A Thousand Splendid Suns (7 page)

He shook his head.

“Mostly, they live in the richer parts of Kabul. I’ll take you there. You’ll see. But they’re here too, Mariam, in this very
neighborhood, these soft men. There’s a teacher living down the street, Hakim is his name, and I see his wife Fariba all the
time walking the streets alone with nothing on her head but a scarf. It embarrasses me, frankly, to see a man who’s lost control
of his wife.”

He fixed Mariam with a hard glare.

“But I’m a different breed of man, Mariam. Where I come from, one wrong look, one improper word, and blood is spilled. Where
I come from, a woman’s face is her husband’s business only. I want you to remember that. Do you understand?”

Mariam nodded. When he extended the bag to her, she took it.

The earlier pleasure over his approval of her cooking had evaporated. In its stead, a sensation of shrinking. This man’s will
felt to Mariam as imposing and immovable as the Safid-koh mountains looming over Gul Daman.

Rasheed passed the paper bag to her. “We have an understanding, then. Now, let me have some more of that
daal.
”

11.

M
ariam had never before worn a burqa. Rasheed had to help her put it on. The padded headpiece felt tight and heavy on
her skull, and it was strange seeing the world through a mesh screen. She practiced walking around her room in it and kept
stepping on the hem and stumbling. The loss of peripheral vision was unnerving, and she did not like the suffocating way the
pleated cloth kept pressing against her mouth.

“You’ll get used to it,” Rasheed said. “With time, I bet you’ll even like it.”

They took a bus to a place Rasheed called the Shar-e-Nau Park, where children pushed each other on swings and slapped volleyballs
over ragged nets tied to tree trunks. They strolled together and watched boys fly kites, Mariam walking beside Rasheed, tripping
now and then on the burqa’s hem. For lunch, Rasheed took her to eat in a small kebab house near a mosque he called the Haji
Yaghoub. The floor was sticky and the air smoky. The walls smelled faintly of raw meat and the music, which Rasheed described
to her as
logari,
was loud. The cooks were thin boys who fanned skewers with one hand and swatted gnats with the other. Mariam, who had never
been inside a restaurant, found it odd at first to sit in a crowded room with so many strangers, to lift her burqa to put
morsels of food into her mouth. A hint of the same anxiety as the day at the tandoor stirred in her stomach, but Rasheed’s
presence was of some comfort, and, after a while, she did not mind so much the music, the smoke, even the people. And the
burqa, she learned to her surprise, was also comforting. It was like a one-way window. Inside it, she was an observer, buffered
from the scrutinizing eyes of strangers. She no longer worried that people knew, with a single glance, all the shameful secrets
of her past.

On the streets, Rasheed named various buildings with authority; this is the American Embassy, he said, that the Foreign Ministry.
He pointed to cars, said their names and where they were made: Soviet Volgas, American Chevrolets, German Opels.

“Which is your favorite?” he asked.

Mariam hesitated, pointed to a Volga, and Rasheed laughed.

Kabul was far more crowded than the little that Mariam had seen of Herat. There were fewer trees and fewer
gari
s pulled by horses, but more cars, taller buildings, more traffic lights and more paved roads. And everywhere Mariam heard
the city’s peculiar dialect: “Dear” was
jan
instead of
jo,
“sister” became
hamshira
instead of
hamshireh,
and so on.

From a street vendor, Rasheed bought her ice cream. It was the first time she’d eaten ice cream and Mariam had never imagined
that such tricks could be played on a palate. She devoured the entire bowl, the crushed-pistachio topping, the tiny rice noodles
at the bottom. She marveled at the bewitching texture, the lapping sweetness of it.

They walked on to a place called Kocheh-Morgha, Chicken Street. It was a narrow, crowded bazaar in a neighborhood that Rasheed
said was one of Kabul’s wealthier ones.

“Around here is where foreign diplomats live, rich businessmen, members of the royal family—that sort of people. Not like
you and me.”

“I don’t see any chickens,” Mariam said.

“That’s the one thing you can’t find on Chicken Street.” Rasheed laughed.

The street was lined with shops and little stalls that sold lambskin hats and rainbow-colored
chapan
s. Rasheed stopped to look at an engraved silver dagger in one shop, and, in another, at an old rifle that the shopkeeper
assured Rasheed was a relic from the first war against the British.

“And I’m Moshe Dayan,” Rasheed muttered. He half smiled, and it seemed to Mariam that this was a smile meant only for her.
A private, married smile.

They strolled past carpet shops, handicraft shops, pastry shops, flower shops, and shops that sold suits for men and dresses
for women, and, in them, behind lace curtains, Mariam saw young girls sewing buttons and ironing collars. From time to time,
Rasheed greeted a shopkeeper he knew, sometimes in Farsi, other times in Pashto. As they shook hands and kissed on the cheek,
Mariam stood a few feet away. Rasheed did not wave her over, did not introduce her.

He asked her to wait outside an embroidery shop. “I know the owner,” he said. “I’ll just go in for a minute, say my
salaam.
”

Mariam waited outside on the crowded sidewalk. She watched the cars crawling up Chicken Street, threading through the horde
of hawkers and pedestrians, honking at children and donkeys who wouldn’t move. She watched the bored-looking merchants inside
their tiny stalls, smoking, or spitting into brass spittoons, their faces emerging from the shadows now and then to peddle
textiles and fur-collared
poostin
coats to passersby.

But it was the women who drew Mariam’s eyes the most.

The women in this part of Kabul were a different breed from the women in the poorer neighborhoods—like the one where she and
Rasheed lived, where so many of the women covered fully. These women were—what was the word Rasheed had used?—“modern.” Yes,
modern Afghan women married to modern Afghan men who did not mind that their wives walked among strangers with makeup on their
faces and nothing on their heads. Mariam watched them cantering uninhibited down the street, sometimes with a man, sometimes
alone, sometimes with rosy-cheeked children who wore shiny shoes and watches with leather bands, who walked bicycles with
high-rise handlebars and gold-colored spokes—unlike the children in Deh-Mazang, who bore sand-fly scars on their cheeks and
rolled old bicycle tires with sticks.

These women were all swinging handbags and rustling skirts. Mariam even spotted one smoking behind the wheel of a car. Their
nails were long, polished pink or orange, their lips red as tulips. They walked in high heels, and quickly, as if on perpetually
urgent business. They wore dark sunglasses, and, when they breezed by, Mariam caught a whiff of their perfume. She imagined
that they all had university degrees, that they worked in office buildings, behind desks of their own, where they typed and
smoked and made important telephone calls to important people. These women mystified Mariam. They made her aware of her own
lowliness, her plain looks, her lack of aspirations, her ignorance of so many things.

Then Rasheed was tapping her on the shoulder and handing her something.

“Here.”

It was a dark maroon silk shawl with beaded fringes and edges embroidered with gold thread.

“Do you like it?”

Mariam looked up. Rasheed did a touching thing then. He blinked and averted his gaze.

Mariam thought of Jalil, of the emphatic, jovial way in which he’d pushed his jewelry at her, the overpowering cheerfulness
that left room for no response but meek gratitude. Nana had been right about Jalil’s gifts. They had been halfhearted tokens
of penance, insincere, corrupt gestures meant more for his own appeasement than hers.

This shawl, Mariam saw, was a true gift.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

THAT NIGHT, Rasheed visited her room again. But instead of smoking in the doorway, he crossed the room and sat beside her
where she lay on the bed. The springs creaked as the bed tilted to his side.

There was a moment of hesitation, and then his hand was on her neck, his thick fingers slowly pressing the knobs in the back
of it. His thumb slid down, and now it was stroking the hollow above her collarbone, then the flesh beneath it. Mariam began
shivering. His hand crept lower still, lower, his fingernails catching in the cotton of her blouse.

“I can’t,” she croaked, looking at his moonlit profile, his thick shoulders and broad chest, the tufts of gray hair protruding
from his open collar.

His hand was on her right breast now, squeezing it hard through the blouse, and she could hear him breathing deeply through
the nose.

He slid under the blanket beside her. She could feel his hand working at his belt, at the drawstring of her trousers.

Her own hands clenched the sheets in fistfuls. He rolled on top of her, wriggled and shifted, and she let out a whimper. Mariam
closed her eyes, gritted her teeth.

The pain was sudden and astonishing. Her eyes sprang open. She sucked air through her teeth and bit on the knuckle of her
thumb. She slung her free arm over Rasheed’s back and her fingers dug at his shirt.

Rasheed buried his face into her pillow, and Mariam stared, wide-eyed, at the ceiling above his shoulder, shivering, lips
pursed, feeling the heat of his quick breaths on her shoulder. The air between them smelled of tobacco, of the onions and
grilled lamb they had eaten earlier. Now and then, his ear rubbed against her cheek, and she knew from the scratchy feel that
he had shaved it.

When it was done, he rolled off her, panting. He dropped his forearm over his brow. In the dark, she could see the blue hands
of his watch. They lay that way for a while, on their backs, not looking at each other.

“There is no shame in this, Mariam,” he said, slurring a little. “It’s what married people do. It’s what the Prophet himself
and his wives did. There is no shame.”

A few moments later, he pushed back the blanket and left the room, leaving her with the impression of his head on her pillow,
leaving her to wait out the pain down below, to look at the frozen stars in the sky and a cloud that draped the face of the
moon like a wedding veil.

12.

R
amadan came in the fall that year, 1974. For the first time in her life, Mariam saw how the sighting of the new crescent
moon could transform an entire city, alter its rhythm and mood. She noticed a drowsy hush overtaking Kabul. Traffic became
languid, scant, even quiet. Shops emptied. Restaurants turned off their lights, closed their doors. Mariam saw no smokers
on the streets, no cups of tea steaming from window ledges. And at
iftar,
when the sun dipped in the west and the cannon fired from the Shir Darwaza mountain, the city broke its fast, and so did Mariam,
with bread and a date, tasting for the first time in her fifteen years the sweetness of sharing in a communal experience.

Except for a handful of days, Rasheed didn’t observe the fast. The few times he did, he came home in a sour mood. Hunger made
him curt, irritable, impatient. One night, Mariam was a few minutes late with dinner, and he started eating bread with radishes.
Even after Mariam put the rice and the lamb and okra
qurma
in front of him, he wouldn’t touch it. He said nothing, and went on chewing the bread, his temples working, the vein on his
forehead, full and angry. He went on chewing and staring ahead, and when Mariam spoke to him he looked at her without seeing
her face and put another piece of bread into his mouth.

Mariam was relieved when Ramadan ended.

Back at the
kolba,
on the first of three days of Eid-ul-Fitr celebration that followed Ramadan, Jalil would visit Mariam and Nana. Dressed in
suit and tie, he would come bearing Eid presents. One year, he gave Mariam a wool scarf. The three of them would sit for tea
and then Jalil would excuse himself.

“Off to celebrate Eid with his real family,” Nana would say as he crossed the stream and waved.

Mullah Faizullah would come too. He would bring Mariam chocolate candy wrapped in foil, a basketful of dyed boiled eggs, cookies.
After he was gone, Mariam would climb one of the willows with her treats. Perched on a high branch, she would eat Mullah Faizullah’s
chocolates and drop the foil wrappers until they lay scattered about the trunk of the tree like silver blossoms. When the
chocolate was gone, she would start in on the cookies, and, with a pencil, she would draw faces on the eggs he had brought
her now. But there was little pleasure in this for her.

Mariam dreaded Eid, this time of hospitality and ceremony, when families dressed in their best and visited each other. She
would imagine the air in Herat crackling with merriness, and high-spirited, bright-eyed people showering each other with endearments
and goodwill. A forlornness would descend on her like a shroud then and would lift only when Eid had passed.

This year, for the first time, Mariam saw with her eyes the Eid of her childhood imaginings.

Rasheed and she took to the streets. Mariam had never walked amid such liveliness. Undaunted by the chilly weather, families
had flooded the city on their frenetic rounds to visit relatives. On their own street, Mariam saw Fariba and her son Noor,
who was dressed in a suit. Fariba, wearing a white scarf, walked beside a small-boned, shy-looking man with eyeglasses. Her
older son was there too—Mariam somehow remembered Fariba saying his name, Ahmad, at the tandoor that first time. He had deep-set,
brooding eyes, and his face was more thoughtful, more solemn, than his younger brother’s, a face as suggestive of early maturity
as his brother’s was of lingering boyishness. Around Ahmad’s neck was a glittering ALLAH pendant.

Fariba must have recognized her, walking in burqa beside Rasheed. She waved, and called out,
“
Eid
mubarak!”

From inside the burqa, Mariam gave her a ghost of a nod.

“So you know that woman, the teacher’s wife?”

Rasheed said.

Mariam said she didn’t.

“Best you stay away. She’s a nosy gossiper, that one. And the husband fancies himself some kind of educated intellectual.
But he’s a mouse. Look at him. Doesn’t he look like a mouse?”

They went to Shar-e-Nau, where kids romped about in new shirts and beaded, brightly colored vests and compared Eid gifts.
Women brandished platters of sweets. Mariam saw festive lanterns hanging from shopwindows, heard music blaring from loudspeakers.
Strangers called out
“
Eid
mubarak”
to her as they passed.

That night they went to
Chaman,
and, standing behind Rasheed, Mariam watched fireworks light up the sky, in flashes of green, pink, and yellow. She missed
sitting with Mullah Faizullah outside the
kolba,
watching the fireworks explode over Herat in the distance, the sudden bursts of color reflected in her tutor’s soft, cataract-riddled
eyes. But, mostly, she missed Nana. Mariam wished her mother were alive to see this. To see
her,
amid all of it. To see at last that contentment and beauty were not unattainable things. Even for the likes of them.

THEY HAD Eid visitors at the house. They were all men, friends of Rasheed’s. When a knock came, Mariam knew to go upstairs
to her room and close the door. She stayed there, as the men sipped tea downstairs with Rasheed, smoked, chatted. Rasheed
had told Mariam that she was not to come down until the visitors had left.

Mariam didn’t mind. In truth, she was even flattered. Rasheed saw sanctity in what they had together. Her honor, her
namoos,
was something worth guarding to him. She felt prized by his protectiveness. Treasured and significant.

On the third and last day of Eid, Rasheed went to visit some friends. Mariam, who’d had a queasy stomach all night, boiled
some water and made herself a cup of green tea sprinkled with crushed cardamom. In the living room, she took in the aftermath
of the previous night’s Eid visits: the overturned cups, the half-chewed pumpkin seeds stashed between mattresses, the plates
crusted with the outline of last night’s meal. Mariam set about cleaning up the mess, marveling at how energetically lazy
men could be.

She didn’t mean to go into Rasheed’s room. But the cleaning took her from the living room to the stairs, and then to the hallway
upstairs and to his door, and, the next thing she knew, she was in his room for the first time, sitting on his bed, feeling
like a trespasser.

She took in the heavy, green drapes, the pairs of polished shoes lined up neatly along the wall, the closet door, where the
gray paint had chipped and showed the wood beneath. She spotted a pack of cigarettes atop the dresser beside his bed. She
put one between her lips and stood before the small oval mirror on the wall. She puffed air into the mirror and made ash-tapping
motions. She put it back. She could never manage the seamless grace with which Kabuli women smoked. On her, it looked coarse,
ridiculous.

Guiltily, she slid open the top drawer of his dresser.

She saw the gun first. It was black, with a wooden grip and a short muzzle. Mariam made sure to memorize which way it was
facing before she picked it up. She turned it over in her hands. It was much heavier than it looked. The grip felt smooth
in her hand, and the muzzle was cold. It was disquieting to her that Rasheed owned something whose sole purpose was to kill
another person. But surely he kept it for their safety. Her safety.

Beneath the gun were several magazines with curling corners. Mariam opened one. Something inside her dropped. Her mouth gaped
of its own will.

On every page were women, beautiful women, who wore no shirts, no trousers, no socks or underpants. They wore nothing at all.
They lay in beds amid tumbled sheets and gazed back at Mariam with half-lidded eyes. In most of the pictures, their legs were
apart, and Mariam had a full view of the dark place between. In some, the women were prostrated as if—God forbid this thought—in
sujda
for prayer. They looked back over their shoulders with a look of bored contempt.

Mariam quickly put the magazine back where she’d found it. She felt drugged. Who were these women? How could they allow themselves
to be photographed this way? Her stomach revolted with distaste. Was this what he did then, those nights that he did not visit
her room? Had she been a disappointment to him in this particular regard? And what about all his talk of honor and propriety,
his disapproval of the female customers, who, after all, were only showing him their feet to get fitted for shoes?
A
woman’s
face,
he’d said,
is her
husband’s
business only.
Surely the women on these pages had husbands, some of them must. At the least, they had brothers. If so, why did Rasheed insist
that
she
cover when he thought nothing of looking at the private areas of other men’s wives and sisters?

Mariam sat on his bed, embarrassed and confused. She cupped her face with her hands and closed her eyes. She breathed and
breathed until she felt calmer.

Slowly, an explanation presented itself. He was a man, after all, living alone for years before she had moved in. His needs
differed from hers. For her, all these months later, their coupling was still an exercise in tolerating pain. His appetite,
on the other hand, was fierce, sometimes bordering on the violent. The way he pinned her down, his hard squeezes at her breasts,
how furiously his hips worked. He was a man. All those years without a woman. Could she fault him for being the way God had
created him?

Mariam knew that she could never talk to him about this. It was unmentionable. But was it unforgivable? She only had to think
of the other man in her life. Jalil, a husband of three and father of nine at the time, having relations with Nana out of
wedlock. Which was worse, Rasheed’s magazine or what Jalil had done? And what entitled her anyway, a villager, a
harami,
to pass judgment?

Mariam tried the bottom drawer of the dresser.

It was there that she found a picture of the boy, Yunus. It was black-and-white. He looked four, maybe five. He was wearing
a striped shirt and a bow tie. He was a handsome little boy, with a slender nose, brown hair, and dark, slightly sunken eyes.
He looked distracted, as though something had caught his eye just as the camera had flashed.

Beneath that, Mariam found another photo, also black and-white, this one slightly more grainy. It was of a seated woman and,
behind her, a thinner, younger Rasheed, with black hair. The woman was beautiful. Not as beautiful as the women in the magazine,
perhaps, but beautiful. Certainly more beautiful than her, Mariam. She had a delicate chin and long, black hair parted in
the center. High cheekbones and a gentle forehead. Mariam pictured her own face, her thin lips and long chin, and felt a flicker
of jealousy.

She looked at this photo for a long time. There was something vaguely unsettling about the way Rasheed seemed to loom over
the woman. His hands on her shoulders. His savoring, tight-lipped smile and her unsmiling, sullen face. The way her body tilted
forward subtly, as though she were trying to wriggle free of his hands.

Mariam put everything back where she’d found it.

Later, as she was doing laundry, she regretted that she had sneaked around in his room. For what? What thing of substance
had she learned about him? That he owned a gun, that he was a man with the needs of a man? And she shouldn’t have stared at
the photo of him and his wife for as long as she had. Her eyes had read meaning into what was random body posture captured
in a single moment of time.

What Mariam felt now, as the loaded clotheslines bounced heavily before her, was sorrow for Rasheed. He too had had a hard
life, a life marked by loss and sad turns of fate. Her thoughts returned to his boy Yunus, who had once built snowmen in this
yard, whose feet had pounded these same stairs. The lake had snatched him from Rasheed, swallowed him up, just as a whale
had swallowed the boy’s namesake prophet in the Koran. It pained Mariam—it pained her considerably—to picture Rasheed panic-stricken
and helpless, pacing the banks of the lake and pleading with it to spit his son back onto dry land.

And she felt for the first time a kinship with her husband. She told herself that they would make good companions after all.