Laila could hardly move, as though cement had solidified in every one of her joints. There was a conversation going on, and Laila knew that she was at one end of it, but she felt removed from it, as though she were merely eavesdropping. As Tariq talked, Laila pictured her life as a rotted rope, snapping, unraveling, the fibers detaching, falling away.
It was a hot, muggy afternoon that August of 1992, and they were in the living room of Laila’s house. Mammy had had a stomachache all day, and, minutes before, despite the rockets that Hekmatyar was launching from the south, Babi had taken her to see a doctor. And here was Tariq now, seated beside Laila on the couch, looking at the ground, hands between his knees.
Saying that he was leaving.
Not the neighborhood. Not Kabul. But Afghanistan altogether. Leaving.
Laila was struck blind. “Where? Where will you go?”
“Pakistan first. Peshawar. Then I don’t know. Maybe Hindustan. Iran.” “How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, how long have you known?”
“A few days. I was going to tell you, Laila, I swear, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I knew how upset you’d be.”
“When?” “Tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?” “Laila, look at me.” “Tomorrow.”
“It’s my father. His heart can’t take it anymore, all this fighting and killing.”
Laila buried her face in her hands, a bubble of dread filling her chest. She should have seen this coming, she thought. Almost everyone she
knew had packed their things and left. The neighborhood had been all but drained of familiar faces, and now, only four months after fighting had broken out between the Mujahideen factions, Laila hardly recognized anybody on the streets anymore. Hasina’s family had fled in May, off to Tehran. Wajma and her clan had gone to Islamabad that same month.
Giti’s parents and her siblings left in June, shortly after Giti was killed. Laila didn’t know where they had gone—she heard a rumor that they had headed for Mashad, in Iran. After people left, their homes sat unoccupied for a few days, then either militiamen took them or strangers moved in.
Everyone was leaving. And now Tariq too.
“And my mother is not a young woman anymore,” he was saying. “They’re so afraid all the time. Laila, look at me.”
“You should have told me.” “Please look at me.”
A groan came out of Laila. Then a wail. And then she was crying, and when he went to wipe her cheek with the pad of his thumb she swiped his hand away. It was selfish and irrational, but she was furious with him for abandoning her, Tariq, who was like an extension of her, whose shadow sprung beside hers in every memory. How could he leave her?
She slapped him. Then she slapped him again and pulled at his hair, and he had to take her by the wrists, and he was saying something she couldn’t make out, he was saying it softly, reasonably, and, somehow, they ended up brow to brow, nose to nose, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her lips again.
And when, suddenly, he leaned in, she did too.
IN THE COMING DAYS and weeks, Laila would scramble frantically to commit it all to memory, what happened next. Like an art lover running out of a burning museum, she would grab whatever she could—a look, a whisper, a moan—to salvage from perishing, to preserve. But time is the most unforgiving of fires, and she couldn’t, in the end, save it all. Still, she had these: that first, tremendous pang of pain down below. The slant of sunlight on the rug. Her heel grazing the cold hardness of his leg, lying beside them, hastily unstrapped. Her hands cupping his elbows. The upside-down, mandolin-shaped birthmark beneath his collarbone, glowing red. His face hovering over hers. His black curls dangling, tickling her lips, her chin. The terror that they would be discovered. The disbelief at their own boldness, their courage. The strange and indescribable pleasure, interlaced with the pain. And the look, the myriad of looks, on Tariq: of apprehension, tenderness, apology, embarrassment, but mostly, mostly, of
hunger.
THERE WAS FRENZY AFTER. Shirts hurriedly buttoned, belts buckled, hair finger-combed. They sat, then, they sat beside each other, smelling of each other, faces flushed pink, both of them stunned, both of them
speechless before the enormity of what had just happened. What they had done.
Laila saw three drops of blood on the rug, her blood, and pictured her parents sitting on this couch later, oblivious to the sin that she had committed. And now the shame set in, and the guilt, and, upstairs, the clock ticked on, impossibly loud to Laila’s ears. Like a judge’s gavel pounding again and again, condemning her.
Then Tariq said, “Come with me.”
For a moment, Laila almost believed that it could be done. She, Tariq, and his parents, setting out together. Packing their bags, climbing aboard a bus, leaving behind all this violence, going to find blessings, or trouble, and whichever came they would face it together. The bleak isolation awaiting her, the murderous loneliness, it didn’t have to be.
She could go. They could be together. They would have more afternoons like this. “I want to marry you, Laila.”
For the first time since they were on the floor, she raised her eyes to meet his. She searched his face. There was no playfulness this time. His look was one of conviction, of guileless yet ironclad earnestness.
“Tariq—”
“Let me marry you, Laila. Today. We could get married today.”
He began to say more, about going to a mosque, finding a mullah, a pair of witnesses, a quick nikka . . .
But Laila was thinking of Mammy, as obstinate and uncompromising as the Mujahideen, the air around her choked with rancor and despair, and she was thinking of Babi, who had long surrendered, who made such a sad, pathetic opponent to Mammy.
Sometimes . . . I feel like you’re all I have, Laila.
These were the circumstances of her life, the inescapable truths of it. “I’ll ask Kaka Hakim for your hand. He’ll give us his blessing, Laila, I
know it.”
He was right. Babi would. But it would shatter him.
Tariq was still speaking, his voice hushed, then high, beseeching, then reasoning; his face hopeful, then stricken.
“I can’t,” Laila said.
“Don’t say that. I love you.” “I’m sorry—”
“I love you.”
How long had she waited to hear those words from him? How many times had she dreamed them uttered?
There they were, spoken at last, and the irony crushed her.
“It’s my father I can’t leave,” Laila said. “I’m all he has left. His heart couldn’t take it either.”
Tariq knew this. He knew she could not wipe away the obligations of her life any more than he could his, but it went on, his pleadings and her rebuttals, his proposals and her apologies, his tears and hers.
In the end, Laila had to make him leave.
At the door, she made him promise to go without goodbyes. She closed the door on him. Laila leaned her back against it, shaking against his pounding fists, one arm gripping her belly and a hand across her mouth, as he spoke through the door and promised that he would come back, that he would come back for her. She stood there until he tired, until he gave up, and then she listened to his uneven footsteps until they faded, until all was quiet, save for the gunfire cracking in the hills and her own heart thudding in her belly, her eyes, her bones.
