A week passed, but there was still no sign of Tariq. Then another week came and went.
To fill the time, Laila fixed the screen door that Babi still hadn't got around to. She took down Babi's
books, dusted and alphabetized them. She went to Chicken Street with Hasina,Giti, and Giti's mother,
Nila, who was a seamstress and sometime sewing partner of Mammy's. In that week, Laila came to
believe that of all the hardships a person had to face none was more punishing than the simple act of
waiting.
Another week passed.
Laila found herself caught in a net of terrible thoughts.
He would never come back. His parents had moved away for good; the trip to Ghazni had been a
ruse. An adult scheme to spare the two of them an upsetting farewell.
A land minehad gotten to him again. The way it did in 1981, when he was five, the last time his
parents took him south to Ghazni. That was shortly after Laila's third birthday. He'd been lucky that
time, losing only a leg; lucky that he'd survived at all.
Her head rang and rang with these thoughts.
Then one night Laila saw a tiny flashing light from down the street. A sound, something between a
squeak and a gasp, escaped herlips. She quickly fished her own flashlight from under the bed, but it
wouldn't work. Laila banged it against her palm, cursed the dead batteries. But it didn't matter. He
was back. Laila sat on the edge of her bed, giddy with relief, and watched that beautiful, yellow eye
winking on and off.
* * *
On her way to Tariq's house the next day, Laila saw Khadim and a group of his friends across the
street. Khadim was squatting, drawing something in the dirt with a stick. When he saw her, he
dropped the stick and wiggled his fingers. He said something and there was a round of chuckles. Laila
dropped her head and hurried past.
"What did youdo1?" she exclaimed when Tariq opened the door. Only then did she remember that
his uncle was a barber.
Tariq ran his hand over his newly shaved scalp and smiled, showing white, slightly uneven teeth.
"Like it?""You look like you're enlisting in the army."
"You want to feel?" He lowered his head.
The tiny bristles scratched Laila's palm pleasantly. Tariq wasn't like some of the other boys, whose
hair concealed
cone-shaped skulls and unsightly lumps. Tariq's head was perfectly curved and lump-free.
When he looked up, Laila saw that his cheeks and brow had sunburned
"What took you so long?" she said
"My uncle was sick. Come on. Come inside."
He led her down the hallway to the family room. Laila loved everything about this house. The
shabby old rug in the family room, the patchwork quilt on the couch, the ordinary clutter of Tariq's
life: his mother's bolts of fabric, her sewing needles embedded in spools, the old magazines, the
accordion case in the corner waiting to be cracked open.
"Who is it?"
It was his mother calling from the kitchen.
"Laila," he answered
He pulled her a chair. The family room was brightly lit and had double windows that opened into
the yard. On the sill were empty jars in which Tariq's mother pickled eggplant and made carrot
marmalade.
"You mean ouraroos,our daughter-in-law,"his father announced, entering the room. He was a
carpenter, a lean, white-haired man in his early sixties. He had gaps between his front teeth, and the
squinty eyes of someone who had spent most of his life outdoors. He opened his arms and Laila went
into them, greeted by his pleasant and familiar smell of sawdust. They kissed on the cheek three times.
"You keep calling her that and she'll stop coming here," Tariq's mother said, passing by them. She
was carrying a tray with a large bowl, a serving spoon, and four smaller bowls on it. She set the tray
on the table. "Don't mind the old man." She cupped Laila's face. "It's good to see you, my dear. Come,
sit down. I brought back some water-soaked fruit with me."
The table was bulky and made of a light, unfinished wood-Tariq's father had built it, as well as the
chairs. It was covered with a moss green vinyl tablecloth with little magenta crescents and stars on it.
Most of the living-room wall was taken up with pictures of Tariq at various ages. In some of the very
early ones, he had two legs.
"I heard your brother was sick," Laila said to Tariq's father, dipping a spoon into her bowl of
soaked raisins, pistachios, and apricots.He was lighting a cigarette. "Yes, but he's fine now,shokr e Khoda, thanks to God."
"Heart attack. His second," Tariq's mother said, giving her husband an admonishing look.
Tariq's father blew smoke and winked at Laila. It struck her again that Tariq's parents could easily
pass for his grandparents. His mother hadn't had him until she'd been well into her forties.
"How is your father, my dear?" Tariq's mother said, looking on over her bowl-As long as Laila had
known her, Tariq's mother had worn a wig. It was turning a dull purple with age. It was pulled low on
her brow today, and Laila could see the gray hairs of her sideburns.Some days,it rode high on her
forehead. But, to Laila, Tariq's mother never looked pitiable in it- What Laila saw was the calm, self-
assured face beneath the wig, the clever eyes, the pleasant, unhurried manners.
"He's fine," Laila said. "Still at Silo, of course. He's fine."
"And your mother?"
"Good days. Bad ones too. The same-"
"Yes," Tariq's mother said thoughtfully, lowering her spoon into the bowl "How hard it must be,
how terribly hard, for a mother to be away from her sons."
"You're staying for lunch?" Tariq said-
"You have to," said his mother. "I'm makingshorwa"
"I don't want to be amozahem. "
"Imposing?" Tariq's mother said. "We leave for a couple of weeks and you turn polite on us?"
"All right, I'll stay," Laila said, blushing and smiling.
"It's settled, then."
The truth was, Laila loved eating meals at Tariq's house as much as she disliked eating them at hers.
At Tariq's, there was no eating alone; they always ate as a family. Laila liked the violet plastic
drinking glasses they used and the quarter lemon that always floated in the water pitcher. She liked
how they started each meal with a bowl of fresh yogurt, how they squeezed sour oranges on
everything, even their yogurt, and how they made small, harmless jokes at each other's expense.
Over meals, conversation always flowed. Though Tariq and his parents were ethnic Pashtuns, they
spoke Farsi when Laila was around for her benefit, even though Laila more or less understood their
native Pashto, having learned it in school. Babi said that there were tensions between their people-the
Tajiks, who were a minority, and Tariq's people, the Pashtuns, who were the largest ethnic group in
Afghanistan.Tajiks have always felt slighted, Babi had said.Pashiun kings ruled this country for
almost two hundred and'fifty years, Laila, and Tajiks for all of nine months, back in 1929.And you,Laila had asked,do you feel slighted, Babi?
Babi had wiped his eyeglasses clean with the hem of his shirt.To me, it's nonsense -and very
dangerous nonsense at that-all this talk of I'm Tajik and you 're Pashiun and he's Hazara and she's
Uzbek. We 're all Afghans, and that's all that should matter. But when one group rules over the others
for so long…Theref s contempt. Rivalry. There is. There always has been.
Maybe so. But Laila never felt it in Tariq's house, where these matters never even came up. Her time
with Tariq's family always felt natural to Laila, effortless, uncomplicated by differences in tribe or
language, or by the personal spites and grudges that infected the air at her own home.
"How about a game of cards?" Tariq said.
"Yes, go upstairs," his mother said, swiping disapprovingly at her husband's cloud of smoke. "I'll
getthe shorwa going."
They lay on their stomachs in the middle of Tariq's room and took turns dealing forpanjpar. Pedaling
air with his foot, Tariq told her about his trip. The peach saplings he had helped his uncle plant. A
garden snake he had captured.
This room was where Laila and Tariq did their homework, where they built playing-card towers
and drew ridiculous portraits of each other. If it was raining, they leaned on the windowsill, drinking
warm, fizzy orange Fanta, and watched the swollen rain droplets trickle down the glass.
"All right, here's one," Laila said, shuffling. "What goes around the world but stays in a corner?"
"Wait." Tariq pushed himself up and swung his artificial left leg around. Wincing, he lay on his side,
leaning on his elbow. "Hand me that pillow." He placed it under his leg. "There. That's better."
Laila remembered the first time he'd shown her his stump. She'd been six. With one finger, she had
poked the taut.
shiny skin just below his left knee. Her finger had found little hard lumps there, and Tariq had told
her they were spurs of bone that sometimes grew after an amputation. She'd asked him if his stump
hurt, and he said it got sore at the end of the day, when it swelled and didn't fit the prosthesis like it
was supposed to, like a finger in a thimble.And sometimes it gets rubbed Especially when it's hot.
Then I get rashes and blisters, but my mother has creams that help. It's not so bad.
Laila had burst into tears.
What are you crying for?He'd strapped his leg back on.You asked to see it, you giryanok,you
crybaby! If I'd known you were going to bawl, I wouldn 'i have shown you.
"A stamp," he said.
"What?"
"The riddle. The answer is a stamp. We should go to the zoo after lunch." "You knew that one. Did
you?" "Absolutely not."
"You're a cheat."
"And you're envious." "Of what?"
"My masculine smarts."
"Yourmasculine smarts? Really? Tell me, who always wins at chess?"
"I let you win." He laughed. They both knew that wasn't true.
"And who failed math? Who do you come to for help with your math homework even though you're a
grade ahead?"
"I'd be two grades ahead if math didn't bore me."
"I suppose geography bores you too."
"How did you know? Now, shut up. So are we going to the zoo or not?"
Laila smiled. "We're going."
"Good."
"I missed you."
There was a pause. Then Tariq turned to her with a half-grinning, half-grimacing look of distaste.
"What's thematter with you?"
How many times had she, Hasina, and Giti said those same three words to each other, Laila
wondered, said it without hesitation, after only two or three days of not seeing each other? /missed
you, Hasina Oh, I missed you too. In Tariq's grimace, Laila learned that boys differed from girls in
this regard. They didn't make a show of friendship. They felt no urge, no need, for this sort of talk.
Laila imagined it had been this way for her brothers too. Boys, Laila came to see, treated friendship
the way they treated the sun: its existence undisputed; its radiance best enjoyed, not beheld directly.
"I was trying to annoy you," she said.
He gave her a sidelong glance. "It worked."
But she thought his grimace softened. And she thought that maybe the sunburn on his cheeks
deepened momentarily.
* * *
Laila didn't mean to tell him. She'd, in fact, decided that telling him would be a very bad idea.
Someone would get hurt, because Tariq wouldn't be able to let it pass. But when they were on the
street later, heading down to thebus stop, she saw Khadim again, leaning against a wall He was
surrounded by his friends, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He grinned at her defiantly.
And so she told Tariq. The story spilled out of her mouth before she could stop it.
"He did what?"
She told him again.
He pointed to Khadim. "Him? He's the one? You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
Tariq clenched his teeth and muttered something to himself in Pashto that Laila didn't catch. "You
wait here," he said, in Farsi now.
"No, Tariq-"
He was already crossing the street.
Khadim was the first to see him. His grin faded, and he pushed himself off the wall. He unhooked his
thumbs from the belt loops and made himself more upright, taking on a self-conscious air of menace.
The others followed his gaze.
Laila wished she hadn't said anything. What if they banded together? How many of them were there-
ten? eleven? twelve? What if they hurt him?
Then Tariq stopped a few feet from Khadim and his band. There was a moment of consideration,
Laila thought, maybe a change of heart, and, when he bent down, she imagined he would pretend his
shoelace had come undone and walk back to her. Then his hands went to work, and she understood.
The others understood too when Tariq straightened up, standing on one leg. When he began hopping
toward Khadim, then charging him, his unstrapped leg raised high over his shoulder like a sword.
The boys stepped aside in a hurry. They gave him a clear path to Khadim.
Then it was all dust and fists and kicks and yelps.
Khadim never bothered Laila again.
* * *
That night, as most nights, Laila set the dinner table for two only. Mammy said she wasn't hungry. On
those nights that she was, she made a point of taking a plate to her room before Babi even came home.
She was usually asleep or lying awake in bed by the time Laila and Babi sat down to eat.Babi came out of the bathroom, his hair-peppered white with flour when he'd come home-washed
clean now and combed back.
"What are we having, Laila?"
"Leftoveraush soup."
"Sounds good," he said, folding the towel with which he'd dried his hair. "So what are we working
on tonight? Adding fractions?"
"Actually, converting fractions to mixed numbers."
"Ah. Right."
Every night after dinner, Babi helped Laila with her homework and gave her some of his own. This
was only to keep Laila a step or two ahead of her class, not because he disapproved of the work
assigned by the school-the propaganda teaching notwithstanding. In fact, Babi thought that the one
thing the communists had done right-or at least intended to-ironically, was in the field of education,
the vocation from which they had fired him. More specifically, the education of women. The
government had sponsored literacy classes for all women. Almost two-thirds of the students at Kabul
University were women now, Babi said, women who were studying law, medicine, engineering.
Women have always had it hard in this country, Laila, but they're probably more free now, under the
communists, and have more rights than they've ever had before,Babi said, always lowering his voice,
aware of how intolerant Mammy was of even remotely positive talk of the communists.But it's true,
Babi said,it'sagood time to be a woman in Afghanistan. And you can take advantage of that, Laila Of
course, women's freedom - here, he shook his head ruefully-is also one of the reasons people out
there took up arms in the first place.
By "out there," he didn't mean Kabul, which had always been relatively liberal and progressive.
Here in Kabul, women taught at the university, ran schools, held office in the government- No, Babi
meant the tribal areas, especially the Pashtun regions in the south or in the east near the Pakistani
border, where women were rarely seen on the streets and only then in burqa and accompanied by
men. He meant those regions where men who lived by ancient tribal laws had rebelled against the
communists and their decrees to liberate women, to abolish forced marriage, to raise the minimum
marriage age to sixteen for girls. There, men saw it as an insult to their centuries-old tradition, Babi
said, to be told by the government-and a godless one at that-that their daughters had to leave home,
attend school, and work alongside men.
God forbid that should happen!Babi liked to say sarcastically. Then he would sigh, and say,Laila,
my love, the only enemy an Afghan cannot defeat is himself
Babi took his seat at the table, dipped bread into his bowl ofaush.
Laila decided that she would tell him about what Tariq had done to Khadim, over the meal, before
they started in on fractions. But she never got the chance. Because, right then, there was a knock at the door, and, on the other side of the door, a stranger with news.