Laila could hardly move, as though cement had solidified inevery one of her joints. There was a conversation going on,and Laila knew that she was at one end of it, but she feltremoved from it, as though she were merely eavesdropping. AsTariq talked, Laila pictured her life as a rotted rope, snapping,unraveling, the fibers detaching, falling away.
It was a hot, muggy afternoon that August of 1992, and theywere in the living room of Laila's house. Mammy had had astomachache all day, and, minutes before, despite the rocketsthat Hekmatyar was launching from the south, Babi had takenher to see a doctor. And here was Tariq now, seated besideLaila on the couch, looking at the ground, hands between hisknees.
Saying that he was leaving.
Not the neighborhood. Not Kabul. But Afghanistan altogether.
Leaving.
Laila was struck blind.
Where? Where will you go?"Pakistan first. Peshawar. Then I don't know. MaybeHindustan. Iran."How long?"I don't know."I mean, how long have you known?"A few days. I was going to tell you, Laila, I swear, but Icouldn't bring myself to. I knewhow upset you'd be."When?"Tomorrow."Tomorrow?"Laila, look at me."Tomorrow."It'smy father. His heartcan't take it anymore, all this fightingand killing.Laila buried her face in her hands, a bubble of dread fillingher chest.
She should have seen this coming, she thought. Almosteveryone she knew had packed their things and left. Theneighborhood had been all but drained of familiar faces, andnow, only four months after fighting had broken out betweenthe Mujahideen factions, Laila hardly recognized anybody onthe streets anymore. Hasina's family had fled in May, off toTehran. Wajma and her clan had gone to Islamabad that samemonth. Giti's parents and her siblings left in June, shortly afterGiti was killed. Laila didn't know where they had gone-sheheard a rumor that they had headed for Mashad, in Iran.
After people left, their homes sat unoccupied for a few days,then either militiamen took them or strangers moved in.
Everyone was leaving. And now Tariq too.
And my mother is not a young woman anymore, he wassaying. "They're so afraid all the time. Laila, look at me.""You should have told me.""Please look at me."A groan came out of Laila. Then a wail. And then she wascrying, and when he went to wipe her cheek with the pad ofhis thumb she swiped his hand away. It was selfish andirrational, but she was furious with him for abandoning her,Tariq, who was like an extension of her, whose shadow sprungbeside hers in every memory. How could he leave her? Sheslapped him. Then she slapped him again and pulled at hishair, and he had to take her by the wrists, and he was sayingsomething she couldn't make out, he was saying it softly,reasonably, and, somehow, they ended up brow to brow, noseto nose, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her lipsagain.
And when, suddenly, he leaned in, she did too.
* * *In the coming days and weeks, Laila would scramble franticallyto commit it all to memory, what happened next-Like an artlover running out of a burning museum, she would grabwhatever she could-a look, a whisper, a moan-to salvage fromperishing, to preserve. But time is the most unforgiving of fires,and she couldn't, in the end, save it all Still, she had these:
that first, tremendous pang of pain down below. The slant ofsunlight on the rug. Her heel grazing the cold hardness of hisleg, lying beside them, hastily unstrapped. Her hands cuppinghis elbows. The upside-down, mandolin-shaped birthmarkbeneath his collarbone, glowing red. His face hovering overhers. His black curls dangling, tickling her lips, her chin. Theterror that they would be discovered. The disbelief at their ownboldness, their courage. The strange and indescribable pleasure,interlaced with the pain. And the look, the myriad oflooks, onTariq: of apprehension, tenderness, apology, embarrassment, butmostly, mostly, of hunger.
* * *There was frenzy after. Shirts hurriedly buttoned, belts buckled,hair finger-combed. They sat, then, they sat beside each other,smelling of each other, faces flushed pink, both of themstunned, both of them speechless before the enormity of whathad just happened. What they had done.
Laila saw three drops of blood on the rug,her blood, andpictured her parents sitting on this couch later, oblivious to thesin that she had committed. And now the shame set in, andthe guilt, and, upstairs, the clock ticked on, impossibly loud toLaila's ears. Like a judge's gavel pounding again and again,condemning her.
Then Tariq said, "Come with me."For a moment, Laila almost believed that it could be done.
She, Tariq, and his parents, setting out together-Packing theirbags, climbing aboard a bus, leaving behind all this violence,going to find blessings, or trouble, and whichever came theywould face it together. The bleak isolation awaiting her, themurderous loneliness, it didn't have to be.
She could go. They could be together.
They would have more afternoons like this.
I want to marry you, Laila.For the first time since they were on the floor, she raised hereyes to meet his. She searched his face. There was noplayfulness this time. His look was one of conviction, of guilelessyet ironclad earnestness.
Tariq-"Let me marry you, Laila. Today. We could get marriedtoday.He began to say more, about going to a mosque, finding amullah, a pair of witnesses, a quicknikka. …But Laila was thinking of Mammy, as obstinate anduncompromising as the Mujahideen, the air around her chokedwith rancor and despair, and she was thinking of Babi, whohad long surrendered, who made such a sad, patheticopponent to Mammy.
Sometimes…I feel like you 're all I have, Laila.
These were the circumstances of her life, the inescapabletruths of it.
I'll ask Kaka Hakim for your hand He'll give us his blessing,Laila, I know it.He was right. Babi would. But it would shatter him.
Tariq was still speaking, his voice hushed, then high,beseeching, then reasoning; his face hopeful, then stricken.
I can't, Laila said.
Don't say that. I love you."I'm sorry-"I love you.How long had she waited to hear those words from him?
How many times had she dreamed them uttered? Therethey were, spoken at last, and the irony crushed her.
It's my father I can't leave, Laila said "I'm all he has left.
His heart couldn't take it either."Tariq knew this. He knew she could not wipe away theobligations of her life any more than he could his, but it wenton, his pleadings and her rebuttals, his proposals and herapologies, his tears and hers.
In the end, Laila had to make him leave.
At the door, she made him promise to go without good-byes.
She closed the door on him. Laila leaned her back against it,shaking against his pounding fists, one arm gripping her bellyand a hand across her mouth, as he spoke through the doorand promised that he would come back, that he would comeback for her. She stood there until he tired, until he gave up,and then she listened to his uneven footsteps until they faded,until all was quiet, save for the gunfire cracking in the hills andher own heart thudding in her belly, her eyes, her bones.
It was, by far, the hottest day of the year. The mountainstrapped the bone-scorching heat, stifled the city like smoke.
Power had been out for days. All over Kabul, electric fans satidle, almost mockingly so.
Laila was lying still on the living-room couch, sweating throughher blouse. Every exhaled breath burned the tip of her nose.
She was aware of her parents talking in Mammy's room. Twonights ago, and again last night, she had awakened andthought she heard their voices downstairs. They were talkingevery day now, ever since the bullet, ever since the new holein the gate.
Outside, the far-offboom of artillery, then, more closely, thestammering of a long string of gunfire, followed by another.
Inside Laila too a battle was being waged: guilt on one side,partnered with shame, and, on the other, the conviction thatwhat she and Tariq had done was not sinful; that it had beennatural, good, beautiful, even inevitable, spurred by theknowledge that they might never see each other again.
Laila rolled to her side on the couch now and tried toremember something: At one point, when they were on thefloor, Tariq had lowered his forehead on hers. Then he hadpanted something, eitherAm I hurting you? orIs this hurtingyou?
Laila couldn't decide which he had said.
Am Ihurting you?
Is this hurting you?
Only two weeks since he had left, and it was alreadyhappening- Time, blunting the edges of those sharp memories.
Laila bore down mentally. What had he said? It seemed vital,suddenly, that she know.
Laila closed hereyes. Concentrated.
With the passing of time, she would slowly tire of this exercise.
She would find it increasingly exhausting to conjure up, to dustoff, to resuscitate once again what was long dead. There wouldcome a day, in fact, years later, when Laila would no longerbewail his loss. Or not as relentlessly; not nearly. There wouldcome a day when the details of his face would begin to slipfrom memory's grip, when overhearing a mother on the streetcall after her child by Tariq's name would no longer cut heradrift. She would not miss him as she did now, when the acheof his absence was her unremitting companion-like the phantompain of an amputee.
Except every once in a long while, when Laila was a grownwoman, ironing a shirt or pushing her children on a swing set,something trivial, maybe the warmth of a carpet beneath herfeet on a hot day or the curve of a stranger's forehead, wouldset off a memory of that afternoon together. And it would allcome rushing back. The spontaneity of it. Their astonishingimprudence. Their clumsiness. The pain of the act, the pleasureof it, the sadness of it. The heat of their entangled bodies.
It would flood her, steal her breath.
But then it would pass. The moment would pass. Leave herdeflated, feeling nothing but a vague restlessness.
She decided that he had saidAmi hurting you? Yes. Thatwasit. Laila was happy that she'd rememberedThen Babi was in the hallway, calling her name from the topof the stairs, asking her to come up quickly.
She's agreed!he said, his voice tremulous with suppressedexcitement- "We're leaving, Laila. All three of us. We'releavingKabul."* * *InMammy's room, the three of them sat on the bed.Outside,rockets were zipping acrossthe sky as Hekmatyar's andMassoud'sforces fought and fought. Laila knew that somewherein the city someone had justdied, and that a pall of blacksmoke was hovering over some building that had collapsed in apuffing mass of dust. There would be bodies to step around inthe morning. Some would be collected. Others not. ThenKabul's dogs, who had developed a taste for human meat,would feast.
All the same, Laila had an urge to run through thosestreets.She could barely contain her own happiness. It tookeffortto sit, to not shriek withjoy. Babi said they would go toPakistan first, to apply forvisas. Pakistan, where Tariq was!
Tariq was only gone seventeen days, Laila calculated excitedly.
If only Mammy had made up her mindseventeen days earlier,they could have left together. She would have been with Tariqright now! But that didn'tmatter now. They were goingtoPeshawar-she,Mammy, and Babi-and they would find Tariq andhis parents there. Surely they would. They would process theirpaperwork together. Then, who knew? Who knew? Europe?
America? Maybe, as Babi was always saying, somewhere nearthe sea…Mammy was half lying, half sitting against the headboard. Hereyes were puffy. She was picking at her hair.
Three days before, Laila had gone outside for a breath of air.
She'd stood by the front gates, leaning against them, whenshe'd heard a loud crack and something had zipped by herright ear, sending tiny splinters of wood flying before her eyes.
After Giti's death, and the thousands of rounds fired andmyriad rockets that had fallen on Kabul, it was the sight ofthat single round hole in the gate, less than three fingers awayfrom where Laila's head had been, that shook Mammy awake.
Made her see that one war had cost her two children already;this latest could cost her her remaining one.
From the walls of the room, Ahmad and Noor smiled down.
Laila watched Mammy's eyes bouncing now, guiltily, from onephoto to the other. As if looking for their consent. Theirblessing. As if asking for forgiveness.
There's nothing left for us here, Babi said. "Our sons aregone, but we still have Laila. We still have each other, Fariba.
We can make a new life."Babi reached across the bed. When he leaned to take herhands, Mammy let him. On her face, a look of concession. Ofresignation. They held each other's hands, lightly, and then theywere swaying quietly in an embrace. Mammy buried her facein his neck. She grabbed a handful of his shirt.
For hours that night, the excitement robbed Laila of sleep. Shelay in bed and watched the horizon light up in garish shadesof orange and yellow. At some point, though, despite theexhilaration inside and the crack ofartillery fire outside, she fell asleep.
And dreamedThey are on a ribbon of beach, sitting on aquilt. It's a chilly,overcast day,but it's warm next to Tariq under the blanketdraped over their shoulders. She can see cars parked behind alow fence of chipped white paint beneath a row of windsweptpalm trees. The wind makes her eyes water and buries theirshoes in sand, hurls knots of dead grass from the curvedridgesof one dune to another. They're watching sailboats bob inthe distance. Around them, seagulls squawk and shiver in thewind. The wind whips up another spray of sand off theshallow, windwardslopes. There is a noise then likea chant, andshe tells him something Babi had taught her years before aboutsinging sand.
He rubs at her eyebrow, wipesgrains of sand from it. Shecatches a flicker of the band on his finger. It's identicalto hers-gold with a sort of maze patternetched all the way around.
It's true,she tellshim.It's the friction, of grain against grain.
Listen. Hedoes. He frowns. They wait. They hear it again. Agroaning sound, when the wind is soft, when it blows hard, amewling, high-pitched chorus.
* * * Babi said theyshould take only what was absolutelynecessary. They would sell the rest.
That should hold us in Peshawar until I find work.For the next two days, they gathered items to be sold. Theyput them in big piles.
In her room, Laila set aside old blouses, old shoes, books,toys. Looking under her bed, she found a tiny yellow glass cowHasina had passed to her during recess in fifth grade. Aminiature-soccer-ball key chain, a gift from Giti. A little woodenzebra on wheels. A ceramic astronaut she and Tariq had foundone day in a gutter. She'd been six and he eight. They'd hada minor row, Laila remembered, over which one of them hadfound it.
Mammy too gathered her things. There was a reluctance inher movements, and her eyes had a lethargic, faraway look inthem. She did away with her good plates, her napkins, all herjewelry-save for her wedding band-and most of her old clothes.
You're not selling this, are you? Laila said, lifting Mammy'swedding dress. It cascaded open onto her lap. She touched thelace and ribbon along the neckline, the hand-sewn seed pearlson the sleeves.
Mammy shrugged and took it from her. She tossed itbrusquely on a pile of clothes. Like ripping off a Band-Aid inone stroke, Laila thought.
It was Babi who had the most painful task.
Laila found him standing in his study, a rueful expression onhis face as he surveyed his shelves. He was wearing asecondhand T-shirt with a picture of San Francisco's red bridgeon it. Thick fog rose from the whitecapped waters and engulfedthe bridge's towers.
You know the old bit, he said. "You're on a deserted island.
You can have five books. Which do you choose? I neverthought I'd actually have to.""We'll have to start you a new collection, Babi.""Mm." He smiled sadly. "I can't believe I'm leaving Kabul. Iwent to school here, got my first job here, became a father inthis town. It's strange to think that I'll be sleeping beneathanother city's skies soon.""It's strange for me too.""All day, this poem about Kabul has been bouncing around inmy head. Saib-e-Tabrizi wrote it back in the seventeenthcentury, I think. I used to know the whole poem, but all I canremember now is two lines:
One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs,Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her -walls.Laila looked up, saw he was weeping. She put an armaround his waist. "Oh, Babi. We'll come back. When this war isover. We'll come back to Kabul,inshallah. You'll see."* * *On the third morning, Laila began moving the piles of thingsto the yard and depositing them by the front door. They wouldfetch a taxi then and take it all to a pawnshop.
Laila kept shuffling between the house and the yard, back andforth, carrying stacks of clothes and dishes and box after boxof Babi's books. She should have been exhausted by noon,when the mound of belongings by the front door had grownwaist high. But, with each trip, she knew that she was thatmuch closer to seeing Tariq again, and, with each trip, her legsbecame more sprightly, her arms more tireless.
We're going to need a big taxi.Laila looked up. It was Mammy calling down from herbedroom upstairs. She was leaning out the window, resting herelbows on the sill. The sun, bright and warm, caught in hergraying hair, shone on her drawn, thin face. Mammy waswearing the same cobalt blue dress she had worn the day ofthe lunch party four months earlier, a youthful dress meant fora young woman, but, for a moment, Mammy looked to Lailalike an old woman. An old woman with stringy arms andsunken temples and slow eyes rimmed by darkened circles ofweariness, an altogether different creature from the plump,round-faced woman beaming radiantly from those grainywedding photos.
Two big taxis, Laila said.
She could see Babi too, in the living room stacking boxes ofbooks atop each other.
Come up when you're done with those, Mammy said. "We'llsit down for lunch. Boiled eggs and leftover beans.""My favorite," Laila said.
She thought suddenly of her dream. She and Tariq on a quilt.
The ocean. The wind. The dunes.
What had it sounded like, she wondered now, the singingsands?
Laila stopped. She saw a gray lizard crawl out of a crack inthe ground. Its head shot side to side. It blinked. Darted undera rock.
Laila pictured the beach again. Except now the singing was allaround. And growing. Louder and louder by the moment,higher and higher. It flooded her ears. Drowned everything elseout. The gulls were feathered mimes now, opening and closingtheir beaks noiselessly, and the waves were crashing with foamand spray but no roar. The sands sang on. Screaming now. Asound like…a tinkling?
Not a tinkling. No. A whistling.
Laila dropped the books at her feet. She looked up to thesky. Shielded her eyes with one hand.
Then a giant roar.
Behind her, a flash of white.
The ground lurched beneath her feet.
Something hot and powerful slammed into her from behind. Itknocked her out of her sandals. Lifted her up. And now shewas flying, twisting and rotating in the air, seeing sky, thenearth, then sky, then earth. A big burning chunk of woodwhipped by. So did a thousand shards of glass, and it seemedto Laila that she could see each individual one flying all aroundher, flipping slowly end over end, the sunlight catching in each.
Tiny, beautiful rainbows.
Then Laila struck the wall. Crashed to the ground. On herface and arms, a shower of dirt and pebbles and glass. Thelast thing she was aware of was seeing something thud to theground nearby. A bloody chunk of something. On it, the tip ofa red bridge poking through thick fog.
* * *Shapes moving about. A fluorescent light shines from theceiling above. A woman's face appears, hovers over hers.
Laila fades back to the dark.
* * *Another face. This time a man's. His features seem broad anddroopy. His lips move but make no sound. All Laila hears isringing.
The man waves his hand at her. Frowns. His lips move again.
It hurts. It hurts to breathe. It hurts everywhere.
A glass of water. A pink pill.
Back to the darkness.
* * *The woman again. Long face, narrow-set eyes. She sayssomething. Laila can't hear anything but the ringing. But shecan see the words, like thick black syrup, spilling out of thewoman's mouth.
Her chest hurts. Her arms and legs hurt.
All around, shapes moving.
Where is Tariq?
Why isn't he here?
Darkness. A flock of stars.
Babi and she, perched somewhere high up. He is pointing toa field of barley. A generator comes to life.
The long-faced woman is standing over her looking down.
It hurts to breathe.
Somewhere, an accordion playing.
Mercifully, the pink pill again. Then a deep hush. A deephushfalls over everything.
MadamDo you know who I am?"The girl's eyes fluttered"Do you know what has happened?"The girl's mouth quivered. She closed her eyes. Swallowed.
Her hand grazed her left cheek. She mouthed something.
Mariam leaned in closer.
This ear, the girl breathed. "I can't hear."* * *For the first "week, the girl did little but sleep, with help fromthe pink pills Rasheed paid for at the hospital. She murmuredin her sleep. Sometimes she spoke gibberish, cried out, calledout names Mariam did not recognize. She wept in her sleep,grew agitated, kicked the blankets off, and then Mariam had tohold her down. Sometimes she retched and retched, threw upeverything Mariam fed her.
When she wasn't agitated, the girl was a sullen pair of eyesstaring from under the blanket, breathing out short littleanswers to Mariam and Rasheed's questions. Some days shewas childlike, whipped her head side to side, when Mariam,then Rasheed, tried to feed her. She went rigid when Mariamcame at her with a spoon. But she tired easily and submittedeventually to their persistent badgering. Long bouts of weepingfollowed surrender.
Rasheed had Mariam rub antibiotic ointment on the cuts onthe girl's face and neck, and on the sutured gashes on hershoulder, across her forearms and lower legs. Mariam dressedthem with bandages, which she washed and recycled. She heldthe girl's hair back, out of her face, when she had to retch.
How long is she staying? she asked Rasheed.
"Until she's better. Look at her. She's in no shape to go. Poor thing.* * *It was Rasheed who found the girl, who dug her out frombeneath the rubble.
"Lucky I was home, he said to the girl. He was sitting on afolding chair beside Mariam's bed, where the girl lay. "Luckyfor you, I mean. I dug you out with my own hands. Therewas a scrap of metal this big-" Here, he spread his thumb andindex finger apart to show her, at least doubling, in Mariam'sestimation, the actual size of it. "This big. Sticking right out ofyour shoulder. It was really embedded in there. I thought I'dhave to use a pair of pliers.
But you're all right. In no time, you'll benau socha. Good asnew."It was Rasheed who salvaged a handful of Hakim's books.
Most of them were ash. The rest were looted, I'm afraid.He helped Mariam watch over the girl that first week. Oneday, he came home from work with a new blanket and pillow.
Another day, a bottle of pills.
Vitamins, he said.
It was Rasheed who gave Laila the news that her friendTariq's house was occupied now.
A gift, he said. "From one of Sayyaf s commanders to threeof his men. A gift. Ha!"The threemen were actually boys with suntanned, youthfulfaces. Mariam would see them when she passed by, alwaysdressed in their fatigues, squatting by the front door of Tariq'shouse, playing cards and smoking, their Kalashnikovs leaningagainst the wall. The brawny one, the one with the self-satisfied,scornful demeanor, was the leader. The youngest was also thequietest, the one who seemed reluctant to wholeheartedlyembrace his friends' air of impunity. He had taken to smilingand tipping his headsalaam when Mariam passed by. When hedid, some of his surface smugness dropped away, and Mariamcaught a glint of humility as yet uncorrupted.
Then one morning rockets slammed into the house. Theywere rumored later to have been fired by the Hazaras ofWahdat. For some time, neighbors kept finding bits and piecesof the boys.
They had it coming, said Rasheed.
* * *The girl was extraordinarily lucky, Mariam thought, to escapewith relatively minor injuries, considering the rocket had turnedher house into smoking rubble. And so,slowly, the girl gotbetter. She began to eat more, began to brush her own hair.
She took baths on her own. She began taking her mealsdownstairs, with Mariam and Rasheed.
But then some memory would rise, unbidden, and therewould be stony silences or spells of churlishness. Withdrawalsand collapses. Wan looks. Nightmares and sudden attacks ofgrief. Retching.
And sometimes regrets.
I shouldn't even be here,she said one day.
Mariam was changing the sheets. The girl watchedfromthefloor, herbruised knees drawn up against her chest.
My father wanted to take out the boxes. The books. He saidthey were too heavyfor me. But I wouldn't let him. I was soeager. I should have been the one inside the house when ithappened.Mariam snapped the clean sheet and let it settle on the bedShe looked at the girl, at her blond curls, her slender neckand green eyes, her high cheekbones and plump lips. Mariamremembered seeing her on the streets when she was little,tottering after her mother on the way to the tandoor, riding onthe shoulders of her brother, the younger one, with the patchof hair on his ear. Shooting marbles with the carpenter's boy.
The girl was looking back as if waiting for Mariam to pass onsome morsel of wisdom, to say something encouraging- Butwhat wisdom did Mariam have to offer? What encouragement?
Mariam remembered the day they'd buried Nana and how littlecomfort she had found when Mullah Faizullah had quoted theKoran for her.Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom,and He Who has power over all things, Who created deathand life that He may try you. Or when he'd said of her ownguilt,These thoughts are no good, Mariam jo. They will destroyyou. It wasn't your fault It wasn't your fault.
What could she say to this girl that would ease her burden?
As it turned out, Mariam didn't have to say anything. Becausethe girl's face twisted, and she was on all fours then sayingshe was going to be sick.
Wait! Hold on. I'll get a pan. Not on the floor. I justcleaned…Oh. Oh.Khodaya. God.* * *Then one day, about a month after the blast that killed thegirl's parents, a man came knocking. Mariam opened the door.
He stated his business.
There is a man here to see you, Mariam said.
The girl raised her head from the pillow.
He says his name is Abdul Sharif."I don't know any Abdul Sharif."Well, he's here asking for you. You need to come down andtalk to him.
Laila sat across from Abdul Sharif, who was a thin,small-headed man with a bulbous nose pocked with the samecratered scars that pitted his cheeks. His hair, short andbrown, stood on his scalp like needles in a pincushion.
You'll have to forgive me,hamshira, he said, adjusting hisloose collar and dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief "I stillhaven't quite recovered, I fear. Five more days of these, whatare they called…sulfa pills."Laila positioned herself in her seat so that her right ear, thegood one, was closest to him. "Were you a friend of myparents?""No, no," Abdul Sharif said quickly. "Forgive me." He raised afinger, took a long sip of the water that Mariam had placed infront of him.
I should begin at the beginning, I suppose. He dabbed athis lips, again at his brow. "I am a businessman. I ownclothing stores, mostly men's clothing.Chapans, hats,iumban%,suits, ties-you name it. Two stores here in Kabul, in Taimaniand Shar-e-Nau, though I just sold those. And two in Pakistan,in Peshawar. That's where my warehouse is as well. So I travela lot, back and forth. Which, these days"-he shook his headand chuckled tiredly-"let's just say that it's an adventure.
"I was in Peshawar recently, on business, taking orders, goingover inventory, that sort of thing. Also to visit my family. Wehave three daughters,alhamdulellah. I moved them and my wifeto Peshawar after the Mujahideen began going at each other'sthroats. I won't have their names added to theshaheedlist. Normine, to be honest. I'll be joining them there verysoon,inshallah. Anyway, I was supposed to be back in Kabul the Wednesdaybefore last. But, as luck would have it, I came down with anillness. I won't bother you with it,hamshira, suffice it to say thatwhen I went to do my private business, the simpler of the two,it felt like passing chunks of broken glass. I wouldn't wish it onHekmatyar himself. My wife, Nadia jan, Allah bless her, shebegged me to see a doctor. But I thought I'd beat it withaspirin and a lot of water. Nadia jan insisted and I said no,back and forth we went. You know the saying^stubborn assneeds a stubborn driver. This time, I'm afraid, the ass won.
"That would be me."He drank the rest of this water and extended the glass toMariam. "If it's not too muchzahmat."Mariam took the glass and went to fill it.
"Needless to say, I should have listened to her. She's alwaysbeen the more sensible one, God give her a long life. By thetime I made it to the hospital, I was burning with a fever andshaking like abeid tree in the wind. I could barely stand. Thedoctor said I had blood poisoning. She said two or three moredays and I would have made my wife a widow. They put me in a special unit, reserved for really sick people,I suppose. Oh,iashakor."" He took the glass from Mariam andfrom his coat pocket produced a large white pill. ""Thesize ofthese things.""Laila watched him swallow his pill She was aware that herbreathing had quickened Her legs felt heavy, as though weightshad been tethered to them. She told herself that he wasn'tdone, that he hadn't told her anything as yet. But he would goon in a second, and she resisted an urge to get up and leave,leave before he told her things she didn't want to hear.
"Abdul Sharif set his glass on the table.
That's where I met your friend, Mohammad Tariq Walizai.Laila's heart sped up. Tariq in a hospital? A special unit?Forreally sick people?
She swallowed dry spit. Shifted on her chair. She had to steelherself. If she didn't, she feared she would come unhinged. Shediverted her thoughts from hospitals and special units andthought instead about the fact that she hadn't heard Tariqcalled by his full name since the two of them had enrolled in aFarsi winter course years back. The teacher would call roll afterthe bell and say his name like that-Mohammad Tariq Walizai. Ithad struck her as comically officious then, hearing his full nameuttered.
What happened to him I heard from one of the nurses,Abdul Sharif resumed, tapping his chest with a fist as if to easethe passage of the pill. "With all the time I've spent inPeshawar, I've become pretty proficient in Urdu. Anyway, whatI gathered was that your friend was in a lorry full of refugees,twenty-three of them, all headed for Peshawar. Near theborder, they were caught in cross fire. A rocket hit the lorry.
Probably a stray, but you never know with these people, younever know. There were only six survivors, all of themadmitted to the same unit. Three died within twenty-four hours.
Two of them lived-sisters, as I understood it-and had beendischarged.
Your friend Mr. Walizai was the last. He'd been there foralmost three weeks by the time I arrived."So he was alive. But how badly had they hurt him? Lailawondered frantically. How badly? Badly enough to be put in aspecial unit, evidently. Laila was aware that she had startedsweating, that her face felt hot. She tried to think of somethingelse, something pleasant, like the trip to Bamiyan to see theBuddhas with Tariq and Babi. But instead an image of Tariq'sparents presented itself: Tariq's mother trapped in the lorry,upside down, screaming for Tariq through the smoke, her armsand chest on fire, the wig melting into her scalp…Laila had to take a series of rapid breaths.
He was in the bed next to mine. There were no walls, onlya curtain between us. So I could see him pretty well.Abdul Sharif found a sudden need to toy with his weddingband. He spoke more slowly now.
"Your friend, he was badly-very badly-injured, you understand. He had rubber tubes coming out of him everywhere. At first-He cleared his throat. ""At first, I thought he'd lost both legs inthe attack, but a nurse said no, only the right, the left one wason account of an old injury. There were internal injuries too.
"They'd operated three times already. Took out sections ofintestines, I don't remember what else. And he was burned.
Quite badly. That's all I'll say about that. I'm sure you haveyour fair share of nightmares,hamshira. No sense in me addingto them."Tariq was legless now. He was a torso with twostumps.Legless. Laila thought she might collapse. With deliberate,desperate effort, she sent the tendrils of her mind out of thisroom, out the window, away from this man, over the streetoutside, over the city now, and its flat-topped houses andbazaars, its maze of narrow streets turned to sand castles.
"He was drugged up most of the time. For the pain, youunderstand. But he had moments when the drugs werewearing off when he was clear. In pain but clear of mind Iwould talk to him from my bed. I told him who I was, whereI was from. He was glad, I think, that there was ahamwaiannext to him. I did most of the talking. It was hard for him to. His voicewas hoarse, and I think it hurt him to move his lips. So I toldhim about my daughters, and about our house in Peshawarand the veranda my brother-in-law and I are building out inthe back. I told him I had sold the stores in Kabul and that Iwas going back to finish up the paperwork. It wasn't much.
"But it occupied him. At least, I like to think it did.
"Sometimes he talked too. Half the time, I couldn't make outwhat he was saying, but I caught enough. He described wherehe'd lived. He talked about his uncle in Ghazni. And his mother's cookingand his father's carpentry, him playing the accordion. But, mostly, he talked about you,hamshira. He said youwere-how did he put it-his earliest memory. I think that's right,yes. I could tell he cared a great deal about you.Balay, thatmuch was plain to see. But he said he was glad you weren'tthere. He said he didn't want you seeing him like that.""Laila's feet felt heavy again, anchored to the floor, as if all herblood had suddenly pooled down there. But her mind was faraway, free and fleet, hurtling like a speeding missile beyondKabul, over craggy brown hills and over deserts ragged withclumps of sage, past canyons of jagged red rock and oversnowcapped mountains…""When I told him I was going back to Kabul, he asked me tofind you. To tell you that he was thinking of you. That hemissed you. I promised him I would I'd taken quite a liking tohim, you see. He was a decent sort of boy, I could tell.""Abdul Sharif wiped his brow with the handkerchief.
"I woke up one night, he went on, his interest in thewedding band renewed, "I think it was night anyway, it's hardto tell in those places. There aren't any windows. Sunrise,sundown, you just don't know. But I woke up, and there wassome sort of commotion around the bed next to mine. Youhave to understand that I was full of drugs myself, alwaysslipping in and out, to the point where it was hard to tell whatwas real and what you'd dreamed up. All I remember is,doctors huddled around the bed, calling for this and that,alarms bleeping, syringes all over the ground.
In the morning, the bed was empty. I asked a nurse. Shesaid he fought valiantly.Laila was dimly aware that she was nodding. She'd known. Ofcourse she'd known. She'd known the moment she had satacross from this man why he was here, what news he wasbringing.
At first, you see, at first I didn't think you even existed, hewas saying now. "I thought it was the morphine talking. MaybeI evenhopedyou didn't exist; I've always dreaded bearing badnews. But I promised him. And, like I said, I'd become ratherfond of him. So I came by here a few days ago. I askedaround for you, talked to some neighbors. They pointed to thishouse. They also told me what had happened to your parents.
When I heard about that, well, I turned around and left. Iwasn't going to tell you. I decided it would be too much foryou. For anybody."Abdul Sharif reached across the table and put a hand on herkneecap. "But I came back. Because, in the end, I think hewould have wanted you to know. I believe that. I'm so sorry. Iwish…"Laila wasn't listening anymore. She was remembering the daythe man from Panjshir had come to deliver the news ofAhmad's and Noor's deaths. She remembered Babi, white-faced,slumping on the couch, and Mammy, her hand flying to hermouth when she heard. Laila had watched Mammy comeundone that day and it had scared her, but she hadn't feltany true sorrow. She hadn't understood the awfulness of hermother's loss. Now another stranger bringing news of anotherdeath. Nowshe was the one sitting on the chair. Was this herpenalty, then, her punishment for being aloof to her ownmother's suffering?
Laila remembered how Mammy had dropped to the ground,how she'd screamed, torn at her hair. But Laila couldn't evenmanage that. She could hardly move. She could hardly move amuscle.
She sat on the chair instead, hands limp in her lap, eyesstaring at nothing, and let her mind fly on. She let it fly onuntil it found the place, the good and safe place, where thebarley fields were green, where the water ran clear and thecottonwood seeds danced by the thousands in the air; whereBabi was reading a book beneath an acacia and Tariq wasnapping with his hands laced across his chest, and where shecould dip her feet in the stream and dream good dreamsbeneath the watchful gaze of gods of ancient, sun-bleachedrock.
MadamI'm so sorry," Rasheed said to the girl, taking his bowlofmasiawa and meatballs from Mariam without looking at her.
I know you were very close….friends. ..the two of you. Alwaystogether, since you were kids. It's a terrible thing, what'shappened. Too many young Afghan men are dying this way.He motioned impatiently with his hand, still looking at the girl,and Mariam passed him a napkin.
For years, Mariam had looked on as he ate, the muscles ofhis temples churning, one hand making compact little rice balls,the back of the other wiping grease, swiping stray grains, fromthe corners of his mouth. For years, he had eaten withoutlooking up, without speaking, his silence condemning, as thoughsome judgment were being passed, then broken only by anaccusatory grunt, a disapproving cluck of his tongue, aone-word command for more bread, more water.
Now he ate with a spoon. Used a napkin. Saidlot/an whenasking for water. And talked. Spiritedly and incessantly.
If you ask me, the Americans armed the wrong man inHekmatyar. All the guns the CIA handed him in the eighties tofight the Soviets. The Soviets are gone, but he still has theguns, and now he's turning them on innocent people like yourparents. And he calls this jihad. What a farce! What does jihadhave to do with killing women and children? Better the CIAhad armed Commander Massoud.Mariam's eyebrows shot up of their own will.CommanderMassoud? In her head, she could hear Rasheed's rants againstMassoud, how he was a traitor and a communist- But, then,Massoud was a Tajik, of course. Like Laila.
Now,there is a reasonable fellow. An honorable Afghan. Aman genuinely interested in a peaceful resolution.Rasheed shrugged and sighed.
"Not that they give a damn in America, mind you. What dothey care that Pashtuns and Hazaras and Tajiks and Uzbeksare killing each other? How many Americans can even tell onefrom the other? Don't expect help from them, I say. Now thatthe Soviets have collapsed, we're no use to them. We servedour purpose. To them, Afghanistan is akenarab, a shit hole. Excuse my language, but it's true. What do you think, Lailajan?The girl mumbled something unintelligible and pushed ameatball around in her bowl.
"Rasheed nodded thoughtfully, as though she'd said the mostclever thing he'd ever heard. Mariam had to look away.
You know, your father, God give him peace, your father andI used to have discussions like this. This was before you wereborn, of course. On and on we'd go about politics. Aboutbooks too. Didn't we, Mariam? You remember.Mariam busied herself taking a sip of water.
Anyway, I hope I am not boring you with all this talk ofpolitics.Later, Mariam was in the kitchen, soaking dishes in soapywater, a tightly wound knot in her belly-It wasn't so muchwhathe said, the blatant lies, the contrived empathy, or even thefact that he had not raised a hand to her, Mariam, since hehad dug the girl out from under those bricks.
It was thestaged delivery. Like a performance. An attempt onhis part, both sly and pathetic, to impress. To charm.
And suddenly Mariam knew that her suspicions were right.
She understood with a dread that was like a blinding whack tothe side of her head that what she was witnessing was nothingless than a courtship.
* * *When shed at last worked up the nerve, Mariam went to hisroom.
Rasheed lit a cigarette, and said, "Why not?"Mariam knew right then that she was defeated. She'd halfexpected, half hoped, that he would deny everything, feignsurprise, maybe even outrage, at what she was implying. Shemight have had the upper hand then. She might havesucceeded in shaming him. But it stole her grit, his calmacknowledgment, his matter-of-fact tone.
Sit down, he said. He was lying on his bed, back to thewall, his thick, long legs splayed on the mattress. "Sit downbefore you faint and cut your head open."Mariam felt herself drop onto the folding chair beside his bed.
Hand me that ashtray, would you? he said.
Obediently, she did.
Rasheed had to be sixty or more now-though Mariam, and infact Rasheed himself did not know his exact age. His hair hadgone white, but it was as thick and coarse as ever. There wasa sag now to his eyelids and the skin of his neck, which waswrinkled and leathery. His cheeks hung a bit more than theyused to. In the mornings, he stooped just a tad. But he stillhad the stout shoulders, the thick torso, the strong hands, theswollen belly that entered the room before any other part ofhim did.
On the whole, Mariam thought that he had weathered theyears considerably better than she.
We need to legitimize this situation, he said now, balancingthe ashtray on his belly. His lips scrunched up in a playfulpucker. "People will talk. It looks dishonorable, an unmarriedyoung woman living here. It's bad for my reputation. And hers.
And yours, I might add.""Eighteen years," Mariam said. "And I never asked you for athing. Not one thing. I'm asking now."He inhaled smoke and let it out slowly. "She can't juststayhere, if that's what you're suggesting. I can't go on feeding herand clothing her and giving her a place to sleep. I'm not theRed Cross, Mariam.""But this?""What of it? What? She's too young, you think? She'sfourteen.Hardly a child. You were fifteen, remember? Mymother was fourteen when she had me. Thirteen when shemarried.""I...Idon't wantthis," Mariam said, numb with contempt andhelplessness.
It's not your decision. It's hers andmine."I'm too old."She's tooyoung, you'retoo old. This is nonsense."Iam too old. Too old for you to do this to me, Mariam said,balling up fistfuls of her dress sotightly her hands shook."Foryou, after all these years, to make me anambagh""Don't be sodramatic. It's a common thing and you knowit. Ihave friends whohave two, three, four wives. Your own fatherhad three. Besides,what I'm doing now most men I knowwould have done long ago.You know it's true.""I won't allow it."At this, Rasheed smiled sadly.
Thereis another option, he said, scratching the sole of onefoot with the calloused heel of the other. "She can leave. Iwon't stand in her way. But I suspect she won't get far. Nofood, no water, not a rupiah in her pockets, bullets and rocketsflying everywhere. How many days do you suppose she'll lastbefore she's abducted, raped, or tossed into some roadsideditch with her throat slit? Or all three?"He coughed and adjusted the pillow behind his back.
"The roads out there are unforgiving, Mariam, believe me. Bloodhounds and bandits at every turn. I wouldn't like herchances, not at all. But let's say that by some miracle she getsto Peshawar. What then? Do you have any idea what thosecamps are like?He gazed at her from behind a column of smoke.
" "People living under scraps of cardboard. TB, dysentery,famine, crime. And that's before winter. Then it's frostbiteseason. Pneumonia. People turning to icicles. Those campsbecome frozen graveyards. Of course,"" he made a playful, twirling motion with his hand,""she could keep warm in one of those Peshawar brothels.
"Business is booming there, I hear. A beauty like her ought tobring in a small fortune, don't you think?"He set the ashtray on the nightstand and swung his legs overthe side of the bed.
Look, hesaid, sounding more conciliatory now, asa victorcould afford to. "I knew you wouldn't take this well. I don'treally blame you. Butthis is for thebest. You'll see. Think of itthis way, Mariam. I'm givingyou help around the house andhera sanctuary. A home and a husband. These days, times beingwhat they are, a woman needs a husband. Haven't you noticedall the widows sleeping onthe streets? They would kill forthischance. In fact,this is. … Well, I'd say this is downrightcharitable of me."He smiled.
The way I see it, I deserve amedal.* * *Later, in the dark, Mariam told the girl.
Fora long time, the girl said nothing.
He wants an answer by this morning, Mariam said.
He can have it now, the girl said. "My answeris yes."
Laila
The next day,Laila stayed in bed. She was under the blanket inthe morning when Rasheed poked his head in and said hewas going to the barber. She was still in bed when he camehome late in the afternoon, when he showed her his newhaircut, his new used suit, blue with cream pinstripes, and thewedding band he'd bought her.
Rasheed sat on the bed beside her, made a great show ofslowly undoing the ribbon, of opening the box and plucking outthe ring delicately. He let on that he'd traded in Mariam's oldwedding ring for it.
She doesn't care. Believe me. She won't even notice.Laila pulled away to the far end of the bed. She could hearMariam downstairs, the hissing of her iron.
She never wore it anyway, Rasheed said.
I don't want it, Laila said, weakly. "Not like this. You haveto take it back.""Take it back?" An impatient look flashed across his face andwas gone. He smiled. "I had to add some cash too-quite a lot,in fact. This is a better ring, twenty-two-karat gold. Feel howheavy? Go on, feel it. No?" He closed the box. "How aboutflowers? That would be nice. You like flowers? Do you have afavorite? Daisies?
Tulips? Lilacs? No flowers? Good! I don't see the point myself.
I just thought…Now, I know a tailor here in Deh-Mazang. Iwas thinking we could take you there tomorrow, get you fittedfor a proper dress."Laila shook her head.
Rasheed raised his eyebrows.
I'd just as soon- Laila began.
He put a hand on her neck. Laila couldn't help wincing andrecoiling. His touch felt like wearing a prickly old wet woolsweater with no undershirt.
Yes?"I'd just as soon we get it done.Rasheed's mouth opened, then spread in a yellow, toothy grin.
Eager, he said.
* * *Before Abdul Sharif's visit, Laila had decided to leave forPakistan. Even after Abdul Sharif came bearing his news, Lailathought now, she might have left. Gone somewhere far fromhere. Detached herself from this city where every street cornerwas a trap, where every alley hid a ghost that sprang at herlike a jack-in-the-box. She might have taken the risk.
But, suddenly, leaving was no longer an option.
Not with this daily retching.
This new fullness in her breasts.
And the awareness, somehow, amid all of this turmoil, thatshe had missed a cycle.
Laila pictured herself in a refugee camp, a stark field withthousands of sheets of plastic strung to makeshift poles flappingin the cold, stinging wind. Beneath one of these makeshift tents,she saw her baby, Tariq's baby, its temples wasted, its jawsslack, its skin mottled, bluish gray. She pictured its tiny bodywashed by strangers, wrapped in a tawny shroud, lowered intoa hole dug in a patch of windswept land under thedisappointed gaze of vultures.
How could she run now?
Laila took grim inventory of the people in her life. Ahmad andNoor, dead. Hasina, gone. Giti, dead. Mammy, dead. Babi, dead.
Now Tariq…But, miraculously, something of her former life remained, herlast link to the person that she had been before she hadbecome so utterly alone. A part of Tariq still alive inside her,sprouting tiny arms, growing translucent hands.
How could she jeopardize the only thing she had left of him,of her old life?
She made her decision quickly. Six weeks had passed sinceher time with Tariq. Any longer and Rasheed would growsuspicious.
She knew that what she was doing was dishonorable.
Dishonorable, disingenuous, and shameful. And spectacularlyunfair to Mariam. But even though the baby inside her was nobigger than a mulberry, Laila already saw the sacrifices amother had to make. Virtue was only the first.
She put a hand on her belly. Closed her eyes.
* * *Laila would remember the muted ceremony in bits andfragments. The cream-colored stripes of Rasheed's suit. Thesharp smell of his hair spray. The small shaving nick justabove his Adam's apple. The rough pads of his tobacco-stainedfingers when he slid the ring on her. The pen. Its not working.
The search for a new pen. The contract. The signing, hissure-handed, hers quavering. The prayers. Noticing, in themirror, that Rasheed had trimmed his eyebrows.
And, somewhere in the room, Mariam watching. The airchoking with her disapproval.
Laila could not bring herself to meet the older woman's gaze.
* * *Lying beneath his cold sheets that night, she watched him pullthe curtains shut. She was shaking even before his fingersworked her shirt buttons, tugged at the drawstring of hertrousers. He was agitated. His fingers fumbled endlessly with hisown shirt, with undoing his belt. Laila had a full view of hissagging breasts, his protruding belly button, the small blue veinin the center of it, the tufts of thick white hair on his chest,his shoulders, and upper arms. She felt his eyes crawling allover her.
God help me, I think I love you, he said-Through chatteringteeth, she asked him to turn out the lights.
Later, when she was sure that he was asleep, Laila quietlyreached beneath the mattress for the knife she had hiddenthere earlier. With it, she punctured the pad of her indexfinger. Then she lifted the blanket and let her finger bleed onthe sheets where they had lain together.