A thousand Splendid Suns

* * * 
 
  "Irs like someone is ramming a screwdriver into my ear," Rasheed said, rubbing his 
eyes.He was standing in Mariam's door, puffy-eyed, wearing only aiumban tied with a 
floppy knot.His white hair was straggly, pointing every which way. "This crying. I can't 
stand it." 
  Downstairs, the girl was walking the baby across the floor, trying to sing to her. 
  "I haven't had adecent night's sleep in twomonths," Rasheed said. "And the room 
smells like a sewer. There'sshit cloths lying all over the place. I stepped on onejust the 
other night." 
  Mariam smirked inwardly with perverse pleasure. 
  "Take her outside!" Rasheed yelled over his shoulder. "Can't you take her outside?" 
  The singing was suspended briefly."She'll catch pneumonia!" 
  "It's summertime!" 
 
  'What? 
  Rasheed clenched his teeth and raised his voice. "I said, It's warm out!" 
  "I'm not taking her outside!" 
  The singing resumed 
  "Sometimes, I swear, sometimes I want to put that thing in a box and let her float down 
Kabul River. Like baby Moses." 

---

  Mariam never heard him call his daughter by the name the girl had given her, Aziza, 
the Cherished One. It was alwaysthe baby, or, when he was really exasperated,thai 
thing. 
  Some nights, Mariam overheard them arguing. She tiptoed to their door, listened to 
him complain about the baby-always the baby-the insistent crying, the smells, the toys 
that made him trip, the way the baby had hijacked Laila's attentions from him with 
constant demands to be fed, burped, changed, walked, held. The girl, in turn, scolded 
him for smoking in the room, for not letting the baby sleep with them. 
  There were other arguments waged in voices pitched low. 
  "The doctor said six weeks." 
 
  "Not yet, Rasheed. No. Let go. Come on. Don't do that." 
  "It's been two months." 
  "Sshi.There. You woke up the baby." Then more sharply,"Khosh shodi? Happy now?" 
  Mariam would sneak back to her room. 
  "Can't you help?" Rasheed said now. "There must be something you can do." 
  "What do I know about babies?" Mariam said. 
  "Rasheed! Can you bring the bottle? It's sitting on thealmari. She won't feed. I want to 
try the bottle again." 
  The baby's screeching rose and fell like a cleaver on meat. 
  Rasheed closed his eyes. "That thing is a warlord. Hekmatyar. I'm telling you, Laila's 
given birth to Gulbuddin Hekmatyar." 
 
* * * 
 
  Mariam watched as the girl's days became consumed with cycles of feeding, rocking, 
bouncing, walking. Even when the baby napped, there were soiled diapers to scrub and 
leave to soak in a pail of the disinfectant that the girl had insisted Rasheed buy for her. 
There were fingernails to trim with sandpaper, coveralls and pajamas to wash and hang 
to dry. These clothes, like other things about the baby, became a point of contention. 
  "What's the matter with them?" Rasheed said 
  "They're boys' clothes. For abacha" 
  "You think she knows the difference? I paid good money for those clothes. And anot-
her thing, I don't care for that tone. Consider that a warning." 
  Every week, without fail, the girl heated a black metal brazier over a flame, tossed a 
pinch of wild rue seeds in it, and wafted theespandi smoke in her baby's direction to 
ward off evil. 
  Mariam found it exhausting to watch the girl's lolloping enthusiasm-and had to admit, 
if only privately, to a degree of admiration. She marveled at how the girl's eyes shone 
with worship, even in the mornings when her face drooped and her complexion was 
waxy from a night's worth of walking the baby. The girl had fits of laughter when the 
baby passed gas. The tiniest changes in the baby enchanted her, and everything it did 
was declared spectacular. 
  "Look! She's reaching for the rattle. How clever she is." 
  "I'll call the newspapers," said Rasheed. 
  Every night, there were demonstrations. When the girl insisted he witness something, 
Rasheed tipped his chin upward and cast an impatient, sidelong glance down the blue-
veined hook of his nose. 
  "Watch. Watch how she laughs when I snap my fingers. There. See? Did you see?" 

---

  Rasheed would grunt, and go back to his plate. Mariam remembered how the girl's me-
re presence used to overwhelm him. Everything she said used to please him, intrigue 
him, make him look up from his plate and nod with approval. 
  The strange thing was, the girl's fall from grace ought to have pleased Mariam, brought 
her a sense of vindication. But it didn't. It didn't. To her own surprise, Mariam found 
herself pitying the girl. 
  It was also over dinner that the girl let loose a steady stream of worries. Topping the 
list was pneumonia, which was suspected with every minor cough. Then there was 
dysentery, the specter of which was raised with every loose stool. Every rash was either 
chicken pox or measles. 
  "You should not get so attached," Rasheed said one night. 
  "What do you mean?" 
  "I was listening to the radio the other night. Voice of America. I heard an interesting 
statistic. They said that in Afghanistan one out of four children will die before the age of 
five. That's what they said. Now, they-What? What? Where are you going? Come back 
here. Get back here this instant!" 
 
  He gave Mariam a bewildered look. "What's the matter with her?" 
  That night, Mariam was lying in bed when the bickering started again. It was a hot, dry 
summer night, typical of the month ofSaratan in Kabul. Mariam had opened her win-
dow, then shut it when no breeze came through to temper the heat, only mosquitoes. 
She could feel the heat rising from the ground outside, through the wheat brown, splin-
tered planks of the outhouse in the yard, up through the walls and into her room. 
  Usually, the bickering ran its course after a few minutes, but half an hour passed and 
not only was it still going on, it was escalating. Mariam could hear Rasheed shouting 
now. The girl's voice, underneath his, was tentative and shrill. Soon the baby was wa-
iling. 
  Then Mariam heard their door open violently. In the morning, she would find the do-
orknob's circular impression in the hallway wall. She was sitting up in bed when her 
own door slammed open and Rasheed came through. 
  He was wearing white underpants and a matching undershirt, stained yellow in the un-
derarms with sweat. On his feet he wore flip-flops. He held a belt in his hand, the brown 
leather one he'd bought for hisnikka with the girl, and was wrapping the perforated end 
around his fist. 
  "It's your doing. I know it is," he snarled, advancing on her. 
  Mariam slid out of her bed and began backpedaling. Her arms instinctively crossed 
over her chest, where he often struck her first. 
 
  "What are you talking about?" she stammered. 
  "Her denying me. You're teaching her to." 
  Over the years, Mariam had learned to harden herself against his scorn and reproach, 
his ridiculing and reprimanding. But this fear she had no control over. All these years 
and still she shivered with fright when he was like this, sneering, tightening the belt aro-
und his fist, the creaking of the leather, the glint in his bloodshot eyes. It was the fear of 
the goat, released in the tiger's cage, when the tiger first looks up from its paws, begins 
to growl-Now the girl was in the room, her eyes wide, her face contorted 
  "I should have known that you'd corrupt her," Rasheed spat at Mariam. He swung the 
belt, testing it against his own thigh. The buckle jingled loudly. 
  "Stop it,basl" the girl said. "Rasheed, you can't do this." 
  "Go back to the room." 

---

  Mariam backpedaled again. 
  "No! Don't do this!" 
  Now! 
 
  Rasheed raised the belt again and this time came at Mariam. 
  Then an astonishing thing happened: The girl lunged at him. She grabbed his arm with 
both hands and tried to drag him down, but she could do no more than dangle from it. 
She did succeed in slowing Rasheed's progress toward Mariam. 
  "Let go!" Rasheed cried. 
  "You win. You win. Don't do this. Please, Rasheed, no beating! Please don't do this." 
  They struggled like this, the girl hanging on, pleading, Rasheed trying to shake her off, 
keeping his eyes on Mariam, who was too stunned to do anything. 
  In the end, Mariam knew that there would be no beating, not that night. He'd made his 
point. He stayed that way a few moments longer, arm raised, chest heaving, a fine sheen 
of sweat filming his brow. Slowly, Rasheed lowered his arm. The girl's feet touched 
ground and still she wouldn't let go, as if she didn't trust him. He had to yank his arm 
free of her grip. 
  "I'm on to you," he said, slinging the belt over his shoulder. "I'm on to you both. I 
won't be made anahmaq, a fool, in my own house." 
  He threw Mariam one last, murderous stare, and gave the girl a shove in the back on 
the way out. 
 
  When she heard their door close, Mariam climbed back into bed, buried her head bene-
ath the pillow, and waited for the shaking to stop. 
 
* * * 
 
  Three times that night, Mariam was awakened from sleep. The first time, it was the 
rumble of rockets in the west, coming from the direction of Karteh-Char. The second ti-
me, it was the baby crying downstairs, the girl's shushing, the clatter of spoon against 
milk bottle. Finally, it was thirst that pulled her out of bed. 
  Downstairs, the living room was dark, save for a bar of moonlight spilling through the 
window. Mariam could hear the buzzing of a fly somewhere, could make out the outline 
of the cast-iron stove in the corner, its pipe jutting up, then making a sharp angle just 
below the ceiling. 
  On her way to the kitchen, Mariam nearly tripped over something. There was a shape 
at her feet. When her eyes adjusted, she made out the girl and her baby lying on the flo-
or on top of a quilt. 
  The girl was sleeping on her side, snoring. The baby was awake. Mariam lit the kero-
sene lamp on the table and hunkered down. In the light, she had her first real close-up 
look at the baby, the tuft of dark hair, the thick-lashed hazel eyes, the pink cheeks, and 
lips the color of ripe pomegranate. 
  Mariam had the impression that the baby too was examining her. She was lying on her 
back, her head tilted sideways, looking at Mariam intently with a mixture of amuse-
ment, confusion, and suspicion. Mariam wondered if her face might frighten her, but 
then the baby squealed happily and Mariam knew that a favorable judgment had been 
passed on her behalf. 
  "Shh,"Mariam whispered "You'll wake up your mother, half deaf as she is." 

---

  The baby's hand balled into a fist. It rose, fell, found a spastic path to her mouth. Aro-
und a mouthful of her own hand, the baby gave Mariam a grin, little bubbles of spittle 
shining on her lips. 
  "Look at you. What a sorry sight you are, dressed like a damn boy. And all bundled up 
in this heat. No wonder you're still awake." 
  Mariam pulled the blanket off the baby, was horrified to find a second one beneath, 
clucked her tongue, and pulled that one off too. The baby giggled with relief. She flap-
ped her arms like a bird. 
  "Better,nayT 
  As Mariam was pulling back, the baby grabbed her pinkie. The tiny fingers curled 
themselves tightly around it. They felt warm and soft, moist with drool. 
  "Gunuh,"the baby said. 
  "All right, Ms; let go." 
  The baby hung on, kicked her legs again. 
 
  Mariam pulled her finger free. The baby smiled and made a series of gurgling sounds. 
The knuckles went back to the mouth. 
  "What are you so happy about? Huh? What are you smiling at? You're not so clever as 
your mother says. You have a brute for a father and a fool for a mother. You wouldn't 
smile so much if you knew. No you wouldn't. Go to sleep, now. Go on." 
  Mariam rose to her feet and walked a few steps before the baby started making theeh, 
eh, eh sounds that Mariam knew signaled the onset of a hearty cry. She retraced her 
steps. 
  "What is it? What do you want fromme?" 
  The baby grinned toothlessly. 
  Mariam sighed. She sat down and let her finger be grabbed, looked on as the baby squ-
eaked, as she flexed her plump legs at the hips and kicked air. Mariam sat there, watc-
hing, until the baby stopped moving and began snoring softly. 
  Outside, mockingbirds were singing blithely, and, once in a while, when the songsters 
took flight, Mariam could see their wings catching the phosphorescent blue of moon-
light beaming through the clouds. And though her throat was parched with thirst and her 
feet burned with pins and needles, it was a long time before Mariam gently freed her 
finger from the baby's grip and got up. 
 
34. 
 
  Laila 
  Of all earthly pleasures, Laila's favorite was lying next to Aziza, her baby's face so clo-
se that she could watch her big pupils dilate and shrink. Laila loved running her finger 
over Aziza's pleasing, soft skin, over the dimpled knuckles, the folds of fat at her el-
bows. Sometimes she lay Aziza down on her chest and whispered into the soft crown of 
her head things about Tariq, the father who would always be a stranger to Aziza, whose 
face Aziza would never know. Laila told her of his aptitude for solving riddles, his tric-
kery and mischief, his easy laugh. 
  "He had the prettiest lashes, thick like yours. A good chin, a fine nose, and a round fo-
rehead. Oh, your father was handsome, Aziza. He was perfect. Perfect, like you are." 
  But she was careful never to mention him by name. 
  Sometimes she caught Rasheed looking at Aziza in the most peculiar way. The other 
night, sitting on the bedroom floor, where he was shaving a corn from his foot, he said 
quite casually, "So what was it like between you two?" 

---

  Laila had given him a puzzled look, as though she didn't understand. 
  "Laili and Majnoon. You and theyakknga,the cripple. What was it you had, he and 
you?" 
 
  "He was my friend," she said, careful that her voice not shift too much in key.She bu-