A Thousand Splendid Suns - Khaled Hosseini [123]
A pall of shame and grief for her son fell over Laila.
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know, my love.”
When was he coming back? Would Baba jan bring a present with him when he returned?
She did the prayers with Zalmai. Twenty-one Bismallah-e-rahman- e-rahims—one for each knuckle of seven fingers.
She watched him cup his hands before his face and blow into them, then place the back of both hands on his forehead and make a casting-away motion, whispering, Babaloo, be gone, do not come to Zalmai, he has no business with you. Babaloo, be gone. Then, to finish off, they said Allah-u-akbar three times. And later, much later that night, Laila was startled by a muted voice: Did Baba jan leave because of me? Because of what I said, about you and the man downstairs?
She leaned over him, meaning to reassure, meaning to say It had nothing to do with you, Zalmai. No. Nothing is your fault. But he was asleep, his small chest rising and sinking.
WHEN LAILA WENT to bed, her mind was muffled up, clouded, incapable of sustained rational thought. But when she woke up, to the muezzin’s call for morning prayer, much of the dullness had lifted.
She sat up and watched Zalmai sleep for a while, the ball of his fist under his chin. Laila pictured Mariam sneaking into the room in the middle of the night as she and Zalmai had slept, watching them, making plans in her head.
Laila slipped out of bed. It took effort to stand. She ached everywhere. Her neck, her shoulders, her back, her arms, her thighs, all engraved with the cuts of Rasheed’s belt buckle. Wincing, she quietly left the bedroom.
In Mariam’s room, the light was a shade darker than gray, the kind of light Laila had always associated with crowing roosters and dew rolling off blades of grass. Mariam was sitting in a corner, on a prayer rug facing the window. Slowly, Laila lowered herself to the ground, sitting down across from her.
“You should go and visit Aziza this morning,” Mariam said.
“I know what you mean to do.”
“Don’t walk. Take the bus, you’ll blend in. Taxis are too conspicuous. You’re sure to get stopped for riding alone.”
“What you promised last night . . .”
Laila could not finish. The trees, the lake, the nameless village. A delusion, she saw. A lovely lie meant to soothe. Like cooing to a distressed child.
“I meant it,” Mariam said. “I meant it for you, Laila jo.”
“I don’t want any of it without you,” Laila croaked.
Mariam smiled wanly.
“I want it to be just like you said, Mariam, all of us going together, you, me, the children. Tariq has a place in Pakistan. We can hide out there for a while, wait for things to calm down—”
“That’s not possible,” Mariam said patiently, like a parent to a well-meaning but misguided child.
“We’ll take care of each other,” Laila said, choking on the words, her eyes wet with tears. “Like you said. No. I’ll take care of you for a change.”
“Oh, Laila jo.”
Laila went on a stammering rant. She bargained. She promised. She would do all the cleaning, she said, and all the cooking. “You won’t have to do a thing. Ever again.
You rest, sleep in, plant a garden. Whatever you want, you ask and I’ll get it for you. Don’t do this, Mariam. Don’t leave me. Don’t break Aziza’s heart.”
“They chop off hands for stealing bread,” Mariam said.
“What do you think they’ll do when they find a dead husband and two missing wives?”
“No one will know,” Laila breathed. “No one will find us.”
“They will. Sooner or later. They’re bloodhounds.”
Mariam’s voice was low, cautioning; it made Laila’s promises sound fantastical, trumped-up, foolish.
“Mariam, please—”
“When they do, they’ll find you as guilty as me. Tariq too. I won’t have the two of you living on the run,