A Thousand Splendid Suns (4 page)

In the morning, she was shaken awake. Mariam saw that during the night someone had covered her with a blanket.

It was the driver shaking her shoulder.

“This is enough. You’ve made a scene.
Bas.
It’s time to go.”

Mariam sat up and rubbed her eyes. Her back and neck were sore. “I’m going to wait for him.”

“Look at me,” he said. “Jalil Khan says that I need to take you back now. Right now. Do you understand? Jalil Khan says so.”

He opened the rear passenger door to the car. “
Bia.

Come on,” he said softly.

“I want to see him,” Mariam said. Her eyes were tearing over.

The driver sighed. “Let me take you home. Come on,
dokhtar
jo.
”

Mariam stood up and walked toward him. But then, at the last moment, she changed direction and ran to the front gates. She
felt the driver’s fingers fumbling for a grip at her shoulder. She shed him and burst through the open gates.

In the handful of seconds that she was in Jalil’s garden, Mariam’s eyes registered seeing a gleaming glass structure with
plants inside it, grape vines clinging to wooden trellises, a fishpond built with gray blocks of stone, fruit trees, and bushes
of brightly colored flowers everywhere. Her gaze skimmed over all of these things before they found a face, across the garden,
in an upstairs window. The face was there for only an instant, a flash, but long enough. Long enough for Mariam to see the
eyes widen, the mouth open. Then it snapped away from view. A hand appeared and frantically pulled at a cord. The curtains
fell shut.

Then a pair of hands buried into her armpits and she was lifted off the ground. Mariam kicked. The pebbles spilled from her
pocket. Mariam kept kicking and crying as she was carried to the car and lowered onto the cold leather of the backseat.

THE DRIVER TALKED in a muted, consoling tone as he drove. Mariam did not hear him. All during the ride, as she bounced in
the backseat, she cried. They were tears of grief, of anger, of disillusionment. But mainly tears of a deep, deep shame at
how foolishly she had given herself over to Jalil, how she had fretted over what dress to wear, over the mismatching
hijab,
walking all the way here, refusing to leave, sleeping on the street like a stray dog. And she was ashamed of how she had dismissed
her mother’s stricken looks, her puffy eyes. Nana, who had warned her, who had been right all along.

Mariam kept thinking of his face in the upstairs window. He let her sleep on the street.
On the street.
Mariam cried lying down. She didn’t sit up, didn’t want to be seen. She imagined all of Herat knew this morning how she’d
disgraced herself. She wished Mullah Faizullah were here so she could put her head on his lap and let him comfort her.

After a while, the road became bumpier and the nose of the car pointed up. They were on the uphill road between Herat and
Gul Daman.

What would she say to Nana, Mariam wondered. How would she apologize? How could she even face Nana now?

The car stopped and the driver helped her out. “I’ll walk you,” he said.

She let him guide her across the road and up the track. There was honeysuckle growing along the path, and milkweed too. Bees
were buzzing over twinkling wildflowers. The driver took her hand and helped her cross the stream. Then he let go, and he
was talking about how Herat’s famous one hundred and twenty days’ winds would start blowing soon, from midmorning to dusk,
and how the sand flies would go on a feeding frenzy, and then suddenly he was standing in front of her, trying to cover her
eyes, pushing her back the way they had come and saying, “Go back! No. Don’t look now. Turn around! Go back!”

But he wasn’t fast enough. Mariam saw. A gust of wind blew and parted the drooping branches of the weeping willow like a curtain,
and Mariam caught a glimpse of what was beneath the tree: the straight-backed chair, overturned. The rope dropping from a
high branch. Nana dangling at the end of it.

6.

T
hey buried Nana in a corner of the cemetery in Gul Daman. Mariam stood beside Bibi jo, with the women, as Mullah Faizullah
recited prayers at the graveside and the men lowered Nana’s shrouded body into the ground.

Afterward, Jalil walked Mariam to the
kolba,
where, in front of the villagers who accompanied them, he made a great show of tending to Mariam. He collected a few of her
things, put them in a suitcase. He sat beside her cot, where she lay down, and fanned her face. He stroked her forehead, and,
with a woebegone expression on his face, asked if she needed
anything?
anything?—
he said it like that, twice.

“I want Mullah Faizullah,” Mariam said.

“Of course. He’s outside. I’ll get him for you.”

It was when Mullah Faizullah’s slight, stooping figure appeared in the
kolba
’s doorway that Mariam cried for the first time that day.

“Oh, Mariam jo.”

He sat next to her and cupped her face in his hands. “You go on and cry, Mariam jo. Go on. There is no shame in it. But remember,
my girl, what the Koran says, ‘Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom, and He Who has power over all things, Who created
death and life that He may try you.’ The Koran speaks the truth, my girl. Behind every trial and every sorrow that He makes
us shoulder, God has a reason.”

But Mariam could not hear comfort in God’s words. Not that day. Not then. All she could hear was Nana saying,
I’ll
die if you go.
I’ll
just die.
All she could do was cry and cry and let her tears fall on the spotted, paper-thin skin of Mullah Faizullah’s hands.

ON THE RIDE to his house, Jalil sat in the backseat of his car with Mariam, his arm draped over her shoulder.

“You can stay with me, Mariam jo,” he said. “I’ve asked them already to clean a room for you. It’s upstairs. You’ll like it,
I think. You’ll have a view of the garden.”

For the first time, Mariam could hear him with Nana’s ears. She could hear so clearly now the insincerity that had always
lurked beneath, the hollow, false assurances. She could not bring herself to look at him.

When the car stopped before Jalil’s house, the driver opened the door for them and carried Mariam’s suitcase. Jalil guided
her, one palm cupped around each of her shoulders, through the same gates outside of which, two days before, Mariam had slept
on the sidewalk waiting for him. Two days before—when Mariam could think of nothing in the world she wanted more than to walk
in this garden with Jalil—felt like another lifetime. How could her life have turned upside down so quickly, Mariam asked
herself. She kept her gaze to the ground, on her feet, stepping on the gray stone path. She was aware of the presence of people
in the garden, murmuring, stepping aside, as she and Jalil walked past. She sensed the weight of eyes on her, looking down
from the windows upstairs.

Inside the house too, Mariam kept her head down. She walked on a maroon carpet with a repeating blue-and-yellow octagonal
pattern, saw out of the corner of her eye the marble bases of statues, the lower halves of vases, the frayed ends of richly
colored tapestries hanging from walls.

The stairs she and Jalil took were wide and covered with a similar carpet, nailed down at the base of each step. At the top
of the stairs, Jalil led her to the left, down another long, carpeted hallway. He stopped by one of the doors, opened it,
and let her in.

“Your sisters Niloufar and Atieh play here sometimes,” Jalil said, “but mostly we use this as a guest room. You’ll be comfortable
here, I think. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

The room had a bed with a green-flowered blanket knit in a tightly woven, honeycomb design. The curtains, pulled back to reveal
the garden below, matched the blanket. Beside the bed was a three-drawer chest with a flower vase on it. There were shelves
along the walls, with framed pictures of people Mariam did not recognize. On one of the shelves, Mariam saw a collection of
identical wooden dolls, arranged in a line in order of decreasing size.

Jalil saw her looking. “
Matryoshka
dolls. I got them in Moscow. You can play with them, if you want. No one will mind.”

Mariam sat down on the bed.

“Is there anything you want?” Jalil said.

Mariam lay down. Closed her eyes. After a while, she heard him softly shut the door.

EXCEPT FOR WHEN she had to use the bathroom down the hall, Mariam stayed in the room. The girl with the tattoo, the one who
had opened the gates to her, brought her meals on a tray: lamb kebab,
sabzi, aush
soup. Most of it went uneaten. Jalil came by several times a day, sat on the bed beside her, asked her if she was all right.

“You could eat downstairs with the rest of us,” he said, but without much conviction. He understood a little too readily when
Mariam said she preferred to eat alone.

From the window, Mariam watched impassively what she had wondered about and longed to see for most of her life: the comings
and goings of Jalil’s daily life. Servants rushed in and out of the front gates. A gardener was always trimming bushes, watering
plants in the greenhouse. Cars with long, sleek hoods pulled up on the street.

From them emerged men in suits, in
chapan
s and caracul hats, women in
hijab
s, children with neatly combed hair.

And as Mariam watched Jalil shake these strangers’ hands, as she saw him cross his palms on his chest and nod to their wives,
she knew that Nana had spoken the truth. She did not belong here.

But where do I belong? What am I going to do now?

I’m
all you have in this world, Mariam, and when
I’m
gone
you’ll
have nothing.
You’ll
have nothing. You
are
nothing!

Like the wind through the willows around the
kolba,
gusts of an inexpressible blackness kept passing through Mariam.

On Mariam’s second full day at Jalil’s house, a little girl came into the room.

“I have to get something,” she said.

Mariam sat up on the bed and crossed her legs, pulled the blanket on her lap.

The girl hurried across the room and opened the closet door. She fetched a square-shaped gray box.

“You know what this is?” she said. She opened the box.

“It’s called a gramophone.
Gramo. Phone.
It plays records.

You know, music. A gramophone.”

“You’re Niloufar. You’re eight.”

The little girl smiled. She had Jalil’s smile and his dimpled chin. “How did you know?”

Mariam shrugged. She didn’t say to this girl that she’d once named a pebble after her.

“Do you want to hear a song?”

Mariam shrugged again.

Niloufar plugged in the gramophone. She fished a small record from a pouch beneath the box’s lid. She put it on, lowered the
needle. Music began to play.

I will use a flower petal for paper,

And write you the sweetest letter,

You are the sultan of my heart,

the sultan of my heart.

“Do you know it?”

“No.”

“It’s from an Iranian film. I saw it at my father’s cinema.

Hey, do you want to see something?”

Before Mariam could answer, Niloufar had put her palms and forehead to the ground. She pushed with her soles and then she
was standing upside down, on her head, in a three-point stance.

“Can you do that?” she said thickly.

“No.”

Niloufar dropped her legs and pulled her blouse back down. “I could teach you,” she said, pushing hair from her flushed brow.
“So how long will you stay here?”

“I don’t know.”

“My mother says you’re not really my sister like you say you are.”

“I never said I was,” Mariam lied.

“She says you did. I don’t care. What I mean is, I don’t mind if you did say it, or if you are my sister. I don’t mind.”

Mariam lay down. “I’m tired now.”

“My mother says a
jinn
made your mother hang herself.”

“You can stop that now,” Mariam said, turning to her side. “The music, I mean.”

Bibi jo came to see her that day too. It was raining by the time she came. She lowered her large body onto the chair beside
the bed, grimacing.

“This rain, Mariam jo, it’s murder on my hips. Just murder, I tell you. I hope . . . Oh, now, come here, child.

Come here to Bibi jo. Don’t cry. There, now. You poor thing.
Tsk.
You poor, poor thing.”

That night, Mariam couldn’t sleep for a long time. She lay in bed looking at the sky, listening to the footsteps below, the
voices muffled by walls and the sheets of rain punishing the window. When she did doze off, she was startled awake by shouting.
Voices downstairs, sharp and angry. Mariam couldn’t make out the words. Someone slammed a door.

The next morning, Mullah Faizullah came to visit her.

When she saw her friend at the door, his white beard and his amiable, toothless smile, Mariam felt tears stinging the corners
of her eyes again. She swung her feet over the side of the bed and hurried over. She kissed his hand as always and he her
brow. She pulled him up a chair.

He showed her the Koran he had brought with him and opened it. “I figured no sense in skipping our routine, eh?”

“You know I don’t need lessons anymore, Mullah sahib.

You taught me every
surrah
and
ayat
in the Koran years ago.”

He smiled, and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I confess, then. I’ve been found out. But I can think of worse
excuses to visit you.”

“You don’t need excuses. Not you.”

“You’re kind to say that, Mariam jo.”

He passed her his Koran. As he’d taught her, she kissed it three times—touching it to her brow between each kiss—and gave
it back to him.

“How are you, my girl?”

“I keep,” Mariam began. She had to stop, feeling like a rock had lodged itself in her throat. “I keep thinking of what she
said to me before I left. She—”

“
Nay, nay,
nay.”
Mullah Faizullah put his hand on her knee. “Your mother, may Allah forgive her, was a troubled and unhappy woman, Mariam jo.
She did a terrible thing to herself. To herself, to you, and also to Allah. He will forgive her, for He is all-forgiving,
but Allah is saddened by what she did. He does not approve of the taking of life, be it another’s or one’s own, for He says
that life is sacred. You see—” He pulled his chair closer, took Mariam’s hand in both of his own. “You see, I knew your mother
before you were born, when she was a little girl, and I tell you that she was unhappy then. The seed for what she did was
planted long ago, I’m afraid. What I mean to say is that this was not your fault. It wasn’t your fault, my girl.”

“I shouldn’t have left her. I should have—”

“You stop that. These thoughts are no good, Mariam jo.

You hear me, child? No good. They will destroy you. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. No.”

Mariam nodded, but as desperately as she wanted to she could not bring herself to believe him.

ONE AFTERNOON, a week later, there was a knock on the door, and a tall woman walked in. She was fair-skinned, had reddish
hair and long fingers.

“I’m Afsoon,” she said. “Niloufar’s mother. Why don’t you wash up, Mariam, and come downstairs?”

Mariam said she would rather stay in her room.

“No,
na fahmidi,
you don’t understand. You
need
to come down. We have to talk to you. It’s important.”