APRIL 1978
On April 17, 1978, the year Mariam turned nineteen, a man named Mir Akbar Khyber was found murdered. Two days later, there was a large demonstration in Kabul. Everyone in the neighborhood was in the streets talking about it. Through the window, Mariam saw neighbors milling about, chatting excitedly, transistor radios pressed to their ears. She saw Fariba leaning against the wall of her house, talking with a woman who was new to Deh-Mazang. Fariba was smiling, and her palms were pressed against the swell of her pregnant belly. The other woman, whose name escaped Mariam, looked older than Fariba, and her hair had an odd purple tint to it. She was holding a little boy’s hand. Mariam knew the boy’s name was Tariq, because she had heard this woman on the street call after him by that name.
Mariam and Rasheed didn’t join the neighbors. They listened in on the
radio as some ten thousand people poured into the streets and marched up and down Kabul’s government district. Rasheed said that Mir Akbar Khyber had been a prominent communist, and that his supporters were blaming the murder on President Daoud Khan’s government. He didn’t look at her when he said this. These days, he never did anymore, and Mariam wasn’t ever sure if she was being spoken to.
“What’s a communist?” she asked.
Rasheed snorted, and raised both eyebrows. “You don’t know what a communist is? Such a simple thing. Everyone knows. It’s common knowledge. You don’t . . . Bah. I don’t know why I’m surprised.” Then he crossed his ankles on the table and mumbled that it was someone who believed in Karl Marxist.
“Who’s Karl Marxist?” Rasheed sighed.
On the radio, a woman’s voice was saying that Taraki, the leader of the
Khalq branch of the PDPA, the Afghan communist party, was in the streets giving rousing speeches to demonstrators.
“What I meant was, what do they want?” Mariam asked. “These communists, what is it that they believe?”
Rasheed chortled and shook his head, but Mariam thought she saw uncertainty in the way he crossed his arms, the way his eyes shifted. “You know nothing, do you? You’re like a child. Your brain is empty. There is no information in it.”
“I ask because—” “Chup ko. Shut up.” Mariam did.
It wasn’t easy tolerating him talking this way to her, to bear his scorn, his ridicule, his insults, his walking past her like she was nothing but a house cat. But after four years of marriage, Mariam saw clearly how much a woman could tolerate when she was afraid. And Mariam was afraid. She lived in fear of his shifting moods, his volatile temperament, his insistence on steering even mundane exchanges down a confrontational path that, on occasion, he would resolve with punches, slaps, kicks, and sometimes try to make amends for with polluted apologies and sometimes not.
In the four years since the day at the bathhouse, there had been six more cycles of hopes raised then dashed, each loss, each collapse, each trip to the doctor more crushing for Mariam than the last. With each disappointment, Rasheed had grown more remote and resentful.
Now nothing she did pleased him. She cleaned the house, made sure he always had a supply of clean shirts, cooked him his favorite dishes.
Once, disastrously, she even bought makeup and put it on for him. But when he came home, he took one look at her and winced with such distaste that she rushed to the bathroom and washed it all off, tears of shame mixing with soapy water, rouge, and mascara.
Now Mariam dreaded the sound of him coming home in the evening. The key rattling, the creak of the door—these were sounds that set her heart racing. From her bed, she listened to the click-clack of his heels, to the muffled shuffling of his feet after he’d shed his shoes. With her ears, she took inventory of his doings: chair legs dragged across the floor, the plaintive squeak of the cane seat when he sat, the clinking of spoon against plate, the flutter of newspaper pages flipped, the slurping of water. And as her heart pounded, her mind wondered what excuse he would use that night to pounce on her. There was always something, some minor thing that would infuriate him, because no matter what she
did to please him, no matter how thoroughly she submitted to his wants and demands, it wasn’t enough. She could not give him his son back. In this most essential way, she had failed him—seven times she had failed him—and now she was nothing but a burden to him. She could see it in the way he looked at her, when he looked at her. She was a burden to him.
“What’s going to happen?” she asked him now.
Rasheed shot her a sidelong glance. He made a sound between a sigh and a groan, dropped his legs from the table, and turned off the radio. He took it upstairs to his room. He closed the door.
ON APRIL 27, Mariam’s question was answered with crackling sounds and intense, sudden roars. She ran barefoot down to the living room and found Rasheed already by the window, in his undershirt, his hair disheveled, palms pressed to the glass. Mariam made her way to the window next to him. Overhead, she could see military planes zooming past, heading north and east. Their deafening shrieks hurt her ears. In the distance, loud booms resonated and sudden plumes of smoke rose to the sky.
“What’s going on, Rasheed?” she said. “What is all this?”
“God knows,” he muttered. He tried the radio and got only static. “What do we do?”
Impatiently, Rasheed said, “We wait.”
LATER IN THE DAY, Rasheed was still trying the radio as Mariam made rice with spinach sauce in the kitchen. Mariam remembered a time when she had enjoyed, even looked forward to, cooking for Rasheed.
Now cooking was an exercise in heightened anxiety. The qurmas were always too salty or too bland for his taste. The rice was judged either too greasy or too dry, the bread declared too doughy or too crispy.
Rasheed’s faultfinding left her stricken in the kitchen with self-doubt.
When she brought him his plate, the national anthem was playing on the radio.
“I made sabzi,” she said. “Put it down and be quiet.”
After the music faded, a man’s voice came on the radio.
He announced himself as Air Force Colonel Abdul Qader. He reported that earlier in the day the rebel Fourth Armored Division had seized the airport and key intersections in the city. Kabul Radio, the ministries of Communication and the Interior, and the Foreign Ministry building had
also been captured. Kabul was in the hands of the people now, he said proudly. Rebel MiGs had attacked the Presidential Palace. Tanks had broken into the premises, and a fierce battle was under way there.
Daoud’s loyalist forces were all but defeated, Abdul Qader said in a reassuring tone.
Days later, when the communists began the summary executions of those connected with Daoud Khan’s regime, when rumors began floating about Kabul of eyes gouged and genitals electrocuted in the Pol-e-Charkhi Prison, Mariam would hear of the slaughter that had taken place at the Presidential Palace. Daoud Khan had been killed, but not before the communist rebels had killed some twenty members of his family, including women and grandchildren. There would be rumors that he had taken his own life, that he’d been gunned down in the heat of battle; rumors that he’d been saved for last, made to watch the massacre of his family, then shot.
Rasheed turned up the volume and leaned in closer.
“A revolutionary council of the armed forces has been established, and our watan will now be known as the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan,” Abdul Qader said. “The era of aristocracy, nepotism, and inequality is over, fellow hamwatans. We have ended decades of tyranny. Power is now in the hands of the masses and freedom-loving people. A glorious new era in the history of our country is afoot. A new Afghanistan is born. We assure you that you have nothing to fear, fellow Afghans. The new regime will maintain the utmost respect for principles, both Islamic and democratic. This is a time of rejoicing and celebration.”
Rasheed turned off the radio.
“So is this good or bad?” Mariam asked.
“Bad for the rich, by the sound of it,” Rasheed said. “Maybe not so bad for us.”
Mariam’s thoughts drifted to Jalil. She wondered if the communists would go after him, then. Would they jail him?
Jail his sons? Take his businesses and properties from him? “Is this warm?” Rasheed said, eyeing the rice.
“I just served it from the pot.”
He grunted, and told her to hand him a plate.
DOWN THE STREET, as the night lit up in sudden flashes of red and yellow, an exhausted Fariba had propped herself up on her elbows. Her hair was matted with sweat, and droplets of moisture teetered on the edge of her upper lip. At her bedside, the elderly midwife, Wajma,
watched as Fariba’s husband and sons passed around the infant. They were marveling at the baby’s light hair, at her pink cheeks and puckered, rosebud lips, at the slits of jade green eyes moving behind her puffy lids. They smiled at each other when they heard her voice for the first time, a cry that started like the mewl of a cat and exploded into a healthy, full-throated yowl. Noor said her eyes were like gemstones. Ahmad, who was the most religious member of the family, sang the azan in his baby sister’s ear and blew in her face three times.
“Laila it is, then?” Hakim asked, bouncing his daughter.
“Laila it is,” Fariba said, smiling tiredly. “Night Beauty. It’s perfect.”
RASHEED MADE a ball of rice with his fingers. He put it in his mouth, chewed once, then twice, before grimacing and spitting it out on the sofrah.
“What’s the matter?” Mariam asked, hating the apologetic tone of her voice. She could feel her pulse quickening, her skin shrinking.
“What’s the matter?” he mewled, mimicking her. “What’s the matter is that you’ve done it again.”
“But I boiled it five minutes more than usual.” “That’s a bold lie.”
“I swear—”
He shook the rice angrily from his fingers and pushed the plate away, spilling sauce and rice on the sofrah. Mariam watched as he stormed out of the living room, then out of the house, slamming the door on his way out.
Mariam kneeled to the ground and tried to pick up the grains of rice and put them back on the plate, but her hands were shaking badly, and she had to wait for them to stop. Dread pressed down on her chest. She tried taking a few deep breaths. She caught her pale reflection in the darkened living-room window and looked away.
Then she heard the front door opening, and Rasheed was back in the living room.
“Get up,” he said. “Come here. Get up.”
He snatched her hand, opened it, and dropped a handful of pebbles into it.
“Put these in your mouth.” “What?”
“Put. These. In your mouth.” “Stop it, Rasheed, I’m—”
His powerful hands clasped her jaw. He shoved two fingers into her
mouth and pried it open, then forced the cold, hard pebbles into it. Mariam struggled against him, mumbling, but he kept pushing the pebbles in, his upper lip curled in a sneer.
“Now chew,” he said.
Through the mouthful of grit and pebbles, Mariam mumbled a plea.
Tears were leaking out of the corners of her eyes.
“CHEW!” he bellowed. A gust of his smoky breath slammed against her face.
Mariam chewed. Something in the back of her mouth cracked. “Good,” Rasheed said. His cheeks were quivering. “Now you know
what your rice tastes like. Now you know what you’ve given me in this marriage. Bad food, and nothing else.”
Then he was gone, leaving Mariam to spit out pebbles, blood, and the fragments of two broken molars.
