The men filled their plates and glasses and took their meals to the yard. Once they had
taken their share, the women and children settled on the floor around the sofrah and ate.
It was after fat sofrah was cleared and the plates were stacked in the kitchen, when the
frenzy of tea making and remembering who took green and who black started, that Tariq
motioned with his head and slipped out the door.
Laila waited five minutes, then followed.
She found him three houses down the street, leaning against the wall at the entrance of a
narrow mouthed alley between two adjacent houses. He was humming an old Pashto song,
by Ustad Awal Mir:
Da ze ma ziba waian, da ze ma dada waian. This is our beautiful land, this is our beloved
land.
And he was smoking, another new habit, which he'd picked up from the guys Laila spotted
him hanging around with these days. Laila couldn't stand them, these new friends of Tariq's.
They all dressed the same way, pleated trousers, and tight shirts that accentuated their arms
and chest. They all wore too much cologne, and they all smoked. They strutted around the
neighborhood in groups, joking, laughing loudly, sometimes even calling after girls, with
identical stupid, self satisfied grins on their faces. One of Tariq's friends, on the basis of the
most passing of resemblances to Sylvester Stallone, insisted he be called Rambo.
"Your mother would kill you if she knew about your smoking," Laila said, looking one
way, then the other, before slipping into the alley.
"But she doesn't," he said. He moved aside to make room.
"That could change."
"Who is going to tell? You?"
Laila tapped her foot. "Tell your secret to the wind, but don't blame it for telling the trees."
Tariq smiled, the one eyebrow arched. "Who said that?"
"Khalil Gibran."
"You're a show off."
"Give me a cigarette."
He shook his head no and crossed his arms. This was a new entry in his repertoire of poses:
back to the wall, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his good
leg casually bent.
"Why not?"