishment- She had fitful dreams, ofNma'sjinnsneaking into her room at night, burrowing its claws into herwomb, and stealing her baby. In these dreams, Nana cackledwith delight and vindication.
Other days, Mariam was besieged with anger. It wasRasheed's fault for his premature celebration. For his foolhardyfaith that she was carrying a boy. Naming the baby as he had.
Taking God's will for granted. His fault, for making her go tothe bathhouse. Something there, the steam, the dirty water, thesoap, something there had caused this to happen. No. NotRasheed.She was to blame. She became furious with herself forsleeping in the wrong position, for eating meals that were toospicy, for not eating enough fruit, for drinking too much tea.
It was God's fault, for taunting her as He had. For notgranting her what He had granted so many other women. Fordangling before her, tantalizingly, what He knew would give herthe greatest happiness, then pulling it away.
But it did no good, all this fault laying, all these harangues ofaccusations bouncing in her head. It waskojr, sacrilege, to thinkthese thoughts. Allah was not spiteful. He was not a petty God.
Mullah Faizullah's words whispered in her head:
Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom, and He Whohas power over all things, Who created death and life that Hemay try you.
Ransacked with guilt, Mariam would kneel and pray forforgiveness for these thoughts.
* * *Meanwhile, a change had come over Rasheed ever since theday at the bathhouse. Most nights when he came home, hehardly talked anymore. He ate, smoked, went to bed,sometimes came back in the middle of the night for a briefand, of late, quite rough session of coupling. He was more aptto sulk these days, to fault her cooking, to complain aboutclutter around the yard or point out even minor uncleanlinessin the house. Occasionally, he took her around town onFridays, like he used to, but on the sidewalks he walkedquickly and always a few steps ahead of her, without speaking,unmindful of Mariam who almost had to run to keep up withhim. He wasn't so ready with a laugh on these outingsanymore. He didn't buy her sweets or gifts, didn't stop andname places to her as he used to. Her questions seemed toirritate him.
One night, they were sitting in the living room listening to theradio. Winter was passing. The stiff winds that plastered snowonto the face and made the eyes water had calmed. Silveryfluffs of snow were melting off the branches of tall elms andwould be replaced in a few weeks with stubby, pale greenbuds. Rasheed was shaking his foot absently to the tabla beatof a Hamahang song, his eyes crinkled against cigarette smoke.
Are you angry with me? Mariam asked.
Rasheed said nothing. The song ended and the news cameon. A woman's voice reported that President Daoud Khan hadsent yet another group of Soviet consultants back to Moscow,to the expected displeasure of the Kremlin.
I worry that you are angry with me.Rasheed sighed"Are you?"His eyes shifted to her. "Why would I be angry?""I don't know, but ever since the baby-""Is that the kind of man you take me for, after everythingI've done for you?""No. Of course not.""Then stop pestering me!""I'm sorry.Bebakhsh, Rasheed. I'm sorry."He crushed out his cigarette and lit another. He turned upthe volume on the radio.
I've been thinking, though, Mariam said, raisingher voice soas to be heard over the music.
Rasheedsighed again, more irritably this time, turned down thevolume once more. He rubbed hisforehead wearily. "Whatnow?""I've been thinking, that maybe we should have a properburial For the baby, I mean. Just us, a few prayers,nothing more."Mariam had been thinking about it for a while. She didn'twant to forget this baby. It didn't seem right, not to mark thisloss in some way that was permanent.
What for? It's idiotic."It would make me feel better, I think."Thm youdo it, he said sharply. "I've already buried one son.
I won't bury another.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm trying to listen."He turned up the volume again, leaned his head back andclosed his eyes.
One sunny morning that week, Mariam picked a spot in theyard and dug a hole.
In the name of Allah and with Allah, and in the name of themessenger of Allah upon whom be the blessings and peace ofAllah, she said under her breath as her shovel bit into theground. She placed the suede coat that Rasheed had boughtfor the baby in the hole and shoveled dirt over it.
You make the night to pass into the day and You make theday to pass into the night, and You bring forth the living fromthe dead and You bring forth the dead from the living, andYou give sustenance to whom You please without measure.She patted the dirt with the back of the shovel.She squattedby the mound, closed her eyes.
Give sustenance, Allah.
Give sustenance to me.
April1978On April 17,1978, the year Mariam turned nineteen, a mannamed Mir Akbar Khyber was found murdered Two days later,there was a large demonstration in Kabul. Everyone in theneighborhood was in the streets talking about it. Through thewindow, Mariam saw neighbors milling about, chatting excitedly,transistor radios pressed to their ears. She saw Fariba leaningagainst the wall of her house, talking with a woman who wasnew to Deh-Mazang. Fariba was smiling, and her palms werepressed against the swell of her pregnant belly. The otherwoman, whose name escaped Mariam, looked older thanFariba, and her hair had an odd purple tint to it. She washolding a little boy's hand. Mariam knew the boy's name wasTariq, because she had heard this woman on the street callafter him by that name.
Mariam and Rasheed didn't join the neighbors. They listenedin on the radio as some ten thousand people poured into thestreets and marched up and down Kabul's government district.
Rasheed said that Mir Akbar Khyber had been a prominentcommunist, and that his supporters were blaming the murderon President Daoud Khan's government. He didn't look at herwhen he said this. These days, he never did anymore, andMariam wasn't ever sure if she was being spoken to.
What's a communist? she asked.
Rasheed snorted, and raised both eyebrows. "You don't knowwhat a communist is? Such a simple thing.
Everyone knows. It's common knowledge. You don't…Bah. Idon't know why I'm surprised." Then he crossed his ankles onthe table and mumbled that it was someone who believed inKarl Marxist.
Who's Karl Marxist?Rasheed sighed.
On the radio, a woman's voice was saying that Taraki, theleader of the Khalq branch of the PDPA, the Afghancommunist party, was in the streets giving rousing speeches todemonstrators.
What I meant was, what do they want? Mariam asked.
These communists, what is it that they believe?Rasheed chortled and shook his head, but Mariam thoughtshe saw uncertainty in the way he crossed his arms, the wayhis eyes shifted. "You know nothing, do you? You're like achild. Your brain is empty. There is no information in it.""I ask because-""Chupko.Shut up."Mariam did.
It wasn't easy tolerating him talking this way to her, to bearhis scorn, his ridicule, his insults, his walking past her like shewas nothing but a house cat. But after four years of marriage,Mariam saw clearly how much a woman could tolerate whenshe was afraid And Mariamwas afraid She lived in fear of hisshifting moods, his volatile temperament, his insistence onsteering even mundane exchanges down a confrontational paththat, on occasion, he would resolve with punches, slaps, kicks,and sometimes try to make amends for with polluted apologiesand sometimes not.
In the four years since the day at the bathhouse, there hadbeen six more cycles of hopes raised then dashed, each loss,each collapse, each trip to the doctor more crushing forMariam than the last. With each disappointment, Rasheed hadgrown more remote and resentful Now nothing she did pleasedhim. She cleaned the house, made sure he always had asupply of clean shirts, cooked him his favorite dishes. Once,disastrously, she even bought makeup and put it on for him.
But when he came home, he took one look at her and wincedwith such distaste that she rushed to the bathroom andwashed it all off, tears of shame mixing with soapy water,rouge, and mascara.
Now Mariam dreaded the sound of him coming home in theevening. The key rattling, the creak of the door- these weresounds that set her heart racing. From her bed, she listened totheclick-clack of his heels, to the muffled shuffling of his feetafter he'd shed his shoes. With her ears, she took inventory ofhis doings: chair legs dragged across the floor, the plaintivesqueak of the cane seat when he sat, the clinking of spoonagainst plate, the flutter of newspaper pages flipped, theslurping of water. And as her heart pounded, her mindwondered what excuse he would use that night to pounce onher. There was always something, some minor thing that wouldinfuriate him, because no matter what she did to please him,no matter how thoroughly she submitted to his wants anddemands, it wasn't enough. She could not give him his sonback. In this most essential way, she had failed him-seven timesshe had failed him-and now she was nothing but a burden tohim. She could see it in the way he looked at her,when helooked at her. She was a burden to him.
What's going to happen? she asked him now.
Rasheed shot her a sidelong glance. He made a soundbetween a sigh and a groan, dropped his legs from the table,and turned off the radio. He took it upstairs to his room. Heclosed the door.
* * *On April 27, Mariam's question was answered with cracklingsounds and intense, sudden roars. She ran barefoot down tothe living room and found Rasheed already by the window, inhis undershirt, his hair disheveled, palms pressed to the glass.
Mariam made her way to the window next to him. Overhead,she could see military planes zooming past, heading north andeast. Their deafening shrieks hurt her ears. In the distance,loud booms resonated and sudden plumes of smoke rose tothe sky.
What's going on, Rasheed? she said. "What is all this?""God knows," he muttered. He tried the radio and got onlystatic.
What do we do?Impatiently, Rasheed said, "We wait."* * *Later in the day, Rasheed was still trying the radio as Mariammade rice with spinach sauce in the kitchen. Mariamremembered a time when she had enjoyed, even lookedforward to, cooking for Rasheed. Now cooking was an exercisein heightened anxiety. Thequrma% were always too salty or toobland for his taste. The rice was judged either too greasy ortoo dry, the bread declared too doughy or too crispy.
Rasheed's faultfinding left her stricken in the kitchen withself-doubt.
When she brought him his plate, the national anthem wasplaying on the radio.
I madesabzi, she said.
Put it down and be quiet.After the music faded, a man's voice came on the radio. Heannounced himself as Air Force Colonel Abdul Qader. Hereported that earlier in the day the rebel Fourth ArmoredDivision had seized the airport and key intersections in the city.
Kabul Radio, the ministries of Communication and the Interior,and the Foreign Ministry building had also been captured.
Kabul was in the hands of the people now, he said proudly.
Rebel MiGs had attacked the Presidential Palace. Tanks hadbroken into the premises, and a fierce battle was under waythere. Daoud's loyalist forces were all but defeated, Abdul Qadersaid in a reassuring tone.
Days later, when the communists began the summaryexecutions of those connected with Daoud Khan's regime, whenrumors began floating about Kabul of eyes gouged and genitalselectrocuted in the Pol-e-Charkhi Prison, Mariam would hear ofthe slaughter that had taken place at the Presidential Palace.
Daoud Khanhadbten killed, but not before the communist rebelshad killed some twenty members of his family, including womenand grandchildren. There would be rumors that he had takenhis own life, that he'd been gunned down in the heat of battle;rumors that he'd been saved for last, made to watch themassacre of his family, then shot.
Rasheed turned up the volume and leaned in closer.
A revolutionary council of the armed forces has beenestablished, and ourwatan will now be known as theDemocratic Republic of Afghanistan, Abdul Qader said. "Theera of aristocracy, nepotism, and inequality is over,fellowhamwaians. We have ended decades of tyranny. Power isnow in the hands of the masses and freedom-loving people. Aglorious new era in the history of our country is afoot. A newAfghanistan is born. We assure you that you have nothing tofear, fellow Afghans. The new regime will maintain the utmostrespect for principles, both Islamic and democratic. This is atime of rejoicing and celebration."Rasheed turned off the radio.
So is this good or bad? Mariam asked.
Bad for the rich, by the sound of it, Rasheed said. "Maybenot so bad for us."Mariam's thoughts drifted to Jalil. She wondered if thecommunists would go after him, then. Would they jail him? Jailhis sons? Take his businesses and properties from him?
Is this warm? Rasheed said, eyeing the rice.
I just served it from the pot.He grunted, and told her to hand him a plate.
* * *Do"WN the street, as the night lit up in sudden flashes of redand yellow, an exhausted Fariba had propped herself up onher elbows. Her hair was matted with sweat, and droplets ofmoisture teetered on the edge of her upper lip. At her bedside,the elderly midwife, Wajma, watched as Fariba's husband andsons passed around the infant. They were marveling at thebaby's light hair, at her pink cheeks and puckered, rosebudlips, at the slits of jade green eyes moving behind her puffylids. They smiled at each other when they heard her voice forthe first time, a cry that started like the mewl of a cat andexploded into a healthy, full-throated yowl. Noor said her eyeswere like gemstones. Ahmad, who was the most religiousmember of the family, sang theazan in his baby sister's earand blew in her face three times.
Laila it is, then? Hakim asked, bouncing his daughter.
Laila it is, Fariba said, smiling tiredly. "Night Beauty. It'sperfect."* * *Rasheed made a ball of rice with his fingers. He put it in hismouth, chewed once, then twice, before grimacing and spittingit out on thesofrah.
What's the matter? Mariam asked, hating the apologetic toneof her voice. She could feel her pulse quickening, her skinshrinking.
What's the matter? he mewled, mimicking her. "What's thematter is that you've done it again.""But I boiled it five minutes more than usual.""That's a bold lie.""I swear-"He shook the rice angrily from his fingers and pushed theplate away, spilling sauce and rice on thesojrah. Mariamwatched as he stormed out of the living room, then out of thehouse, slamming the door on his way out.
Mariam kneeled to the ground and tried to pick up the grainsof rice and put them back on the plate, but her hands wereshaking badly, and she had to wait for them to stop. Dreadpressed down on her chest. She tried taking a few deepbreaths. She caught her pale reflection in the darkenedliving-room window and looked away.
Then she heard the front door opening, and Rasheed wasback in the living room.
Get up, he said. "Come here. Get up."He snatched her hand, opened it, and dropped a handful ofpebbles into it.
Put these in your mouth. "What?""Put. These. In your mouth.""Stop it, Rasheed, I'm-"His powerful hands clasped her jaw. He shoved two fingersinto her mouth and pried it open, then forced the cold, hardpebbles into it. Mariam struggled against him, mumbling, but hekept pushing the pebbles in, his upper lip curled in a sneer.
Now chew, he said.
Through the mouthful of grit and pebbles, Mariam mumbled aplea. Tears were leaking out of the corners of her eyes.
CHEW! he bellowed. A gust of his smoky breath slammedagainst her face.
Mariam chewed. Something in the back of her mouth cracked.
Good, Rasheed said. His cheeks were quivering. "Now youknow what your rice tastes like. Now you know what you'vegiven me in this marriage. Bad food, and nothing else."Then he was gone, leaving Mariam to spit out pebbles, blood,and the fragments of two broken molars.
Kabul, Spring1987JN ine-year-old Laila rose from bed, as she did mostmornings, hungry for the sight of her friend Tariq. Thismorning, however, she knew there would be no Tariq sighting.
How long will you be gone? she'd asked when Tariq hadtold her that his parents were taking him south, to the city ofGhazni, to visit his paternal uncle.
Thirteen days."Thirteen days?"It's not so long. You're making a face, Laila."I am not."You're not going to cry, are you?"I am not going to cry! Not over you. Not in a thousandyears.She'd kicked at his shin, not his artificial but his real one, andhe'd playfully whacked the back of her head.
Thirteen days. Almost two weeks. And, just five days in, Lailahad learned a fundamental truth about time: Like the accordionon which Tariq's father sometimes played old Pashto songs,time stretched and contracted depending on Tariq's absence orpresence-Downstairs, her parents were fighting. Again. Lailaknew the routine: Mammy, ferocious, indomitable, pacing andranting; Babi, sitting, looking sheepish and dazed, noddingobediently, waiting for the storm to pass. Laila closed her doorand changed. But she could still hear them. She could stillhearher Finally, a door slammed. Pounding footsteps. Mammy'sbed creaked loudly. Babi, it seemed, would survive to seeanother day.
Laila! he called now. "I'm going to be late for work!""One minute!"Laila put on her shoes and quickly brushed hershoulder-length, blond curls in the mirror. Mammy always toldLaila that she had inherited her hair color-as well as herthick-lashed, turquoise green eyes, her dimpled cheeks, her highcheekbones, and the pout of her lower lip, which Mammyshared-from her great-grandmother, Mammy's grandmother.Shewas a pari,a stunner, Mammy said.Her beauty was the talk ofthe valley. It skipped two generations of women in our family,but it sure didn't bypass you, Laila The valley Mammy referredto was the Panjshir, the Farsi-speaking Tajik region onehundred kilometers northeast of Kabul. Both Mammy and Babi,who were first cousins, had been born and raised in Panjshir;they had moved to Kabul back in 1960 as hopeful, bright-eyednewlyweds when Babi had been admitted to Kabul University.
Laila scrambled downstairs, hoping Mammy wouldn't come outof her room for another round. She found Babi kneeling bythe screen door.
Did you see this, Laila?The rip in the screen had been there for weeks. Lailahunkered down beside him. "No. Must be new.""That's what I told Fariba." He looked shaken, reduced, as healways did after Mammy was through with him. "She says it'sbeen letting in bees."Laila's heart went out to him. Babi was a small man, withnarrow shoulders and slim, delicate hands, almost like awoman's. At night, when Laila walked into Babi's room, shealways found the downward profile of his face burrowing into abook, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Sometimes hedidn't even notice that she was there. When he did, hemarked his page, smiled a close-lipped, companionable smile.
Babi knew most of Rumi's and Hafez'sghazals by heart. Hecould speak at length about the struggle between Britain andczarist Russia over Afghanistan. He knew the differencebetween a stalactite and a stalagmite, and could tell you thatthe distance between the earth and the sun was the same asgoing from Kabul to Ghazni one and a half million times. But ifLaila needed the lid of a candy jar forced open, she had to goto Mammy, which felt like a betrayal. Ordinary tools befuddledBabi. On his watch, squeaky door hinges never got oiled.
Ceilings went on leaking after he plugged them. Mold thriveddefiantly in kitchen cabinets. Mammy said that before he leftwith Noor to join the jihad against the Soviets, back in 1980, itwas Ahmad who had dutifully and competently minded thesethings.
But if you have a book that needs urgent reading, she said,"then Hakim is your man."Still, Laila could not shake the feeling that at one time, beforeAhmad and Noor had gone to war against the Soviets-beforeBabi hadlet them go to war-Mammy too had thought Babi'sbookishness endearing, that, once upon a time, she too hadfound his forgetfulness and ineptitude charming.
So what is today? he said now, smiling coyly. "Day five? Oris it six?""What do I care? I don't keep count," Laila lied, shrugging,loving him for remembering- Mammy had no idea that Tariqhad left.
Well, his flashlight will be going off before you know it, Babisaid, referring to Laila and Tariq's nightly signaling game. Theyhad played it for so long it had become a bedtime ritual, likebrushing teeth.
Babi ran his finger through the rip. "I'll patch this as soon asI get a chance. We'd better go." He raised his voice and calledover his shoulder, "We're going now, Fariba! I'm taking Laila toschool. Don't forget to pick her up!"Outside, as she was climbing on the carrier pack of Babi'sbicycle, Laila spotted a car parked up the street, across fromthe house where the shoemaker, Rasheed, lived with hisreclusive wife. It was a Benz, an unusual car in thisneighborhood, blue with a thick white stripe bisecting the hood,the roof, and the trunk. Laila could make out two men sittinginside, one behind the wheel, the other in the back.
Who are they? she said.
It's not our business, Babi said. "Climb on, you'll be late forclass."Laila remembered another fight, and, that time, Mammy hadstood over Babi and said in a mincing way,That's yourbusiness, isn't it, cousin? To make nothing your business. Evenyour own sons going to war. Howl pleaded with you. Bui youburied your nose in those cursed books and let our sons golike they were a pair of haramis.
Babi pedaled up the street, Laila on the back, her armswrapped around his belly. As they passed the blue Benz, Lailacaught a fleeting glimpse of the man in the backseat: thin,white-haired, dressed in a dark brown suit, with a whitehandkerchief triangle in the breast pocket. The only other thingshe had time to notice was that the car had Herat licenseplates.
They rode the rest of the way in silence, except at the turns,where Babi braked cautiously and said, "Hold on, Laila. Slowingdown. Slowing down. There."* * *In class that day, Laila found it hard to pay attention,between Tariq's absence and her parents' fight. So when theteacher called on her to name the capitals of Romania andCuba, Laila was caught off guard.
The teacher's name was Shanzai, but, behind her back, thestudents called her Khala Rangmaal, Auntie Painter, referring tothe motion she favored when she slapped students-palm, thenback of the hand, back and forth, like a painter working abrush. Khala Rangmaal was a sharp-faced young woman withheavy eyebrows. On the first day of school, she had proudlytold the class that she was the daughter of a poor peasantfrom Khost. She stood straight, and wore her jet-black hairpulled tightly back and tied in a bun so that, when KhalaRangmaal turned around, Laila could see the dark bristles onher neck. Khala Rangmaal did not wear makeup or jewelry.
She did not cover and forbade the female students from doingit. She said women and men were equal in every way andthere was no reason women should cover if men didn't.
She said that the Soviet union was the best nation in theworld, along with Afghanistan. It was kind to its workers, andits people were all equal. Everyone in the Soviet union washappy and friendly, unlike America, where crime made peopleafraid to leave their homes. And everyone in Afghanistan wouldbe happy too, she said, once the antiprogressives, the backwardbandits, were defeated.
That's why our Soviet comrades came here in 1979. To lendtheir neighbor a hand. To help us defeat these brutes whowant our country to be a backward, primitive nation. And youmust lend your own hand, children. You must report anyonewho might know about these rebels. It's your duty. You mustlisten, then report. Even if it's your parents, your uncles oraunts. Because none of them loves you as much as yourcountry does. Your country comes first, remember! I will beproud of you, and so will your country.On the wall behind Khala Rangmaal's desk was a map of theSoviet union, a map of Afghanistan, and a framed photo ofthe latest communist president, Najibullah, who, Babi said, hadonce been the head of the dreaded KHAD, the Afghan secretpolice. There were other photos too, mainly of young Sovietsoldiers shaking hands with peasants, planting apple saplings,building homes, always smiling genially.
Well, Khala Rangmaal said now, "have I disturbed yourdaydreaming,Inqilabi Girl?"This was her nickname for Laila, Revolutionary Girl, becauseshe'd been born the night of the April coup of 1978-exceptKhala Rangmaal became angry if anyone in her class used thewordcoup. What had happened, she insisted, was aninqilab, arevolution, an uprising of the working people againstinequality.Jihad was another forbidden word. According to her,there wasn't even a war out there in the provinces, justskirmishes against troublemakers stirred by people she calledforeign provocateurs. And certainly no one,no one, dared repeatin her presence the rising rumors that, after eight years offighting, the Soviets were losing this war. Particularly now thatthe American president, Reagan, had started shipping theMujahideen Stinger Missiles to down the Soviet helicopters, nowthat Muslims from all over the world were joining the cause:
Egyptians, Pakistanis, even wealthy Saudis, who left their millionsbehind and came to Afghanistan to fight the jihad.
Bucharest. Havana, Laila managed.
And are those countries our friends or not?"They are,moolim sahib. They are friendly countries.Khala Rangmaal gave a curt nod.
* * *When school let out. Mammy again didn't show up like shewas supposed to. Laila ended up walking home with two ofher classmates, Giti and Hasina.
Giti was a tightly wound, bony little girl who wore her hair intwin ponytails held by elastic bands. She was always scowling,and walking with her books pressed to her chest, like a shield.
Hasina was twelve, three years older than Laila and Giti, buthad failed third grade once and fourth grade twice. What shelacked in smarts Hasina made up for in mischief and a mouththat, Giti said, ran like a sewing machine. It was Hasina whohad come up with the Khala Rangmaal nickname-Today, Hasinawas dispensing advice on how to fend off unattractive suitors.
Foolproof method, guaranteed to work. I give you my word."This is stupid. I'm too young to have a suitor! Giti said.
You're not too young."Well, no one's come to ask formy hand."That's because you have a beard, my dear.Giti's hand shot up to her chin, and she looked with alarm toLaila, who smiled pityingly-Giti was the most humorless personLaila had ever met-and shook her head with reassurance.
Anyway, you want to know what to do or not, ladies?"Go ahead, Laila said.
Beans. No less than four cans. On the evening the toothlesslizard comes to ask for your hand. But the timing, ladies, thetiming is everything- You have to suppress the fireworks 'til it'stime to serve him his tea."I'll remember that, Laila said.
So will he.Laila could have said then that she didn't need this advicebecause Babi had no intention of giving her away anytimesoon. Though Babi worked at Silo, Kabul's gigantic breadfactory, where he labored amid the heat and the hummingmachinery stoking the massive ovens and mill grains all day, hewas a university-educated man. He'd been a high schoolteacher before the communists fired him-this was shortly afterthe coup of 1978, about a year and a half before the Sovietshad invaded. Babi had made it clear to Laila from ayoung agethat the most important thing in his life, after her safety, washer schooling.
I know you're still young, bull waniyou to understand andlearn this now,he said.Marriage can wait, education cannotYou're a very, very bright girl. Truly, you are. You can beanything you want, Laila I know this about you. And I alsoknow that when this war is over, Afghanistan is going to needyou as much as its men, maybe even more. Because a societyhas no chance of success if its women are uneducated, LailaNo chance.
But Laila didn't tell Hasina that Babi had said these things, orhow glad she was to have a father like him, or how proudshe was of his regard for her, or how determined she was topursue her education just as he had his. For the last twoyears, Laila had received theawal numra certificate, given yearlyto the top-ranked student in each grade.
She said nothing of these things to Hasina, though, whoseown father was an ill-tempered taxi driver who in two or threeyears would almost certainly give her away. Hasina had toldLaila, in one of her infrequent serious moments, that it hadalready been decided that she would marry a first cousin whowas twenty years older than her and owned an auto shop inLahore.I've seen him twice, Hasina had said.Both times he atewith his mouth open.
Beans, girls, Hasina said. "You remember that. Unless, ofcourse"-here she flashed an impish grin and nudged Laila withan elbow-"it's your young handsome, one-legged prince whocomes knocking- Then…"Laila slapped the elbow away. She would have taken offense ifanyone else had said that about Tariq. But she knew thatHasina wasn't malicious. She mocked-it was what she did-andher mocking spared no one, least of all herself.
You shouldn't talk that way about people! Giti said.
What people is that?"People who've been injured because of war, Giti saidearnestly, oblivious to Hasina's toying.
"I think Mullah Giti here has a crush on Tariq. I knew it! Ha! But he's already spoken for, don't you know? Isn't he, Laila?""I do not have a crush. On anyone!They broke off from Laila, and, still arguing this way, turnedin to their street.
"Laila walked alone the last three blocks. When she was onher street, she noticed that the blue Benz was still parkedthere, outside Rasheed and Mariam's house. The elderly man inthe brown suit was standing by the hood now, leaning on acane, looking up at the house.
That was when a voice behind Laila said, "Hey. Yellow Hair.
Look here."Laila turned around and was greeted by the barrel of a gun.
The gun was red, the trigger guard bright green. Behind thegun loomed Khadim's grinning face. Khadim was eleven, likeTariq. He was thick, tall, and had a severe underbite. Hisfather was a butcher in Deh-Mazang, and, from time to time,Khadim was known to fling bits of calf intestine at passersby.
Sometimes, if Tariq wasn't nearby, Khadim shadowed Laila inthe schoolyard at recess, leering, making little whining noises.
One time, he'd tapped her on the shoulder and said,You 're sovery pretty, Yellow Hair. I want to marry you.
Now he waved the gun. "Don't worry," he said. "This won'tshow. Noton your hair.""Don't you do it! I'm warning you.""What are you going to do?" he said. "Sic your cripple onme? 'Oh, Tariq jan. Oh, won't you come home and save mefrom thebadmashl'"Laila began to backpedal, but Khadim was already pumpingthe trigger. One after another, thin jets of warm water struckLaila's hair, then her palm when she raised it to shield herface.
Now the other boys came out of their hiding, laughing,cackling.
An insult Laila had heard on the street rose to her lips. Shedidn't really understand it-couldn't quite picture the logistics ofit-but the words packed a fierce potency, and she unleashedthem now.
Your mother eats cock!"At least she's not a loony like yours, Khadim shot back,unruffled "At least my father's not a sissy! And, by the way,why don't you smell your hands?"The other boys took up the chant. "Smell your hands! Smellyour hands!"Laila did, but she knew even before she did, what he'd meantabout it not showing in her hair. She let out a high-pitchedyelp. At this, the boys hooted even harder.
Laila turned around and, howling, ran home.
* * *She drew water from the well, and, in the bathroom, filled abasin, tore off her clothes. She soaped her hair, franticallydigging fingers into her scalp, whimpering with disgust. Sherinsed with a bowl and soaped her hair again. Several times,she thought she might throw up. She kept mewling andshivering, as she rubbed and rubbed the soapy washclothagainst her face and neck until they reddened.
This would have never happened if Tariq had been with her,she thought as she put on a clean shirt and fresh trousers.
Khadim wouldn't have dared. Of course, it wouldn't havehappened if Mammy had shown up like she was supposed toeither. Sometimes Laila wondered why Mammy had evenbothered having her. People, she believed now, shouldn't beallowed to have new children if they'd already given away alltheir love to their old ones. It wasn't fair. A fit of angerclaimed her. Laila went to her room, collapsed on her bed.
When the worst of it had passed, she went across the hallwayto Mammy's door and knocked. When she was younger, Lailaused to sit for hours outside this door. She would tap on itand whisper Mammy's name over and over, like a magic chantmeant to break a spell:Mammy, Mammy, Mammy, Mammy…But Mammy never opened the door. She didn't open it now.
Laila turned the knob and walked in.
* * *Sometimes Mammy had good days. She sprang out of bedbright-eyed and playful. The droopy lower lip stretched upwardin a smile. She bathed. She put on fresh clothes and woremascara. She let Laila brush her hair, which Laila loved doing,and pin earrings through her earlobes. They went shoppingtogether to Mandaii Bazaar. Laila got her to play snakes andladders, and they ate shavings from blocks of dark chocolate,one of the few things they shared a common taste for. Laila'sfavorite part of Mammy's good days was when Babi camehome, when she and Mammy looked up from the board andgrinned at him with brown teeth. A gust of contentment puffedthrough the room then, and Laila caught a momentary glimpseof the tenderness, the romance, that had once bound herparents back when this house had been crowded and noisyand cheerful.
Mammy sometimes baked on her good days and invitedneighborhood women over for tea and pastries. Laila got to lickthe bowls clean, as Mammy set the table with cups andnapkins and the good plates. Later, Laila would take her placeat the living-room table and try to break into the conversation,as the women talked boisterously and drank tea andcomplimented Mammy on her baking. Though there was nevermuch for her to say, Laila liked to sit and listen in because atthese gatherings she was treated to a rare pleasure: She got tohear Mammy speaking affectionately about Babi.
What a first-rate teacher he was, Mammy said. "Hisstudents loved him. And not only because he wouldn't beatthem with rulers, like other teachers did. They respected him,you see, because he respectedthem. He was marvelous."Mammy loved to tell the story of how she'd proposed to him.
"I was sixteen, he was nineteen. Our families lived next doorto each other in Panjshir. Oh, I had the crush onhim,hamshirasl I used to climb the wall between our houses,and we'd play in his father's orchard. Hakim was always scaredthat we'd get caught and that my father would give him aslapping. 'Your father's going to give me a slapping,' he'dalways say. He was so cautious, so serious, even then. Andthen one day I said to him, I said, 'Cousin, what will it be? Are you going to ask for my hand or are you going to makeme comekhasiegari to you?' I said it just like that. You shouldhave seen the face on him!Mammy would slap her palms together as the women, andLaila, laughed.
"Listening to Mammy tell these stories, Laila knew that therehad been a time when Mammy always spoke this way aboutBabi. A time when her parents did not sleep in separaterooms. Laila wished she hadn't missed out on those times.
Inevitably, Mammy's proposal story led to matchmakingschemes. When Afghanistan was free from the Soviets and theboys returned home, they would need brides, and so, one byone, the women paraded the neighborhood girls who might ormight not be suitable for Ahmad and Noon Laila always feltexcluded when the talk turned to her brothers, as though thewomen were discussing a beloved film that only she hadn'tseen. She'd been two years old when Ahmad and Noor hadleft Kabul for Panjshir up north, to join Commander AhmadShah Massoud's forces and fight the jihad Laila hardlyremembered anything at all about them. A shiny allah pendantaround Ahmad's neck. A patch of black hairs on one of Noor'sears. And that was it.
What about Azita?"The rugmaker's daughter? Mammy said, slapping her cheekwith mock outrage.
"She has a thicker mustache than Hakim!""There's Anahita. We hear she's top in her class atZarghoona.""Have you seen the teeth on that girl? Tombstones. She'shiding a graveyard behind those lips.""How about the Wahidi sisters?""Those two dwarfs? No, no, no. Oh, no. Not for my sons. Not for my sultans. They deserve better.As the chatter went on, Laila let her mind drift, and, asalways, it found Tariq.
"* * *Mammy had pulled the yellowish curtains. In the darkness, theroom had a layered smell about it: sleep, unwashed linen,sweat, dirty socks, perfume, the previous night's leftoverqurma.
Laila waited for her eyes to adjust before she crossed theroom. Even so, her feet became entangled with items ofclothing that littered the floor.
Laila pulled the curtains open. At the foot of the bed was anold metallic folding chair. Laila sat on it and watched theunmoving blanketed mound that was her mother.
The walls of Mammy's room were covered with pictures ofAhmad and Noor. Everywhere Laila looked, two strangerssmiled back. Here was Noor mounting a tricycle. Here wasAhmad doing his prayers, posing beside a sundial Babi and hehad built when he was twelve. And there they were, herbrothers, sitting back to back beneath the old pear tree in theyard.
Beneath Mammy's bed, Laila could see the corner of Ahmad'sshoe box protruding. From time to time, Mammy showed herthe old, crumpled newspaper clippings in it, and pamphlets thatAhmad had managed to collect from insurgent groups andresistance organizations headquartered in Pakistan. One photo,Laila remembered, showed a man in a long white coat handinga lollipop to a legless little boy. The caption below the photoread:Children are the intended victims of Soviet land minecampaign. The article went on to say that the Soviets also likedto hide explosives inside brightly colored toys. If a child pickedit up, the toy exploded, tore off fingers or an entire hand. Thefather could not join the jihad then; he'd have to stay homeand care for his child. In another article in Ahmad's box, ayoung Mujahid was saying that the Soviets had dropped gason his village that burned people's skin and blinded them. Hesaid he had seen his mother and sister running for the stream,coughing up blood.
Mammy.The mound stirred slightly. It emitted a groan.
Get up, Mammy. It's three o'clock.Another groan. A hand emerged, like a submarine periscopebreaking surface, and dropped. The mound moved morediscernibly this time. Then the rustle of blankets as layers ofthem shifted over each other. Slowly, in stages, Mammymaterialized: first the slovenly hair, then the white, grimacingface, eyes pinched shut against the light, a hand groping forthe headboard, the sheets sliding down as she pulled herselfup, grunting. Mammy made an effort to look up, flinchedagainst the light, and her head drooped over her chest.
How was school? she muttered.
So it would begin. The obligatory questions, the perfunctoryanswers. Both pretending. Unenthusiastic partners, the two ofthem, in this tired old dance.
School was fine, Laila said.
Did you learn anything?"The usual."Did you eat?"I did."Good.Mammy raised her head again, toward the window. Shewinced and her eyelids fluttered The right side of her face wasred, and the hair on that side had flattened.
I have a headache."Should I fetch you some aspirin?Mammy massaged her temples. "Maybe later. Is your fatherhome?""It's only three.""Oh. Right. You said that already." Mammy yawned. "I wasdreaming just now," she said, her voice only a bit louder thanthe rustle of her nightgown against the sheets. "Just now,before you came in. But I can't remember it now. Does thathappen to you?""It happens to everybody, Mammy.""Strangest thing.""I should tell you that while you were dreaming, a boy shotpiss out of a water gun on my hair.""Shot what? What was that? I'm sony.""Piss. Urine.""That's…that's terrible. God I'm sorry. Poor you. I'll have atalk with him first thing in the morning. Or maybe with hismother. Yes, that would be better, I think.""I haven't told you who it was.""Oh. Well, who was it?""Nevermind.""You're angry.""You were supposed to pick me up.""I was," Mammy croaked. Laila could not tell whether thiswas a question. Mammy began picking at her hair. This wasone of life's great mysteries to Laila, that Mammy's picking hadnot made her bald as an egg. "What about…What's his name,your friend, Tariq? Yes, what about him?""He's been gone for a week.""Oh." Mammy sighed through her nose. "Did you wash?""Yes.""So you're clean, then." Mammy turned her tired gaze to thewindow. "You're clean, and everything is fine."Laila stood up. "I have homework now.""Of course you do. Shut the curtains before you go, my love,"Mammy said, her voice fading. She was already sinking beneaththe sheets.
As Laila reached for the curtains, she saw a car pass by onthe street tailed by a cloud of dust. It was the blue Benz withthe Herat license plate finally leaving. She followed it with hereyes until it vanished around a turn, its back window twinklingin the sun.
I won't forget tomorrow, Mammy was saying behind her. "Ipromise.""You said that yesterday.""You don't know, Laila.""Know what?" Laila wheeled around to face her mother.
What don't I know?Mammy's hand floated up to her chest, tapped there. "Inhere.
What's inhere. " Then it fell flaccid. "You just don't know."
A week passed, but there was still no sign of Tariq. Thenanother week came and went.
To fill the time, Laila fixed the screen door that Babi stillhadn't got around to. She took down Babi's books, dusted andalphabetized them. She went to Chicken Street with Hasina,Giti,and Giti's mother, Nila, who was a seamstress and sometimesewing partner of Mammy's. In that week, Laila came tobelieve that of all the hardships a person had to face nonewas more punishing than the simple act of waiting.
Another week passed.
Laila found herself caught in a net of terrible thoughts.
He would never come back. His parents had moved away forgood; the trip to Ghazni had been a ruse. An adult scheme tospare the two of them an upsetting farewell.
A land minehad gotten to him again. The way it did in 1981,when he was five, the last time his parents took him south toGhazni. That was shortly after Laila's third birthday. He'd beenlucky that time, losing only a leg; lucky that he'd survived atall.
Her head rang and rang with these thoughts.
Then one night Laila saw a tiny flashing light from down thestreet. A sound, something between a squeak and a gasp,escaped herlips. She quickly fished her own flashlight fromunder the bed, but it wouldn't work. Laila banged it againsther palm, cursed the dead batteries. But it didn't matter. Hewas back. Laila sat on the edge of her bed, giddy with relief,and watched that beautiful, yellow eye winking on and off.
* * *On her way to Tariq's house the next day, Laila saw Khadimand a group of his friends across the street. Khadim wassquatting, drawing something in the dirt with a stick. When hesaw her, he dropped the stick and wiggled his fingers. He saidsomething and there was a round of chuckles. Laila droppedher head and hurried past.
What did youdo1? she exclaimed when Tariq opened thedoor. Only then did she remember that his uncle was abarber.
Tariq ran his hand over his newly shaved scalp and smiled,showing white, slightly uneven teeth.
Like it?"You look like you're enlisting in the army."You want to feel? He lowered his head.
The tiny bristles scratched Laila's palm pleasantly. Tariq wasn'tlike some of the other boys, whose hair concealedcone-shaped skulls and unsightly lumps. Tariq's head wasperfectly curved and lump-free.
When he looked up, Laila saw that his cheeks and brow hadsunburned"What took you so long?" she said"My uncle was sick. Come on. Come inside."He led her down the hallway to the family room. Laila lovedeverything about this house. The shabby old rug in the familyroom, the patchwork quilt on the couch, the ordinary clutter ofTariq's life: his mother's bolts of fabric, her sewing needlesembedded in spools, the old magazines, the accordion case inthe corner waiting to be cracked open.
Who is it?It was his mother calling from the kitchen.
Laila, he answeredHe pulled her a chair. The family room was brightly lit andhad double windows that opened into the yard. On the sillwere empty jars in which Tariq's mother pickled eggplant andmade carrot marmalade.
You mean ouraroos,our daughter-in-law,his father announced,entering the room. He was a carpenter, a lean, white-hairedman in his early sixties. He had gaps between his front teeth,and the squinty eyes of someone who had spent most of hislife outdoors. He opened his arms and Laila went into them,greeted by his pleasant and familiar smell of sawdust. Theykissed on the cheek three times.
You keep calling her that and she'll stop coming here,Tariq's mother said, passing by them. She was carrying a traywith a large bowl, a serving spoon, and four smaller bowls onit. She set the tray on the table. "Don't mind the old man."She cupped Laila's face. "It's good to see you, my dear. Come,sit down. I brought back some water-soaked fruit with me."The table was bulky and made of a light, unfinishedwood-Tariq's father had built it, as well as the chairs. It wascovered with a moss green vinyl tablecloth with little magentacrescents and stars on it. Most of the living-room wall wastaken up with pictures of Tariq at various ages. In some of thevery early ones, he had two legs.
I heard your brother was sick, Laila said to Tariq's father,dipping a spoon into her bowl of soaked raisins, pistachios, andapricots.
He was lighting a cigarette. "Yes, but he's fine now,shokr eKhoda, thanks to God.""Heart attack. His second," Tariq's mother said, giving herhusband an admonishing look.
Tariq's father blew smoke and winked at Laila. It struck heragain that Tariq's parents could easily pass for hisgrandparents. His mother hadn't had him until she'd been wellinto her forties.
How is your father, my dear? Tariq's mother said, lookingon over her bowl-As long as Laila had known her, Tariq'smother had worn a wig. It was turning a dull purple with age.
It was pulled low on her brow today, and Laila could see thegray hairs of her sideburns.Some days,it rode high on herforehead. But, to Laila, Tariq's mother never looked pitiable init- What Laila saw was the calm, self-assured face beneath thewig, the clever eyes, the pleasant, unhurried manners.
He's fine, Laila said. "Still at Silo, of course. He's fine.""And your mother?""Good days. Bad ones too. The same-""Yes," Tariq's mother said thoughtfully, lowering her spoon intothe bowl "How hard it must be, how terribly hard, for amother to be away from her sons.""You're staying for lunch?" Tariq said-"You have to," said his mother. "I'm makingshorwa""I don't want to be amozahem. ""Imposing?" Tariq's mother said. "We leave for a couple ofweeks and you turn polite on us?""All right, I'll stay," Laila said, blushing and smiling.
It's settled, then.The truth was, Laila loved eating meals at Tariq's house asmuch as she disliked eating them at hers. At Tariq's, there wasno eating alone; they always ate as a family. Laila liked theviolet plastic drinking glasses they used and the quarter lemonthat always floated in the water pitcher. She liked how theystarted each meal with a bowl of fresh yogurt, how theysqueezed sour oranges on everything, even their yogurt, andhow they made small, harmless jokes at each other's expense.
Over meals, conversation always flowed. Though Tariq and hisparents were ethnic Pashtuns, they spoke Farsi when Laila wasaround for her benefit, even though Laila more or lessunderstood their native Pashto, having learned it in school. Babisaid that there were tensions between their people-the Tajiks,who were a minority, and Tariq's people, the Pashtuns, whowere the largest ethnic group in Afghanistan.Tajiks have alwaysfelt slighted, Babi had said.Pashiun kings ruled this country foralmost two hundred and'fifty years, Laila, and Tajiks for all ofnine months, back in 1929.
And you,Laila had asked,do you feel slighted, Babi?
Babi had wiped his eyeglasses clean with the hem of hisshirt.To me, it's nonsense -and very dangerous nonsense atthat-all this talk of I'm Tajik and you 're Pashiun and he'sHazara and she's Uzbek. We 're all Afghans, and that's all thatshould matter. But when one group rules over the others forso long…Theref s contempt. Rivalry. There is. There always hasbeen.
Maybe so. But Laila never felt it in Tariq's house, where thesematters never even came up. Her time with Tariq's familyalways felt natural to Laila, effortless, uncomplicated bydifferences in tribe or language, or by the personal spites andgrudges that infected the air at her own home.
How about a game of cards? Tariq said.
Yes, go upstairs, his mother said, swiping disapprovingly ather husband's cloud of smoke. "I'll getthe shorwa going."They lay on their stomachs in the middle of Tariq's room andtook turns dealing forpanjpar. Pedaling air with his foot, Tariqtold her about his trip. The peach saplings he had helped hisuncle plant. A garden snake he had captured.
This room was where Laila and Tariq did their homework,where they built playing-card towers and drew ridiculousportraits of each other. If it was raining, they leaned on thewindowsill, drinking warm, fizzy orange Fanta, and watched theswollen rain droplets trickle down the glass.
All right, here's one, Laila said, shuffling. "What goes aroundthe world but stays in a corner?""Wait." Tariq pushed himself up and swung his artificial leftleg around. Wincing, he lay on his side, leaning on his elbow.
Hand me that pillow. He placed it under his leg. "There.
That's better."Laila remembered the first time he'd shown her his stump.
She'd been six. With one finger, she had poked the taut.
shiny skin just below his left knee. Her finger had found littlehard lumps there, and Tariq had told her they were spurs ofbone that sometimes grew after an amputation. She'd askedhim if his stump hurt, and he said it got sore at the end ofthe day, when it swelled and didn't fit the prosthesis like it wassupposed to, like a finger in a thimble.And sometimes it getsrubbed Especially when it's hot. Then I get rashes and blisters,but my mother has creams that help. It's not so bad.
Laila had burst into tears.
What are you crying for?He'd strapped his leg back on.Youasked to see it, you giryanok,you crybaby! If I'd known youwere going to bawl, I wouldn 'i have shown you.
A stamp, he said.
What?"The riddle. The answer is a stamp. We should go to the zooafter lunch. "You knew that one. Did you?" "Absolutely not.""You're a cheat.""And you're envious." "Of what?""My masculine smarts.""Yourmasculine smarts? Really? Tell me, who always wins atchess?""I let you win." He laughed. They both knew that wasn't true.
And who failed math? Who do you come to for help withyour math homework even though you're a grade ahead?"I'd be two grades ahead if math didn't bore me."I suppose geography bores you too."How did you know? Now, shut up. So are we going to thezoo or not?Laila smiled. "We're going.""Good.""I missed you."There was a pause. Then Tariq turned to her with ahalf-grinning, half-grimacing look of distaste. "What's thematterwith you?"How many times had she, Hasina, and Giti said those samethree words to each other, Laila wondered, said it withouthesitation, after only two or three days of not seeing eachother? /missed you, Hasina Oh, I missed you too. In Tariq'sgrimace, Laila learned that boys differed from girls in thisregard. They didn't make a show of friendship. They felt nourge, no need, for this sort of talk. Laila imagined it had beenthis way for her brothers too. Boys, Laila came to see, treatedfriendship the way they treated the sun: its existenceundisputed; its radiance best enjoyed, not beheld directly.
I was trying to annoy you, she said.
He gave her a sidelong glance. "It worked."But she thought his grimace softened. And she thought thatmaybe the sunburn on his cheeks deepened momentarily.
* * *Laila didn't mean to tell him. She'd, in fact, decided that tellinghim would be a very bad idea. Someone would get hurt,because Tariq wouldn't be able to let it pass. But when theywere on the street later, heading down to thebus stop, she sawKhadim again, leaning against a wall He was surrounded by hisfriends, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He grinned at herdefiantly.
And so she told Tariq. The story spilled out of her mouthbefore she could stop it.
He did what?She told him again.
He pointed to Khadim. "Him? He's the one? You're sure?""I'm sure."Tariq clenched his teeth and muttered something to himself inPashto that Laila didn't catch. "You wait here," he said, in Farsinow.
No, Tariq-He was already crossing the street.
Khadim was the first to see him. His grin faded, and hepushed himself off the wall. He unhooked his thumbs from thebelt loops and made himself more upright, taking on aself-conscious air of menace. The others followed his gaze.
Laila wished she hadn't said anything. What if they bandedtogether? How many of them were there-ten? eleven? twelve?
What if they hurt him?
Then Tariq stopped a few feet from Khadim and his band.
There was a moment of consideration, Laila thought, maybe achange of heart, and, when he bent down, she imagined hewould pretend his shoelace had come undone and walk backto her. Then his hands went to work, and she understood.
The others understood too when Tariq straightened up,standing on one leg. When he began hopping toward Khadim,then charging him, his unstrapped leg raised high over hisshoulder like a sword.
The boys stepped aside in a hurry. They gave him a clearpath to Khadim.
Then it was all dust and fists and kicks and yelps.
Khadim never bothered Laila again.
* * *That night, as most nights, Laila set the dinner table for twoonly. Mammy said she wasn't hungry. On those nights that shewas, she made a point of taking a plate to her room beforeBabi even came home. She was usually asleep or lying awakein bed by the time Laila and Babi sat down to eat.
Babi came out of the bathroom, his hair-peppered white withflour when he'd come home-washed clean now and combedback.
What are we having, Laila?"Leftoveraush soup."Sounds good, he said, folding the towel with which he'ddried his hair. "So what are we working on tonight? Addingfractions?""Actually, converting fractions to mixed numbers.""Ah. Right."Every night after dinner, Babi helped Laila with her homeworkand gave her some of his own. This was only to keep Laila astep or two ahead of her class, not because he disapproved ofthe work assigned by the school-the propaganda teachingnotwithstanding. In fact, Babi thought that the one thing thecommunists had done right-or at least intended to-ironically,was in the field of education, the vocation from which they hadfired him. More specifically, the education of women. Thegovernment had sponsored literacy classes for all women.
Almost two-thirds of the students at Kabul University werewomen now, Babi said, women who were studying law,medicine, engineering.
Women have always had it hard in this country, Laila, butthey're probably more free now, under the communists, andhave more rights than they've ever had before,Babi said, alwayslowering his voice, aware of how intolerant Mammy was ofeven remotely positive talk of the communists.But it's true, Babisaid,it'sagood time to be a woman in Afghanistan. And you cantake advantage of that, Laila Of course, women's freedom -here, he shook his head ruefully-is also one of the reasonspeople out there took up arms in the first place.
By "out there," he didn't mean Kabul, which had always beenrelatively liberal and progressive. Here in Kabul, women taughtat the university, ran schools, held office in the government-No, Babi meant the tribal areas, especially the Pashtun regionsin the south or in the east near the Pakistani border, wherewomen were rarely seen on the streets and only then in burqaand accompanied by men. He meant those regions where menwho lived by ancient tribal laws had rebelled against thecommunists and their decrees to liberate women, to abolishforced marriage, to raise the minimum marriage age to sixteenfor girls. There, men saw it as an insult to their centuries-oldtradition, Babi said, to be told by the government-and a godlessone at that-that their daughters had to leave home, attendschool, and work alongside men.
God forbid that should happen!Babi liked to say sarcastically.
Then he would sigh, and say,Laila, my love, the only enemy anAfghan cannot defeat is himselfBabi took his seat at the table, dipped bread into his bowlofaush.
Laila decided that she would tell him about what Tariq haddone to Khadim, over the meal, before they started in onfractions. But she never got the chance. Because, right then,there was a knock at the door, and, on the other side of thedoor, a stranger with news.