Chereads / A Thousand splendid suns / Chapter 13 - chapter 13

Chapter 13 - chapter 13

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.