Read Online A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Khaled Hosseini
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morning I expect you to start
behaving like a wife. Fahmidi? Is that understood?”
Mariam’s teeth began to chatter.
“I need an answer.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said. “What did you think? That this is a hotel? That I’m some kind of hotelkeeper? Well, it . . . Oh. Oh. La illah u ilillah. What did I say about the crying, Mariam? What did I say to you about the crying?”
THE NEXT MORNING, after Rasheed left for work, Mariam unpacked her clothes and put them in the dresser. She drew a pail of
water from the well and, with a rag, washed the windows of her room and the windows to the living room downstairs. She swept
the floors, beat the cobwebs fluttering in the corners of the ceiling. She opened the windows to air the house.
She set three cups of lentils to soak in a pot, found a knife and cut some carrots and a pair of potatoes, left them too to
soak. She searched for flour, found it in the back of one of the cabinets behind a row of dirty spice jars, and made fresh
dough, kneading it the way Nana had shown her, pushing the dough with the heel of her hand, folding the outer edge, turning
it, and pushing it away again. Once she had floured the dough, she wrapped it in a moist cloth, put on a hijab, and set out for the communal tandoor.
Rasheed had told her where it was, down the street, a left then a quick right, but all Mariam had to do was follow the flock
of women and children who were headed the same way. The children Mariam saw, chasing after their mothers or running ahead
of them, wore shirts patched and patched again. They wore trousers that looked too big or too small, sandals with ragged straps
that flapped back and forth. They rolled discarded old bicycle tires with sticks.
Their mothers walked in groups of three or four, some in burqas, others not. Mariam could hear their high pitched chatter,
their spiraling laughs. As she walked with her head down, she caught bits of their banter, which seemingly always had to do
with sick children or lazy, ungrateful husbands.
As if the meals cook themselves.
Wallah o billah, never a moment’s rest!
And he says to me, I swear it, it’s true, he actually says to me . . .
This endless conversation, the tone plaintive but oddly cheerful, flew around and around in a circle. On it went, down the
street, around the corner, in line at the tandoor. Husbands who gambled. Husbands who doted on their mothers and wouldn’t
spend a rupiah on them, the wives. Mariam wondered how so many women could suffer the same miserable luck, to have married,
all of them, such dreadful men. Or was this a wifely game that she did not know about, a daily ritual, like soaking rice or
making dough? Would they expect her soon to join in?
In the tandoor line, Mariam caught sideways glances shot at her, heard whispers. Her hands began to sweat. She imagined they
all knew that she’d been born a harami, a source of shame to her father and his family. They all knew that she’d betrayed her mother and disgraced herself.
With a corner of her hijab, she dabbed at the moisture above her upper lip and tried to gather her nerves.
For a few minutes, everything went well.
Then someone tapped her on the shoulder. Mariam turned around and found a light-skinned, plump woman wearing a hijab, like her. She had short, wiry black hair and a good-humored, almost perfectly round face. Her lips were much fuller than Mariam’s,
the lower one slightly droopy, as though dragged down by the big, dark mole just below the lip line. She had big greenish
eyes that shone at Mariam with an inviting glint.
“You’re Rasheed jan’s new wife, aren’t you?” the woman said, smiling widely. “The one from Herat. You’re so young! Mariam
jan, isn’t it? My name is Fariba. I live on your street, five houses to your left, the one with the green door. This is my
son Noor.”
The boy at her side had a smooth, happy face and wiry hair like his mother’s. There was a patch
behaving like a wife. Fahmidi? Is that understood?”
Mariam’s teeth began to chatter.
“I need an answer.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said. “What did you think? That this is a hotel? That I’m some kind of hotelkeeper? Well, it . . . Oh. Oh. La illah u ilillah. What did I say about the crying, Mariam? What did I say to you about the crying?”
THE NEXT MORNING, after Rasheed left for work, Mariam unpacked her clothes and put them in the dresser. She drew a pail of
water from the well and, with a rag, washed the windows of her room and the windows to the living room downstairs. She swept
the floors, beat the cobwebs fluttering in the corners of the ceiling. She opened the windows to air the house.
She set three cups of lentils to soak in a pot, found a knife and cut some carrots and a pair of potatoes, left them too to
soak. She searched for flour, found it in the back of one of the cabinets behind a row of dirty spice jars, and made fresh
dough, kneading it the way Nana had shown her, pushing the dough with the heel of her hand, folding the outer edge, turning
it, and pushing it away again. Once she had floured the dough, she wrapped it in a moist cloth, put on a hijab, and set out for the communal tandoor.
Rasheed had told her where it was, down the street, a left then a quick right, but all Mariam had to do was follow the flock
of women and children who were headed the same way. The children Mariam saw, chasing after their mothers or running ahead
of them, wore shirts patched and patched again. They wore trousers that looked too big or too small, sandals with ragged straps
that flapped back and forth. They rolled discarded old bicycle tires with sticks.
Their mothers walked in groups of three or four, some in burqas, others not. Mariam could hear their high pitched chatter,
their spiraling laughs. As she walked with her head down, she caught bits of their banter, which seemingly always had to do
with sick children or lazy, ungrateful husbands.
As if the meals cook themselves.
Wallah o billah, never a moment’s rest!
And he says to me, I swear it, it’s true, he actually says to me . . .
This endless conversation, the tone plaintive but oddly cheerful, flew around and around in a circle. On it went, down the
street, around the corner, in line at the tandoor. Husbands who gambled. Husbands who doted on their mothers and wouldn’t
spend a rupiah on them, the wives. Mariam wondered how so many women could suffer the same miserable luck, to have married,
all of them, such dreadful men. Or was this a wifely game that she did not know about, a daily ritual, like soaking rice or
making dough? Would they expect her soon to join in?
In the tandoor line, Mariam caught sideways glances shot at her, heard whispers. Her hands began to sweat. She imagined they
all knew that she’d been born a harami, a source of shame to her father and his family. They all knew that she’d betrayed her mother and disgraced herself.
With a corner of her hijab, she dabbed at the moisture above her upper lip and tried to gather her nerves.
For a few minutes, everything went well.
Then someone tapped her on the shoulder. Mariam turned around and found a light-skinned, plump woman wearing a hijab, like her. She had short, wiry black hair and a good-humored, almost perfectly round face. Her lips were much fuller than Mariam’s,
the lower one slightly droopy, as though dragged down by the big, dark mole just below the lip line. She had big greenish
eyes that shone at Mariam with an inviting glint.
“You’re Rasheed jan’s new wife, aren’t you?” the woman said, smiling widely. “The one from Herat. You’re so young! Mariam
jan, isn’t it? My name is Fariba. I live on your street, five houses to your left, the one with the green door. This is my
son Noor.”
The boy at her side had a smooth, happy face and wiry hair like his mother’s. There was a patch
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