On the bus ride home from the doctor, the strangest thing was happening to Mariam. Everywhere she
looked, she saw bright colors: on the drab, gray concrete apartments, on the tin-roofed, open-fronted
stores, in the muddy water flowing in the gutters. It was as though a rainbow had melted into her eyes.
Rasheed was drumming his gloved fingers and humming a song. Every time the bus bucked over a
pothole and jerked forward, his hand shot protectively over her belly.
"What about Zalmai?" he said. "It's a good Pashtun name."
"What if it's a girl?" Mariam said.
"I think it's a boy. Yes. A boy."
A murmur was passing through the bus. Some passengers were pointing at something and other
passengers were leaning across seats to see.
"Look," said Rasheed, tapping a knuckle on the glass. He was smiling. "There. See?"
On the streets, Mariam saw people stopping in their tracks. At traffic lights, faces emerged from the
windows of cars, turned upward toward the falling softness. What was it about a season's first
snowfall, Mariam wondered, that was so entrancing? Was it the chance to see something as yet
unsoiled, untrodden? To catch the fleeting grace of a new season, a lovely beginning, before it was
trampled and corrupted?
"If it's a girl," Rasheed said, "and it isn't, but, if itis a girl, then you can choose whatever name you
want."
* * *
Mahiam awoke the next morning to the sound of sawing and hammering- She wrapped a shawl
around her and went out into the snowblown yard. The heavy snowfall of the previous night had
stopped. Now only a scattering of light, swirling flakes tickled her cheeks. The air was windless and
smelled like burning coal. Kabul was eerily silent, quilted in white, tendrils of smoke snaking up here
and there.
She found Rasheed in the toolshed, pounding nails into a plank of wood. When he saw her, he
removed a nail from the corner of his mouth.
"It was going to be a surprise. He'll need a crib. You weren't supposed to see until it was done."
Mariam wished he wouldn't do that, hitch his hopes to its being a boy. As happy as she was about this pregnancy, his expectation weighed on her. Yesterday, Rasheed had gone out and come home
with a suede winter coat for a boy, lined inside with soft sheepskin, the sleeves embroidered with
fine red and yellow silk thread.
Rasheed lifted a long, narrow board. As he began to saw it in half, he said the stairs worried him.
"Something will have to be done about them later, when he's old enough to climb." The stove worried
him too, he said. The knives and forks would have to be stowed somewhere out of reach. "You can't
be too careful Boys are reckless creatures."
Mariam pulled the shawl around her against the chill.
* * *
The next morning, Rasheed said he wanted to invite his friends for dinner to celebrate. All morning,
Mariam cleaned lentils and moistened rice. She sliced eggplants forborani, and cooked leeks and
ground beef foraushak. She swept the floor, beat the curtains, aired the house, despite the snow that
had started up again. She arranged mattresses and cushions along the walls of the living room, placed
bowls of candy and roasted almonds on the table.
She was in her room by early evening before the first of the men arrived. She lay in bed as the hoots
and laughter and bantering voices downstairs began to mushroom. She couldn't keep her hands from
drifting to her belly. She thought of what was growing there, and happiness rushed in like a gust of
wind blowing a door wide open. Her eyes watered.
Mariam thought of her six-hundred-and-fifty-kilometer bus trip with Rasheed, from Herat in the
west, near the border with Iran, to Kabul in the east. They had passed small towns and big towns, and
knots of little villages that kept springing up one after another. They had gone over mountains and
across raw-burned deserts, from one province to the next. And here she was now, over those
boulders and parched hills, with a home of her own, a husband of her own, heading toward one final,
cherished province: Motherhood. How delectable it was to think of
this baby,her baby,their baby. How glorious it was to know that her love for it already dwarfed
anything she had ever felt as a human being, to know that there was no need any longer for pebble
games.
Downstairs, someone was tuning a harmonium. Then the clanging of a hammer tuning a tabla.
Someone cleared his throat. And then there was whistling and clapping and yipping and singing.
Mariam stroked the softness of her belly.No bigger than afingernail, the doctor had said.
I'm going to be a mother,she thought.
"I'm going to be a mother," she said. Then she was laughing to herself, and saying it over and over,
relishing the words.
When Mariam thought of this baby, her heart swelled inside of her. It swelled and swelled until all
the loss, all the grief, all the loneliness and self-abasement of her life washed away. This was why God had brought her here, all the way across the country. She knew this now. She remembered a
verse from the Koran that Mullah Faizullah had taught her:And Allah is the East and the West,
therefore wherever you turn there is Allah's purpose … She laid down her prayer rug and didnamaz.
When she was done, she cupped her hands before her face and asked God not to let all this good
fortune slip away from her.
* * *
It was Rasheed'S idea to go to thehamam. Mariam had never been to a bathhouse, but he said there
was nothing finer than stepping out and taking that first breath of cold air, to feel the heat rising from
the skin.
In the women'shamam, shapes moved about in the steam around Mariam, a glimpse of a hip here, the
contour of a shoulder there. The squeals of young girls, the grunts of old women, and the trickling of
bathwater echoed between the walls as backs were scrubbed and hair soaped. Mariam sat in the far
corner by herself, working on her heels with a pumice stone, insulated by a wall of steam from the
passing shapes.
Then there was blood and she was screaming.
The sound of feet now, slapping against the wet cobblestones. Faces peering at her through the
steam. Tongues clucking.
Later that night, in bed, Fariba told her husband that when she'd heard the cry and rushed over she'd
found Rasheed's wife shriveled into a corner, hugging her knees, a pool of blood at her feet.
"You could hear the poor girl's teeth rattling, Hakim, she was shivering so hard."
When Mariam had seen her, Fariba said, she had asked in a high, supplicating voice,It's normal, isn't
it? Isn't it? Isn 'i it normal?
* * *
Another bus ride with Rasheed. Snowing again. Falling thick this time. It was piling in heaps on
sidewalks, on roofs, gathering in patches on the bark of straggly trees. Mariam watched the merchants
plowing snow from their storefronts- A group of boys was chasing a black dog. They waved
sportively at the bus. Mariam looked over to Rasheed. His eyes were closed He wasn't humming.
Mariam reclined her head and closed her eyes too. She wanted out of her cold socks, out of the damp
wool sweater that was prickly against her skin. She wanted away from this bus.
At the house, Rasheed covered her with a quilt when she lay on the couch, but there was a stiff,
perfunctory air about this gesture.
"What kind of answer is that?" he said again. "That's what a mullah is supposed to say. You pay a
doctor his fee, you want a better answer than 'God's will.'"
Mariam curled up her knees beneath the quilt and said he ought to get some rest."God's will," he simmered.
He sat in his room smoking cigarettes all day.
Mariam lay on the couch, hands tucked between her knees, watched the whirlpool of snow twisting
and spinning outside the window. She remembered Nana saying once that each snowflake was a sigh
heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all the sighs drifted up the sky,
gathered into clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below.
As a reminder of how women like us suffer,she'd said.How quietly we endure all that falls upon us.