"You are now husband and wife," the mullah said."Tabreek. Congratulations."
Rasheed waited in the multicolored bus. Mariam could not see him from where she stood
with Jalil, by the rear bumper, only the smoke of his cigarette curling up from the open
window. Around them, hands shook and farewells were said. Korans were kissed, passed
under. Barefoot boys bounced between travelers, their faces invisible behind their trays of
chewing gum and cigarettes.
Jalil was busy telling her that Kabul was so beautiful, the Moghul emperor Babur had
asked that he be buried there. Next, Mariam knew, he'd go on about Kabul's gardens, and
its shops, its trees, and its air, and, before long, she would be on the bus and he would walk
alongside it, waving cheerfully, unscathed, spared.
Mariam could not bring herself to allow it.
"I used to worship you," she said.
Jalil stopped in midsentence. He crossed and uncrossed his arms. A young Hindi couple,
the wife cradling a boy, the husband dragging a suitcase, passed between them. Jalil
seemed grateful for the interruption. They excused themselves, and he smiled back politely.
"On Thursdays, I sat for hours waiting for you. I worried myself sick that you wouldn't
show up."
"It's a long trip. You should eat something." He said he could buy her some bread and goat
cheese.
"I thought about you all the time. I used to pray that you'd live to be a hundred years old. I
didn't know. I didn't know that you were ashamed of me."
Jalil looked down, and, like an overgrown child, dug at something with the toe of his shoe.
"You were ashamed of me."
"I'll visit you," he muttered "I'll come to Kabul and see you. We'll "
"No. No," she said. "Don't come. I won't see you. Don't you come. I don't want to hear
from you. Ever. Ever. "
He gave her a wounded look.
"It ends here for you and me. Say your good byes."
"Don't leave like this," he said in a thin voice.
"You didn't even have the decency to give me the time to say good bye to Mullah