suffocated Mariam. Pangs of longing bore into her, for Nana, for Mullah Faizullah, for her
old life.
Then she was crying.
"What's this crying about?" Rasheed said crossly. He reached into the pocket of his pants,
uncurled Mariam's fingers, and pushed a handkerchief into her palm. He lit himself a
cigarette and leaned against the wall. He watched as Mariam pressed the handkerchief to
her eyes.
"Done?"
Mariam nodded.
"Sure?"
"Yes."
He took her by the elbow then and led her to the living room window.
"This window looks north," he said, tapping the glass with the crooked nail of his index
finger. "That's the Asmai mountain directly in front of us see? and, to the left, is the Ali
Abad mountain. The university is at the foot of it. Behind us, east, you can't see from here,
is the Shir Darwaza mountain. Every day, at noon, they shoot a cannon from it. Stop your
crying, now. I mean it."
Mariam dabbed at her eyes.
"That's one thing I can't stand," he said, scowling, "the sound of a woman crying. I'm sorry.
I have no patience for it."
"I want to go home," Mariam said.
Rasheed sighed irritably. A puff of his smoky breath hit Mariam's face. "I won't take that
personally. This time."
Again, he took her by the elbow, and led her upstairs.
There was a narrow, dimly lit hallway there and two bedrooms. The door to the bigger one
was ajar. Through it Mariam could see that it, like the rest of the house, was sparsely
furnished: bed in the corner, with a brown blanket and a pillow, a closet, a dresser. The
walls were bare except for a small mirror. Rasheed closed the door.
"This is my room."
He said she could take the guest room. "I hope you don't mind. I'm accustomed to sleeping
alone."
Mariam didn't tell him how relieved she was, at least about this.