A Thousand Splendid Suns (26 page)

46.

Laila

L
aila was aware of the face over her, all teeth and tobacco and foreboding eyes. She was dimly aware, too, of Mariam,
a presence beyond the face, of her fists raining down. Above them was the ceiling, and it was the ceiling Laila was drawn
to, the dark markings of mold spreading across it like ink on a dress, the crack in the plaster that was a stolid smile or
a frown, depending on which end of the room you looked at it from. Laila thought of all the times she had tied a rag around
the end of a broom and cleaned cobwebs from this ceiling. The three times she and Mariam had put coats of white paint on it.
The crack wasn’t a smile any longer now but a mocking leer. And it was receding. The ceiling was shrinking, lifting, rising
away from her and toward some hazy dimness beyond. It rose until it shrank to the size of a postage stamp, white and bright,
everything around it blotted out by the shuttered darkness. In the dark, Rasheed’s face was like a sunspot.

Brief little bursts of blinding light before her eyes now, like silver stars exploding. Bizarre geometric forms in the light,
worms, egg-shaped things, moving up and down, sideways, melting into each other, breaking apart, morphing into something else,
then fading, giving way to blackness.

Voices muffled and distant.

Behind the lids of her eyes, her children’s faces flared and fizzled. Aziza, alert and burdened, knowing, secretive. Zalmai,
looking up at his father with quivering eagerness.

It would end like this, then, Laila thought. What a pitiable end.

But then the darkness began to lift. She had a sensation of rising up, of being hoisted up. The ceiling slowly came back,
expanded, and now Laila could make out the crack again, and it was the same old dull smile.

She was being shaken.
Are you all right? Answer me, are
you all right?
Mariam’s face, engraved with scratches, heavy with worry, hovered over Laila.

Laila tried a breath. It burned her throat. She tried another. It burned even more this time, and not just her throat but
her chest too. And then she was coughing, and wheezing. Gasping. But breathing. Her good ear rang.

THE FIRST THING she saw when she sat up was Rasheed. He was lying on his back, staring at nothing with an unblinking, fish-mouthed
expression. A bit of foam, lightly pink, had dribbled from his mouth down his cheek. The front of his pants was wet. She saw
his forehead.

Then she saw the shovel.

A groan came out of her. “Oh,” she said, tremulously, barely able to make a voice, “Oh, Mariam.”

LAILA PACED, moaning and banging her hands together, as Mariam sat near Rasheed, her hands in her lap, calm and motionless.
Mariam didn’t say anything for a long time.

Laila’s mouth was dry, and she was stammering her words, trembling all over. She willed herself not to look at Rasheed, at
the rictus of his mouth, his open eyes, at the blood congealing in the hollow of his collarbone.

Outside, the light was fading, the shadows deepening. Mariam’s face looked thin and drawn in this light, but she did not appear
agitated or frightened, merely preoccupied, thoughtful, so self-possessed that when a fly landed on her chin she paid it no
attention. She just sat there with her bottom lip stuck out, the way she did when she was absorbed in thought.

At last, she said, “Sit down, Laila jo.”

Laila did, obediently.

“We have to move him. Zalmai can’t see this.”

MARIAM FISHED THE bedroom key from Rasheed’s pocket before they wrapped him in a bedsheet. Laila took him by the legs, behind
the knees, and Mariam grabbed him under the arms. They tried lifting him, but he was too heavy, and they ended up dragging
him. As they were passing through the front door and into the yard, Rasheed’s foot caught against the doorframe and his leg
bent sideways. They had to back up and try again, and then something thumped upstairs and Laila’s legs gave out. She dropped
Rasheed. She slumped to the ground, sobbing and shaking, and Mariam had to stand over her, hands on hips, and say that she
had to get herself together. That what was done was done.

After a time, Laila got up and wiped her face, and they carried Rasheed to the yard without further incident. They took him
into the toolshed. They left him behind the workbench, on which sat his saw, some nails, a chisel, a hammer, and a cylindrical
block of wood that Rasheed had been meaning to carve into something for Zalmai but had never gotten around to doing.

Then they went back inside. Mariam washed her hands, ran them through her hair, took a deep breath and let it out. “Let me
tend to your wounds now. You’re all cut up, Laila jo.”

MARIAM SAID SHE needed the night to think things over. To get her thoughts together and devise a plan.

“There is a way,” she said, “and I just have to find it.”

“We have to leave! We can’t stay here,” Laila said in a broken, husky voice. She thought suddenly of the sound the shovel
must have made striking Rasheed’s head, and her body pitched forward. Bile surged up her chest.

Mariam waited patiently until Laila felt better. Then she had Laila lie down, and, as she stroked Laila’s hair in her lap,
Mariam said not to worry, that everything would be fine. She said that they would leave—she, Laila, the children, and Tariq
too. They would leave this house, and this unforgiving city. They would leave this despondent country altogether, Mariam said,
running her hands through Laila’s hair, and go someplace remote and safe where no one would find them, where they could disown
their past and find shelter.

“Somewhere with trees,” she said. “Yes. Lots of trees.”

They would live in a small house on the edge of some town they’d never heard of, Mariam said, or in a remote village where
the road was narrow and unpaved but lined with all manner of plants and shrubs. Maybe there would be a path to take, a path
that led to a grass field where the children could play, or maybe a graveled road that would take them to a clear blue lake
where trout swam and reeds poked through the surface. They would raise sheep and chickens, and they would make bread together
and teach the children to read. They would make new lives for themselves—peaceful, solitary lives—and there the weight of
all that they’d endured would lift from them, and they would be deserving of all the happiness and simple prosperity they
would find.

Laila murmured encouragingly. It would be an existence rife with difficulties, she saw, but of a pleasurable kind, difficulties
they could take pride in, possess, value, as one would a family heirloom. Mariam’s soft maternal voice went on, brought a
degree of comfort to her.
There is a way,
she’d said, and, in the morning, Mariam would tell her what needed to be done and they would do it, and maybe by tomorrow
this time they would be on their way to this new life, a life luxuriant with possibility and joy and welcomed difficulties.
Laila was grateful that Mariam was in charge, unclouded and sober, able to think this through for both of them. Her own mind
was a jittery, muddled mess.

Mariam got up. “You should tend to your son now.” On her was the most stricken expression Laila had ever seen on a human face.

LAILA FOUND HIM in the dark, curled up on Rasheed’s side of the mattress. She slipped beneath the covers beside him and pulled
the blanket over them.

“Are you asleep?”

Without turning around to face her, he said, “Can’t sleep yet. Baba jan hasn’t said the
Babaloo
prayers with me.”

“Maybe I can say them with you tonight.”

“You can’t say them like he can.”

She squeezed his little shoulder. Kissed the nape of his neck. “I can try.”

“Where is Baba jan?”

“Baba jan has gone away,” Laila said, her throat closing up again.

And there it was, spoken for the first time, the great, damning lie. How many more times would this lie have to be told? Laila
wondered miserably. How many more times would Zalmai have to be deceived? She pictured Zalmai, his jubilant, running welcomes
when Rasheed came home and Rasheed picking him up by the elbows and swinging him round and round until Zalmai’s legs flew
straight out, the two of them giggling afterward when Zalmai stumbled around like a drunk. She thought of their disorderly
games and their boisterous laughs, their secretive glances.

A pall of shame and grief for her son fell over Laila.

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know, my love.”

When was he coming back? Would Baba jan bring a present with him when he returned?

She did the prayers with Zalmai. Twenty-one
Bismallah-e-rahman-
e-
rahim
s—one for each knuckle of seven fingers.

She watched him cup his hands before his face and blow into them, then place the back of both hands on his forehead and make
a casting-away motion, whispering, Babaloo,
be gone, do not come to Zalmai, he has no business
with you.
Babaloo,
be gone.
Then, to finish off, they said
Allah-u-akbar
three times. And later, much later that night, Laila was startled by a muted voice:
Did Baba jan leave
because of me? Because of what I said, about you and the
man downstairs?

She leaned over him, meaning to reassure, meaning to say
It had nothing to do with you, Zalmai. No. Nothing is your
fault.
But he was asleep, his small chest rising and sinking.

WHEN LAILA WENT to bed, her mind was muffled up, clouded, incapable of sustained rational thought. But when she woke up, to
the muezzin’s call for morning prayer, much of the dullness had lifted.

She sat up and watched Zalmai sleep for a while, the ball of his fist under his chin. Laila pictured Mariam sneaking into
the room in the middle of the night as she and Zalmai had slept, watching them, making plans in her head.

Laila slipped out of bed. It took effort to stand. She ached everywhere. Her neck, her shoulders, her back, her arms, her
thighs, all engraved with the cuts of Rasheed’s belt buckle. Wincing, she quietly left the bedroom.

In Mariam’s room, the light was a shade darker than gray, the kind of light Laila had always associated with crowing roosters
and dew rolling off blades of grass. Mariam was sitting in a corner, on a prayer rug facing the window. Slowly, Laila lowered
herself to the ground, sitting down across from her.

“You should go and visit Aziza this morning,” Mariam said.

“I know what you mean to do.”

“Don’t walk. Take the bus, you’ll blend in. Taxis are too conspicuous. You’re sure to get stopped for riding alone.”

“What you promised last night . . .”

Laila could not finish. The trees, the lake, the nameless village. A delusion, she saw. A lovely lie meant to soothe. Like
cooing to a distressed child.

“I meant it,” Mariam said. “I meant it for
you,
Laila jo.”

“I don’t want any of it without you,” Laila croaked.

Mariam smiled wanly.

“I want it to be just like you said, Mariam, all of us going together, you, me, the children. Tariq has a place in Pakistan.
We can hide out there for a while, wait for things to calm down—”

“That’s not possible,” Mariam said patiently, like a parent to a well-meaning but misguided child.

“We’ll take care of each other,” Laila said, choking on the words, her eyes wet with tears. “Like you said. No. I’ll take
care of
you
for a change.”

“Oh, Laila jo.”

Laila went on a stammering rant. She bargained. She promised. She would do all the cleaning, she said, and all the cooking.
“You won’t have to do a thing. Ever again.

You rest, sleep in, plant a garden. Whatever you want, you ask and I’ll get it for you. Don’t do this, Mariam. Don’t leave
me. Don’t break Aziza’s heart.”

“They chop off hands for stealing bread,” Mariam said.

“What do you think they’ll do when they find a dead husband and two missing wives?”

“No one will know,” Laila breathed. “No one will find us.”

“They will. Sooner or later. They’re bloodhounds.”

Mariam’s voice was low, cautioning; it made Laila’s promises sound fantastical, trumped-up, foolish.

“Mariam, please—”

“When they do, they’ll find you as guilty as me. Tariq too. I won’t have the two of you living on the run, like fugitives.
What will happen to your children if you’re caught?”

Laila’s eyes brimming, stinging.

“Who will take care of them then? The Taliban? Think like a mother, Laila jo. Think like a mother. I am.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“It isn’t fair,” Laila croaked.

“But it
is.
Come here. Come lie here.”

Laila crawled to her and again put her head on Mariam’s lap. She remembered all the afternoons they’d spent together, braiding
each other’s hair, Mariam listening patiently to her random thoughts and ordinary stories with an air of gratitude, with the
expression of a person to whom a unique and coveted privilege had been extended.

“It
is
fair,” Mariam said. “I’ve killed our husband. I’ve deprived your son of his father. It isn’t right that I run. I
can’t.
Even if they never catch us, I’ll never . . .” Her lips trembled. “I’ll never escape your son’s grief. How do I look at him?
How do I ever bring myself to look at him, Laila jo?”

Mariam twiddled a strand of Laila’s hair, untangled a stubborn curl.

“For me, it ends here. There’s nothing more I want.

Everything I’d ever wished for as a little girl you’ve already given me. You and your children have made me so very happy.
It’s all right, Laila jo. This is all right. Don’t be sad.”

Laila could find no reasonable answer for anything Mariam said. But she rambled on anyway, incoherently, childishly, about
fruit trees that awaited planting and chickens that awaited raising. She went on about small houses in unnamed towns, and
walks to trout-filled lakes. And, in the end, when the words dried up, the tears did not, and all Laila could do was surrender
and sob like a child overwhelmed by an adult’s unassailable logic. All she could do was roll herself up and bury her face
one last time in the welcoming warmth of Mariam’s lap.