A Thousand Splendid Suns - Khaled Hosseini [114]
“Indeed,” he said. “Flamingos.”
When the Taliban had found the paintings, Tariq said, they’d taken offense at the birds’ long, bare legs. After they’d tied the cousin’s feet and flogged his soles bloody, they had presented him with a choice: Either destroy the paintings or make the flamingos decent. So the cousin had picked up his brush and painted trousers on every last bird.
“And there you have it. Islamic flamingos,” Tariq said.
Laughter came up, but Laila pushed it back down. She was ashamed of her yellowing teeth, the missing incisor. Ashamed of her withered looks and swollen lip. She wished she’d had the chance to wash her face, at least comb her hair.
“But he’ll have the last laugh, the cousin,” Tariq said. “He painted those trousers with watercolor. When the Taliban are gone, he’ll just wash them off.” He smiled—Laila noticed that he had a missing tooth of his own—and looked down at his hands. “Indeed.”
He was wearing a pakol on his head, hiking boots, and a black wool sweater tucked into the waist of khaki pants. He was half smiling, nodding slowly. Laila didn’t remember him saying this before, this word indeed, and this pensive gesture, the fingers making a tent in his lap, the nodding, it was new too. Such an adult word, such an adult gesture, and why should it be so startling? He was an adult now, Tariq, a twenty-five-year-old man with slow movements and a tiredness to his smile. Tall, bearded, slimmer than in her dreams of him, but with strong-looking hands, workman’s hands, with tortuous, full veins. His face was still lean and handsome but not fair-skinned any longer; his brow had a weathered look to it, sunburned, like his neck, the brow of a traveler at the end of a long and wearying journey. His pakol was pushed back on his head, and she could see that he’d started to lose his hair. The hazel of his eyes was duller than she remembered, paler, or perhaps it was merely the light in the room.
Laila thought of Tariq’s mother, her unhurried manners, the clever smiles, the dull purple wig. And his father, with his squinty gaze, his wry humor. Earlier, at the door, with a voice full of tears, tripping over her own words, she’d told Tariq what she thought had happened to him and his parents, and he had shaken his head. So now she asked him how they were doing, his parents. But she regretted the question when Tariq looked down and said, a bit distractedly, “Passed on.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Well. Yes. Me too. Here.” He fished a small paper bag from his pocket and passed it to her. “Compliments of Alyona.” Inside was a block of cheese in plastic wrap.
“Alyona. It’s a pretty name.” Laila tried to say this next without wavering. “Your wife?”
“My goat.” He was smiling at her expectantly, as though waiting for her to retrieve a memory.
Then Laila remembered. The Soviet film. Alyona had been the captain’s daughter, the girl in love with the first mate. That was the day that she, Tariq, and Hasina had watched Soviet tanks and jeeps leave Kabul, the day Tariq had worn that ridiculous Russian fur hat.
“I had to tie her to a stake in the ground,” Tariq was saying. “And build a fence. Because of the wolves. In the foothills where I live, there’s a wooded area nearby, maybe a quarter of a mile away, pine trees mostly, some fir, deodars. They mostly stick to the woods, the wolves do, but a bleating goat, one that likes to go wandering, that can draw them out. So the fence. The stake.”
Laila asked him which foothills.
“Pir Panjal. Pakistan,” he said. “Where I live is called Murree; it’s a summer retreat, an hour from Islamabad. It’s hilly and green, lots of trees, high above sea level. So