A thousand Splendid Suns

22. 
 
  January1989 

---

 
  One cold, overcast day in January 1989, three months before Laila turned eleven, she, 
her parents, and Hasina went to watch one of the last Soviet convoys exit the city. Spec-
tators had gathered on both sides of the thoroughfare outside the Military Club near Wa-
zir Akbar Khan. They stood in muddy snow and watched the line of tanks, armored 
trucks, and jeeps as light snow flew across the glare of the passing headlights. There 
were heckles and jeers. Afghan soldiers kept people off the street. Every now and then, 
they had to fire a warning shot. 
 
  Mammy hoisted a photo of Ahmad and Noor high over her head. It was the one of 
them sitting back-to-back under the pear tree. There were others like her, women with 
pictures of theirshaheed husbands, sons, brothers held high. 
  Someone tapped Laila and Hasina on the shoulder. It was Tariq. 
 
  "Where did you get that thing?" Hasina exclaimed. 
 
  "I thought I'd come dressed for the occasion." Tariq said. He was wearing an enormous 
Russian fur hat, complete with earflaps, which he had pulled down. 
 
  "How do I look?" 
 
  "Ridiculous," Laila laughed. 
 
  "That's the idea." 
 
  "Your parents came here with you dressed like this?" 
  "They're home, actually," he said. 
 
  The previous fall, Tariq's uncle in Ghazni had died of a heart attack, and, a few weeks 
later, Tariq's father had suffered a heart attack of his own, leaving him frail and tired, 
prone to anxiety and bouts of depression that overtook him for weeks at a time. Laila 
was glad to see Tariq like this, like his old self again. For weeks after his father's illness, 
Laila had watched him moping around, heavy-faced and sullen. 
  The three of them stole away while Mammy and Babi stood watching the Soviets. 
From a street vendor, Tariq bought them each a plate of boiled beans topped with thick 
cilantro chutney. They ate beneath the awning of a closed rug shop, then Hasina went to 
find her family. 
 
  On the bus ride home, Tariq and Laila sat behind her parents. Mammy was by the win-
dow, staring out, clutching the picture against her chest. Beside her, Babi was impassi-
vely listening to a man who was arguing that the Soviets might be leaving but that they 
would send weapons to Najibullah in Kabul. 
 
  "He's their puppet. They'll keep the war going through him, you can bet on that." 
  Someone in the next aisle voiced his agreement. 
 
  Mammy was muttering to herself, long-winded prayers that rolled on and on until she 
had no breath left and had to eke out the last few words in a tiny, high-pitched squeak. 
 
* * * 

---

 
  They "went to Cinema Park later that day, Laila and Tariq, and had to settle for a Sovi-
et film that was dubbed, to unintentionally comic effect, in Farsi. There was a merchant 
ship, and a first mate in love with the captain's daughter. Her name was Alyona. Then 
came a fierce storm, lightning, rain, the heaving sea tossing the ship. One of the frantic 
sailors yelled something. An absurdly calm Afghan voice translated: "My dear sir, wo-
uld you kindly pass the rope?" 
 
  At this, Tariq burst out cackling. And, soon, they both were in the grips of a hopeless 
attack of laughter. Just when one became fatigued, the other would snort, and off they 
would go on another round. A man sitting two rows up turned around and shushed 
them. 
 
  There was a wedding scene near the end. The captain had relented and let Alyona 
marry the first mate. The newlyweds were smiling at each other. Everyone was drinking 
vodka. 
 
  "I'm never getting married," Tariq whispered. 
 
  "Me neither," said Laila, but not before a moment of nervous hesitation. She worried 
that her voice had betrayed her disappointment at what he had said. Her heart galloping, 
she added, more forcefully this time, "Never." 
 
  "Weddings are stupid." "All the fuss." 
 
  "All the money spent." "For what?" 
 
  "For clothes you'll never wear again." 
 
  "Ha!" 
 
  "If I everdo get married," Tariq said, "they'll have to make room for three on the wed-
ding stage. Me, the bride, and the guy holding the gun to my head." 
 
  The man in the front row gave them another admonishing look. 
  On the screen, Alyona and her new husband locked lips. 
  Watching the kiss, Laila felt strangely conspicuous all at once. She became intensely 
aware of her heart thumping, of the blood thudding in her ears, of the shape of Tariq be-
side her, tightening up, becoming still. The kiss dragged on. It seemed of utmost ur-
gency to Laila, suddenly, that she not stir or make a noise. She sensed that Tariq was 
observing her-one eye on the kiss, the other on her-as she was observinghim. Was he 
listening to the air whooshing in and out of her nose, she wondered, waiting for a subtle 
faltering, a revealing irregularity, that would betray her thoughts? 
  And what would it be like to kiss him, to feel the fuzzy hair above his lip tickling her 
own lips? 
 
  Then Tariq shifted uncomfortably in his seat. In a strained voice, he said, "Did you 
know that if you fling snot in Siberia, it's a green icicle before it hits the ground?" 

---

  They both laughed, but briefly, nervously, this time. And when the film ended and 
they stepped outside, Laila was relieved to see that the sky had dimmed, that she wo-
uldn't have to meet Tariq's eyes in the bright daylight.