33.
Mariam
Early one morning the next spring, of 1993, Mariam stood by the living-room window and watched Rasheed escort the girl out of the house. The girl was tottering forward, bent at the waist, one arm draped protectively across the taut drum of her belly, the shape of which was visible through her burqa. Rasheed, anxious and overly attentive, was holding her elbow, directing her across the yard like a traffic policeman. He made a Wait here gesture, rushed to the front gate, then motioned for the girl to come forward, one foot propping the gate open. When she reached him, he took her by the hand, helped her through the gate. Mariam could almost hear him say, “Watch your step, now, my flower, my gul.”
They came back early the next evening.
Mariam saw Rasheed enter the yard first. He let the gate go prematurely, and it almost hit the girl on the face. He crossed the yard in a few, quick steps. Mariam detected a shadow on his face, a darkness underlying the coppery light of dusk. In the house, he took off his coat, threw it on the couch. Brushing past Mariam, he said in a brusque voice, “I’m hungry. Get supper ready.”
The front door to the house opened. From the hallway, Mariam saw the girl, a swaddled bundle in the hook of her left arm. She had one foot outside, the other inside, against the door, to prevent it from springing shut. She was stooped over and was grunting, trying to reach for the paper bag of belongings that she had put down in order to open the door. Her face was grimacing with effort. She looked up and saw Mariam.
Mariam turned around and went to the kitchen to warm Rasheed’s meal.
“IT’S LIKE SOMEONE is ramming a screwdriver into my ear,” Rasheed said, rubbing his eyes. He was standing in Mariam’s door, puffy-eyed, wearing only a tumban tied with a floppy knot. His white hair was straggly, pointing every which way. “This crying. I can’t stand it.”
Downstairs, the girl was walking the baby across the floor, trying to sing to her.
“I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in two months,” Rasheed said. “And the room smells like a sewer. There’s shit cloths lying all over the place. I stepped on one just the other night.”
Mariam smirked inwardly with perverse pleasure.
“Take her outside!” Rasheed yelled over his shoulder.
“Can’t you take her outside?”
The singing was suspended briefly. “She’ll catch pneumonia!”
“It’s summertime!”
“What?”
Rasheed clenched his teeth and raised his voice. “I said, It’s warm out!”
“I’m not taking her outside!”
The singing resumed.
“Sometimes, I swear, sometimes I want to put that thing in a box and let her float down Kabul River. Like baby Moses.”
Mariam never heard him call his daughter by the name the girl had given her, Aziza, the Cherished One. It was always the baby, or, when he was really exasperated, that thing.
Some nights, Mariam overheard them arguing. She tiptoed to their door, listened to him complain about the baby—always the baby—the insistent crying, the smells, the toys that made him trip, the way the baby had hijacked Laila’s attentions from him with constant demands to be fed, burped, changed, walked, held. The girl, in turn, scolded him for smoking in the room, for not letting the baby sleep with them.
There were other arguments waged in voices pitched low.
“The doctor said six weeks.”
“Not yet, Rasheed. No. Let go. Come on. Don’t do that.”
“It’s been two months.”
“Ssht. There. You woke up the baby.” Then more sharply, “Khosh shodi? Happy now?”
Mariam would sneak back to her room.
“Can’t you help?” Rasheed said now. “There must be something you can do.”
“What do I know about babies?” Mariam said.
“Rasheed! Can you bring the bottle? It’s sitting on the almari. She won’t feed. I want to try the bottle again.”
The baby’s screeching rose and fell like a cleaver on meat.
Rasheed closed his eyes. “That thing is a warlord. Hekmatyar. I’m telling you, Laila’s given birth to Gulbuddin Hekmatyar.”
* * *
MARIAM WATCHED AS the girl’s days became consumed with cycles of feeding, rocking, bouncing, walking. Even when the baby napped, there were soiled diapers to scrub and leave to soak in a pail of the disinfectant that the girl had insisted Rasheed buy for her. There were fingernails to trim with sandpaper, coveralls and pajamas to wash and hang to dry. These clothes, like other things about the baby, became a point of contention.
“What’s the matter with them?” Rasheed said.
“They’re boys’ clothes. For a bacha.”
“You think she knows the difference? I paid good money for those clothes. And another thing, I don’t care for that tone. Consider that a warning.”
Every week, without fail, the girl heated a black metal brazier over a flame, tossed a pinch of wild rue seeds in it, and wafted the espandi smoke in her baby’s direction to ward off evil.
Mariam found it exhausting to watch the girl’s lolloping enthusiasm—and had to admit, if only privately, to a degree of admiration. She marveled at how the girl’s eyes shone with worship, even in the mornings when her face drooped and her complexion was waxy from a night’s worth of walking the baby. The girl had fits of laughter when the baby passed gas. The tiniest changes in the baby enchanted her, and everything it did was declared spectacular.
“Look! She’s reaching for the rattle. How clever she is.”
“I’ll call the newspapers,” said Rasheed.
Every night, there were demonstrations. When the girl insisted he witness something, Rasheed tipped his chin upward and cast an impatient, sidelong glance down the blue-veined hook of his nose.
“Watch. Watch how she laughs when I snap my fingers. There. See? Did you see?”
Rasheed would grunt, and go back to his plate. Mariam remembered how the girl’s mere presence used to overwhelm him. Everything she said used to please him, intrigue him, make him look up from his plate and nod with approval.
The strange thing was, the girl’s fall from grace ought to have pleased Mariam, brought her a sense of vindication. But it didn’t. It didn’t. To her own surprise, Mariam found herself pitying the girl.
It was also over dinner that the girl let loose a steady stream of worries. Topping the list was pneumonia, which was suspected with every minor cough. Then there was dysentery, the specter of which was raised with every loose stool. Every rash was either chicken pox or measles.
“You should not get so attached,” Rasheed said one night.
“What do you mean?”
“I was listening to the radio the other night. Voice of America. I heard an interesting statistic. They said that in Afghanistan one out of four children will die before the age of five. That’s what they said. Now, they—What? What? Where are you going? Come back here. Get back here this instant!”
He gave Mariam a bewildered look. “What’s the matter with her?”
That night, Mariam was lying in bed when the bickering started again. It was a hot, dry summer night, typical of the month of Saratan in Kabul. Mariam had opened her window, then shut it when no breeze came through to temper the heat, only mosquitoes. She could feel the heat rising from the ground outside, through the wheat brown, splintered planks of the outhouse in the yard, up through the walls and into her room.
Usually, the bickering ran its course after a few minutes, but half an hour passed and not only was it still going on, it was escalating. Mariam could hear Rasheed shouting now. The girl’s voice, underneath his, was tentative and shrill. Soon the baby was wailing.
Then Mariam heard their door open violently. In the morning, she would find the doorknob’s circular impression in the hallway wall. She was sitting up in bed when her own door slammed open and Rasheed came through.
He was wearing white underpants and a matching undershirt, stained yellow in the underarms with sweat. On his feet he wore flip-flops. He held a belt in his hand, the brown leather one he’d bought for his nikka with the girl, and was wrapping the perforated end around his fist.
“It’s your doing. I know it is,” he snarled, advancing on her.
Mariam slid out of her bed and began backpedaling. Her arms instinctively crossed over her chest, where he often struck her first.
“What are you talking about?” she stammered.
“Her denying me. You’re teaching her to.”
Over the years, Mariam had learned to harden herself against his scorn and reproach, his ridiculing and reprimanding. But this fear she had no control over.
All these years and still she shivered with fright when he was like this, sneering, tightening the belt around his fist, the creaking of the leather, the glint in his bloodshot eyes. It was the fear of the goat, released in the tiger’s cage, when the tiger first looks up from its paws, begins to growl.
Now the girl was in the room, her eyes wide, her face contorted.
“I should have known that you’d corrupt her,” Rasheed spat at Mariam. He swung the belt, testing it against his own thigh. The buckle jingled loudly.
“Stop it, bas!” the girl said. “Rasheed, you can’t do this.”
“Go back to the room.”
Mariam backpedaled again.
“No! Don’t do this!”
“Now!”
Rasheed raised the belt again and this time came at Mariam.
Then an astonishing thing happened: The girl lunged at him. She grabbed his arm with both hands and tried to drag him down, but she could do no more than dangle from it. She did succeed in slowing Rasheed’s progress toward Mariam.
“Let go!” Rasheed cried.
“You win. You win. Don’t do this. Please, Rasheed, no beating! Please don’t do this.”
They struggled like this, the girl hanging on, pleading, Rasheed trying to shake her off, keeping his eyes on Mariam, who was too stunned to do anything.
In the end, Mariam knew that there would be no beating, not that night. He’d made his point. He stayed that way a few moments longer, arm raised, chest heaving, a fine sheen of sweat filming his brow. Slowly, Rasheed lowered his arm. The girl’s feet touched ground and still she wouldn’t let go, as if she didn’t trust him. He had to yank his arm free of her grip.
“I’m on to you,” he said, slinging the belt over his shoulder. “I’m on to you both. I won’t be made an ahmaq, a fool, in my own house.”
He threw Mariam one last, murderous stare, and gave the girl a shove in the back on the way out.
When she heard their door close, Mariam climbed back into bed, buried her head beneath the pillow, and waited for the shaking to stop.
* * *
THREE TIMES THAT NIGHT, Mariam was awakened from sleep. The first time, it was the rumble of rockets in the west, coming from the direction of Karteh-Char. The second time, it was the baby crying downstairs, the girl’s shushing, the clatter of spoon against milk bottle. Finally, it was thirst that pulled her out of bed.
Downstairs, the living room was dark, save for a bar of moonlight spilling through the window. Mariam could hear the buzzing of a fly somewhere, could make out the outline of the cast-iron stove in the corner, its pipe jutting up, then making a sharp angle just below the ceiling.
On her way to the kitchen, Mariam nearly tripped over something. There was a shape at her feet. When her eyes adjusted, she made out the girl and her baby lying on the floor on top of a quilt.
The girl was sleeping on her side, snoring. The baby was awake. Mariam lit the kerosene lamp on the table and hunkered down. In the light, she had her first real close-up look at the baby, the tuft of dark hair, the thick-lashed hazel eyes, the pink cheeks, and lips the color of ripe pomegranate.
Mariam had the impression that the baby too was examining her. She was lying on her back, her head tilted sideways, looking at Mariam intently with a mixture of amusement, confusion, and suspicion. Mariam wondered if her face might frighten her, but then the baby squealed happily and Mariam knew that a favorable judgment had been passed on her behalf.
“Shh,” Mariam whispered. “You’ll wake up your mother, half deaf as she is.”
The baby’s hand balled into a fist. It rose, fell, found a spastic path to her mouth. Around a mouthful of her own hand, the baby gave Mariam a grin, little bubbles of spittle shining on her lips.
“Look at you. What a sorry sight you are, dressed like a damn boy. And all bundled up in this heat. No wonder you’re still awake.”
Mariam pulled the blanket off the baby, was horrified to find a second one beneath, clucked her tongue, and pulled that one off too. The baby giggled with relief.
She flapped her arms like a bird.
“Better, nay?”
As Mariam was pulling back, the baby grabbed her pinkie. The tiny fingers curled themselves tightly around it. They felt warm and soft, moist with drool.
“Gunuh,” the baby said.
“All right, bas, let go.”
The baby hung on, kicked her legs again.
Mariam pulled her finger free. The baby smiled and made a series of gurgling sounds. The knuckles went back to the mouth.
“What are you so happy about? Huh? What are you smiling at? You’re not so clever as your mother says. You have a brute for a father and a fool for a mother. You wouldn’t smile so much if you knew. No you wouldn’t. Go to sleep, now. Go on.”
Mariam rose to her feet and walked a few steps before the baby started making the eh, eh, eh sounds that Mariam knew signaled the onset of a hearty cry. She retraced her steps.
“What is it? What do you want from me?”
The baby grinned toothlessly.
Mariam sighed. She sat down and let her finger be grabbed, looked on as the baby squeaked, as she flexed her plump legs at the hips and kicked air. Mariam sat there, watching, until the baby stopped moving and began snoring softly.
Outside, mockingbirds were singing blithely, and, once in a while, when the songsters took flight, Mariam could see their wings catching the phosphorescent blue of moonlight beaming through the clouds. And though her throat was parched with thirst and her feet burned with pins and needles, it was a long time before Mariam gently freed her finger from the baby’s grip and got up.
34.
Laila
Of all earthly pleasures, Laila’s favorite was lying next to Aziza, her baby’s face so close that she could watch her big pupils dilate and shrink. Laila loved running her finger over Aziza’s pleasing, soft skin, over the dimpled knuckles, the folds of fat at her elbows. Sometimes she lay Aziza down on her chest and whispered into the soft crown of her head things about Tariq, the father who would always be a stranger to Aziza, whose face Aziza would never know. Laila told her of his aptitude for solving riddles, his trickery and mischief, his easy laugh.
“He had the prettiest lashes, thick like yours. A good chin, a fine nose, and a round forehead. Oh, your father was handsome, Aziza. He was perfect. Perfect, like you are.”
But she was careful never to mention him by name.
Sometimes she caught Rasheed looking at Aziza in the most peculiar way. The other night, sitting on the bedroom floor, where he was shaving a corn from his foot, he said quite casually, “So what was it like between you two?”
Laila had given him a puzzled look, as though she didn’t understand.
“Laili and Majnoon. You and the yaklenga, the cripple. What was it you had, he and you?”
“He was my friend,” she said, careful that her voice not shift too much in key. She busied herself making a bottle.
“You know that.”
“I don’t know what I know.” Rasheed deposited the shavings on the windowsill and dropped onto the bed. The springs protested with a loud creak. He splayed his legs, picked at his crotch. “And as . . . friends, did the two of you ever do anything out of order?”
“Out of order?”
Rasheed smiled lightheartedly, but Laila could feel his gaze, cold and watchful. “Let me see, now. Well, did he ever give you a kiss? Maybe put his hand where it didn’t belong?”
Laila winced with, she hoped, an indignant air. She could feel her heart drumming in her throat. “He was like a brother to me.”
“So he was a friend or a brother?”
“Both. He—”
“Which was it?”
“He was like both.”
“But brothers and sisters are creatures of curiosity. Yes.
Sometimes a brother lets his sister see his pecker, and a sister will—”
“You sicken me,” Laila said.
“So there was nothing.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
Rasheed tilted his head, pursed his lips, nodded. “People gossiped, you know. I remember. They said all sorts of things about you two. But you’re saying there was nothing.”
She willed herself to glare at him.
He held her eyes for an excruciatingly long time in an unblinking way that made her knuckles go pale around the milk bottle, and it took all that Laila could muster to not falter.
She shuddered at what he would do if he found out that she had been stealing from him. Every week, since Aziza’s birth, she pried his wallet open when he was asleep or in the outhouse and took a single bill. Some weeks, if the wallet was light, she took only a five-afghani bill, or nothing at all, for fear that he would notice. When the wallet was plump, she helped herself to a ten or a twenty, once even risking two twenties. She hid the money in a pouch she’d sewn in the lining of her checkered winter coat.
She wondered what he would do if he knew that she was planning to run away next spring. Next summer at the latest. Laila hoped to have a thousand afghanis or more stowed away, half of which would go to the bus fare from Kabul to Peshawar. She would pawn her wedding ring when the time drew close, as well as the other jewelry that Rasheed had given her the year before when she was still the malika of his palace.
“Anyway,” he said at last, fingers drumming his belly, “I can’t be blamed. I am a husband. These are the things a husband wonders. But he’s lucky he died the way he did. Because if he was here now, if I got my hands on him . . .” He sucked through his teeth and shook his head.
“What happened to not speaking ill of the dead?”
“I guess some people can’t be dead enough,” he said.
TWO DAYS LATER, Laila woke up in the morning and found a stack of baby clothes, neatly folded, outside her bedroom door. There was a twirl dress with little pink fishes sewn around the bodice, a blue floral wool dress with matching socks and mittens, yellow pajamas with carrot-colored polka dots, and green cotton pants with a dotted ruffle on the cuff.
“There is a rumor,” Rasheed said over dinner that night, smacking his lips, taking no notice of Aziza or the pajamas Laila had put on her, “that Dostum is going to change sides and join Hekmatyar. Massoud will have his hands full then, fighting those two. And we mustn’t forget the Hazaras.” He took a pinch of the pickled eggplant Mariam had made that summer. “Let’s hope it’s just that, a rumor. Because if that happens, this war,” he waved one greasy hand, “will seem like a Friday picnic at Paghman.”
Later, he mounted her and relieved himself with wordless haste, fully dressed save for his tumban, not removed but pulled down to the ankles. When the frantic rocking was over, he rolled off her and was asleep in minutes.
Laila slipped out of the bedroom and found Mariam in the kitchen squatting, cleaning a pair of trout. A pot of rice was already soaking beside her. The kitchen smelled like cumin and smoke, browned onions and fish.
Laila sat in a corner and draped her knees with the hem of her dress.
“Thank you,” she said.
Mariam took no notice of her. She finished cutting up the first trout and picked up the second. With a serrated knife, she clipped the fins, then turned the fish over, its underbelly facing her, and sliced it expertly from the tail to the gills. Laila watched her put her thumb into its mouth, just over the lower jaw, push it in, and, in one downward stroke, remove the gills and the entrails.
“The clothes are lovely.”
“I had no use for them,” Mariam muttered. She dropped the fish on a newspaper smudged with slimy, gray juice and sliced off its head. “It was either your daughter or the moths.”
“Where did you learn to clean fish like that?”
“When I was a little girl, I lived by a stream. I used to catch my own fish.”
“I’ve never fished.”
“Not much to it. It’s mostly waiting.”
Laila watched her cut the gutted trout into thirds. “Did you sew the clothes yourself?”
Mariam nodded.
“When?”
Mariam rinsed sections of fish in a bowl of water. “When I was pregnant the first time. Or maybe the second time. Eighteen, nineteen years ago. Long time, anyhow. Like I said, I never had any use for them.”
“You’re a really good khayat. Maybe you can teach me.”
Mariam placed the rinsed chunks of trout into a clean bowl. Drops of water dripping from her fingertips, she raised her head and looked at Laila, looked at her as if for the first time.
“The other night, when he . . . Nobody’s ever stood up for me before,” she said.
Laila examined Mariam’s drooping cheeks, the eyelids that sagged in tired folds, the deep lines that framed her mouth—she saw these things as though she too were looking at someone for the first time. And, for the first time, it was not an adversary’s face Laila saw but a face of grievances unspoken, burdens gone unprotested, a destiny submitted to and endured. If she stayed, would this be her own face, Laila wondered, twenty years from now?
“I couldn’t let him,” Laila said. “I wasn’t raised in a household where people did things like that.”
“This is your household now. You ought to get used to it.”
“Not to that. I won’t.”
“He’ll turn on you too, you know,” Mariam said, wiping her hands dry with a rag. “Soon enough. And you gave him a daughter. So, you see, your sin is even less forgivable than mine.”
Laila rose to her feet. “I know it’s chilly outside, but what do you say we sinners have us a cup of chai in the yard?”
Mariam looked surprised. “I can’t. I still have to cut and wash the beans.”
“I’ll help you do it in the morning.”
“And I have to clean up here.”
“We’ll do it together. If I’m not mistaken, there’s some halwa left over. Awfully good with chai.”
Mariam put the rag on the counter. Laila sensed anxiety in the way she tugged at her sleeves, adjusted her hijab, pushed back a curl of hair.
“The Chinese say it’s better to be deprived of food for three days than tea for one.”
Mariam gave a half smile. “It’s a good saying.”
“It is.”
“But I can’t stay long.”
“One cup.”
They sat on folding chairs outside and ate halwa with their fingers from a common bowl. They had a second cup, and when Laila asked her if she wanted a third Mariam said she did. As gunfire cracked in the hills, they watched the clouds slide over the moon and the last of the season’s fireflies charting bright yellow arcs in the dark. And when Aziza woke up crying and Rasheed yelled for Laila to come up and shut her up, a look passed between Laila and Mariam. An unguarded, knowing look. And in this fleeting, wordless exchange with Mariam, Laila knew that they were not enemies any longer.
Chapter 33 & Chapter 34
问题
1. What is unusual about Laila’s arrival home from the hospital? Explain.
2. What complaints does Rasheed have about the baby?
3. What gift from Mariam does Laila find outside her bedroom door?
翻译
1. She was stooped over and was grunting, trying to reach for the paper bag of belongings that she had put down in order to open the door.
2. There were other arguments waged in voices pitched low.
3. Of all earthly pleasures, Laila’s favorite was lying next to Aziza, her baby’s face so close that she could watch her big pupils dilate and shrink.
要求：
1. 尽量回答上面问题
2. 思考：
禽兽不如的Rasheed怀疑是玛丽亚姆教唆莱拉的，于是，就想对玛丽亚姆大打出手。玛丽亚姆吓死了！关键时刻莱拉来救了！以答应他的性要求为条件，让他放过玛丽亚姆。玛丽亚姆心怀感激，隔天就准备很多宝宝衣物送给莱拉的女儿，两女人的恩恩怨怨就此化解了！至此，你可以谈谈为什么这两个女人开始理解对方了吗？谈谈你的看法。
