Madam
I'm so sorry," Rasheed said to the girl, taking his bowl ofmasiawa and meatballs from Mariam
without looking at her. "I know you were very close….friends. ..the two of you. Always together,
since you were kids. It's a terrible thing, what's happened. Too many young Afghan men are dying this
way."
He motioned impatiently with his hand, still looking at the girl, and Mariam passed him a napkin.
For years, Mariam had looked on as he ate, the muscles of his temples churning, one hand making
compact little rice balls, the back of the other wiping grease, swiping stray grains, from the corners of
his mouth. For years, he had eaten without looking up, without speaking, his silence condemning, as
though some judgment were being passed, then broken only by an accusatory grunt, a disapproving
cluck of his tongue, a one-word command for more bread, more water.
Now he ate with a spoon. Used a napkin. Saidlot/an when asking for water. And talked. Spiritedly
and incessantly.
"If you ask me, the Americans armed the wrong man in Hekmatyar. All the guns the CIA handed him
in the eighties to fight the Soviets. The Soviets are gone, but he still has the guns, and now he's turning
them on innocent people like your parents. And he calls this jihad. What a farce! What does jihad
have to do with killing women and children? Better the CIA had armed Commander Massoud."
Mariam's eyebrows shot up of their own will.Commander Massoud? In her head, she could hear
Rasheed's rants against Massoud, how he was a traitor and a communist- But, then, Massoud was a
Tajik, of course. Like Laila.
"Now,there is a reasonable fellow. An honorable Afghan. A man genuinely interested in a peaceful
resolution."
Rasheed shrugged and sighed.
"Not that they give a damn in America, mind you. What do they care that Pashtuns and Hazaras and
Tajiks and Uzbeks are killing each other? How many Americans can even tell one from the other?
Don't expect help from them, I say. Now that the Soviets have collapsed, we're no use to them. We
served our purpose. To them, Afghanistan is akenarab, a shit hole. Excuse my language, but it's true.
What do you think, Laila jan?"
The girl mumbled something unintelligible and pushed a meatball around in her bowl.
Rasheed nodded thoughtfully, as though she'd said the most clever thing he'd ever heard. Mariam had to look away.
"You know, your father, God give him peace, your father and I used to have discussions like this.
This was before you were born, of course. On and on we'd go about politics. About books too. Didn't
we, Mariam? You remember."
Mariam busied herself taking a sip of water.
"Anyway, I hope I am not boring you with all this talk of politics."
Later, Mariam was in the kitchen, soaking dishes in soapy water, a tightly wound knot in her belly-It
wasn't so muchwhat he said, the blatant lies, the contrived empathy, or even the fact that he had not
raised a hand to her, Mariam, since he had dug the girl out from under those bricks.
It was thestaged delivery. Like a performance. An attempt on his part, both sly and pathetic, to
impress. To charm.
And suddenly Mariam knew that her suspicions were right. She understood with a dread that was
like a blinding whack to the side of her head that what she was witnessing was nothing less than a
courtship.
* * *
When shed at last worked up the nerve, Mariam went to his room.
Rasheed lit a cigarette, and said, "Why not?"
Mariam knew right then that she was defeated. She'd half expected, half hoped, that he would deny
everything, feign surprise, maybe even outrage, at what she was implying. She might have had the
upper hand then. She might have succeeded in shaming him. But it stole her grit, his calm
acknowledgment, his matter-of-fact tone.
"Sit down," he said. He was lying on his bed, back to the wall, his thick, long legs splayed on the
mattress. "Sit down before you faint and cut your head open."
Mariam felt herself drop onto the folding chair beside his bed.
"Hand me that ashtray, would you?" he said.
Obediently, she did.
Rasheed had to be sixty or more now-though Mariam, and in fact Rasheed himself did not know his
exact age. His hair had gone white, but it was as thick and coarse as ever. There was a sag now to his
eyelids and the skin of his neck, which was wrinkled and leathery. His cheeks hung a bit more than
they used to. In the mornings, he stooped just a tad. But he still had the stout shoulders, the thick torso,
the strong hands, the swollen belly that entered the room before any other part of him did.On the whole, Mariam thought that he had weathered the years considerably better than she.
"We need to legitimize this situation," he said now, balancing the ashtray on his belly. His lips
scrunched up in a playful pucker. "People will talk. It looks dishonorable, an unmarried young woman
living here. It's bad for my reputation. And hers. And yours, I might add."
"Eighteen years," Mariam said. "And I never asked you for a thing. Not one thing. I'm asking now."
He inhaled smoke and let it out slowly. "She can't juststay here, if that's what you're suggesting. I
can't go on feeding her and clothing her and giving her a place to sleep. I'm not the Red Cross,
Mariam."
"But this?"
"What of it? What? She's too young, you think? She's fourteen.Hardly a child. You were fifteen,
remember? My mother was fourteen when she had me. Thirteen when she married."
"I...Idon't wantthis," Mariam said, numb with contempt and helplessness.
"It's not your decision. It's hers andmine."
"I'm too old."
"She's tooyoung, you'retoo old. This is nonsense."
"Iam too old. Too old for you to do this to me," Mariam said, balling up fistfuls of her dress
sotightly her hands shook."For you, after all these years, to make me anambagh"
"Don't be sodramatic. It's a common thing and you knowit. I have friends whohave two, three, four
wives. Your own father had three. Besides,what I'm doing now most men I know would have done
long ago.You know it's true."
"I won't allow it."
At this, Rasheed smiled sadly.
"Thereis another option," he said, scratching the sole of one foot with the calloused heel of the other.
"She can leave. I won't stand in her way. But I suspect she won't get far. No food, no water, not a
rupiah in her pockets, bullets and rockets flying everywhere. How many days do you suppose she'll
last before she's abducted, raped, or tossed into some roadside ditch with her throat slit? Or all
three?"
He coughed and adjusted the pillow behind his back.
"The roads out there are unforgiving, Mariam, believe me. Bloodhounds and bandits at every turn. I
wouldn't like her chances, not at all. But let's say that by some miracle she gets to Peshawar. What
then? Do you have any idea what those camps are like?"He gazed at her from behind a column of smoke.
"People living under scraps of cardboard. TB, dysentery, famine, crime. And that's before winter.
Then it's frostbite season. Pneumonia. People turning to icicles. Those camps become frozen
graveyards.
"Of course," he made a playful, twirling motion with his hand, "she could keep warm in one of those
Peshawar brothels. Business is booming there, I hear. A beauty like her ought to bring in a small
fortune, don't you think?"
He set the ashtray on the nightstand and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"Look," hesaid, sounding more conciliatory now, asa victor could afford to. "I knew you wouldn't
take this well. I don't really blame you. Butthis is for thebest. You'll see. Think of it this way,
Mariam. I'm givingyou help around the house andher a sanctuary. A home and a husband. These days,
times being what they are, a woman needs a husband. Haven't you noticed all the widows sleeping
onthe streets? They would kill for thischance. In fact,this is. … Well, I'd say this is downright
charitable of me."
He smiled.
"The way I see it, I deserve amedal."
* * *
Later, in the dark, Mariam told the girl.
Fora long time, the girl said nothing.
"He wants an answer by this morning," Mariam said.
"He can have it now," the girl said. "My answeris yes."