A Thousand Splendid Suns (6 page)

9.

I
t was early evening the following day by the time they arrived at Rasheed’s house.

I“We’re in Deh-Mazang,” he said. They were outside, on the sidewalk. He had her suitcase in one hand and was unlocking the
wooden front gate with the other. “In the south and west part of the city. The zoo is nearby, and the university too.”

Mariam nodded. Already she had learned that, though she could understand him, she had to pay close attention when he spoke.
She was unaccustomed to the Kabuli dialect of his Farsi, and to the underlying layer of Pashto accent, the language of his
native Kandahar. He, on the other hand, seemed to have no trouble understanding her Herati Farsi.

Mariam quickly surveyed the narrow, unpaved road along which Rasheed’s house was situated. The houses on this road were crowded
together and shared common walls, with small, walled yards in front buffering them from the street. Most of the homes had
flat roofs and were made of burned brick, some of mud the same dusty color as the mountains that ringed the city. Gutters
separated the sidewalk from the road on both sides and flowed with muddy water. Mariam saw small mounds of flyblown garbage
littering the street here and there. Rasheed’s house had two stories. Mariam could see that it had once been blue.

When Rasheed opened the front gate, Mariam found herself in a small, unkempt yard where yellow grass struggled up in thin
patches. Mariam saw an outhouse on the right, in a side yard, and, on the left, a well with a hand pump, a row of dying saplings.
Near the well was a tool-shed, and a bicycle leaning against the wall.

“Your father told me you like to fish,” Rasheed said as they were crossing the yard to the house. There was no backyard, Mariam
saw. “There are valleys north of here. Rivers with lots of fish. Maybe I’ll take you someday.”

He unlocked the front door and let her into the house.

Rasheed’s house was much smaller than Jalil’s, but, compared to Mariam and Nana’s
kolba,
it was a mansion.

There was a hallway, a living room downstairs, and a kitchen in which he showed her pots and pans and a pressure cooker and
a kerosene
ishtop.
The living room had a pistachio green leather couch. It had a rip down its side that had been clumsily sewn together. The
walls were bare. There was a table, two cane-seat chairs, two folding chairs, and, in the corner, a black, cast-iron stove.

Mariam stood in the middle of the living room, looking around. At the
kolba,
she could touch the ceiling with her fingertips. She could lie in her cot and tell the time of day by the angle of sunlight
pouring through the window. She knew how far her door would open before its hinges creaked. She knew every splinter and crack
in each of the thirty wooden floorboards. Now all those familiar things were gone. Nana was dead, and she was here, in a strange
city, separated from the life she’d known by valleys and chains of snow-capped mountains and entire deserts. She was in a
stranger’s house, with all its different rooms and its smell of cigarette smoke, with its unfamiliar cupboards full of unfamiliar
utensils, its heavy, dark green curtains, and a ceiling she knew she could not reach. The space of it suffocated Mariam. Pangs
of longing bore into her, for Nana, for Mullah Faizullah, for her old life.

Then she was crying.

“What’s this crying about?” Rasheed said crossly. He reached into the pocket of his pants, uncurled Mariam’s fingers, and
pushed a handkerchief into her palm. He lit himself a cigarette and leaned against the wall. He watched as Mariam pressed
the handkerchief to her eyes.

“Done?”

Mariam nodded.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

He took her by the elbow then and led her to the living-room window.

“This window looks north,” he said, tapping the glass with the crooked nail of his index finger. “That’s the Asmai mountain
directly in front of us—see?—and, to the left, is the Ali Abad mountain. The university is at the foot of it. Behind us, east,
you can’t see from here, is the Shir Darwaza mountain. Every day, at noon, they shoot a cannon from it. Stop your crying,
now. I mean it.”

Mariam dabbed at her eyes.

“That’s one thing I can’t stand,” he said, scowling, “the sound of a woman crying. I’m sorry. I have no patience for it.”

“I want to go home,” Mariam said.

Rasheed sighed irritably. A puff of his smoky breath hit Mariam’s face. “I won’t take that personally. This time.”

Again, he took her by the elbow, and led her upstairs.

There was a narrow, dimly lit hallway there and two bedrooms. The door to the bigger one was ajar. Through it Mariam could
see that it, like the rest of the house, was sparsely furnished: bed in the corner, with a brown blanket and a pillow, a closet,
a dresser. The walls were bare except for a small mirror. Rasheed closed the door.

“This is my room.”

He said she could take the guest room. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m accustomed to sleeping alone.”

Mariam didn’t tell him how relieved she was, at least about this.

The room that was to be Mariam’s was much smaller than the room she’d stayed in at Jalil’s house. It had a bed, an old, gray-brown
dresser, a small closet. The window looked into the yard and, beyond that, the street below. Rasheed put her suitcase in a
corner.

Mariam sat on the bed.

“You didn’t notice,” he said. He was standing in the doorway, stooping a little to fit. “Look on the windowsill. You know
what kind they are? I put them there before leaving for Herat.”

Only now Mariam saw a basket on the sill. White tuberoses spilled from its sides.

“You like them? They please you?”

“Yes.”

“You can thank me then.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry.
Tashakor—
”

“You’re shaking. Maybe I scare you. Do I scare you? Are you frightened of me?”

Mariam was not looking at him, but she could hear something slyly playful in these questions, like a needling. She quickly
shook her head in what she recognized as her first lie in their marriage.

“No? That’s good, then. Good for you. Well, this is your home now. You’re going to like it here. You’ll see. Did I tell you
we have electricity? Most days and every night?”

He made as if to leave. At the door, he paused, took a long drag, crinkled his eyes against the smoke. Mariam thought he was
going to say something. But he didn’t. He closed the door, left her alone with her suitcase and her flowers.

10.

T
he first few days, Mariam hardly left her room. She was awakened every dawn for prayer by the distant cry of
azan
, after which she crawled back into bed. She was still in bed when she heard Rasheed in the bathroom, washing up, when he
came into her room to check on her before he went to his shop. From her window, she watched him in the yard, securing his
lunch in the rear carrier pack of his bicycle, then walking his bicycle across the yard and into the street. She watched him
pedal away, saw his broad, thick-shouldered figure disappear around the turn at the end of the street.

For most of the days, Mariam stayed in bed, feeling adrift and forlorn. Sometimes she went downstairs to the kitchen, ran
her hands over the sticky, grease-stained counter, the vinyl, flowered curtains that smelled like burned meals. She looked
through the ill-fitting drawers, at the mismatched spoons and knives, the colander and chipped, wooden spatulas, these would-be
instruments of her new daily life, all of it reminding her of the havoc that had struck her life, making her feel uprooted,
displaced, like an intruder on someone else’s life.

At the
kolba,
her appetite had been predictable. Here, her stomach rarely growled for food. Sometimes she took a plate of leftover white
rice and a scrap of bread to the living room, by the window. From there, she could see the roofs of the one-story houses on
their street. She could see into their yards too, the women working laundry lines and shooing their children, chickens pecking
at dirt, the shovels and spades, the cows tethered to trees.

She thought longingly of all the summer nights that she and Nana had slept on the flat roof of the
kolba,
looking at the moon glowing over Gul Daman, the night so hot their shirts would cling to their chests like a wet leaf to a
window. She missed the winter afternoons of reading in the
kolba
with Mullah Faizullah, the clink of icicles falling on her roof from the trees, the crows cawing outside from snow-burdened
branches.

Alone in the house, Mariam paced restlessly, from the kitchen to the living room, up the steps to her room and down again.
She ended up back in her room, doing her prayers or sitting on the bed, missing her mother, feeling nauseated and homesick.

It was with the sun’s westward crawl that Mariam’s anxiety really ratcheted up. Her teeth rattled when she thought of the
night, the time when Rasheed might at last decide to do to her what husbands did to their wives. She lay in bed, wracked with
nerves, as he ate alone downstairs.

He always stopped by her room and poked his head in.

“You can’t be sleeping already. It’s only seven. Are you awake? Answer me. Come, now.”

He pressed on until, from the dark, Mariam said, “I’m here.”

He slid down and sat in her doorway. From her bed, she could see his large-framed body, his long legs, the smoke swirling
around his hook-nosed profile, the amber tip of his cigarette brightening and dimming.

He told her about his day. A pair of loafers he had custom-made for the deputy foreign minister—who, Rasheed said, bought
shoes only from him. An order for sandals from a Polish diplomat and his wife. He told her of the superstitions people had
about shoes: that putting them on a bed invited death into the family, that a quarrel would follow if one put on the left
shoe first.

“Unless it was done unintentionally on a Friday,” he said. “And did you know it’s supposed to be a bad omen to tie shoes together
and hang them from a nail?”

Rasheed himself believed none of this. In his opinion, superstitions were largely a female preoccupation.

He passed on to her things he had heard on the streets, like how the American president Richard Nixon had resigned over a
scandal.

Mariam, who had never heard of Nixon, or the scandal that had forced him to resign, did not say anything back. She waited
anxiously for Rasheed to finish talking, to crush his cigarette, and take his leave. Only when she’d heard him cross the hallway,
heard his door open and close, only then would the metal fist gripping her belly let go.

Then one night he crushed his cigarette and instead of saying good night leaned against the doorway.

“Are you ever going to unpack that thing?” he said, motioning with his head toward her suitcase. He crossed his arms. “I figured
you might need some time. But this is absurd. A week’s gone and . . . Well, then, as of tomorrow morning I expect you to start
behaving like a wife.
Fahmidi?
Is that understood?”

Mariam’s teeth began to chatter.

“I need an answer.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “What did you think? That this is a hotel? That I’m some kind of hotelkeeper? Well, it . . . Oh. Oh.
La illah u ilillah.
What did I say about the crying, Mariam? What did I say to you about the crying?”

THE NEXT MORNING, after Rasheed left for work, Mariam unpacked her clothes and put them in the dresser. She drew a pail of
water from the well and, with a rag, washed the windows of her room and the windows to the living room downstairs. She swept
the floors, beat the cobwebs fluttering in the corners of the ceiling. She opened the windows to air the house.

She set three cups of lentils to soak in a pot, found a knife and cut some carrots and a pair of potatoes, left them too to
soak. She searched for flour, found it in the back of one of the cabinets behind a row of dirty spice jars, and made fresh
dough, kneading it the way Nana had shown her, pushing the dough with the heel of her hand, folding the outer edge, turning
it, and pushing it away again. Once she had floured the dough, she wrapped it in a moist cloth, put on a
hijab,
and set out for the communal tandoor.

Rasheed had told her where it was, down the street, a left then a quick right, but all Mariam had to do was follow the flock
of women and children who were headed the same way. The children Mariam saw, chasing after their mothers or running ahead
of them, wore shirts patched and patched again. They wore trousers that looked too big or too small, sandals with ragged straps
that flapped back and forth. They rolled discarded old bicycle tires with sticks.

Their mothers walked in groups of three or four, some in burqas, others not. Mariam could hear their high pitched chatter,
their spiraling laughs. As she walked with her head down, she caught bits of their banter, which seemingly always had to do
with sick children or lazy, ungrateful husbands.

As if the meals cook themselves.

Wallah o billah,
never a
moment’s
rest!

And he says to me, I swear it,
it’s
true, he actually says to
me . . .

This endless conversation, the tone plaintive but oddly cheerful, flew around and around in a circle. On it went, down the
street, around the corner, in line at the tandoor. Husbands who gambled. Husbands who doted on their mothers and wouldn’t
spend a rupiah on them, the wives. Mariam wondered how so many women could suffer the same miserable luck, to have married,
all of them, such dreadful men. Or was this a wifely game that she did not know about, a daily ritual, like soaking rice or
making dough? Would they expect her soon to join in?

In the tandoor line, Mariam caught sideways glances shot at her, heard whispers. Her hands began to sweat. She imagined they
all knew that she’d been born a
harami,
a source of shame to her father and his family. They all knew that she’d betrayed her mother and disgraced herself.

With a corner of her
hijab,
she dabbed at the moisture above her upper lip and tried to gather her nerves.

For a few minutes, everything went well.

Then someone tapped her on the shoulder. Mariam turned around and found a light-skinned, plump woman wearing a
hijab,
like her. She had short, wiry black hair and a good-humored, almost perfectly round face. Her lips were much fuller than Mariam’s,
the lower one slightly droopy, as though dragged down by the big, dark mole just below the lip line. She had big greenish
eyes that shone at Mariam with an inviting glint.

“You’re Rasheed jan’s new wife, aren’t you?” the woman said, smiling widely. “The one from Herat. You’re so young! Mariam
jan, isn’t it? My name is Fariba. I live on your street, five houses to your left, the one with the green door. This is my
son Noor.”

The boy at her side had a smooth, happy face and wiry hair like his mother’s. There was a patch of black hairs on the lobe
of his left ear. His eyes had a mischievous, reckless light in them. He raised his hand.
“
Salaam,
Khala
jan.”

“Noor is ten. I have an older boy too, Ahmad.”

“He’s thirteen,” Noor said.

“Thirteen going on forty.” The woman Fariba laughed. “My husband’s name is Hakim,” she said. “He’s a teacher here in Deh-Mazang.
You should come by sometime, we’ll have a cup—”

And then suddenly, as if emboldened, the other women pushed past Fariba and swarmed Mariam, forming a circle around her with
alarming speed.

“So you’re Rasheed jan’s young bride—”

“How do you like Kabul?”

“I’ve been to Herat. I have a cousin there.”

“Do you want a boy or a girl first?”

“The minarets! Oh, what beauty! What a gorgeous city!”

“Boy is better, Mariam jan, they carry the family name—”

“Bah! Boys get married and run off. Girls stay behind and take care of you when you’re old.”

“We heard you were coming.”

“Have twins. One of each! Then everyone’s happy.”

Mariam backed away. She was hyperventilating. Her ears buzzed, her pulse fluttered, her eyes darted from one face to another.
She backed away again, but there was nowhere to go to—she was in the center of a circle. She spotted Fariba, who was frowning,
who saw that she was in distress.

“Let her be!” Fariba was saying. “Move aside, let her be! You’re frightening her!”

Mariam clutched the dough close to her chest and pushed through the crowd around her.

“Where are you going,
hamshira
?”

She pushed until somehow she was in the clear and then she ran up the street. It wasn’t until she’d reached the intersection
that she realized she’d run the wrong way. She turned around and ran back in the other direction, head down, tripping once
and scraping her knee badly, then up again and running, bolting past the women.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“You’re bleeding,
hamshira
!”

Mariam turned one corner, then the other. She found the correct street but suddenly could not remember which was Rasheed’s
house. She ran up then down the street, panting, near tears now, began trying doors blindly. Some were locked, others opened
only to reveal unfamiliar yards, barking dogs, and startled chickens. She pictured Rasheed coming home to find her still searching
this way, her knee bleeding, lost on her own street. Now she did start crying. She pushed on doors, muttering panicked prayers,
her face moist with tears, until one opened, and she saw, with relief, the outhouse, the well, the toolshed. She slammed the
door behind her and turned the bolt. Then she was on all fours, next to the wall, retching. When she was done, she crawled
away, sat against the wall, with her legs splayed before her. She had never in her life felt so alone.

WHEN RASHEED CAME HOME that night, he brought with him a brown paper bag. Mariam was disappointed that he did not notice the
clean windows, the swept floors, the missing cobwebs. But he did look pleased that she had already set his dinner plate, on
a clean
sofrah
spread on the living-room floor.

“I made
daal
,” Mariam said.

“Good. I’m starving.”

She poured water for him from the
aftawa
to wash his hands with. As he dried with a towel, she put before him a steaming bowl of
daal
and a plate of fluffy white rice. This was the first meal she had cooked for him, and Mariam wished she had been in a better
state when she made it. She’d still been shaken from the incident at the tandoor as she’d cooked, and all day she had fretted
about the
daal
’s consistency, its color, worried that he would think she’d stirred in too much ginger or not enough turmeric.

He dipped his spoon into the gold-colored
daal.

Mariam swayed a bit. What if he was disappointed or angry? What if he pushed his plate away in displeasure?

“Careful,” she managed to say. “It’s hot.”

Rasheed pursed his lips and blew, then put the spoon into his mouth.

“It’s good,” he said. “A little undersalted but good.

Maybe better than good, even.”

Relieved, Mariam looked on as he ate. A flare of pride caught her off guard. She had done well
—
maybe better than
good,
even—
and it surprised her, this thrill she felt over his small compliment. The day’s earlier unpleasantness receded a bit.

“Tomorrow is Friday,” Rasheed said. “What do you say I show you around?”

“Around Kabul?”

“No. Calcutta.”

Mariam blinked.

“It’s a joke. Of course Kabul. Where else?” He reached into the brown paper bag. “But first, something I have to tell you.”

He fished a sky blue burqa from the bag. The yards of pleated cloth spilled over his knees when he lifted it. He rolled up
the burqa, looked at Mariam.

“I have customers, Mariam, men, who bring their wives to my shop. The women come uncovered, they talk to me directly, look
me in the eye without shame. They wear makeup and skirts that show their knees. Sometimes they even put their feet in front
of me, the women do, for measurements, and their husbands stand there and watch.

They allow it. They think nothing of a stranger touching their wives’ bare feet! They think they’re being modern men, intellectuals,
on account of their education, I suppose. They don’t see that they’re spoiling their own
nang
and
namoos,
their honor and pride.”