A thousand Splendid Suns

43. 
 
  Madam 
 
  Upstairs, in Mariam's room, Zalmai was wound up. He bounced his new rubber bas-
ketball around for a while, on the floor, against the walls. Mariam asked him not to, but 
he knew that she had no authority to exert over him and so he went on bouncing his 
ball, his eyes holding hers defiantly. For a while, they pushed his toy car, an ambulance 
with bold red lettering on the sides, sending it back and forth between them across the 
room. 
 
  Earlier, when they had met Tariq at the door, Zalmai had clutched the basketball close 
to his chest and stuck a thumb in his mouth-something he didn't do anymore except 
when he was apprehensive. He had eyed Tariq with suspicion. 
  "Who is that man?" he said now. "I don't like him." 
 
  Mariam was going to explain, say something about him and Laila growing up together, 
but Zalmai cut her off and said to turn the ambulance around, so the front grille faced 
him, and, when she did, he said he wanted his basketball again. 
  "Where is it?" he said. "Where is the ball Baba jan got me? Where is it? I want it! I 
want it!" his voice rising and 
  becoming more shrill with each word. 
 

---

  "It was just here," Mariam said, and he cried, "No, it's lost, I know it. I just know it's 
lost! Where is it? Where is it?" 
 
  "Here," she said, fetching the ball from the closet where it had rolled to. But Zalmai 
was bawling now and pounding his fists, crying that it wasn't the same ball, it couldn't 
be, because his ball was lost, and this was a fake one, where had his real ball gone? 
Where? Where where where? 
 
  He screamed until Laila had to come upstairs to hold him, to rock him and run her fin-
gers through his tight, dark curls, to dry his moist cheeks and cluck her tongue in his 
ear. 
 
  Mariam waited outside the room. From atop the staircase, all she could see of Tariq 
were his long legs, the real one and the artificial one, in khaki pants, stretched out on the 
uncarpeted living-room floor. It was then that she realized why the doorman at the Con-
tinental had looked familiar the day she and Rasheed had gone there to place the call to 
Jalil. He'd been wearing a cap and sunglasses, that was why it hadn't come to her earlier. 
But Mariam remembered now, from nine years before, remembered him sitting downs-
tairs, patting his brow with a handkerchief and asking for water. Now all manner of qu-
estions raced through her mind: Had the sulfa pills too been part of the ruse? Which one 
of them had plotted the lie, provided the convincing details? And how much had Rashe-
ed paid Abdul Sharif-if that was even his name-to come and crush Laila with the story 
of Tariq's death?