Giti was beside Laila now, chopping cucumbers, with a dreamy, far off look on her face.
Mammy was nearby, in her brilliant summer dress, peeling boiled eggs with Wajma, the
midwife, and Tariq's mother.
"I'm going to present Commander Massoud with a picture of Ahmad and Noor," Mammy
was saying to Wajma as Wajma nodded and tried to look interested and sincere.
"He personally oversaw the burial. He said a prayer at their grave. It'll be a token of
thanks for his decency." Mammy cracked another boiled egg. "I hear he's a reflective,
honorable man. I think he would appreciate it."
All around them, women bolted in and out of the kitchen, carried out bowls of qurma,
platters of masiawa, loaves of bread, and arranged it all on the sofrah spread on the living
room floor.
Every once in a while, Tariq sauntered in. He picked at this, nibbled on that.
"No men allowed," said Giti.
"Out, out, out," cried Wajma.
Tariq smiled at the women's good humored shooing. He seemed to take pleasure in not
being welcome here, in infecting this female atmosphere with his half grinning, masculine
irreverence.
Laila did her best not to look at him, not to give these women any more gossip fodder than
they already had So she kept her eyes down and said nothing to him, but she remembered a
dream she'd had a few nights before, of his face and hers, together in a mirror, beneath a
soft, green veil. And grains of rice, dropping from his hair, bouncing off the glass with a
link.
Tariq reached to sample a morsel of veal cooked with potatoes.
"Ho bacha!" Giti slapped the back of his hand. Tariq stole it anyway and laughed.
He stood almost a foot taller than Laila now. He shaved. His face was leaner, more
angular. His shoulders had broadened. Tariq liked to wear pleated trousers, black shiny
loafers, and short sleeve shirts that showed off his newly muscular arms compliments of an
old, rusty set of barbells that he lifted daily in his yard. His face had lately adopted an
expression of playful contentiousness. He had taken to a self conscious cocking of his head
when he spoke, slightly to the side, and to arching one eyebrow when he laughed. He let his
hair grow and had fallen into the habit of tossing the floppy locks often and unnecessarily.
The corrupt half grin was a new thing too.
The last time Tariq was shooed out of the kitchen, his mother caught Laila stealing a
glance at him. Laila's heart jumped, and her eyes fluttered guiltily. She quickly occupied
herself with tossing the chopped cucumber into the pitcher of salted, watered down yogurt.
But she could sense Tariq's mother watching, her knowing, approving half smile.