MadamIn the daytime, the girl was no more than a creakingbedspring, a patter of footsteps overhead. She was watersplashing in the bathroom, or a teaspoon clinking against glassin the bedroom upstairs. Occasionally, there were sightings: ablur of billowing dress in the periphery of Madam's vision,scurrying up the steps, arms folded across the chest, sandalsslapping the heels.
But it was inevitable that they would run into each other.
Madam passed the girl on the stairs, in the narrow hallway, inthe kitchen, or by the door as she was coming in from theyard. When they met like this, an awkward tension rushed intothe space between them. The girl gathered her skirt andbreathed out a word or two of apology, and, as she hurriedpast, Madam would chance a sidelong glance and catch ablush. Sometimes she could smell Rasheed on her. She couldsmell his sweat on the girl's skin, his tobacco, his appetite. Sex,mercifully, was a closed chapter in her own life. It had beenfor some time, and now even the thought of those laborioussessions of lying beneath Rasheed made Madam queasy in thegut.
At night, however, this mutually orchestrated dance ofavoidance between her and the girl was not possible. Rasheedsaid they were a family. He insisted they were, and familieshad to eat together, he said.
What is this? he said, his fingers working the meat off abone-the spoon-and-fork charade was abandoned a week afterhe married the girl. "Have I married a pair of statues? Go on,Madam,gap bezan, say something to her. Where are yourmanners?"Sucking marrow from a bone, he said to the girl, "But youmustn't blame her. She is quiet. A blessing, really,because,wallah, if a person hasn't got much to say she mightas well be stingy with words. We are city people, you and I,but she isdehati. A village girl. Not even a village girl. No. Shegrew up in akolba made of mudoutside the village. Her fatherput her there. Have you told her, Mariam, have you told herthat you are aharami1? Well, she is. But she is not withoutqualities, all things considered. You will see for yourself, Lailajan. She is sturdy, for one thing, a good worker, and withoutpretensions. I'll say it this way: If she were a car, she wouldbe a Volga."Mariam was a thirty-three-year-old woman now, but thatword,harami, still had sting. Hearing it still made her feel likeshe was a pest, a cockroach. She remembered Nana pullingher wrists.You are a clumsy Utile harami.This is my reward foreverything I've endured. An heirloom-breaking clumsy Utileharami.
You, Rasheed said to the girl, "you, on the other hand,would be a Benz. A brand-new, first-class, shiny Benz.Wahwah. But. But." He raised one greasy index finger. "One musttake certain…cares…with a Benz. As a matter of respect for itsbeauty and craftsmanship, you see. Oh, you must be thinkingthat I am crazy,diwana, with all this talk of automobiles. I amnot saying you are cars. I am merely making a point."For what came next, Rasheed put down the ball of rice he'dmade back on the plate. His hands dangled idly over his meal,as he looked down with a sober, thoughtful expression.
One mustn't speak ill of the dead much less the,shaheed.AndI intend no disrespect when I say this, I want you to know,but I have certain… reservations…about the way yourparents-Allah, forgive them and grant them a place inparadise-about their, well, their leniency with you. I'm sorry.The cold, hateful look the girl flashed Rasheed at this did notescape Mariam, but he was looking down and did not notice.
"No matter. The point is, I am your husband now, and it fallson me to guard not onlyyour honor butours, yes, ournangandnamoos. That is the husband's burden. You let me worryabout that. Please. As for you, you are the queen, themalika,and this house is your palace. Anything you need done youask Mariam and she will do it for you. Won't you, Mariam? And if you fancy something, I will get itforyou. You see, that isthe sort of husband I am. All I ask in return, well, it is a simple thing. I ask that youavoid leaving this house without my company. That's all. Simple,no? If I am away and you need something urgently, Imeanabsolutely need it and it cannot wait for me, then youcan send Mariam and she will go out and get it for you.
"You've noticed a discrepancy, surely. Well, one does not drive aVolga and a Benz in the same manner. That would be foolish,wouldn't it? Oh, I also ask that when we are out together, thatyou wear a burqa. For your own protection, naturally. It isbest. So many lewd men in this town now. Such vile intentions,so eager to dishonor even a married woman. So. That's all."He coughed.
I should say that Mariam will be my eyes and ears when Iam away. Here, he shot Mariam a fleeting look that was ashard as a steel-toed kick to the temple. "Not that I ammistrusting. Quite the contrary. Frankly, you strike me as farwiser than your years. But you are still a young woman, Lailajan, adokhtar ejawan, and young women can make unfortunatechoices. They can be prone to mischief. Anyway, Mariam willbe accountable. And if there is a slipup…"On and on he went. Mariam sat watching the girl out of thecorner of her eye as Rasheed's demands and judgments raineddown on them like the rockets on Kabul.
* * *One day, Mariam was in the living room folding some shirtsof Rasheed's that she had plucked from the clothesline in theyard. She didn't know how long the girl had been standingthere, but, when she picked up a shirt and turned around, shefound her standing by the doorway, hands cupped around aglassful of tea.
I didn't mean to startle you, the girl said. "I'm sorry."Mariam only looked at her.
The sun fell on the girl's face, on her large green eyes andher smooth brow, on her high cheekbones and the appealing,thick eyebrows, which were nothing like Mariam's own, thinand featureless. Her yellow hair, uncombed this morning, wasmiddle-parted.
Mariam could see in the stiff way the girl clutched the cup,the tightened shoulders, that she was nervous. She imaginedher sitting on the bed working up the nerve.
The leaves are turning, the girl said companionably. "Haveyou seen? Autumn is my favorite. I like the smell of it, whenpeople burn leaves in their gardens. My mother, she likedspringtime the best. You knew my mother?""Not really."The girl cupped a hand behind her ear. "I'm sorry?"Mariam raised her voice. "I said no. I didn't know yourmother.""Oh.""Is there something you want?""Mariam jan, I want to…About the things he said the othernight-""I have been meaning to talk to you about it." Mariam brokein.
Yes, please, the girl said earnestly, almost eagerly. She took astep forward. She looked relieved.
Outside, an oriole was warbling. Someone was pulling a cart;Mariam could hear the creaking of its hinges, the bouncing andrattling of its iron wheels. There was the sound of gunfire notso far away, a single shot followed by three more, thennothing.
I won't be your servant, Mariam said. "I won't."The girl flinched "No. Of course not!""You may be the palacemalika and me adehati, but I won'ttake orders from you. You can complain to him and he canslit my throat, but I won't do it. Do you hear me? I won't beyour servant.""No! I don't expect-""And if you think you can use your looks to get rid of me,you're wrong. I was here first. I won't be thrown out. I won'thave you cast me out.""It's not what I want," the girl said weakly.
And I see your wounds are healed up now. So you canstart doing your share of the work in this house-The girl was nodding quickly. Some of her tea spilled, but shedidn't notice. "Yes, that's the other reason I came down, tothank you for taking care of me-""Well, I wouldn't have," Mariam snapped. "I wouldn't have fedyou and washed you and nursed you if I'd known you weregoing to turn around and steal my husband.""Steal-""I will still cook and wash the dishes. You will do the laundryand the sweeping- The rest we will alternate daily. And onemore thing. I have no use for your company. I don't want it.
What I want is to be alone. You will leave me be, and I willreturn the favor. That's how we will get on. Those are therules."When she was done speaking, her heart was hammering andher mouth felt parched. Mariam had never before spoken inthis manner, had never stated her will so forcefully. It ought tohave felt exhilarating, but the girl's eyes had teared up and herface was drooping, and what satisfaction Mariam found fromthis outburst felt meager, somehow illicit.
She extended the shirts toward the girl.
Put them in thealmari, not the closet. He likes the whites inthe top drawer, the rest in the middle, with the socks.The girl set the cup on the floor and put her hands out forthe shirts, palms up. "I'm sorry about all of this," she croaked.
You should be, Mariam said. "You should be sorry."
Laila remembered a gathering once, years before at thehouse, on one of Mammy's good days. The women had beensitting in the garden, eating from a platter of fresh mulberriesthat Wajma had picked from the tree in her yard. The plumpmulberries had been white and pink, and some the same darkpurple as the bursts of tiny veins on Wajma's nose.
You heard how his son died? Wajma had said, energeticallyshoveling another handful of mulberries into her sunken mouth.
He drowned, didn't he? Nila, Giti's mother, said. "AtGhargha Lake, wasn't it?""But did you know, did you know that Rasheed…" Wajmaraised a finger, made a show of nodding and chewing andmaking them wait for her to swallow. "Did you know that heused to drinksharab back then, that he was crying drunk thatday? It's true. Crying drunk, is what I heard. And that wasmidmorning. By noon, he had passed out on a lounge chair.
You could have fired the noon cannon next to his ear and hewouldn't have batted an eyelash."Laila remembered how Wajma had covered her mouth,burped; how her tongue had gone exploring between her fewremaining teeth.
"You can imagine the rest. The boy went into the waterunnoticed. They spotted him a while later, floating facedown. People rushed to help, half trying to wake up the boy, theother half the father. Someone bent over the boy, did the…themouth-to-mouth thing you're supposed to do. It was pointless. They could all see that. The boy was gone.Laila remembered Wajma raising a finger and her voicequivering with piety. ""This is why the Holy Koran forbidssharab.
"Because it always falls on the sober to pay for the sins of thedrunk. So it does."It was this story that was circling in Laila's head after shegave Rasheed the news about the baby. He had immediatelyhopped on his bicycle, ridden to a mosque, and prayed for aboy.
That night, all during the meal, Laila watched Mariam push acube of meat around her plate. Laila was there when Rasheedsprang the news on Mariam in a high, dramatic voice-Laila hadnever before witnessed such cheerful cruelty. Mariam's lashesfluttered when she heard. A flush spread across her face. Shesat sulking, looking desolate.
After, Rasheed went upstairs to listen to his radio, and Lailahelped Mariam clear thesojrah.
I can't imagine what you are now, Mariam said, pickinggrains of rice and bread crumbs, "if you were a Benz before."Laila tried a more lightheaded tactic. "A train? Maybe a bigjumbo jet."Mariam straightened up. "I hope you don't think this excusesyou from chores."Laila opened her mouth, thought better of it. She remindedherself that Mariam was the only innocent party in thisarrangement. Mariam and the baby-Later, in bed, Laila burstinto tears.
What was the matter? Rasheed wanted to know, lifting herchin. Was she ill? Was it the baby, was something wrong withthe baby? No?
Was Mariam mistreating her?
That's it, isn't it?"No."Wallah o billah, I'll go down and teach her a lesson. Whodoes she think she is, thatharami, treating you-"No!He was getting up already, and she had to grab him by theforearm, pull him back down. "Don't! No! She's been decent tome. I need a minute, that's all. I'll be fine."He sat beside her, stroking her neck, murmuring- His handslowly crept down to her back, then up again. He leaned in,flashed his crowded teeth.
Let's see, then, he purred, "if I can't help you feel better."* * *First, the trees-those that hadn't been cut down forfirewood-shed their spotty yellow-and-copper leaves. Then camethe winds, cold and raw, ripping through the city. They tore offthe last of the clinging leaves, and left the trees looking ghostlyagainst the muted brown of the hills. The season's first snowfallwas light, the flakes no sooner fallen than melted. Then theroads froze, and snow gathered in heaps on the rooftops, piledhalfway up frost-caked windows. With snow came the kites,once the rulers of Kabul's winter skies, now timid trespassers interritory claimed by streaking rockets and fighter jets.
Rasheed kept bringing home news of the war, and Laila wasbaffled by the allegiances that Rasheed tried to explain to her.
Sayyaf was fighting the Hazaras, he said. The Hazaras werefighting Massoud.
And he's fighting Hekmatyar, of course, who has the supportof the Pakistanis. Mortal enemies, those two, Massoud andHekmatyar. Sayyaf, he's siding with Massoud. And Hekmatyarsupports the Hazaras for now.As for the unpredictable Uzbek commander Dostum, Rasheedsaid no one knew where he would stand. Dostum had foughtthe Soviets in the 1980s alongside the Mujahideen but haddefected and joined Najibullah's communist puppet regime afterthe Soviets had left. He had even earned a medal, presentedby Najibullah himself, before defecting once again and returningto the Mujahideen's side. For the time being, Rasheed said,Dostum was supporting Massoud.
In Kabul, particularly in western Kabul, fires raged, and blackpalls of smoke mushroomed over snow-clad buildings.
Embassies closed down. Schools collapsed In hospital waitingrooms, Rasheed said, the wounded were bleeding to death. Inoperating rooms, limbs were being amputated withoutanesthesia.
But don't worry, he said. "You're safe with me, my flower,mygul. Anyone tries to harm you, I'll rip out their liver andmake them eat it."That winter, everywhere Laila turned, walls blocked her way.
She thought longingly of the wide-open skies of her childhood,of her days of going tobuzkashi tournaments with Babi andshopping at Mandaii with Mammy, of her days of running freein the streets and gossiping about boys with Giti and Hasina.
Her days of sitting with Tariq in a bed of clover on the banksof a stream somewhere, trading riddles and candy, watchingthe sun go down.
But thinking of Tariq was treacherous because, before shecould stop, she saw him lying on a bed, far from home, tubespiercing his burned body. Like the bile that kept burning herthroat these days, a deep, paralyzing grief would come risingup Laila's chest. Her legs would turn to water. She would haveto hold on to something.
Laila passed that winter of 1992 sweeping the house,scrubbing the pumpkin-colored walls of the bedroom sheshared with Rasheed, washing clothes outside in a bigcopperlagoon. Sometimes she saw herself as if hovering aboveher own body, saw herself squatting over the rim of thelogoon,sleeves rolled up to the elbows, pink hands wringing soapywater from one of Rasheed's undershirts. She felt lost then,casting about, like a shipwreck survivor, no shore in sight, onlymiles and miles of water.
When it was too cold to go outside, Laila ambled around thehouse. She walked, dragging a fingernail along the wall, downthe hallway, then back, down the steps, then up, her faceunwashed, hair uncombed. She walked until she ran intoMariam, who shot her a cheerless glance and went back toslicing the stem off a bell pepper and trimming strips of fatfrom meat. A hurtful silence would fill the room, and Lailacould almost see the wordless hostility radiating from Mariamlike waves of heat rising from asphalt. She would retreat backto her room, sit on the bed, and watch the snow falling.
* * *Rasheed took her to his shoe shop one day.
When they were out together, he walked alongside her, onehand gripping her by the elbow. For Laila, being out in thestreets had become an exercise in avoiding injury. Her eyeswere still adjusting to the limited, gridlike visibility of the burqa,her feet still stumbling over the hem. She walked in perpetualfear of tripping and falling, of breaking an ankle stepping into apothole. Still, she found some comfort in the anonymity thatthe burqa provided. She wouldn't be recognized this way if sheran into an old acquaintance of hers. She wouldn't have towatch the surprise in their eyes, or the pity or the glee, athow far she had fallen, at how her lofty aspirations had beendashed.
Rasheed's shop was bigger and more brightly lit than Lailahad imagined. He had her sit behind his crowded workbench,the top of which was littered with old soles and scraps ofleftover leather. He showed her his hammers, demonstratedhow the sandpaper wheel worked, hisvoice ringing high andproud-He felt her belly, not through the shirt but under it, hisfingertips cold and rough like bark on her distended skin. LailarememberedTariq's hands, soft but strong, the tortuous, fullveins on the backs of them, which she had always foundsoappealingly masculine.
Swelling so quickly, Rasheed said."It's going to be a big boy.
My sonwill beapahlawanl Like his father."Laila pulled down her shirt. It filled her with fear when hespoke likethis.
Howare things with Mariam?She said they were fine.
Good. Good.She didn't tell him that they'd had their first true fight.
It had happened a few days earlier. Laila had gone to thekitchen and found Mariam yanking drawers and slammingthemshut. She was looking, Mariam said, forthe long woodenspoon she used to stir rice.
Where did you put it? she said, wheeling around to faceLaila.
Me? Laila said "I didn't take it. I hardly come in here.""I've noticed.""Is that an accusation? It's how you wanted it, remember.
You said you would make the meals. But if you want toswitch-""So you're saying it grew little legs and walked out.Teep, teep,teep, teep. Is that what happened,degeh?'
I'm saying… Laila said, trying to maintain control. Usually,she could will herself to absorb Mariam's derision andfinger-pointing. But her ankles had swollen, her head hurt, andthe heartburn was vicious that day. "I am saying that maybeyou've misplaced it.""Misplaced it?" Mariam pulled a drawer. The spatulas andknives inside it clanked. "How long have you been here, a fewmonths? I've lived in this house for nineteen years,dokhiarjo. Ihave keptthat spoon inthis drawer since you were shitting yourdiapers.""Still," Laila said, on the brink now, teeth clenched, "it'spossible you put it somewhere and forgot.""And it'spossible you hid it somewhere, to aggravate me.""You're a sad, miserable woman," Laila said.
Mariam flinched, then recovered, pursed her lips. "And you'rea whore. A whore and adozd. A thieving whore, that's whatyou are!"Then there was shouting- Pots raised though not hurled.
They'd called each other names, names that made Laila blushnow. They hadn't spoken since. Laila was still shocked at howeasily she'd come unhinged, but, the truth was, part of her hadliked it, had liked how it felt to scream at Mariam, to curse ather, to have a target at which to focus all her simmeringanger, her grief.
Laila wondered, with something like insight, if it wasn't thesame for Mariam.
After, she had run upstairs and thrown herself on Rasheed'sbed. Downstairs, Mariam was still yelling, "Dirt onyour head! Dirt on your head!" Laila had lain on the bed,groaning into the pillow, missing her parents suddenly and withan overpowering intensity she hadn't felt since those terribledays just after the attack. She lay there, clutching handfuls ofthe bedsheet, until, suddenly, her breath caught. She sat up,hands shooting down to her belly.
The baby had just kicked for the first time.
MadamJbarly one morning the next spring, of 1993, Mariam stood bythe living-room window and watched Rasheed escort the girlout of the house. The girl was tottering forward, bent at thewaist, one arm draped protectively across the taut drum of herbelly, the shape of which was visible through her burqa.
Rasheed, anxious and overly attentive, was holding her elbow,directing her across the yard like a traffic policeman. He madeaWait here gesture, rushed to the front gate, then motioned forthe girl to come forward, one foot propping the gate open.
When she reached him, he took her by the hand, helped herthrough the gate. Mariam could almost hear him say,"Watchyour step, now, my flower, my gul."They came back early the next evening.
Mariam saw Rasheed enter the yard first. He let the gate goprematurely, and it almost hit the girl on the face. He crossedthe yard in a few, quick steps. Mariam detected a shadow onhis face, a darkness underlying the coppery light of dusk. Inthe house, he took off his coat, threw it on the couch.
Brushing past Mariam, he said in a brusque voice, "I'm hungry.
Get supper ready."The front door to the house opened. From the hallway,Mariam saw the girl, a swaddled bundle in the hook of her leftarm. She had one foot outside, the other inside, against thedoor, to prevent it from springing shut. She was stooped overand was grunting, trying to reach for the paper bag ofbelongings that she had put down in order to open the door.
Herface was grimacing with effort. She looked up and sawMariam.
Mariam turned around and went to the kitchen to warmRasheed'smeal.
* * *"Irs like someone is ramming a screwdriver into my ear,"Rasheed said, rubbing his eyes.He was standing in Mariam'sdoor, puffy-eyed, wearing only aiumban tied with a floppyknot.His white hair was straggly, pointing every which way.
This crying. I can't stand it.Downstairs, the girl was walking the baby across the floor,trying to sing to her.
I haven't had adecent night's sleep in twomonths, Rasheedsaid. "And the room smells like a sewer. There'sshit cloths lyingall over the place. I stepped on onejust the other night."Mariam smirked inwardly with perverse pleasure.
Take her outside! Rasheed yelled over his shoulder. "Can'tyou take her outside?"The singing was suspended briefly."She'll catch pneumonia!""It's summertime!"'What?
Rasheed clenched his teeth and raised his voice. "I said, It'swarm out!""I'm not taking her outside!"The singing resumed"Sometimes, I swear, sometimes I want to put that thing in abox and let her float down Kabul River. Like baby Moses."Mariam never heard him call his daughter by the name thegirl had given her, Aziza, the Cherished One. It was alwaysthebaby, or, when he was really exasperated,thai thing.
Some nights, Mariam overheard them arguing. She tiptoed totheir door, listened to him complain about the baby-always thebaby-the insistent crying, the smells, the toys that made himtrip, the way the baby had hijacked Laila's attentions from himwith constant demands to be fed, burped, changed, walked,held. The girl, in turn, scolded him for smoking in the room,for not letting the baby sleep with them.
There were other arguments waged in voices pitched low.
The doctor said six weeks."Not yet, Rasheed. No. Let go. Come on. Don't do that."It's been two months."Sshi.There. You woke up the baby. Then moresharply,"Khosh shodi? Happy now?"Mariam would sneak back to her room.
Can't you help? Rasheed said now. "There must besomething you can do.""What do I know about babies?" Mariam said.
"Rasheed! Can you bring the bottle? It's sitting on thealmari. She won't feed. I want to try the bottle again.The baby's screeching rose and fell like a cleaver on meat.
"Rasheed closed his eyes. "That thing is a warlord. Hekmatyar.
I'm telling you, Laila's given birth to Gulbuddin Hekmatyar."* * *Mariam watched as the girl's days became consumed withcycles of feeding, rocking, bouncing, walking. Even when thebaby napped, there were soiled diapers to scrub and leave tosoak in a pail of the disinfectant that the girl had insistedRasheed buy for her. There were fingernails to trim withsandpaper, coveralls and pajamas to wash and hang to dry.
These clothes, like other things about the baby, became a pointof contention.
What's the matter with them? Rasheed said"They're boys' clothes. For abacha""You think she knows the difference? I paid good money forthose clothes. And another thing, I don't care for that tone.
Consider that a warning."Every week, without fail, the girl heated a black metal brazierover a flame, tossed a pinch of wild rue seeds in it, andwafted theespandi smoke in her baby's direction to ward offevil.
Mariam found it exhausting to watch the girl's lollopingenthusiasm-and had to admit, if only privately, to a degree ofadmiration. She marveled at how the girl's eyes shone withworship, even in the mornings when her face drooped and hercomplexion was waxy from a night's worth of walking the baby.
The girl had fits of laughter when the baby passed gas. Thetiniest changes in the baby enchanted her, and everything it didwas declared spectacular.
Look! She's reaching for the rattle. How clever she is."I'll call the newspapers, said Rasheed.
Every night, there were demonstrations. When the girl insistedhe witness something, Rasheed tipped his chin upward and castan impatient, sidelong glance down the blue-veined hook of hisnose.
"Watch. Watch how she laughs when I snap my fingers. There. See? Did you see?Rasheed would grunt, and go back to his plate. Mariamremembered how the girl's mere presence used to overwhelmhim. Everything she said used to please him, intrigue him,make him look up from his plate and nod with approval.
"The strange thing was, the girl's fall from grace ought to havepleased Mariam, brought her a sense of vindication. But itdidn't. It didn't. To her own surprise, Mariam found herselfpitying the girl.
It was also over dinner that the girl let loose a steady streamof worries. Topping the list was pneumonia, which wassuspected with every minor cough. Then there was dysentery,the specter of which was raised with every loose stool. Everyrash was either chicken pox or measles.
You should not get so attached, Rasheed said one night.
"What do you mean?""I was listening to the radio the other night. Voice of America. I heard an interesting statistic. They said that in Afghanistanone out of four children will die before the age of five. That'swhat they said. Now, they-What? What? Where are you going? Come back here. Get back here this instant!He gave Mariam a bewildered look. ""What's the matter withher?""That night, Mariam was lying in bed when the bickeringstarted again. It was a hot, dry summer night, typical of themonth ofSaratan in Kabul. Mariam had opened her window,then shut it when no breeze came through to temper the heat,only mosquitoes. She could feel the heat rising from the groundoutside, through the wheat brown, splintered planks of theouthouse in the yard, up through the walls and into her room.
"Usually, the bickering ran its course after a few minutes, buthalf an hour passed and not only was it still going on, it wasescalating. Mariam could hear Rasheed shouting now. The girl'svoice, underneath his, was tentative and shrill. Soon the babywas wailing.
Then Mariam heard their door open violently. In the morning,she would find the doorknob's circular impression in thehallway wall. She was sitting up in bed when her own doorslammed open and Rasheed came through.
He was wearing white underpants and a matching undershirt,stained yellow in the underarms with sweat. On his feet hewore flip-flops. He held a belt in his hand, the brown leatherone he'd bought for hisnikka with the girl, and was wrappingthe perforated end around his fist.
It's your doing. I know it is, he snarled, advancing on her.
Mariam slid out of her bed and began backpedaling. Herarms instinctively crossed over her chest, where he often struckher first.
What are you talking about? she stammered.
Her denying me. You're teaching her to.Over the years, Mariam had learned to harden herself againsthis scorn and reproach, his ridiculing and reprimanding. Butthis fear she had no control over. All these years and still sheshivered with fright when he was like this, sneering, tighteningthe belt around his fist, the creaking of the leather, the glint inhis bloodshot eyes. It was the fear of the goat, released in thetiger's cage, when the tiger first looks up from its paws, beginsto growl-Now the girl was in the room, her eyes wide, her facecontorted"I should have known that you'd corrupt her," Rasheed spatat Mariam. He swung the belt, testing it against his own thigh.
The buckle jingled loudly.
Stop it,basl the girl said. "Rasheed, you can't do this.""Go back to the room."Mariam backpedaled again.
No! Don't do this!Now!
Rasheed raised the belt again and this time came at Mariam.
Then an astonishing thing happened: The girl lunged at him.
She grabbed his arm with both hands and tried to drag himdown, but she could do no more than dangle from it. She didsucceed in slowing Rasheed's progress toward Mariam.
Let go! Rasheed cried.
"You win. You win. Don't do this. Please, Rasheed, no beating! Please don't do this.They struggled like this, the girl hanging on, pleading, Rasheedtrying to shake her off, keeping his eyes on Mariam, who wastoo stunned to do anything.
"In the end, Mariam knew that there would be no beating, notthat night. He'd made his point. He stayed that way a fewmoments longer, arm raised, chest heaving, a fine sheen ofsweat filming his brow. Slowly, Rasheed lowered his arm. Thegirl's feet touched ground and still she wouldn't let go, as ifshe didn't trust him. He had to yank his arm free of her grip.
I'm on to you, he said, slinging the belt over his shoulder.
I'm on to you both. I won't be made anahmaq, a fool, in myown house.He threw Mariam one last, murderous stare, and gave the girla shove in the back on the way out.
When she heard their door close, Mariam climbed back intobed, buried her head beneath the pillow, and waited for theshaking to stop.
* * *Three times that night, Mariam was awakened from sleep. Thefirst time, it was the rumble of rockets in the west, comingfrom the direction of Karteh-Char. The second time, it was thebaby crying downstairs, the girl's shushing, the clatter of spoonagainst milk bottle. Finally, it was thirst that pulled her out ofbed.
Downstairs, the living room was dark, save for a bar ofmoonlight spilling through the window. Mariam could hear thebuzzing of a fly somewhere, could make out the outline of thecast-iron stove in the corner, its pipe jutting up, then making asharp angle just below the ceiling.
On her way to the kitchen, Mariam nearly tripped oversomething. There was a shape at her feet. When her eyesadjusted, she made out the girl and her baby lying on thefloor on top of a quilt.
The girl was sleeping on her side, snoring. The baby wasawake. Mariam lit the kerosene lamp on the table andhunkered down. In the light, she had her first real close-uplook at the baby, the tuft of dark hair, the thick-lashed hazeleyes, the pink cheeks, and lips the color of ripe pomegranate.
Mariam had the impression that the baby too was examiningher. She was lying on her back, her head tilted sideways,looking at Mariam intently with a mixture of amusement,confusion, and suspicion. Mariam wondered if her face mightfrighten her, but then the baby squealed happily and Mariamknew that a favorable judgment had been passed on herbehalf.
Shh,Mariam whispered "You'll wake up your mother, halfdeaf as she is."The baby's hand balled into a fist. It rose, fell, found a spasticpath to her mouth. Around a mouthful of her own hand, thebaby gave Mariam a grin, little bubbles of spittle shining on herlips.
Look at you. What a sorry sight you are, dressed like adamn boy. And all bundled up in this heat. No wonder you'restill awake.Mariam pulled the blanket off the baby, was horrified to finda second one beneath, clucked her tongue, and pulled that oneoff too. The baby giggled with relief. She flapped her arms likea bird.
"Better,nayTAs Mariam was pulling back, the baby grabbed her pinkie. The tiny fingers curled themselves tightly around it. They feltwarm and soft, moist with drool. Gunuh,""the baby said.
"All right, Ms; let go.The baby hung on, kicked her legs again.
Mariam pulled her finger free. The baby smiled and made aseries of gurgling sounds. The knuckles went back to themouth.
What are you so happy about? Huh? What are you smilingat? You're not so clever as your mother says. You have abrute for a father and a fool for a mother. You wouldn't smileso much if you knew. No you wouldn't. Go to sleep, now. Goon.Mariam rose to her feet and walked a few steps before thebaby started making theeh, eh, eh sounds that Mariam knewsignaled the onset of a hearty cry. She retraced her steps.
What is it? What do you want fromme?The baby grinned toothlessly.
Mariam sighed. She sat down and let her finger be grabbed,looked on as the baby squeaked, as she flexed her plump legsat the hips and kicked air. Mariam sat there, watching, untilthe baby stopped moving and began snoring softly.
Outside, mockingbirds were singing blithely, and, once in awhile, when the songsters took flight, Mariam could see theirwings catching the phosphorescent blue of moonlight beamingthrough the clouds. And though her throat was parched withthirst and her feet burned with pins and needles, it was a longtime before Mariam gently freed her finger from the baby's gripand got up.
LailaOf all earthly pleasures, Laila's favorite was lying next to Aziza,her baby's face so close that she could watch her big pupilsdilate and shrink. Laila loved running her finger over Aziza'spleasing, soft skin, over the dimpled knuckles, the folds of fat ather elbows. Sometimes she lay Aziza down on her chest andwhispered into the soft crown of her head things about Tariq,the father who would always be a stranger to Aziza, whoseface Aziza would never know. Laila told her of his aptitude forsolving riddles, his trickery and mischief, his easy laugh.
He had the prettiest lashes, thick like yours. A good chin, afine nose, and a round forehead. Oh, your father washandsome, Aziza. He was perfect. Perfect, like you are.But she was careful never to mention him by name.
Sometimes she caught Rasheed looking at Aziza in the mostpeculiar way. The other night, sitting on the bedroom floor,where he was shaving a corn from his foot, he said quitecasually, "So what was it like between you two?"Laila had given him a puzzled look, as though she didn'tunderstand.
Laili and Majnoon. You and theyakknga,the cripple. What wasit you had, he and you?"He was my friend, she said, careful that her voice not shifttoo much in key.She busied herself making a bottle."You knowthat.""I don't knowwhat Iknow." Rasheed deposited the shavings onthe windowsill and dropped onto the bed. The springsprotested with a loud creak. He splayed his legs, picked at hiscrotch. "And as….friends, did the two of you ever do anythingout of order?""Out of order?"Rasheed smiled lightheartedly, but Laila could feel his gaze,cold and watchful. "Let me see, now. Well, did heever give youa kiss? Maybeput his hand where it didn't belong?"Laila winced with, she hoped, an indignant air. She could feelher heart drumming in her throat."He was like abrother tome.""So he was a friend or a brother?""Both. He^""Which was it?""He was like both.""But brothers and sisters are creatures of curiosity.Yes.
Sometimes a brother lets his sister see his pecker, and asisterwill-""You sicken me," Laila said.
So there was nothing."I don't want to talk about this anymore.Rasheed tilted his head, pursed his lips, nodded. "Peoplegossiped, you know. I remember. They said all sorts of thingsabout you two. But you're saying there was nothing."She willed herself to glare athim.
He held her eyesfor an excruciatingly long time in anunblinking way that made her knuckles go pale around themilkbottle, and it took all that Laila could muster to not falter.
She shuddered at what he would do if hefound out that shehad been stealing from him. Every week, since Aziza's birth,she pried his wallet open when he wasasleep or in theouthouse and took a single bill. Some weeks, if the wallet waslight, she took only a five-afghanibill, or nothing at all, for fearthat he would notice. When the wallet was plump, shehelpedherself to a ten or a twenty, once even risking twotwenties. She hid the money in a pouchshe'd sewn in the liningof her checkered winter coat.
She wondered what he would do if he knew that she wasplanning to run away next spring. Next summer at the latest.
Laila hoped to have a thousand afghanis or more stowed away,half of which would go to the bus fare from Kabul toPeshawar. She would pawn her wedding ring when the timedrew close, as well as the other jewelry that Rasheed hadgiven her the year before when she was still themalika of hispalace.
Anyway, he said at last, fingers drumming his belly, "I can'tbe blamed. I am a husband. These are the things a husbandwonders. But he's lucky he died the way he did. Because if hewas here now, if I got my hands on him…" He suckedthrough his teeth and shook his head.
What happened to not speaking ill of the dead?"I guess some people can't be dead enough, he said.
* * *Two days later, Laila woke up in the morning and found astack of baby clothes, neatly folded, outside her bedroom door.
There was a twirl dress with little pink fishes sewn around thebodice, a blue floral wool dress with matching socks andmittens, yellow pajamas with carrot-colored polka dots, andgreen cotton pants with a dotted ruffle on the cuff.
There is a rumor, Rasheed said over dinner that night,smacking his lips, taking no notice of Aziza or the pajamasLaila had put on her, "that Dostum is going to change sidesand join Hekmatyar. Massoud will have his hands full then,fighting those two. And we mustn't forget the Hazaras." Hetook a pinch of the pickled eggplant Mariam had made thatsummer. "Let's hope it's just that, a rumor. Because if thathappens, this war," he waved one greasy hand, "will seem likea Friday picnic at Paghman."Later, he mounted her and relieved himself with wordlesshaste, fully dressed save for histumban, not removed but pulleddown to the ankles. When the frantic rocking was over, herolled off her and was asleep in minutes.
Laila slipped out of the bedroom and found Mariam in thekitchen squatting, cleaning a pair of trout. A pot of rice wasalready soaking beside her. The kitchen smelled like cumin andsmoke, browned onions and fish.
Laila sat in a comer and draped her knees with the hem ofher dress.
Thank you, she said.
Mariam took no notice of her. She finished cutting up the firsttrout and picked up the second. With a serrated knife, sheclipped the fins, then turned the fish over, its underbelly facingher, and sliced it expertly from the tail to the gills. Lailawatched her put her thumb into its mouth, just over the lowerjaw, push it in, and, in one downward stroke, remove the gillsand the entrails.
The clothes are lovely."I had no use for them, Mariam muttered. She dropped thefish on a newspaper smudged with slimy, gray juice and slicedoff its head. "It was either your daughter or the moths.""Where did you learn to clean fish like that?""When I was a little girl, I lived by a stream. I used tocatchmy ownfish.""I've never fished""Not much toit. It's mostly waiting."Lailawatched her cut the gutted trout into thirds. "Did yousew the clothes yourself?"Mariam nodded.
When?Mariamrinsed sections offish in a bowl of water. "When I waspregnant the first time. Or maybe the second time. Eighteen,nineteen years ago. Long time, anyhow. Like I said, I neverhad anyuse for them.""You're a really goodkhayai. Maybe you can teach me."Mariam placed the rinsed chunks of trout into a cleanbowl.Drops of water drippingfrom her fingertips,she raised herhead and looked at Laila, looked at heras if for the first time.
The other night, when he…Nobody's ever stood up formebefore, she said.
Laila examined Mariam's drooping cheeks, the eyelids thatsagged in tired folds, the deep lines that framed her mouth-shesaw these things as though she too were looking at someonefor the first time. And, for the first time, it was not anadversary's face Laila saw but a face of grievances unspoken,burdens gone unprotested, a destiny submitted to and endured.
If she stayed, would this be her own face, Laila wondered,twenty years from now?
I couldn't let him, Laila said "I wasn't raised in a householdwhere people did things like that.""Thisis your household now. You ought to get used to it.""Not to/to I won't.""He'll turn on you too, you know," Mariam said, wiping herhands dry with a rag. "Soon enough. And you gave him adaughter. So, you see, your sin is even less forgivable thanmine."Laila rose to her feet. "I know it's chilly outside, but what doyou say we sinners have us a cup ofchai in the yard?"Mariam looked surprised "I can't. I still have to cut and washthe beans.""I'll help you do it in the morning.""And I have to clean up here.""We'll do it together. If I'm not mistaken, there's somehalwaleft over. Awfully good withchat."Mariam put the rag on the counter. Laila sensed anxiety inthe way she tugged at her sleeves, adjusted herhijab, pushedback a curl of hair.
The Chinese say it's better to be deprived of food for threedays than tea for one.Mariam gave a half smile. "It's a good saying.""It is.""But I can't stay long.""One cup."They sat on folding chairs outside and atehalwa with theirfingers from a common bowl. They had a second cup, andwhen Laila asked her if she wanted a third Mariam said shedid. As gunfire cracked in the hills, they watched the cloudsslide over the moon and the last of the season's firefliescharting bright yellow arcs in the dark. And when Aziza wokeup crying and Rasheed yelled for Laila to come up and shuther up, a look passed between Laila and Mariam. Anunguarded, knowing look. And in this fleeting, wordlessexchange with Mariam, Laila knew that they were not enemiesany longer.
MadamJr rom that night on, Mariam and Laila did their chorestogether. They sat in the kitchen and rolled dough, choppedgreen onions, minced garlic, offered bits of cucumber to Aziza,who banged spoons nearby and played with carrots. In theyard, Aziza lay in a wicker bassinet, dressed in layers ofclothing, a winter muffler wrapped snugly around her neck.
Mariam and Laila kept a watchful eye on her as they did thewash, Mariam's knuckles bumping Laila's as they scrubbedshirts and trousers and diapers.
Mariam slowly grew accustomed to this tentative but pleasantcompanionship. She was eager for the three cups ofchai sheand Laila would share in the yard, a nightly ritual now. In themornings, Mariam found herself looking forward to the soundof Laila's cracked slippers slapping the steps as she came downfor breakfast and to the tinkle of Aziza's shrill laugh, to thesight of her eight little teeth, the milky scent of her skin. IfLaila and Aziza slept in, Mariam became anxious waiting. Shewashed dishes that didn't need washing. She rearrangedcushions in the living room. She dusted clean windowsills. Shekept herself occupied until Laila entered the kitchen, Azizahoisted on her hip.
When Aziza first spotted Mariam in the morning, her eyesalways sprang open, and she began mewling and squirming inher mother's grip. She thrust her arms toward Mariam,demanding to be held, her tiny hands opening and closingurgently, on her face a look of both adoration and quiveringanxiety.
What a scene you're making, Laila would say, releasing herto crawl toward Mariam. "What a scene! Calm down. KhalaMariam isn't going anywhere. There she is, your aunt. See? Goon, now."As soon as she was in Mariam's arms, Aziza's thumb shotinto her mouth and she buried her face in Mariam's neck.
Mariam bounced her stiffly, a half-bewildered, half-gratefulsmile on her lips. Mariam had never before been wanted likethis. Love had never been declared to her so guilelessly, sounreservedly.
Aziza made Mariam want to weep.
Why have you pinned your little heart to an old, ugly haglike me? Mariam would murmur into Aziza's hair. "Huh? I amnobody, don't you see? Adehatl What have I got to give you?"But Aziza only muttered contentedly and dug her face indeeper. And when she did that, Mariam swooned. Her eyeswatered. Her heart took flight. And she marveled at how, afterall these years of rattling loose, she had found in this littlecreature the first true connection in her life of false, failedconnections.
* * *Early the following yeah, in January 1994, Dostumdid switchsides. He joined Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, and took up positionnear Bala Hissar, the old citadel walls that loomed over the cityfrom the Koh-e-Shirdawazamountains. Together, they fired on Massoud and Rabbaniforces at the Ministry of Defense and the Presidential Palace.
From either side of the Kabul River, they released rounds ofartillery at each other. The streets became littered with bodies,glass, and crumpled chunks of metal. There was looting,murder, and, increasingly, rape, which was used to intimidatecivilians and reward militiamen. Mariam heard of women whowere killing themselves out of fear of being raped, and of menwho, in the name of honor, would kill their wives or daughtersif they'd been raped by the militia.
Aziza shrieked at the thumping of mortars. To distract her,Mariam arranged grains of rice on the floor, in the shape of ahouse or a rooster or a star, and let Aziza scatter them. Shedrew elephants for Aziza the way Jalil had shown her, in onestroke, without ever lifting the tip of the pen.
Rasheed said civilians were getting killed daily, by the dozens.
Hospitals and stores holding medical supplies were gettingshelled. Vehicles carrying emergency food supplies were beingbarred from entering the city, he said, raided, shot at. Mariamwondered if there was fighting like this in Herat too, and, if so,how Mullah Faizullah was coping, if he was still alive, andBibijo too, with all her sons, brides, and grandchildren. And, ofcourse, Jalil. Washe hiding out, Mariam wondered, as she was? Or had hetaken his wives and children and fled the country? She hopedJalil was somewhere safe, that he'd managed to get away fromall of this killing.
For a week, the fighting forced even Rasheed to stay home.
He locked the door to the yard, set booby traps, locked thefront door too and barricaded it with the couch. He paced thehouse, smoking, peering out the window, cleaning his gun,loading and loading it again. Twice, he fired his weapon intothe street claiming he'd seen someone trying to climb the wall.
They're forcing young boys to join, he said.
"TheMujahideenare. In plain daylight, at gunpoint. They dragboys right off the streets. And when soldiers from a rival militiacapture these boys, they torture them. I heard they electrocutethem-it's what I heard-that they crush their balls with pliers. They make the boys lead them to their homes. Then theybreak in, kill their fathers, rape their sisters and mothers.He waved his gun over his head. ""Let's see them try tobreak into my house. I'll crushtheir balls! I'll blow their headsoff! Do you know how lucky you two are to have a manwho's not afraid of Shaitan himself?""He looked down at the ground, noticed Aziza at his feet. ""Getoff my heels!"" he snapped, making a shooing motion with hisgun. ""Stop following me! And you can stop twirling your wristslike that. I'm not picking you up. Go on! Go on before you getstepped on.""Aziza flinched. She crawled back to Mariam, looking bruisedand confused. In Mariam's lap, she sucked her thumbcheerlessly and watched Rasheed in a sullen, pensive way.
"Occasionally, she looked up, Mariam imagined, with a look ofwanting to be reassured.
But when it came to fathers, Mariam had no assurances togive.
* * *Maeiam was relieved when the fighting subsided again, mostlybecause they no longer had to be cooped up with Rasheed,with his sour temper infecting the household. And he'dfrightened her badly waving that loaded gun near Aziza.
One day that winter, Laila asked to braid Mariam's hair.
Mariam sat still and watched Laila's slim fingers in the mirrortighten her plaits, Laila's face scrunched in concentration. Azizawas curled up asleep on the floor. Tucked under her arm wasa doll Mariam had hand-stitched for her. Mariam had stuffed itwith beans, made it a dress with tea-dyed fabric and anecklace with tiny empty thread spools through which she'dthreaded a string.
Then Aziza passed gas in her sleep. Laila began to laugh, andMariam joined in. They laughed like this, at each other'sreflection in the mirror, their eyes tearing, and the moment wasso natural, so effortless, that suddenly Mariam started tellingher about Jalil, and Nana, andthe jinn. Laila stood with herhands idle on Mariam's shoulders, eyes locked on Mariam'sface in the mirror. Out the words came, like blood gushingfrom an artery. Mariam told her about Bibi jo, Mullah Faizullah,the humiliating trek to Jalil's house, Nana's suicide. She toldabout Jalil's wives, and the hurriednikka with Rasheed, the tripto Kabul, her pregnancies, the endless cycles of hope anddisappointment, Rasheed's turning on her.
After, Laila sat at the foot of Mariam's chair. Absently, sheremoved a scrap of lint entangled in Aziza's hair. A silenceensued.
I have something to tell you too, Laila said.
* * *Maeiamdid not sleep that night. She sat in bed, watched thesnow falling soundlessly.
Seasons had come and gone; presidents in Kabul had beeninaugurated and murdered; an empire had been defeated; oldwars had ended and new ones had broken out. But Mariamhad hardly noticed, hardly cared. She had passed these yearsin a distant corner of her mind A dry, barren field, out beyondwish and lament, beyond dream and disillusionment- There, thefuture did not matter. And the past held only this wisdom: thatlove was a damaging mistake, and its accomplice, hope, atreacherous illusion. And whenever those twin poisonous flowersbegan to sprout in the parched land of that field, Mariamuprooted them. She uprooted them and ditched them beforethey took hold.
But somehow, over these last months, Laila and Aziza-aharamilike herself, as it turned out-had become extensions of her, andnow, without them, the life Mariam had tolerated for so longsuddenly seemed intolerable.
We're leaving this spring, Aziza and I. Come with us, Mariam.
The years had not been kind to Mariam. But perhaps, shethought, there were kinder years waiting still. A new life, a lifein which she would find the blessings that Nana had saidaharami like her would never see. Two new flowers hadunexpectedly sprouted in her life, and, as Mariam watched thesnow coming down, she pictured Mullah Faizullah twirlinghisiasbeh beads, leaning in and whispering to her in his soft,tremulous voice,But it is God Who has planted them, Mariamjo. And it is His will that you tend to them. It is His will, mygirl.
LailaAs daylight steadily bleached darkness from the skythat springmorning of1994, Laila became certain that Rasheed knew. That,any moment now, he would drag her out of bed and askwhether she'd really taken him for such akhar, such a donkey,that he wouldn't find out. Butazan rang out, and then themorning sun was falling flat on the rooftops and the roosterswere crowing and nothing out of the ordinary happenedShe could hear him now in the bathroom, the tapping of hisrazor against the edge of the basin. Then downstairs, movingabout, heating tea. The keys jingled. Now he was crossing theyard, walking his bicycle.
Laila peered through a crack in the living-room curtains. Shewatched him pedal away, a big man on a small bicycle, themorning sun glaring off the handlebars.
Laila?Mariam was in the doorway. Laila could tell that she hadn'tslept either. She wondered if Mariam too had been seized allnight by bouts of euphoria and attacks of mouth-drying anxiety.
We'll leave in half an hour, Laila said.
* * *In the backseat of the taxi, they did not speak. Aziza sat onMariam's lap, clutching her doll, looking with wide-eyedpuzzlement at the city speeding by.
Ona!she cried, pointing to a group of little girls skippingrope. "Mayam!Ona"Everywhere she looked, Laila saw Rasheed. She spotted himcoming out of barbershops with windows the color of coal dust,from tiny booths that sold partridges, from battered,open-fronted stores packed with old tires piled from floor toceiling.
She sank lower in her seat.
Beside her, Mariam was muttering a prayer. Laila wished shecould see her face, but Mariam was in burqa-they bothwere-and all she could see was the glitter of her eyes throughthe grid.
This was Laila's first time out of the house in weeks,discounting the short trip to the pawnshop the daybefore-where she had pushed her wedding ring across a glasscounter, where she'd walked out thrilled by the finality of it,knowing there was no going back.
All around her now, Laila saw the consequences of the recentfighting whose sounds she'd heard from the house. Homes thatlay in roofless ruins of brick and jagged stone, gouged buildingswith fallen beams poking through the holes, the charred,mangled husks of cars, upended, sometimes stacked on top ofeach other, walls pocked by holes of every conceivable caliber,shattered glass everywhere. She saw a funeral processionmarching toward a mosque, a black-clad old woman at therear tearing at her hair. They passed a cemetery littered withrock-piled graves and raggedshaheed flags fluttering in thebreeze.
Laila reached across the suitcase, wrapped her fingers aroundthe softness of her daughter's arm.
* * *At the Lahore Gate bus station, near Pol Mahmood Khan inEast Kabul, a row of buses sat idling along the curbside. Menin turbans were busy heaving bundles and crates onto bustops, securing suitcases down with ropes. Inside the station,men stood in a long line at the ticket booth. Burqa-clad womenstood in groups and chatted, their belongings piled at their feet.
Babies were bounced, children scolded for straying too far.
Mujahideen militiamen patrolled the station and the curbside,barking curt orders here and there. They wore boots,pakols,dusty green fatigues. They all carried Kalashnikovs.
Laila felt watched. She looked no one in the face, but she feltas though every person in this place knew, that they werelooking on with disapproval at what she and Mariam weredoing.
Do you see anybody? Laila asked.
Mariam shifted Aziza in her arms. "I'm looking."This, Laila had known, would be the first risky part, finding aman suitable to pose with them as a family member. Thefreedoms and opportunities that women had enjoyed between1978 and 1992 were a thing of the past now- Laila could stillremember Babi saying of those years of communist rule,It's agood time to be a woman in Afghanistan, Laila Since theMujahideen takeover in April 1992, Afghanistan's name hadbeen changed to the Islamic State of Afghanistan. The SupremeCourt under Rabbani was filled now with hard-liner mullahswho did away with the communist-era decrees that empoweredwomen and instead passed rulings based on Shari'a, strictIslamic laws that ordered women to cover, forbade their travelwithout a male relative, punished adultery with stoning. Even ifthe actual enforcement of these laws was sporadic at best.Butthey'd enforce them on us more, Laila had said to Mariam,ifthey weren't so busy killing each other. And us.
The second risky part of this trip would come when theyactually arrived in Pakistan. Already burdened with nearly twomillion Afghan refugees, Pakistan had closed its borders toAfghans in January of that year. Laila had heard that onlythose with visas would be admitted. But the border wasporous-always had been-and Laila knew that thousands ofAfghans were still crossing into Pakistan either with bribes orby proving humanitarian grounds- and there were alwayssmugglers who could be hired.We'll find a way when we getthere, she'd told Mariam.
How about him? Mariam said, motioning with her chin.
He doesn't look trustworthy."And him?"Too old. And he's traveling with two other men.Eventually,Laila found him sitting outside on a park bench,witha veiled woman at his side and a little boy in a skullcap,roughly Aziza's age, bouncing on his knees.He wastall andslender, bearded, wearing an open-collaredshirt and a modestgray coat with missing buttons.
Wait here,she said to Mariam. Walking away, she againheard Mariam muttering a prayer.
When Laila approached the young man, he looked up,shielded the sun from his eyes with a hand.
Forgive me, brother, but are you going to Peshawar?"Yes, he said, squinting.
I wonder ifyou can help us. Can you do us a favor?He passed the boy to his wife. He and Laila stepped away.
"What is it,hamshiraT' She was encouraged to see that he had soft eyes, a kindface. She told him the story that she and Mariam had agreed on. She was abiwa,she said, a widow. She and her mother anddaughter had no oneleft in Kabul. They were going toPeshawar to stay with her uncle. You want to come with my family,"" the young man said""I know it'szahmat for you. But you look like a decentbrother, and I-""""Don't worry,hamshira I understand. It's no trouble. Let mego and buy your tickets.""""Thank you, brother. This issawab, a good deed. God willremember.""She fished the envelope from her pocket beneath the burqaand passed it to him. In it was eleven hundred afghanis, orabout half of the money she'd stashed over the past year plusthe sale of the ring. He slipped the envelope in his trouserpocket.
"Wait here.She watched him enter the station. He returned half an hourlater.
It's best I hold on to your tickets, he said. The bus leavesin one hour, at eleven. We'll all board together. My name isWakil. If they ask-and they shouldn't-I'll tell them you're mycousin."Laila gave him their names, and he said he would remember.
Stay close, he said.
They sat on the bench adjacent to Wakil and his family's. Itwas a sunny, warm morning, the sky streaked only by a fewwispy clouds hovering in the distance over thehills. Mariambegan feeding Aziza a few of the crackers she'd remembered tobring in their rush to pack. She offered one to Laila.
I'll throwup, Laila laughed. "I'm too excited.""Metoo.""Thankyou, Mariam.""For what?""For this.For coming with us," Laila said. "I don't think I coulddo this alone.""You won't have to.""We're going to be all right, aren't we, Mariam, where we'regoing?"Mariam's hand slid across the bench and closed over hers.
The Koran says Allah is the East and the West, thereforewherever you turn there is Allah's purpose."Bov!Aziza cried, pointing to a bus. "Mayam,bov""I see it, Aziza jo," Mariam said. "That's right,bov. Soon we'reall going to ride on abov. Oh, the things you're going to see."Laila smiled. She watched a carpenter in his shop across thestreet sawing wood, sending chips flying. She watched the carsbolting past, their windows coated with soot and grime. Shewatched the buses growling idly at the curb, with peacocks,lions, rising suns, and glittery swords painted on their sides.
In the warmth of the morning sun, Laila felt giddy and bold.
She had another of those little sparks of euphoria, and when astray dog with yellow eyes limped by, Laila leaned forward andpet its back.
A few minutes before eleven, a man with a bullhorn called forall passengers to Peshawar to begin boarding. The bus doorsopened with a violent hydraulic hiss. A parade of travelersrushed toward it, scampering past each other to squeezethrough.
Wakil motioned toward Laila as he picked up his son.
We're going, Laila said.
Wakil led the way. As they approached the bus, Laila sawfaces appear in the windows, noses and palms pressed to theglass. All around them, farewells were yelled.
A young militia soldier was checking tickets at the bus door.
Bov! Azxzz.cried.
Wakil handed tickets to the soldier, who tore them in half andhanded them back. Wakil let his wife board first. Laila saw alook pass between Wakil and the militiaman. Wakil, perched onthe first step of the bus, leaned down and said something inhis ear. The militiaman nodded.
Laila's heart plummeted.
You two, with the child, step aside, the soldier said.
Laila pretended not to hear. She went to climb the steps, buthe grabbed her by the shoulder and roughly pulled her out ofthe line. "You too," he called to Mariam. "Hurry up! You'reholding up the line.""What's the problem, brother?" Laila said through numb lips.
We have tickets. Didn't my cousin hand them to you?He made aShh motion with his finger and spoke in a lowvoice to another guard. The second guard, a rotund fellow witha scar down his right cheek, nodded.
Follow me, this one said to Laila.
We have to board this bus, Laila cried, aware that her voicewas shaking. "We have tickets. Why are you doing this?""You're not going to get on this bus. You might as well acceptthat. You will follow me. Unless you want your little girl to seeyou dragged."As they were led to a truck, Laila looked over her shoulderand spotted Wakil's boy at the rear of the bus. The boy sawher too and waved happily.
* * *At the police station at Torabaz Khan Intersection, they weremade to sit apart, on opposite ends of a long, crowdedcorridor, between them a desk, behind which a man smokedone cigarette after another and clacked occasionally on atypewriter. Three hours passed this way. Aziza tottered fromLaila to Mariam, then back. She played with a paper clip thatthe man at the desk gave her. She finished the crackers.
Eventually, she fell asleep in Mariam's lap.
At around three o'clock, Laila was taken to an interview room.
Mariam was made to wait with Aziza in the corridor.
The man sitting on the other side of the desk in the interviewroom was in his thirties and wore civilian clothes- black suit,tie, black loafers. He had a neatly trimmed beard, short hair,and eyebrows that met. He stared at Laila, bouncing a pencilby the eraser end on the desk.
We know, he began, clearing his throat and politely coveringhis mouth with a fist, "that you have already told one lietoday,kamshira The young man at the station was not yourcousin. He told us as much himself. The question is whetheryou will tell more lies today. Personally, I advise you against it.""We were going to stay with my uncle," Laila said "That's thetruth."The policeman nodded. "Thehamshira in the corridor, she'syour mother?""Yes.""She has a Herati accent. You don't.""She was raised in Herat, I was born here in Kabul.""Of course. And you are widowed? You said you were. Mycondolences. And this uncle, thiskaka, where does he live?""In Peshawar.""Yes, you said that." He licked the point of his pencil andpoised it over a blank sheet of paper. "But where inPeshawar? Which neighborhood, please? Street name, sectornumber."Laila tried to push back the bubble of panic that was comingup her chest. She gave him the name of the only street sheknew in Peshawar-she'd heard it mentioned once, at the partyMammy had thrown when the Mujahideen had first come toKabul-"Jamrud Road.""Oh, yes. Same street as the Pearl Continental Hotel. He mighthave mentioned it."Laila seized this opportunity and said he had. "That very samestreet, yes.""Except the hotel is on Khyber Road."Laila could hear Aziza crying in the corridor. "My daughter'sfrightened. May I get her, brother?""I prefer 'Officer.' And you'll be with her shortly. Do you havea telephone number for this uncle?""I do. I did. I…" Even with the burqa between them, Lailawas not buffered from his penetrating eyes. "I'm so upset, Iseem to have forgotten it."He sighed through his nose. He asked for the uncle's name,his wife's name. How many children did he have? What weretheir names? Where did he work? How old was he? Hisquestions left Laila flustered.
He put down his pencil, laced his fingers together, and leanedforward the way parents do when they want to conveysomething to a toddler. "You do realize,hamshira, that it is acrime for a woman to run away. We see a lot of it. Womentraveling alone, claiming their husbands have died. Sometimesthey're telling the truth, most times not. You can be imprisonedfor running away, I assume you understand that,nay1?""Let us go, Officer…" She read the name on his lapel tag.
Officer Rahman. Honor the meaning of your name and showcompassion. What does it matter to you to let a mere twowomen go? What's the harm in releasing us? We are notcriminals."I can't."I beg you, please."It's a matter ofqanoon, hamshira, a matter of law, Rahmansaid, injecting his voice with a grave, self-important tone. "It ismy responsibility, you see, to maintain order."In spite of her distraught state, Laila almost laughed. She wasstunned that he'd used that word in the face of all that theMujahideen factions had done-the murders, the lootings, therapes, the tortures, the executions, the bombings, the tens ofthousands of rockets they had fired at each other, heedless ofall the innocent people who would die in the cross fire.Order.
But she bit her tongue.
If you send us back, she said instead, slowly, "there is nosaying what he will do to us."She could see the effort it took him to keep his eyes fromshifting. "What a man does in his home is his business.""What about the law,then, Officer Rahman?" Tears of ragestung her eyes. "Will you be there to maintain order?""As a matter of policy, we do not interfere with private familymatters,hamshira""Of course you don't. When it benefits the man. And isn't thisa 'private family matter,' as you say? Isn't it?"He pushed back from his desk and stood up, straightened hisjacket. "I believe this interview is finished. I must say,hamshira,that you have made a very poor case for yourself. Very poorindeed. Now, if you would wait outside I will have a few wordswith your…whoever she is."Laila began to protest, then to yell, and he had to summonthe help of two more men to have her dragged out of hisoffice.
Mariam's interview lasted only a few minutes. When she cameout, she looked shaken.
He asked so many questions, she said. "I'm sorry, Laila jo.
I am not smart like you. He asked so many questions, I didn'tknow the answers. I'm sorry.""It's not your fault, Mariam," Laila said weakly. "It's mine. It'sall my fault. Everything is my fault."* * *It was past six o'clock when the police car pulled up in frontof the house. Laila and Mariam were made to wait in thebackseat, guarded by a Mujahid soldier in the passenger seat.
The driver was the one who got out of the car, who knockedon the door, who spoke to Rasheed. It was he who motionedfor them to come.
Welcome home, the man in the front seat said, lighting acigarette.
* * *"You," he said to Mariam. "You wait here."Mariam quietly took a seat on the couch.
You two, upstairs.Rasheed grabbed Laila by the elbow and pushed her up thesteps. He was still wearing the shoes he wore to work, hadn'tyet changed to his flip-flops, taken off his watch, hadn't evenshed his coat yet. Laila pictured him as he must have been anhour, or maybe minutes, earlier, rushing from one room toanother, slamming doors, furious and incredulous, cursing underhis breath.
At the top of the stairs, Laila turned to him.
She didn't want to do it, she said. "I made her do it. Shedidn't want to go-"Laila didn't see the punch coming. One moment she wastalking and the next she was on all fours, wide-eyed andred-faced, trying to draw a breath. It was as if a car had hither at full speed, in the tender place between the lower tip ofthe breastbone and the belly button. She realized she haddropped Aziza, that Aziza was screaming. She tried to breatheagain and could only make a husky, choking sound. Dribblehung from her mouth.
Then she was being dragged by the hair. She saw Aziza lifted,saw her sandals slip off, her tiny feet kicking. Hair was rippedfrom Laila's scalp, and her eyes watered with pain. She saw hisfoot kick open the door to Mariam's room, saw Aziza flungonto the bed. He let go of Laila's hair, and she felt the toe ofhis shoe connect with her left buttock. She howled with pain ashe slammed the door shut. A key rattled in the lock.
Aziza was still screaming. Laila lay curled up on the floor,gasping. She pushed herself up on her hands, crawled towhere Aziza lay on the bed. She reached for her daughter.
Downstairs, the beating began. To Laila, the sounds she heardwere those of a methodical, familiar proceeding. There was nocursing, no screaming, no pleading, no surprised yelps, only thesystematic business of beating and being beaten, thethump,thump of something solid repeatedly striking flesh, something,someone, hitting a wall with a thud, cloth ripping. Now andthen, Laila heard running footsteps, a wordless chase, furnitureturning over, glass shattering, then the thumping once more.
Laila took Aziza in her arms. A warmth spread down thefront of her dress when Aziza's bladder let go.
Downstairs, the running and chasing finally stopped. Therewas a sound now like a wooden club repeatedly slapping aside of beef.
Laila rocked Aziza until the sounds stopped, and, when sheheard the screen door creak open and slam shut, she loweredAziza to the ground and peeked out the window. She sawRasheed leading Mariam across the yard by the nape of herneck. Mariam was barefoot and doubled over. There was bloodon his hands, blood on Mariam's face, her hair, down herneck and back. Her shirt had been ripped down the front.
I'm so sorry, Mariam, Laila cried into the glass.
She watched him shove Mariam into the toolshed. He went in,came out with a hammer and several long planks of wood. Heshut the double doors to the shed, took a key from his pocket,worked the padlock. He tested the doors, then went aroundthe back of the shed and fetched a ladder.
A few minutes later, his face was in Laila's window, nailstucked in the comer of his mouth. His hair was disheveled.
There was a swath of blood on his brow. At the sight of him,Aziza shrieked and buried her face in Laila's armpit.
Rasheed began nailing boards across the window.
* * *The dark was total, impenetrable and constant, without layeror texture. Rasheed had filled the cracks between the boardswith something, put a large and immovable object at the footof the door so no light came from under it. Something hadbeen stuffed in the keyhole.
Laila found it impossible to tell the passage of time with hereyes, so she did it with her good ear.Azan and crowingroosters signaled morning. The sounds of plates clanking in thekitchen downstairs, the radio playing, meant evening.
The first day, they groped and fumbled for each other in thedark. Laila couldn't see Aziza when she cried, when she wentcrawling.
Aishee,Aziza mewled."Aishee.""Soon." Laila kissed her daughter, aiming for the forehead,finding the crown of her head instead. "We'll have milk soon.
You just be patient. Be a good, patient little girl for Mammy,and I'll get you someaishee. "Laila sang her a few songs.
Azanrang out a second time and still Rasheed had not giventhem any food, and, worse, no water. That day, a thick,suffocating heat fell on them. The room turned into a pressurecooker. Laila dragged a dry tongue over her lips, thinking ofthe well outside, the water cold and fresh. Aziza kept crying,and Laila noticed with alarm that when she wiped her cheeksher hands came back dry. She stripped the clothes off Aziza,tried to find something to fan her with, settled for blowing onher until she became light-headed. Soon, Aziza stopped crawlingaround. She slipped in and out of sleep.
Several times that day, Laila banged her fists against the walls,used up her energy screaming for help, hoping that a neighborwould hear. But no one came, and her shrieking onlyfrightened Aziza, who began to cry again, a weak, croakingsound. Laila slid to the ground. She thought guiltily of Mariam,beaten and bloodied, locked in this heat in the toolshed.
Laila fell asleep at some point, her body baking in the heat.
She had a dream that she and Aziza had run into Tariq. Hewas across a crowded street from them, beneath the awning ofa tailor's shop. He was sitting on his haunches and samplingfrom a crate of figs.That's your father, Laila said.That manthere, you see him? He's your real baba. She called his name,but the street noise drowned her voice, and Tariq didn't hear.
She woke up to the whistling of rockets streaking overhead.
Somewhere, the sky she couldn't see erupted with blasts andthe long, frantic hammering of machine-gun fire. Laila closedher eyes. She woke again to Rasheed's heavy footsteps in thehallway. She dragged herself to the door, slapped her palmsagainst it.
Just one glass, Rasheed. Not for me. Do it for her. Youdon't want her blood on your hands. He walked past-Shebegan to plead with him. She begged for forgiveness, madepromises. She cursed him. His door closed. The radio came on.
The muezzin calledazan a third time. Again the heat. Azizabecame even more listless. She stopped crying, stopped movingaltogether.
Laila put her ear over Aziza's mouth, dreading each time thatshe would not hear the shallow whooshing of breath. Even thissimple act of lifting herself made her head swim. She fellasleep, had dreams she could not remember. When she wokeup, she checked on Aziza, felt the parched cracks of her lips,the faint pulse at her neck, lay down again. They would diehere, of that Laila was sure now, but what she really dreadedwas that she would outlast Aziza, who was young and brittle.
How much more could Aziza take? Aziza would die in thisheat, and Laila would have to lie beside her stiffening littlebody and wait for her own death. Again she fell asleep. Wokeup. Fell asleep. The line between dream and wakefulnessblurred.
It wasn't roosters orazan that woke her up again but thesound of something heavy being dragged. She heard a rattling-Suddenly, the room was flooded with light. Her eyes screamedin protest. Laila raised her head, winced, and shielded her eyes.
Through the cracks between her fingers, she saw a big, blurrysilhouette standing in a rectangle of light. The silhouette moved.
Now there was a shape crouching beside her, looming overher, and a voice by her ear.
You try this again and I will find you. I swear on theProphet's name that I will find you. And, when I do, there isn'ta court in this godforsaken country that will hold meaccountable for what I will do. To Mariam first, then to her,and you last. I'll make you watch. You understand me?I'llmake you watch.And, with that, he left the room. But not before delivering akick to the flank that would have Laila pissing blood for days.