share their food with her.
The most avid was Naghma, who was always hugging her elbows and following Mariam
everywhere she went. Naghma was the sort of person who found it entertaining to dispense
news of misfortune, whether others' or her own. She said her father had promised her to a
tailor some thirty years older than her.
"He smells like goh, and has fewer teeth than fingers," Naghma said of the tailor.
She'd tried to elope to Gardez with a young man she'd fallen in love with, the son of a
local mullah. They'd barely made it out of Kabul. When they were caught and sent back,
the mullah's son was flogged before he repented and said that Naghma had seduced him
with her feminine charms. She'd cast a spell on him, he said. He promised he would
rededicate himself to the study of the Koran. The mullah's son was freed. Naghma was
sentenced to five years.
It was just as well, she said, her being here in prison. Her father had sworn that the day
she was released he would take a knife to her throat.
Listening to Naghma, Mariam remembered the dim glimmer of cold stars and the stringy
pink clouds streaking over the Safid koh mountains that long ago morning when Nana had
said to her, Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a
woman. Always. You remember that, Mariam.
Mariam's trial had taken place the week before. There was no legal council, no public
hearing, no cross examining of evidence, no appeals. Mariam declined her right to
witnesses. The entire thing lasted less than fifteen minutes.
The middle judge, a brittle looking Talib, was the leader. He was strikingly gaunt, with
yellow, leathery skin and a curly red beard. He wore eyeglasses that magnified his eyes and
revealed how yellow the whites were. His neck looked too thin to support the intricately
wrapped turban on his head.
"You admit to this, hamshira?I he asked again in a tired voice.
"I do," Mariam said.
The man nodded. Or maybe he didn't. It was hard to tell; he had a pronounced shaking of
his hands and head that reminded Mariam of Mullah Faizullah's tremor. When he sipped tea,
he did not reach for his cup. He motioned to the square shouldered man to his left, who
respectfully brought it to his lips. After, the Talib closed his eyes gently, a muted and
elegant gesture of gratitude.
Mariam found a disarming quality about him. When he spoke, it was with a tinge of guile
and tenderness. His smile was patient. He did not look at Mariam despisingly. He did not
address her with spite or accusation but with a soft tone of apology.