A thousand Splendid Suns

* * * 
 
  Laila found him in the dark, curled up on Rasheed'sside of the mattress. She slipped 
beneath the covers beside him and pulled the blanket over them. 
 
  "Are you asleep?" 
 
  Without turning around to face her, he said, "Can't sleep yet. Baba jan hasn't said 
theBabaloo prayers with me." 
 
  "Maybe I can say them with you tonight." 
 
  "You can't say them like he can." 
 
  She squeezed his little shoulder. Kissed the nape of his neck. "I can try." 
  "Where is Baba jan?" 
 
  "Baba jan has gone away," Laila said, her throat closing up again. 
 
  And there it was, spoken for the first time, the great, damning lie.How many more ti-
mes would this lie have to be told? Laila wondered miserably. How many more times 
would Zalmai have to be deceived? She pictured Zalmai, his jubilant, running welcomes 
when Rasheed came home and Rasheed picking him up by the elbows and swinging 
him round and round until Zalmai's legs flew straight out, the two of them giggling af-
terward when Zalmai stumbled around like a drunk. She thought of their disorderly ga-
mes and their boisterous laughs, their secretive glances. 
  A pall of shame and grief for her son fell over Laila. 
 
  "Where did he go?" 
  "I don't know, my love." 
 
  When was he coming back? Would Baba jan bring a present with him when he retur-
ned? 
 
  She did the prayers with Zalmai. Twenty-oneBismallah-e-rahman-erahims -one for 
each knuckle of seven fingers. She watched him cup his hands before his face and blow 
into them, then place the back of both hands on his forehead and make a casting-away 
motion, whispering, Babaloo,be gone, do not come to Zalmai, he has no business with 
you. Babaloo,be gone. Then, to finish off, they saidAilah-u-akbar three times. And later, 
much later that night, Laila was startled by a muted voice:Did Babajan leave because of 
me? Because of what I said, about you and the man downstairs? 
 
  She leaned over him, meaning to reassure, meaning to sayIt had nothing to do with 
you, Zalmai. No. Nothing is your fault. But he was asleep, his small chest rising and sin-
king. 
 
* * * 
 

---

  When Laila "went to bed, her mind was muffled up, clouded, incapable of sustained 
rational thought. But when she woke up, to the muezzin's call for morning prayer, much 
of the dullness had lifted. 
 
  She sat up and watched Zalmai sleep for a while, the ball of his fist under his chin. La-
ila pictured Mariam sneaking into the room in the middle of the night as she and Zalmai 
had slept, watching them, making plans in her head. 
 
  Laila slipped out of bed. It took effort to stand. She ached everywhere. Her neck, her 
shoulders, her back, her arms, her thighs, all engraved with the cuts of Rasheed's belt 
buckle. Wincing, she quietly left the bedroom. 
 
  In Mariam's room, the light was a shade darker than gray, the kind of light Laila had 
always associated with crowing roosters and dew rolling off blades of grass. Mariam 
was sitting in a corner, on a prayer rug facing the window. Slowly, Laila lowered her-
self to the ground, sitting down across from her. 
 
  "You should go and visit Aziza this morning," Mariam said. 
 
  "I know what you mean to do." 
  "Don't walk. Take the bus, you'll blend in. Taxis are too conspicuous. You're sure to 
get stopped for riding alone." 
 
  "What you promised last night…" 
 
  Laila could not finish. The trees, the lake, the nameless village. A delusion, she saw. A 
lovely lie meant to soothe. Like cooing to a distressed child. 
 
  "I meant it," Mariam said. "I meant it foryou, Laila jo." 
 
  "I don't want any of it without you," Laila croaked. 
 
  Mariam smiled wanly. 
 
  "I want it to be just like you said, Mariam, all of us going together, you, me, the child-
ren. Tariq has a place in Pakistan. We can hide out there for a while, wait for things to 
calm down-" 
 
  "That's not possible," Mariam said patiently, like a parent to a well-meaning but mis-
guided child. 
 
  "We'll take care of each other," Laila said, choking on the words, her eyes wet with te-
ars. "Like you said. No. I'll take careof you for a change." 
 
  "Oh, Laila jo." 
 
  Laila went on a stammering rant. She bargained. She promised. She would do all the 
cleaning, she said, and all the cooking. "You won't have to do a thing. Ever again. You 
rest, sleep in, plant a garden. Whatever you want, you ask and I'll get it for you. Don't 
do this, Mariam. Don't leave me. Don't break Aziza's heart." 

---

 
  "They chop off hands for stealing bread," Mariam said "What do you think they'll do 
when they find a dead husband and two missing wives?" 
 
  "No one will know," Laila breathed. "No one will find us." 
 
  "They will. Sooner or later. They're bloodhounds." Mariam's voice was low, cauti-
oning; it made Laila's promises sound fantastical, trumped-up, foolish. 
  "Mariam, please-" 
  "When they do, they'll find you as guilty as me. Tariq too. I won't have the two of you 
living on the run, like fugitives. What will happen to your children if you're caught?" 
 
  Laila's eyes brimming, stinging. 
  "Who will take care of them then? The Taliban? Think like a mother, Laila jo. Think 
like a mother. I am." 
 
  "I can't." 
 
  "You have to." 
 
  "It isn't fair," Laila croaked. 
 
  "But itis. Come here. Come lie here." 
 
  Laila crawled to her and again put her head on Mariam's lap. She remembered all the 
afternoons they'd spent together, braiding each other's hair, Mariam listening patiently 
to her random thoughts and ordinary stories with an air of gratitude, with the expression 
of a person to whom a unique and coveted privilege had been extended "Itis fair," Mari-
am said. "I've killed our husband. I've deprived your son of his father. It isn't right that I 
run. Ican't. Even if they never catch us, I'll never…" Her lips trembled. "I'll never esca-
pe your son's grief How do I look at him? How do I ever bring myself to look at him, 
Laila jo?" 
 
  Mariam twiddled a strand of Laila's hair, untangled a stubborn curl. 
 
  "For me, it ends here. There's nothing more I want. Everything I'd ever wished for as a 
little girl you've already given me. You and your children have made me so very happy. 
It's all right, Laila jo. This is all right. Don't be sad." 
 
  Laila could find no reasonable answer for anything Mariam said. But she rambled on 
anyway, incoherently, childishly, about fruit trees that awaited planting and chickens 
that awaited raising. She went on about small houses in unnamed towns, and walks to 
trout-filled lakes. And, in the end, when the words dried up, the tears did not, and all 
Laila could do was surrender and sob like a child over-whelmed by an adult's unassa-
ilable logic. All she could do was roll herself up and bury her face one last time in the 
welcoming warmth of Mariam's lap. 
 
* * * 
 

---

  Later that morning, Mariam packed Zalmai a small lunch of bread and dried figs. For 
Aziza too she packed some figs, and a few cookies shaped like animals. She put it all in 
a paper bag and gave it to Laila. 
 
  "Kiss Aziza for me," she said. "Tell her she is thenoor of my eyes and the sultan of my 
heart. Will you do that for me?" 
 
  Laila nodded, her lips pursed together. 
 
  "Take the bus, like I said, and keep your head low." 
 
  "When will I see you, Mariam? I want to see you before I testify. I'll tell them how it 
happened. I'll explain that it wasn't your fault. That you had to do it. They'll understand, 
won't they, Mariam? They'll understand." 
 
  Mariam gave her a soft look. 
 
  She hunkered down to eye level with Zalmai. He was wearing a red T-shirt, ragged 
khakis, and a used pair of cowboy boots Rasheed had bought him from Mandaii. He 
was holding his new basketball with both hands. Mariam planted a kiss on his cheek. 
 
  "You be a good, strong boy, now," she said. "You treat your mother well." She cupped 
his face. He pulled back but she held on. "I am so sorry, Zalmai jo. Believe me that I'm 
so very sorry for all your pain and sadness." 
 
  Laila held Zalmai's hand as they walked down the road together. Just before they tur-
ned the corner, Laila looked 
 
  back and saw Mariam at the door. Mariam was wearing a white scarf over her head, a 
dark blue sweater buttoned in the front, and white cotton trousers. A crest of gray hair 
had fallen loose over her brow. Bars of sunlight slashed across her face and shoulders. 
Mariam waved amiably. 
 
  They turned the corner, and Laila never saw Mariam again.