beaded cushions to sit on, and a framed photo of Mecca on the wall They sit by the open
window, on either side of an oblong patch of sunlight Laila hears women's voices
whispering from another room. A little barefoot boy places before them a platter of green
tea and pistachio gaaz nougats. Hamza nods at him.
"My son."
The boy leaves soundlessly.
"So tell me," Hamza says tiredly.
Laila does. She tells him everything. It takes longer than she'd imagined. Toward the end,
she struggles to maintain composure. It still isn't easy, one year later, talking about Mariam.
When she's done, Hamza doesn't say anything for a long time. He slowly turns his teacup
on its saucer, one way, then the other.
"My father, may he rest in peace, was so very fond of her," he says at last. "He was the
one who sang azan in her ear when she was born, you know. He visited her every week,
never missed. Sometimes he took me with him. He was her tutor, yes, but he was a friend
too. He was a charitable man, my father. It nearly broke him when Jalil Khan gave her
away."
"I'm sorry to hear about your father. May God forgive him."
Hamza nods his thanks. "He lived to be a very old man. He outlived Jalil Khan, in fact.
We buried him in the village cemetery, not far from where Mariam's mother is buried. My
father was a dear, dear man, surely heaven bound."
Laila lowers her cup.
"May I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Can you show me?" she says. "Where Mariam lived. Can you take me there?"
The driver agrees to wait awhile longer.
Hamza and Laila exit the village and walk downhill on the road that connects Gul Daman
to Herat. After fifteen minutes or so, he points to a narrow gap in the tall grass that flanks
the road on both sides.
"That's how you get there," he says. "There is a path there."