One Sunday that September, Laila is putting Zalmai, who hasa cold, down for a nap when Tariq bursts into their bungalow.
Did you hear? he says, panting a little. "They killed him.
Ahmad Shah Massoud. He's dead.""What?"From the doorway, Tariq tells her what he knows.
They say he gave an interview to a pair of journalists whoclaimed they were Belgians originally from Morocco. As they'retalking, a bomb hidden in the video camera goes off. KillsMassoud and one of the journalists. They shoot the other oneas he tries to run. They're saying now the journalists wereprobably Al-Qaeda men.Laila remembers the poster of Ahmad Shah Massoud thatMammy had nailed to the wall of her bedroom. Massoudleaning forward, one eyebrow cocked, his face furrowed inconcentration, as though he was respectfully listening tosomeone. Laila remembers how grateful Mammy was thatMassoud had said a graveside prayer at her sons' burial, howshe told everyone about it. Even after war broke out betweenhis faction and the others, Mammy had refused to blamehim.He's a good man, she used to say.
He wants peace. He wants to rebuild Afghanistan. But theywon 't let him. They just won 't let him.For Mammy, even inthe end, even after everything went so terribly wrong andKabul lay in ruins, Massoud was still the Lion of Panjshir.
Laila is not as forgiving- Massoud's violent end brings her nojoy, but she remembers too well the neighborhoods razedunder his watch, the bodies dragged from the rubble, thehands and feet of children discovered on rooftops or the highbranch of some tree days after their funeral She rememberstoo clearly the look on Mammy's own face moments before therocket slammed in and, much as she has tried to forget, Babi'sheadless torso landing nearby, the bridge tower printed on hisT-shirt poking through thick fog and blood.
There is going to be a funeral, Tariq is saying. "I'm sure ofit. Probably in Rawalpindi. It'll be huge."Zalmai, who was almost asleep, is sitting up now, rubbing hiseyes with balled fists.
Two days later, they are cleaning a room when they hear acommotion. Tariq drops the mop and hurries out. Laila tailshim.
Thenoise is coming from the hotel lobby. There is a loungearea to the right of the reception desk, with several chairs andtwo couches upholstered in beige suede. In the corner, facingthe couches, is a television, and Sayeed, the concierge, andseveral guests are gathered in front of.
Laila and Tariq work their way in.
The TV is tuned to BBC. On the screen is a building, atower, black smoke billowing from its top floors. Tariq sayssomething to Sayeed and Sayeed is in midreply when a planeappears from the corner of the screen. It crashes into theadjacent tower, exploding into a fireball that dwarfs any ball offire that Laila has ever seen. A collective yelp rises fromeveryone in the lobby.
In less than two hours, both towers have collapsedSoon all the TV stations are talking about Afghanistan and theTaliban and Osama bin Laden.
* * *"Did you hear what the Taliban said?" Tariq asks. "About binLaden?"Aziza is sitting across from him on the bed, considering theboard. Tariq has taught her to play chess. She is frowning andtapping her lower lip now, mimicking the body language herfather assumes when he's deciding on a move.
Zalmai's cold is a little better. He is asleep, and Laila isrubbing Vicks on his chest.
I heard, she says.
The Taliban have announced that they won't relinquish binLaden because he is amehman, a guest, who has foundsanctuary in Afghanistan and it is against thePashiunwali codeof ethics to turn over a guest. Tariq chuckles bitterly, and Lailahears in his chuckle that he is revolted by this distortion of anhonorable Pashtun custom, this misrepresentation of his people'sways.
A few days after the attacks, Laila and Tariq are in the hotellobby again. On the TV screen, George W. Bush is speaking.
There is a big American flag behind him. At one point, hisvoice wavers, and Laila thinks he is going to weep.
Sayeed, who speaks English, explains to them that Bush hasjust declared war.
On whom? says Tariq.
On your country, to begin with.* * *"It may not be such a bad thing," Tariq says.
They have finished making love. He's lying beside her, hishead on her chest, his arm draped over her belly. The firstfew times they tried, there was difficulty. Tariq was all apologies,Laila all reassurances. There are still difficulties, not physicalnow but logistical. The shack they share with the children issmall. The children sleep on cots below them and so there islittle privacy. Most times, Laila and Tariq make love in silence,with controlled, muted passion, fully clothed beneath the blanketas a precaution against interruptions by the children. They areforever wary of the rustling sheets, the creaking bedsprings. Butfor Laila, being with Tariq is worth weathering theseapprehensions. When they make love, Laila feels anchored, shefeels sheltered. Her anxieties, that their life together is atemporary blessing, that soon it will come loose again in stripsand tatters, are allayed. Her fears of separation vanish.
What do you mean? she says now.
What's going on back home. It may not be so bad in theend.Back home, bombs are falling once again, this time Americanbombs-Laila has been watching images of the war every dayon the television as she changes sheets and vacuums. TheAmericans have armed the warlords once more, and enlistedthe help of the Northern Alliance to drive out the Taliban andfind bin Laden.
But it rankles Laila, what Tariq is saying. Shepushes his headroughly off her chest.
"Not so bad? People dying? Women, children, old people? Homes destroyed again? Not so bad?""Shh.You'll wake the children.""How can you say that, Tariq? she snaps. ""After the so-calledblunder in Karam? A hundred innocent people! You saw thebodies for yourself!""""No,"" Tariq says. He props himself up on his elbow, looksdown at Laila. ""You misunderstand. What I meant was-""""You wouldn't know,"" Laila says. She is aware that her voiceis rising, that they are having their first fight as husband andwife. ""You left when the Mujahideen began fighting, remember?
"I'm the one who stayed behind. Me. Iknow war.I lost myparents to war. Myparents, Tariq. And now to hear you saythat war is not so bad?""I'm sorry, Laila. I'm sorry." He cups her face in his hands.
You're right. I'm sorry. Forgive me. What I meant wasthat maybe there will be hope at the other end of this war,that maybe for the first time in a long time-"I don't want to talk about this anymore, Laila says, surprisedat how she has lashed out at him. It's unfair, she knows, whatshe said to him-hadn't war taken his parents too?-andwhatever flared in her is softening already. Tariq continues tospeak gently, and, when he pulls her to him, she lets him.
When he kisses her hand, then her brow, she lets him. Sheknows that he is probably right. She knows how his commentwas intended. Maybe thisis necessary. Maybe theremil be hopewhen Bush's bombs stop falling. But she cannot bring herselfto say it, not when what happened to Babi and Mammy ishappening to someone now in Afghanistan, not when someunsuspecting girl or boy back home has just been orphanedby a rocket as she was. Laila cannot bring herself to say it.
It's hard to rejoice. It seems hypocritical, perverse.
That night, Zalmai wakes up coughing. Before Laila can move,Tariq swings his legs over the side of the bed. He straps onhis prosthesis and walks over to Zalmai, lifts him up into hisarms. From the bed, Laila watches Tariq's shape moving backand forth in the darkness. She sees the outline of Zalmai'shead on his shoulder, the knot of his hands at Tariq's neck,his small feet bouncing by Tariq's hip.
When Tariq comes back to bed, neither of them saysanything. Laila reaches over and touches his face. Tariq'scheeks are wet.
For Laila, life in Murree is one of comfort and tranquillity.
The work is not cumbersome, and, on their days off, she andTariq take the children to ride the chairlift to Patriata hill, orgo to Pindi Point, where, on a clear day, you can see as faras Islamabad and downtown Rawalpindi. There, they spread ablanket on the grass and eat meatball sandwiches withcucumbers and drink cold ginger ale.
It is a good life, Laila tells herself, a life to be thankful for. Itis, in fact, precisely the sort of life she used to dream forherself in her darkest days with Rasheed. Every day, Lailareminds herself of this.
Then one warm night in July 2002, she and Tariq are lyingin bed talking in hushed voices about all the changes backhome. There have been so many. The coalition forces havedriven the Taliban out of every major city, pushed them acrossthe border to Pakistan and to the mountains in the south andeast of Afghanistan. ISAF, an international peacekeeping force,has been sent to Kabul. The country has an interim presidentnow, Hamid Karzai.
Laila decides that now is the time to tell Tariq.
A year ago, she would have gladly given an arm to get out ofKabul. But in the last few months, she has found herselfmissing the city of her childhood. She misses the bustle of ShorBazaar, the Gardens of Babur, the call of the water carrierslugging their goatskin bags. She misses the garment hagglers atChicken Street and the melon hawkers in Karteh-Parwan.
But it isn't mere homesickness or nostalgia that has Lailathinking of Kabul so much these days. She has becomeplagued by restlessness. She hears of schools built in Kabul,roads repaved, women returning to work, and her life here,pleasant as it is, grateful as she is for it, seems… insufficient toher. Inconsequential Worse yet, wasteful. Of late, she hasstarted hearing Babi's voice in her head.You can be anythingyou want, Laila, he says.I know this about you. And Ialsoknow that when this war is over, Afghanistan is going to needyou.
Laila hears Mammy's voice too. She remembers Mammy'sresponse to Babi when he would suggest that they leaveAfghanistan.Iwant to see my sons' dream come true. I want tobe there when it happens, when Afghanistan is free, so theboys see it too. They'll see it through my eyes. There is a partof Laila now that wants to return to Kabul, for Mammy andBabi, for them to see it throughher eyes.
And then, most compellingly for Laila, there is Mariam. DidMariam die for this? Laila asks herself. Did she sacrifice herselfso she, Laila, could be a maid in a foreign land? Maybe itwouldn't matter to Mariam what Laila did as long as she andthe children were safe and happy. But it matters to Laila.
Suddenly, it matters very much.
I want to go back, she says.
Tariq sits up in bed and looks down at her.
Laila is struck again by how beautiful he is, the perfect curveof his forehead, the slender muscles of his arms, his brooding,intelligent eyes. A year has passed, and still there are times, atmoments like this, when Laila cannot believe that they havefound each other again, that he is really here, with her, that heis her husband.
Back? To Kabul? he asks.
Onlyif you want it too."Are you unhappy here? You seem happy. The children too.Laila sits up. Tariq shifts on the bed, makes room for her.
Iam happy, Laila says. "Of course I am. But…where do wego from here, Tariq? How long do we stay? This isn't home.
Kabul is, and back there so much is happening, a lot of itgood. I want to be a part of it all. I want todo something. Iwant to contribute. Do you understand?"Tariq nods slowly. "This is what you want, then? You'resure?""I want it, yes, I'm sure. But it's more than that. I feel likeIhave to go back. Staying here, it doesn't feel right anymore."Tariq looks at his hands, then back up at her.
But only-only-if you want to go too.Tariq smiles. The furrows from his brow clear, and for a briefmoment he is the old Tariq again, the Tariq who did not getheadaches, who had once said that in Siberia snot turned toice before it hit the ground. It may be her imagination, butLaila believes there are more frequent sightings of this old Tariqthese clays.
Me? he says. "I'll follow you to the end of the world, Laila."She pulls him close and kisses his lips. She believes she hasnever loved him more than at this moment. "Thank you," shesays, her forehead resting against his.
Let's go home."But first, I want to go to Herat, she says.
Herat?Laila explains.
* * *The children need reassuring, each in their own way. Lailahas to sit down with an agitated Aziza, who still hasnightmares, who'd been startled to tears the week before whensomeone had shot rounds into the sky at a wedding nearby.
Laila has to explain to Aziza that when they return to Kabulthe Taliban won't be there, that there will not be any fighting,and that she will not be sent back to the orphanage. "We'll alllive together. Your father, me, Zalmai. And you, Aziza. You'llnever, ever, have to be apart from me again. I promise." Shesmiles at her daughter. "Until the dayyou want to, that is.
When you fall in love with some young man and want tomarry him."On the day they leave Murree, Zalmai is inconsolable. He haswrapped his arms around Alyona's neck and will not let go.
I can't pry him off of her, Mammy, says Aziza.
Zalmai. We can't take a goat on the bus, Laila explainsagain.
It isn't until Tariq kneels down beside him, until he promisesZalmai that he will buy him a goat just like Alyona in Kabul,that Zalmai reluctantly lets go.
There are tearful farewells with Sayeed as well For good luck,he holds a Koran by the doorway for Tariq, Laila, and thechildren to kiss three times, then holds it high so they canpass under it. He helps Tariq load the two suitcases into thetrunk of his car. It is Sayeed who drives them to the station,who stands on the curb waving good-bye as the bus sputtersand pulls away.
As she leans back and watches Sayeed receding in the rearwindow of the bus, Laila hears the voice of doubt whispering inher head. Are they being foolish, she wonders, leaving behindthe safety of Murree? Going back to the land where herparents and brothers perished, where the smoke of bombs isonly now settling?
And then, from the darkened spirals of her memory, rise twolines of poetry, Babi's farewell ode to Kabul:
One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs,Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her -walls.
Laila settles back in her seat, blinking the wetness from hereyes. Kabul is waiting. Needing. This journey home is the rightthing to do.
But first there is one last farewell to be said.
* * *The wars in Afghanistan have ravaged the roads connectingKabul, Herat, and Kandahar. The easiest way to Herat now isthrough Mashad, in Iran. Laila and her family are there onlyovernight. They spend the night at a hotel, and, the nextmorning, they board another bus.
Mashad is a crowded, bustling city. Laila watches as parks,mosques, andchelo kebab restaurants pass by. When the buspasses the shrine to Imam Reza, the eighth Shi'a imam, Lailacranes her neck to get a better view of its glistening tiles, theminarets, the magnificent golden dome, all of it immaculatelyand lovingly preserved. She thinks of the Buddhas in her owncountry. They are grains of dust now, blowing about theBamiyan Valley in the wind.
The bus ride to the Iranian-Afghan border takes almost tenhours. The terrain grows more desolate, more barren, as theynear Afghanistan. Shortly before they cross the border intoHerat, they pass an Afghan refugee camp. To Laila, it is a blurof yellow dust and black tents and scanty structures made ofcorrugated-steel sheets. She reaches across the seat and takesTariq's hand.
* * *In Herat, most of the streets are paved, lined with fragrantpines. There are municipal parks and libraries in reconstruction,manicured courtyards, freshly painted buildings. The traffic lightswork, and, most surprisingly to Laila, electricity is steady. Lailahas heard that Herat's feudal-style warlord, Ismail Khan, hashelped rebuild the city with the considerable customs revenuethat he collects at the Afghan-Iranian border, money that Kabulsays belongs not to him but to the central government. Thereis both a reverential and fearful tone when the taxi driver whotakes them to Muwaffaq Hotel mentions Ismail Khan's name.
The two-night stay at the Muwaffaq will cost them nearly afifth of their savings, but the trip from Mashad has been longand wearying, and the children are exhausted. The elderly clerkat the desk tells Tariq, as he fetches the room key, that theMuwaffaq is popular with journalists and NGO workers.
Bin Laden slept here once, he boasts.
The room has two beds, and a bathroom with running coldwater. There is a painting of the poet Khaja Abdullah Ansaryon the wall between the beds. From the window, Laila has aview of the busy street below, and of a park across the streetwith pastel-colored-brick paths cutting through thick clusters offlowers. The children, who have grown accustomed to television,are disappointed that there isn't one in the room. Soonenough, though, they are asleep. Soon enough, Tariq and Lailatoo have collapsed. Laila sleeps soundly in Tariq's arms, exceptfor once in the middle of the night when she wakes from adream she cannot remember.
* * *The next morning, after a breakfast of tea with fresh bread,quince marmalade, and boiled eggs, Tariq finds her a taxi.
Are you sure you don't want me to come along? Tariq says.
Aziza is holding his hand Zalmai isn't, but he is standing closeto Tariq, leaning one shoulder on Tariq's hip.
I'm sure."I worry."I'll be fine, Laila says. "I promise. Take the children to amarket. Buy them something."Zalmai begins to cry when the taxi pulls away, and, whenLaila looks back, she sees that he is reaching for Tariq. Thathe is beginning to accept Tariq both eases and breaks Laila'sheart.
* * *"You're not from herat," the driver says.
He has dark, shoulder-length hair-a common thumbing of thenose at the departed Taliban, Laila has discovered-and somekind of scar interrupting his mustache on the left side. There isa photo taped to the windshield, on his side. It's of a younggirl with pink cheeks and hair parted down the middle intotwin braids.
Laila tells him that she has been in Pakistan for the last year,that she is returning to Kabul. "Deh-Mazang."Through the windshield, she sees coppersmiths welding brasshandles to jugs, saddlemakers laying out cuts of rawhide to dryin the sun.
Have you lived here long, brother? she asks.
"Oh, my whole life. I was born here. I've seen everything. You remember the uprising?Laila says she does, but he goes on.
"This was back in March 1979, about nine months before theSoviets invaded. Some angry Heratis killed a few Sovietadvisers, so the Soviets sent in tanks and helicopters andpounded this place. For three days,hamshira, they fired on thecity. They collapsed buildings, destroyed one of the minarets,killed thousands of people.Thousands. I lost two sisters in thosethree days. One of them was twelve years old. He taps thephoto on his windshield. "That's her.""I'm sorry," Laila says, marveling at how every Afghan story ismarked by death and loss and unimaginable grief. And yet, shesees, people find a way to survive, to go on. Laila thinks ofher own life and all that has happened to her, and she isastonished that she too has survived, that she is alive andsitting in this taxi listening to this man'sstory.
* * *Gul Daman is a village of a few walled houses rising amongflatkolbas built with mud and straw. Outside thekolbas, Lailasees sunburned women cooking, their faces sweating in steamrising from big blackened pots set on makeshift firewood grills.
Mules eat from troughs. Children giving chase to chickens beginchasing the taxi. Laila sees men pushing wheelbarrows filledwith stones. They stop and watch the car pass by. The drivertakes a turn, and they pass a cemetery with a weather-wornmausoleum in the center of it. The driver tells her that avillage Sufi is buried there.
There is a windmill too. In the shadow of its idle, rust-coloredvanes, three little boys are squatting, playing with mud. Thedriver pulls over and leans out of the window. Theoldest-looking of the three boys is the one to answer. Hepoints to a house farther up the road. The driver thanks him,puts the car back in gear.
He parks outside the walled, one-story house. Laila sees thetops of fig trees above the walls, some of the branches spillingover the side.
I won't be long, she says to the driver.
* * *The middle-aged man who opens the door is short, thin,russet-haired. His beard is streaked with parallel stripes of gray.
He is wearing achapan over hispirhan-tumban.
They exchangesalaam alaykums.
Is this Mullah Faizullah's house? Laila asks.
"Yes. I am his son, Hamza. Is there something I can do foryou,hamshireh? ” I've come here about an old friend of your father's, Mariam.""Hamza blinks. A puzzled look passes across his face.
"Mariam…"Jalil Khan's daughter.He blinks again. Then he puts a palm to his cheek and hisface lights up with a smile that reveals missing and rottingteeth. "Oh!" he says. It comes out sounding likeOhhhhhh, likean expelled breath. "Oh! Mariam! Are you her daughter? Isshe-" He is twisting his neck now, looking behind her eagerly,searching. "Is she here? It's been so long! Is Mariam here?""She has passed on, I'm afraid."The smile fades from Hamza's face.
For a moment, they stand there, at the doorway, Hamzalooking at the ground. A donkey brays somewhere.
Come in, Hamza says. He swings the door open. "Pleasecome in."* * *They srr on the floor in a sparsely furnished room. There isa Herati rug on the floor, beaded cushions to sit on, and aframed photo of Mecca on the wall They sit by the openwindow, on either side of an oblong patch of sunlight- Lailahears women's voices whispering from another room. A littlebarefoot boy places before them a platter of green tea andpistachiogaaz nougats. Hamza nods at him.
My son.The boy leaves soundlessly.
So tell me, Hamza says tiredly.
Laila does. She tells him everything. It takes longer than she'dimagined. Toward the end, she struggles to maintaincomposure. It still isn't easy, one year later, talking aboutMariam.
When she's done, Hamza doesn't say anything for a longtime. He slowly turns his teacup on its saucer, one way, thenthe other.
My father, may he rest in peace, was so very fond of her,he says at last. "He was the one who sangazan in her earwhen she was born, you know. He visited her every week,never missed. Sometimes he took me with him. He was hertutor, yes, but he was a friend too. He was a charitable man,my father. It nearly broke him when Jalil Khan gave heraway.""I'm sorry to hear about your father. May God forgive him."Hamza nods his thanks. "He lived to be a very old man. Heoutlived Jalil Khan, in fact. We buried him in the villagecemetery, not far from where Mariam's mother is buried. Myfather was a dear, dear man, surely heaven-bound."Laila lowers her cup.
May I ask you something?"Of course."Can you show me? she says. "Where Mariam lived. Canyou take me there?"* * *The driver agrees to wait awhile longer.
Hamza and Laila exit the village and walk downhill on theroad that connects Gul Daman to Herat. After fifteen minutesor so, he points to a narrow gap in the tall grass that flanksthe road on both sides.
That's how you get there, he says. "There is a path there."The path is rough, winding, and dim, beneath the vegetationand undergrowth. The wind makes the tall grass slam againstLaila's calves as she and Hamza climb the path, take the turns.
On either side of them is a kaleidoscope of wilciflowers swayingin the wind, some tall with curved petals, others low, fan-leafed.
Here and there a few ragged buttercups peep through the lowbushes. Laila hears the twitter of swallows overhead and thebusy chatter of grasshoppers underfoot.
They walk uphill this way for two hundred yards or more.
Then the path levels, and opens into a flatter patch of land.
They stop, catch their breath. Laila dabs at her brow with hersleeve and bats at a swarm of mosquitoes hovering in front ofher face. Here she sees the low-slung mountains in thehorizon, a few cottonwoods, some poplars, various wild bushesthat she cannot name.
There used to be a stream here, Hamza says, a little out ofbreath. "But it's long dried up now."He says he will wait here. He tells her to cross the drystreambed, walk toward the mountains.
I'll wait here, he says, sitting on a rock beneath a poplar.
You go on."I won't-"Don't worry. Take your time. Go on,hamshireh. Laila thanks him. She crosses the streambed, stepping fromone stone to another. She spots broken soda bottles amid therocks, rusted cans, and a mold-coated metallic container with azinc lid half buried in the ground.
She heads toward the mountains, toward the weeping willows,which she can see now, the long drooping branches shakingwith each gust of wind. In her chest, her heart is drumming.
She sees that the willows are arranged as Mariam had said, ina circular grove with a clearing in the middle. Laila walks faster,almost running now. She looks back over her shoulder andsees that Hamza is a tiny figure, hischapan a burst of coloragainst the brown of the trees' bark. She trips over a stoneand almost falls, then regains her footing. She hurries the restof the way with the legs of her trousers pulled up. She ispanting by the time she reaches the willows.
Mariam'skolba is still here.
When she approaches it, Laila sees that the lone windowpaneis empty and that the door is gone. Mariam had described achicken coop and a tandoor, a wooden outhouse too, but Lailasees no sign of them. She pauses at the entrance to thekolbaShe can hear flies buzzing inside.
To get in, she has to sidestep a large fluttering spiderweb. It'sdim inside. Laila has to give her eyes a few moments toadjust. When they do, she sees that the interior is even smallerthan she'd imagined. Only half of a single rotting, splinteredboard remains of the floorboards. The rest, she imagines, havebeen ripped up for burning as firewood. The floor is carpetednow with dry-edged leaves, broken bottles, discarded chewinggum wrappers, wild mushrooms, old yellowed cigarette butts.
But mostly with weeds, some stunted, some springingimpudently halfway up the walls.
Fifteen years, Laila thinks. Fifteen years in this place.
Laila sits down, her back to the wall. She listens to the windfiltering through the willows. There are more spiderwebsstretched across the ceiling. Someone has spray-paintedsomething on one of the walls, but much of it has sloughedoff, and Laila cannot decipher what it says. Then she realizesthe letters are Russian. There is a deserted bird's nest in onecorner and a bat hanging upside down in another corner,where the wall meets the low ceiling.
Laila closes her eyes and sits there awhile.
In Pakistan, it was difficult sometimes to remember the detailsof Mariam's face. There were times when, like a word on thetip of her tongue, Mariam's face eluded her. But now, here inthis place, it's easy to summon Mariam behind the lids of hereyes: the soft radiance of her gaze, the long chin, thecoarsened skin of her neck, the tight-lipped smile. Here, Lailacan lay her cheek on the softness of Mariam's lap again, canfeel Mariam swaying back and forth, reciting verses from theKoran, can feel the words vibrating down Mariam's body, toher knees, and into her own ears.
Then, suddenly, the weeds begin to recede, as if something ispulling them by the roots from beneath the ground. They sinklower and lower until the earth in thekolba has swallowed thelast of their spiny leaves. The spiderwebs magically unspinthemselves. The bird's nest self-disassembles, the twigs snappingloose one by one, flying out of thekolba end over end. Aninvisible eraser wipes the Russian graffiti off the wall.
The floorboards are back. Laila sees a pair of sleeping cotsnow, a wooden table, two chairs, a cast-iron stove in thecorner, shelves along the walls, on which sit clay pots andpans, a blackened teakettle, cups and spoons. She hearschickens clucking outside, the distant gurgling of the stream.
A young Mariam is sitting at the table making a doll by theglow of an oil lamp. She's humming something. Her face issmooth and youthful, her hair washed, combed back. She hasall her teeth.
Laila watches Mariam glue strands of yam onto her doll'shead. In a few years, this little girl will be a woman who willmake small demands on life, who will never burden others,who will never let on that she too has had sorrows,disappointments, dreams that have been ridiculed. A womanwho will be like a rock in a riverbed, enduring withoutcomplaint, her grace not sullied butshaped by the turbulencethat washes over her. Already Laila sees something behind thisyoung girl's eyes, something deep in her core, that neitherRasheed nor the Taliban will be able to break. Something ashard and unyielding as a block of limestone. Something that, inthe end, will beher undoing and Laila's salvation.
The little girl looks up. Puts down the doll. Smiles.
Laila jo?
Laila's eyes snap open. She gasps, and her body pitchesforward. She startles the bat, which zips from one end ofthekolba to the other, its beating wings like the fluttering pagesof a book, before it flies out the window.
Laila gets to her feet, beats the dead leaves from the seat ofher trousers. She steps out of thekolba Outside, the light hasshifted slightly. A wind is blowing, making the grass ripple andthe willow branches click.
Before she leaves the clearing, Laila takes one last look atthekolba where Mariam had slept, eaten, dreamed, held herbreath for Jalil. On sagging walls, the willows cast crookedpatterns that shift with each gust of wind. A crow has landedon the flat roof. It pecks at something, squawks, flies off.
Good-bye, Mariam.And, with that, unaware that she is weeping, Laila begins torun through the grass.
She finds Hamza still sitting on the rock. When he spots her,he stands up.
Let's go back, he says. Then, "I have something to giveyou."* * *Laila watts for Hamza in the garden by the front door. Theboy who had served them tea earlier is standing beneath oneof the fig trees holding a chicken, watching her impassively.
Laila spies two faces, an old woman and a young girl inhijabobserving her demurely from a window.
The door to the house opens and Hamza emerges. He iscarrying a box.
He gives it to Laila.
Jalil Khan gave this to my father a month or so before hedied/' Hamza says. He asked my father to safeguard it forMariam until she came to claim it. My father kept it for twoyears. Then, just before he passed away, he gave it to me,and asked me to save it for Mariam. But she…you know, shenever came."Laila looks down at the oval-shaped tin box. It looks like anold chocolate box. It's olive green, with fading gilt scrolls allaround the hinged lid There is a little rust on the sides, andtwo tiny dents on the front rim of the lid. Laila tries to openthe box, but the latch is locked.
What's in it? she asks.
Hamza puts a key in her palm. "My father never unlocked it.
Neither did 1.Isuppose it was God's will that it be you."* * *Back at the hotel, Tariq and the children are not back yet.
Laila sits on the bed, the box on her lap. Part of her wantsto leave it unopened, let whatever Jalil had intended remain asecret. But, in the end, the curiosity proves too strong. Sheslides in the key. It takes some rattling and shaking, but sheopens the box.
In it, she finds three things: an envelope, a burlap sack, anda videocassette.
Laila takes the tape and goes down to the reception desk.
She learns from the elderly clerk who had greeted them theday before that the hotel has only one VCR, in its biggest suite.
The suite is vacant at the moment, and he agrees to take her.
He leaves the desk to a mustachioed young man in a suit whois talking on a cellular phone.
The old clerk leads Laila to the second floor, to a door at theend of a long hallway. He works the lock, lets her in.
Laila's eyes find the TV in the corner. They register nothingelse about the suite-She turns on the TV, turns on the VCR.
Puts the tape in and pushes the play button. The screen isblank for a few moments, and Laila begins to wonder why Jalilhad gone to the trouble of passing a blank tape to Mariam.
But then there is music, and images begin to play on thescreen.
Laila frowns. She keeps watching for a minute or two. Thenshe pushes stop, fast-forwards the tape, and pushes play again.
It's the same film.
The old man is looking at her quizzically.
The film playing on the screen is Walt Disney'sPinocchio. Lailadoes not understand.
* * *Tariq and the children come back to the hotel just after sixo'clock. Aziza runs to Laila and shows her theearrings Tariq has bought for her, silver with an enamelbutterfly on each. Zalmai is clutching an inflatable dolphin thatsqueaks when its snout is squeezed.
How are you? Tariq asks, putting his arm around hershoulder.
I'm fine, Laila says. "I'll tell you later."They walk to a nearby kebab house to eat. It's a small place,with sticky, vinyl tablecloths, smoky and loud But the lamb istender and moist and the bread hot. They walk the streets fora while after. Tariq buys the children rosewater ice cream froma street-side kiosk. They eat, sitting on a bench, the mountainsbehind them silhouetted against the scarlet red of dusk. The airis warm, rich with the fragrance of cedar.
Laila had opened the envelope earlier when she'd come backto the room after viewing the videotape. In it was a letter,handwritten in blue ink on a yellow, lined sheet of paper.
It read:
May 13, 1987My dear Mariam:
I pray that this letter finds you in good healthAs you kno w, I came to Kabul a month ago to speak withyou. Bui you would not see me. Iwas disappointed but couldnot blame you. In your place, Imight have done the same. Ilostthe privilege of your good graces a long time ago and for thatI only have myself to blame. Bui if you are reading this letter,then you have read the letter that Ilefi at your door. You haveread it and you have come to see Mullah Faizullah, as I hadasked that you do. Iam grateful that you did, Mariam jo. Iamgrateful for this chance to say a few words to you.
Where do I begin?
Your father has known so much sorrow since we last spoke,Mariamjo. Your stepmother Afsoon was killed on the first dayof the 1979 uprising. A stray bullet killed your sister Niloufarthat same day. Ican still see her, my Utile Niloufar, doingheadsiands to impress guests. Your brother Farhad joined thejihad in J 980. The Soviets killed him in J 982, just outsideofHelmand. I never got to see his body. I don 'i know if youhave children of your own, Mariamjo, but if you do I praythat God look after them and spare you the grief that Ihaveknown. I still dream of them. I still dream of my deadchildren.
I have dreams of you too, Mariam jo. Imiss you. Imiss thesound of your voice, your laughter. I miss reading to you, andall those times we fished together. Do you remember all thosetimes we fished together? You were a good daughter, Mariamjo, and I cannot ever think of you without feeling shame andregret. Regret… When it comes to you, Mariamjo, I haveoceans of it. I regret that I did not see you the day you cameto Herat. I regret that I did not open the door and take youin. I regret that I did not make you a daughter to me, ihatlleiyou live in that place for all those years. Andfor what? Fearof losing face? Of staining my so-called good name? How Utilethose things matter to me now after all the loss, all the terriblethings Ihave seen in this cursed war. Bui now, of course, it istoo late. Perhaps this is just punishment for those who havebeen heartless, to understand only when nothing can beundone. Now all Ican do is say that you were a gooddaughter, Mariamjo, and that Inever deserved you. Now all Ican do is ask for your forgiveness. So forgive me, Mariamjo.
Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.
I am not the wealthy man you once knew. The communistsconfiscated so much of my land, and all of my stores as well.
But it is petty to complain, for God-for reasons that I do notunderstand-has still blessed me with far more than mostpeople. Since my return from Kabul, Ihave managed to sellwhat Utile remained of my land. I have enclosed for you yourshare of the inheritance. You can see that it is far fromafortune, but it is something. It is something. (You will alsonotice that I have taken the liberty of exchanging the moneyinto dollars. I think it is for the best God alone knows the fateof our own beleaguered currency.)I hope you do not think that I am trying to buy yourforgiveness. I hope you will credit me with knowing that yourforgiveness is not for sale. It never was. I am merely givingyou, if belatedly, what was rightfully yours all along. I was nota dutiful father to you in life. Perhaps in death I can be.
Ah, death. I won't burden you with details, but death is withinsight for me now. Weak heart, the doctors say. It is a fittingmanner of death, I think, for a weak man.
Mariamjo,I dare, I dare allow myself the hope that, after you read this,you will be more charitable to me than I ever was to you.
That you might find it in your heart to come and see yourfather. That you will knock on my door one more time andgive me the chance to open it this time, to welcome you, totake you in my arms, my daughter, as I should have all thoseyears ago. It is a hope as weak as my heart. This I know. ButI will be waiting. I will be listening for your knock I will behoping.
May God grant you a long and prosperous life, my daughter.
May God give you many healthy and beautiful children. Mayyou find the happiness, peace, and acceptance that I did notgive you. Be well. I leave you in the loving hands of God.
Your undeserving father, JalilThat night, after they return to the hotel, after the childrenhave played and gone to bed, Laila tells Tariq about the letter.
She shows him the money in the burlap sack. When shebegins to cry, he kisses her face and holds her in his arms.
April 2003Thedrought has ended. It snowed at last this past winter,kneedeep, and now it has been raining for days.The KabulRiver is flowing once again. Its spring floods have washed awayTitanic City.
There is mud on the streets now. Shoes squish. Cars gettrapped. Donkeys loaded with apples slog heavily, their hoovessplattering muck from rain puddles. But no one is complainingabout the mud, no one is mourning Titanic City.We need Kabulto be green again, people say.
Yesterday, Laila watched her children play in the downpour,hopping from one puddle to another in their backyard beneatha lead-colored sky. She was watching from the kitchen windowof the small two-bedroom house that they are renting inDeh-Mazang. There is a pomegranate tree in the yard and athicket of sweetbriar bushes. Tariq has patched the walls andbuilt the children a slide, a swing set, a little fenced area forZalmai's new goat. Laila watched the rain slide off Zalmai'sscalp-he has asked that he be shaved, like Tariq, who is incharge now of saying theBabaloo prayers. The rain flattenedAziza's long hair, turned it into sodden tendrils that sprayedZalmai when she snapped her head.
Zalmai is almost six. Aziza is ten. They celebrated her birthdaylast week, took her to Cinema Park, where, at last,Titanic wasopenly screened for the people of Kabul.
* * *"Come on, children, we're going to be late," Laila calls, puttingtheir lunches in a paper bag-It's eight o'clock in the morning.
Laila was up at five. As always, it was Aziza who shook herawake for morningnamaz. The prayers, Laila knows, are Aziza'sway of clinging to Mariam, her way of keeping Mariam closeawhile yet before time has its way, before it snatches Mariamfrom the garden of her memory like a weed pulled by itsroots.
Afternamaz, Laila had gone back to bed, and was still asleepwhen Tariq left the house. She vaguely remembers him kissingher cheek. Tariq has found work with a French NGO that fitsland mine survivors and amputees with prosthetic limbs.
Zalmai comes chasing Aziza into the kitchen.
You have your notebooks, you two? Pencils? Textbooks?"Right here, Aziza says, lifting her backpack. Again, Lailanotices how her stutter is lessening.
Let's go, then.Laila lets the children out of the house, locks the door. Theystep out into the cool morning. It isn't raining today. The skyis blue, and Laila sees no clumps of clouds in the horizon.
Holding hands, the three of them make their way to the busstop. The streets are busy already, teeming with a steadystream of rickshaws, taxicabs, UN trucks, buses, ISAF jeeps.
Sleepy-eyed merchants are unlocking store gates that had beenrolled down for the night-Vendors sit behind towers of chewinggum and cigarette packs. Already the widows have claimed theirspots at street corners, asking the passersby for coins.
Laila finds it strange to be back in Kabul The city haschanged Every day now she sees people planting saplings,painting old houses, carrying bricks for new ones. They diggutters and wells. On windowsills, Laila spots flowers potted inthe empty shells of old Mujahideen rockets-rocket flowers,Kabulis call them. Recently, Tariq took Laila and the children tothe Gardens of Babur, which are being renovated. For the firsttime in years, Laila hears music at Kabul's street corners,rubaband tabla,dooiar, harmonium and tamboura, old Ahmad Zahirsongs.
Laila wishes Mammy and Babi were alive to see thesechanges. But, like Mil's letter, Kabul's penance has arrived toolate.
Laila and the children are about to cross the street to the busstop when suddenly a black Land Cruiser with tinted windowsblows by. It swerves at the last instant and misses Laila by lessthan an arm's length. It splatters tea-colored rainwater all overthe children's shirts.
Laila yanks her children back onto the sidewalk, heartsomersaulting in her throat.
The Land Cruiser speeds down the street, honks twice, andmakes a sharp left.
Laila stands there, trying to catch her breath, her fingersgripped tightly around her children's wrists.
It slays Laila. It slays her that the warlords have been allowedback to Kabul That her parents' murderers live in posh homeswith walled gardens, that they have been appointed minister ofthis and deputy minister of that, that they ride with impunity inshiny, bulletproof SUVs through neighborhoods that theydemolished. It slays her.
But Laila has decided that she will not be crippled byresentment. Mariam wouldn't want it that way.What's thesense? she would say with a smile both innocent andwise.What good is it, Laila jo? And so Laila has resignedherself to moving on. For her own sake, for Tariq's, for herchildren's. And for Mariam, who still visits Laila in her dreams,who is never more than a breath or two below herconsciousness. Laila has moved on. Because in the end sheknows that's all she can do. That and hope.
* * *Zamanis standing at the free throw line, his knees bent,bouncing a basketball. He is instructing a group of boys inmatching jerseys sitting in a semicircle on the court. Zamanspots Laila, tucks the ball under his arm, and waves. He sayssomething to the boys, who then wave and cry out,"Salaam,moalim sahib!"Laila waves back.
The orphanage playground has a row of apple saplings nowalong the east-facing wall. Laila is planning to plant some onthe south wall as well as soon as it is rebuilt. There is a newswing set, new monkey bars, and a jungle gym.
Laila walks back inside through the screen door.
They have repainted both the exterior and the interior of theorphanage. Tariq and Zaman have repaired all the roof leaks,patched the walls, replaced the windows, carpeted the roomswhere the children sleep and play. This past winter, Lailabought a few beds for the children's sleeping quarters, pillowstoo, and proper wool blankets. She had cast-iron stovesinstalled for the winter.
Anis,one of Kabul's newspapers, had run a story the monthbefore on the renovation of the orphanage. They'd taken aphoto too, of Zaman, Tariq, Laila, and one of the attendants,standing in a row behind the children. When Laila saw thearticle, she'd thought of her childhood friends Giti and Hasina,and Hasina saying,By the time we're twenty, Giti and I, we'llhave pushed out four, five kids each Bui you, Laila, you'll makeus two dummies proud. You 're going to be somebody. I knowone day I'll pick up a newspaper and find your picture on thefrontpage. The photo hadn't made the front page, but there itwas nevertheless, as Hasina had predicted.
Laila takes a turn and makes her way down the samehallway where, two years before, she and Mariam had deliveredAziza to Zaman. Laila still remembers how they had to pryAziza's fingers from her wrist. She remembers running downthis hallway, holding back a howl, Mariam calling after her,Aziza screaming with panic. The hallway's walls are coverednow with posters, of dinosaurs, cartoon characters, the Buddhasof Bamiyan, and displays of artwork by the orphans. Many ofthe drawings depict tanks running over huts, men brandishingAK-47s, refugee camp tents, scenes of jihad.
Laila turns a corner in the hallway and sees the children now,waiting outside the classroom. She is greeted by their scarves,their shaved scalps covered by skullcaps, their small, leanfigures, the beauty of their drabness.
When the children spot Laila, they come running. They comerunning at full tilt. Laila is swarmed. There is a flurry ofhigh-pitched greetings, of shrill voices, of patting, clutching,tugging, groping, of jostling with one another to climb into herarms. There are outstretched little hands and appeals forattention. Some of them call herMother. Laila does not correctthem.
It takes Laila some work this morning to calm the childrendown, to get them to form a proper queue, to usher them intothe classroom.
It was Tariq and Zaman who built the classroom by knockingdown the wall between two adjacent rooms. The floor is stillbadly cracked and has missing tiles. For the time being, it iscovered with tarpaulin, but Tariq has promised to cement somenew tiles and lay down carpeting soon.
Nailed above the classroom doorway is a rectangular board,which Zaman has sanded and painted in gleaming white. On it,with a brush, Zaman has written four lines of poetry, hisanswer, Laila knows, to those who grumble that the promisedaid money to Afghanistan isn't coming, that the rebuilding isgoing too slowly, that there is corruption, that the Taliban areregrouping already and will come back with a vengeance, thatthe world will forget once again about Afghanistan. The linesare from his favorite of Hafez'sghazals:
Joseph shall return to Canaan, grieve not, Hovels shall turn torose gardens, grieve not. If a flood should arrive, to drown allthat's alive, Noah is your guide in the typhoon's eye, grieve notLaila passes beneath the sign and enters the classroom. Thechildren are taking their seats, flipping notebooks open,chattering- Aziza is talking to a girl in the adjacent row. Apaper airplane floats across the room in a high arc. Someonetosses it back.
Open your Farsi books, children, Laila says, dropping herown books on her desk.
To a chorus of flipping pages, Laila makes her way to thecurtainless window. Through the glass, she can see the boys inthe playground lining up to practice their free throws. Abovethem, over the mountains, the morning sun is rising. It catchesthe metallic rim of the basketball hoop, the chain link of thetire swings, the whistle hanging around Zaman's neck, his new,unchipped spectacles. Laila flattens her palms against the warmglass panes. Closes her eyes. She lets the sunlight fall on hercheeks, her eyelids, her brow.
When they first came back to Kabul, it distressed Laila thatshe didn't know where the Taliban had buried Mariam. Shewished she could visit Mariam's grave, to sit with her awhile,leave a flower or two. But Laila sees now that it doesn'tmatter. Mariam is never very far. She is here, in these wallsthey've repainted, in the trees they've planted, in the blanketsthat keep the children warm, in these pillows and books andpencils. She is in the children's laughter. She is in the versesAziza recites and in the prayers she mutters when she bowswestward. But, mostly, Mariam is in Laila's own heart, whereshe shines with the bursting radiance of a thousand suns.
Someone has been calling her name, Laila realizes. She turnsaround, instinctively tilts her head, lifting her good ear just atad. It's Aziza.
Mammy? Are you all right?The room has become quiet. The children are watching her.
Laila is about to answer when her breath suddenly catches.
Her hands shoot down. They pat the spot where, a momentbefore, she'd felt a wave go through her. She waits. But thereis no more movement.
Mammy?"Yes, my love. Laila smiles. "I'm all right. Yes. Very much."As she walks to her desk at the front of the class, Lailathinks of the naming game they'd played again over dinner thenight before. It has become a nightly ritual ever since Lailagave Tariq and the children the news. Back and forth they go,making a case for their own choice. Tariq likes Mohammad.
Zalmai, who has recently watchedSuperman on tape, is puzzledas to why an Afghan boy cannot be named Clark. Aziza iscampaigning hard for Aman. Laila likes Omar.
But the game involves only male names. Because, if it's a girl,Laila has already named her.
AfterwordFor almost three decades now, the Afghan refugee crisis hasbeen one of the most severe around the globe. War, hunger,anarchy, and oppression forced millions of people-like Tariq andhis family in this tale-to abandon their homes and fleeAfghanistan to settle in neighboring Pakistan and Iran. At theheight of the exodus, as many as eight million Afghans wereliving abroad as refugees. Today, more than two million Afghanrefugees remain in Pakistan.
Over the past year, I have had the privilege of working as aU.S. envoy for UNHCR, the UN refugee agency, one of theworld's foremost humanitarian agencies. UNHCR's mandate is toprotect the basic human rights of refugees, provide emergencyrelief, and to help refugees restart their lives in a safeenvironment. UNHCR provides assistance to more than twentymillion displaced people around the world, not only inAfghanistan but also in places such as Colombia, Burundi, theCongo, Chad, and the Datfur region of Sudan. Working withUNHCR to help refugees has been one of the most rewardingand meaningful experiences of my life.
To help, or simply to learn more about UNHCR, its work, orthe plight of refugees in general, please visit:www.UNrefugees.org.
Thank you.
Khaled Hosseini January 31, 2007AcknowledgmentsA few clarifications before I give thanks. The village of GulDaman is a fictional place-as far as I know. Those who arefamiliar with the city of Herat will notice that I have takenminor liberties describing the geography around it. Last, the titleof this novel comes from a poem composed by Saeb-e-Tabrizi,a seventeenth-century Persian poet. Those who know theoriginal Farsi poem will doubtless note that the Englishtranslation of the line containing the title of this novel is not aliteral one. But it is the generally accepted translation, by Dr.
Josephine Davis, and I found it lovely. I am grateful to her.
I would like to thank Qayoum Sarwar, Hekmat Sadat, ElyseHathaway, Rosemary Stasek, Lawrence Quill, and HaleemaJazmin Quill for their assistance and support.
Very special thanks to my father, Baba, for reading thismanuscript, for his feedback, and, as ever, for his love andsupport. And to my mother, whose selfless, gentle spiritpermeates this tale. You are my reason, Mother jo. My thanksgo to my in-laws for their generosity and many kindnesses. Tothe rest of my wonderful family, I remain indebted and gratefulto each and every one of you.
I wish to thank my agent, Elaine Koster, for always, alwaysbelieving, Jody Hotchkiss (Onward!), David Grossman, HelenHeller, and the tireless Chandler Crawford. I am grateful andindebted to every single person at Riverhead Books. Inparticular, I want to thank Susan Petersen Kennedy andGeoffrey Kloske for their faith in this story. My heartfelt thanksalso go to Marilyn Ducksworth, Mih-Ho Cha, Catharine Lynch,Craig D. Burke, Leslie Schwartz, Honi Werner, and WendyPearl. Special thanks to my sharp-eyed copy editor, Tony Davis,who missesnothing, and, lastly, to my talented editor, Sarah McGrath, forher patience, foresight, and guidance.
Finally, thank you, Roya. For reading this story, again andagain, for weathering my minor crises of confidence (and acouple of major ones), for never doubting. This book wouldnot be without you. I love you.
The End