It was, by far, the hottest day of the year. The mountains trapped the bone-scorching heat, stifled the
city like smoke. Power had been out for days. All over Kabul, electric fans sat idle, almost mockingly
so.
Laila was lying still on the living-room couch, sweating through her blouse. Every exhaled breath
burned the tip of her nose. She was aware of her parents talking in Mammy's room. Two nights ago,
and again last night, she had awakened and thought she heard their voices downstairs. They were
talking every day now, ever since the bullet, ever since the new hole in the gate.
Outside, the far-offboom of artillery, then, more closely, the stammering of a long string of gunfire,
followed by another.
Inside Laila too a battle was being waged: guilt on one side, partnered with shame, and, on the
other, the conviction that what she and Tariq had done was not sinful; that it had been natural, good,
beautiful, even inevitable, spurred by the knowledge that they might never see each other again.
Laila rolled to her side on the couch now and tried to remember something: At one point, when they
were on the floor, Tariq had lowered his forehead on hers. Then he had panted something, eitherAm I
hurting you? orIs this hurting you?
Laila couldn't decide which he had said.
Am Ihurting you?
Is this hurting you?
Only two weeks since he had left, and it was already happening- Time, blunting the edges of those
sharp memories. Laila bore down mentally. What had he said? It seemed vital, suddenly, that she
know.
Laila closed hereyes. Concentrated.
With the passing of time, she would slowly tire of this exercise. She would find it increasingly
exhausting to conjure up, to dust off, to resuscitate once again what was long dead. There would come
a day, in fact, years later, when Laila would no longer bewail his loss. Or not as relentlessly; not
nearly. There would come a day when the details of his face would begin to slip from memory's grip,
when overhearing a mother on the street call after her child by Tariq's name would no longer cut her
adrift. She would not miss him as she did now, when the ache of his absence was her unremitting
companion-like the phantom pain of an amputee.
Except every once in a long while, when Laila was a grown woman, ironing a shirt or pushing her children on a swing set, something trivial, maybe the warmth of a carpet beneath her feet on a hot day
or the curve of a stranger's forehead, would set off a memory of that afternoon together. And it would
all come rushing back. The spontaneity of it. Their astonishing imprudence. Their clumsiness. The
pain of the act, the pleasure of it, the sadness of it. The heat of their entangled bodies.
It would flood her, steal her breath.
But then it would pass. The moment would pass. Leave her deflated, feeling nothing but a vague
restlessness.
She decided that he had saidAmi hurting you? Yes. That wasit. Laila was happy that she'd
remembered
Then Babi was in the hallway, calling her name from the top of the stairs, asking her to come up
quickly.
"She's agreed!"he said, his voice tremulous with suppressed excitement- "We're leaving, Laila. All
three of us. We're leavingKabul."
* * *
InMammy's room, the three of them sat on the bed.Outside, rockets were zipping acrossthe sky as
Hekmatyar's and Massoud'sforces fought and fought. Laila knew that somewhere in the city someone
had justdied, and that a pall of black smoke was hovering over some building that had collapsed in a
puffing mass of dust. There would be bodies to step around in the morning. Some would be collected.
Others not. Then Kabul's dogs, who had developed a taste for human meat, would feast.
All the same, Laila had an urge to run through those streets.She could barely contain her own
happiness. It took effortto sit, to not shriek withjoy. Babi said they would go to Pakistan first, to apply
forvisas. Pakistan, where Tariq was! Tariq was only gone seventeen days, Laila calculated excitedly.
If only Mammy had made up her mindseventeen days earlier, they could have left together. She would
have been with Tariq right now! But that didn'tmatter now. They were goingto Peshawar-she,Mammy,
and Babi-and they would find Tariq and his parents there. Surely they would. They would process
their paperwork together. Then, who knew? Who knew? Europe?
America? Maybe, as Babi was always saying, somewhere near the sea…
Mammy was half lying, half sitting against the headboard. Her eyes were puffy. She was picking at
her hair.
Three days before, Laila had gone outside for a breath of air. She'd stood by the front gates, leaning
against them, when she'd heard a loud crack and something had zipped by her right ear, sending tiny
splinters of wood flying before her eyes. After Giti's death, and the thousands of rounds fired and
myriad rockets that had fallen on Kabul, it was the sight of that single round hole in the gate, less than
three fingers away from where Laila's head had been, that shook Mammy awake. Made her see that
one war had cost her two children already; this latest could cost her her remaining one.From the walls of the room, Ahmad and Noor smiled down. Laila watched Mammy's eyes bouncing
now, guiltily, from one photo to the other. As if looking for their consent. Their blessing. As if asking
for forgiveness.
"There's nothing left for us here," Babi said. "Our sons are gone, but we still have Laila. We still
have each other, Fariba. We can make a new life."
Babi reached across the bed. When he leaned to take her hands, Mammy let him. On her face, a look
of concession. Of resignation. They held each other's hands, lightly, and then they were swaying
quietly in an embrace. Mammy buried her face in his neck. She grabbed a handful of his shirt.
For hours that night, the excitement robbed Laila of sleep. She lay in bed and watched the horizon
light up in garish shades of orange and yellow. At some point, though, despite the exhilaration inside
and the crack of
artillery fire outside, she fell asleep.
And dreamed
They are on a ribbon of beach, sitting on aquilt. It's a chilly, overcast day,but it's warm next to Tariq
under the blanket draped over their shoulders. She can see cars parked behind a low fence of chipped
white paint beneath a row of windswept palm trees. The wind makes her eyes water and buries their
shoes in sand, hurls knots of dead grass from the curved ridgesof one dune to another. They're
watching sailboats bob in the distance. Around them, seagulls squawk and shiver in the wind. The
wind whips up another spray of sand off the shallow, windwardslopes. There is a noise then likea
chant, and she tells him something Babi had taught her years before about singing sand.
He rubs at her eyebrow, wipesgrains of sand from it. She catches a flicker of the band on his finger.
It's identicalto hers -gold with a sort of maze patternetched all the way around.
It's true,she tellshim.It's the friction, of grain against grain. Listen. Hedoes. He frowns. They wait.
They hear it again. A groaning sound, when the wind is soft, when it blows hard, a mewling, high-
pitched chorus.
* * * Babi said theyshould take only what was absolutely necessary. They would sell the rest.
"That should hold us in Peshawar until I find work."
For the next two days, they gathered items to be sold. They put them in big piles.
In her room, Laila set aside old blouses, old shoes, books, toys. Looking under her bed, she found a
tiny yellow glass cow Hasina had passed to her during recess in fifth grade. A miniature-soccer-ball
key chain, a gift from Giti. A little wooden zebra on wheels. A ceramic astronaut she and Tariq had
found one day in a gutter. She'd been six and he eight. They'd had a minor row, Laila remembered,
over which one of them had found it.
Mammy too gathered her things. There was a reluctance in her movements, and her eyes had a lethargic, faraway look in them. She did away with her good plates, her napkins, all her jewelry-save
for her wedding band-and most of her old clothes.
"You're not selling this, are you?" Laila said, lifting Mammy's wedding dress. It cascaded open onto
her lap. She touched the lace and ribbon along the neckline, the hand-sewn seed pearls on the sleeves.
Mammy shrugged and took it from her. She tossed it brusquely on a pile of clothes. Like ripping off
a Band-Aid in one stroke, Laila thought.
It was Babi who had the most painful task.
Laila found him standing in his study, a rueful expression on his face as he surveyed his shelves. He
was wearing a secondhand T-shirt with a picture of San Francisco's red bridge on it. Thick fog rose
from the whitecapped waters and engulfed the bridge's towers.
"You know the old bit," he said. "You're on a deserted island. You can have five books. Which do
you choose? I never thought I'd actually have to."
"We'll have to start you a new collection, Babi."
"Mm." He smiled sadly. "I can't believe I'm leaving Kabul. I went to school here, got my first job
here, became a father in this town. It's strange to think that I'll be sleeping beneath another city's skies
soon."
"It's strange for me too."
"All day, this poem about Kabul has been bouncing around in my head. Saib-e-Tabrizi wrote it back
in the seventeenth century, I think. I used to know the whole poem, but all I can remember now is two
lines:
"One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide
behind her -walls."
Laila looked up, saw he was weeping. She put an arm around his waist. "Oh, Babi. We'll come
back. When this war is over. We'll come back to Kabul,inshallah. You'll see."
* * *
On the third morning, Laila began moving the piles of things to the yard and depositing them by the
front door. They would fetch a taxi then and take it all to a pawnshop.
Laila kept shuffling between the house and the yard, back and forth, carrying stacks of clothes and
dishes and box after box of Babi's books. She should have been exhausted by noon, when the mound
of belongings by the front door had grown waist high. But, with each trip, she knew that she was that
much closer to seeing Tariq again, and, with each trip, her legs became more sprightly, her arms more
tireless."We're going to need a big taxi."
Laila looked up. It was Mammy calling down from her bedroom upstairs. She was leaning out the
window, resting her elbows on the sill. The sun, bright and warm, caught in her graying hair, shone on
her drawn, thin face. Mammy was wearing the same cobalt blue dress she had worn the day of the
lunch party four months earlier, a youthful dress meant for a young woman, but, for a moment, Mammy
looked to Laila like an old woman. An old woman with stringy arms and sunken temples and slow
eyes rimmed by darkened circles of weariness, an altogether different creature from the plump,
round-faced woman beaming radiantly from those grainy wedding photos.
"Two big taxis," Laila said.
She could see Babi too, in the living room stacking boxes of books atop each other.
"Come up when you're done with those," Mammy said. "We'll sit down for lunch. Boiled eggs and
leftover beans."
"My favorite," Laila said.
She thought suddenly of her dream. She and Tariq on a quilt. The ocean. The wind. The dunes.
What had it sounded like, she wondered now, the singing sands?
Laila stopped. She saw a gray lizard crawl out of a crack in the ground. Its head shot side to side. It
blinked. Darted under a rock.
Laila pictured the beach again. Except now the singing was all around. And growing. Louder and
louder by the moment, higher and higher. It flooded her ears. Drowned everything else out. The gulls
were feathered mimes now, opening and closing their beaks noiselessly, and the waves were crashing
with foam and spray but no roar. The sands sang on. Screaming now. A sound like…a tinkling?
Not a tinkling. No. A whistling.
Laila dropped the books at her feet. She looked up to the sky. Shielded her eyes with one hand.
Then a giant roar.
Behind her, a flash of white.
The ground lurched beneath her feet.
Something hot and powerful slammed into her from behind. It knocked her out of her sandals. Lifted
her up. And now she was flying, twisting and rotating in the air, seeing sky, then earth, then sky, then
earth. A big burning chunk of wood whipped by. So did a thousand shards of glass, and it seemed to
Laila that she could see each individual one flying all around her, flipping slowly end over end, the
sunlight catching in each. Tiny, beautiful rainbows.Then Laila struck the wall. Crashed to the ground. On her face and arms, a shower of dirt and
pebbles and glass. The last thing she was aware of was seeing something thud to the ground nearby. A
bloody chunk of something. On it, the tip of a red bridge poking through thick fog.
* * *
Shapes moving about. A fluorescent light shines from the ceiling above. A woman's face appears,
hovers over hers.
Laila fades back to the dark.
* * *
Another face. This time a man's. His features seem broad and droopy. His lips move but make no
sound. All Laila hears is ringing.
The man waves his hand at her. Frowns. His lips move again.
It hurts. It hurts to breathe. It hurts everywhere.
A glass of water. A pink pill.
Back to the darkness.
* * *
The woman again. Long face, narrow-set eyes. She says something. Laila can't hear anything but the
ringing. But she can see the words, like thick black syrup, spilling out of the woman's mouth.
Her chest hurts. Her arms and legs hurt.
All around, shapes moving.
Where is Tariq?
Why isn't he here?
Darkness. A flock of stars.
Babi and she, perched somewhere high up. He is pointing to a field of barley. A generator comes to
life.
The long-faced woman is standing over her looking down.
It hurts to breathe.
Somewhere, an accordion playing.Mercifully, the pink pill again. Then a deep hush. A deephush falls over everything.