PART TWO
Kabul, Spring 1987ine year old Laila rose from bed, as she did most mornings, hungry for the sight of her
friend Tariq. This morning, however, she knew there would be no Tariq sighting."How long will you be gone?" she'd asked when Tariq had told her that his parents were
taking him south, to the city of Ghazni, to visit his paternal uncle.
"Thirteen days."
"Thirteen days?"
"It's not so long. You're making a face, Laila."
"I am not."
"You're not going to cry, are you?"
"I am not going to cry! Not over you. Not in a thousand years."
She'd kicked at his shin, not his artificial but his real one, and he'd playfully whacked the
back of her head.
Thirteen days. Almost two weeks. And, just five days in, Laila had learned a fundamental
truth about time: Like the accordion on which Tariq's father sometimes played old Pashto
songs, time stretched and contracted depending on Tariq's absence or presence.
Downstairs, her parents were fighting. Again. Laila knew the routine: Mammy, ferocious,
indomitable, pacing and ranting; Babi, sitting, looking sheepish and dazed, nodding
obediently, waiting for the storm to pass. Laila closed her door and changed. But she could
still hear them. She could still hear her Finally, a door slammed. Pounding footsteps.
Mammy's bed creaked loudly. Babi, it seemed, would survive to see another day.
"Laila!" he called now. "I'm going to be late for work!"
"One minute!"
Laila put on her shoes and quickly brushed her shoulder length, blond curls in the mirror.
Mammy always told Laila that she had inherited her hair color as well as her thick lashed,
turquoise green eyes, her dimpled cheeks, her high cheekbones, and the pout of her lower
lip, which Mammy shared from her great grandmother, Mammy's grandmother. She was a