Chapter 15.

April1978On April 17,1978, the year Mariam turned nineteen, a mannamed Mir Akbar Khyber was found murdered Two days later,there was a large demonstration in Kabul. Everyone in theneighborhood was in the streets talking about it. Through thewindow, Mariam saw neighbors milling about, chatting excitedly,transistor radios pressed to their ears. She saw Fariba leaningagainst the wall of her house, talking with a woman who wasnew to Deh-Mazang. Fariba was smiling, and her palms werepressed against the swell of her pregnant belly. The otherwoman, whose name escaped Mariam, looked older thanFariba, and her hair had an odd purple tint to it. She washolding a little boy's hand. Mariam knew the boy's name wasTariq, because she had heard this woman on the street callafter him by that name.
Mariam and Rasheed didn't join the neighbors. They listenedin on the radio as some ten thousand people poured into thestreets and marched up and down Kabul's government district.
Rasheed said that Mir Akbar Khyber had been a prominentcommunist, and that his supporters were blaming the murderon President Daoud Khan's government. He didn't look at herwhen he said this. These days, he never did anymore, andMariam wasn't ever sure if she was being spoken to.
"What's a communist?" she asked.
Rasheed snorted, and raised both eyebrows. "You don't knowwhat a communist is? Such a simple thing.
Everyone knows. It's common knowledge. You don't…Bah. Idon't know why I'm surprised." Then he crossed his ankles onthe table and mumbled that it was someone who believed inKarl Marxist.
"Who's Karl Marxist?"Rasheed sighed.
On the radio, a woman's voice was saying that Taraki, theleader of the Khalq branch of the PDPA, the Afghancommunist party, was in the streets giving rousing speeches todemonstrators.
"What I meant was, what do they want?" Mariam asked.
"These communists, what is it that they believe?"Rasheed chortled and shook his head, but Mariam thoughtshe saw uncertainty in the way he crossed his arms, the wayhis eyes shifted. "You know nothing, do you? You're like achild. Your brain is empty. There is no information in it.""I ask because-""Chupko.Shut up."Mariam did.
It wasn't easy tolerating him talking this way to her, to bearhis scorn, his ridicule, his insults, his walking past her like shewas nothing but a house cat. But after four years of marriage,Mariam saw clearly how much a woman could tolerate whenshe was afraid And Mariamwas afraid She lived in fear of hisshifting moods, his volatile temperament, his insistence onsteering even mundane exchanges down a confrontational paththat, on occasion, he would resolve with punches, slaps, kicks,and sometimes try to make amends for with polluted apologiesand sometimes not.
In the four years since the day at the bathhouse, there hadbeen six more cycles of hopes raised then dashed, each loss,each collapse, each trip to the doctor more crushing forMariam than the last. With each disappointment, Rasheed hadgrown more remote and resentful Now nothing she did pleasedhim. She cleaned the house, made sure he always had asupply of clean shirts, cooked him his favorite dishes. Once,disastrously, she even bought makeup and put it on for him.
But when he came home, he took one look at her and wincedwith such distaste that she rushed to the bathroom andwashed it all off, tears of shame mixing with soapy water,rouge, and mascara.
Now Mariam dreaded the sound of him coming home in theevening. The key rattling, the creak of the door- these weresounds that set her heart racing. From her bed, she listened totheclick-clack of his heels, to the muffled shuffling of his feetafter he'd shed his shoes. With her ears, she took inventory ofhis doings: chair legs dragged across the floor, the plaintivesqueak of the cane seat when he sat, the clinking of spoonagainst plate, the flutter of newspaper pages flipped, theslurping of water. And as her heart pounded, her mindwondered what excuse he would use that night to pounce onher. There was always something, some minor thing that wouldinfuriate him, because no matter what she did to please him,no matter how thoroughly she submitted to his wants anddemands, it wasn't enough. She could not give him his sonback. In this most essential way, she had failed him-seven timesshe had failed him-and now she was nothing but a burden tohim. She could see it in the way he looked at her,when helooked at her. She was a burden to him.
"What's going to happen?" she asked him now.
Rasheed shot her a sidelong glance. He made a soundbetween a sigh and a groan, dropped his legs from the table,and turned off the radio. He took it upstairs to his room. Heclosed the door.
* * *On April 27, Mariam's question was answered with cracklingsounds and intense, sudden roars. She ran barefoot down tothe living room and found Rasheed already by the window, inhis undershirt, his hair disheveled, palms pressed to the glass.
Mariam made her way to the window next to him. Overhead,she could see military planes zooming past, heading north andeast. Their deafening shrieks hurt her ears. In the distance,loud booms resonated and sudden plumes of smoke rose tothe sky.
"What's going on, Rasheed?" she said. "What is all this?""God knows," he muttered. He tried the radio and got onlystatic.
"What do we do?"Impatiently, Rasheed said, "We wait."* * *Later in the day, Rasheed was still trying the radio as Mariammade rice with spinach sauce in the kitchen. Mariamremembered a time when she had enjoyed, even lookedforward to, cooking for Rasheed. Now cooking was an exercisein heightened anxiety. Thequrma% were always too salty or toobland for his taste. The rice was judged either too greasy ortoo dry, the bread declared too doughy or too crispy.
Rasheed's faultfinding left her stricken in the kitchen withself-doubt.
When she brought him his plate, the national anthem wasplaying on the radio.
"I madesabzi, " she said.
"Put it down and be quiet."After the music faded, a man's voice came on the radio. Heannounced himself as Air Force Colonel Abdul Qader. Hereported that earlier in the day the rebel Fourth ArmoredDivision had seized the airport and key intersections in the city.
Kabul Radio, the ministries of Communication and the Interior,and the Foreign Ministry building had also been captured.
Kabul was in the hands of the people now, he said proudly.
Rebel MiGs had attacked the Presidential Palace. Tanks hadbroken into the premises, and a fierce battle was under waythere. Daoud's loyalist forces were all but defeated, Abdul Qadersaid in a reassuring tone.
Days later, when the communists began the summaryexecutions of those connected with Daoud Khan's regime, whenrumors began floating about Kabul of eyes gouged and genitalselectrocuted in the Pol-e-Charkhi Prison, Mariam would hear ofthe slaughter that had taken place at the Presidential Palace.
Daoud Khanhadbten killed, but not before the communist rebelshad killed some twenty members of his family, including womenand grandchildren. There would be rumors that he had takenhis own life, that he'd been gunned down in the heat of battle;rumors that he'd been saved for last, made to watch themassacre of his family, then shot.
Rasheed turned up the volume and leaned in closer.
"A revolutionary council of the armed forces has beenestablished, and ourwatan will now be known as theDemocratic Republic of Afghanistan," Abdul Qader said. "Theera of aristocracy, nepotism, and inequality is over,fellowhamwaians. We have ended decades of tyranny. Power isnow in the hands of the masses and freedom-loving people. Aglorious new era in the history of our country is afoot. A newAfghanistan is born. We assure you that you have nothing tofear, fellow Afghans. The new regime will maintain the utmostrespect for principles, both Islamic and democratic. This is atime of rejoicing and celebration."Rasheed turned off the radio.
"So is this good or bad?" Mariam asked.
"Bad for the rich, by the sound of it," Rasheed said. "Maybenot so bad for us."Mariam's thoughts drifted to Jalil. She wondered if thecommunists would go after him, then. Would they jail him? Jailhis sons? Take his businesses and properties from him?
"Is this warm?" Rasheed said, eyeing the rice.
"I just served it from the pot."He grunted, and told her to hand him a plate.
* * *Do"WN the street, as the night lit up in sudden flashes of redand yellow, an exhausted Fariba had propped herself up onher elbows. Her hair was matted with sweat, and droplets ofmoisture teetered on the edge of her upper lip. At her bedside,the elderly midwife, Wajma, watched as Fariba's husband andsons passed around the infant. They were marveling at thebaby's light hair, at her pink cheeks and puckered, rosebudlips, at the slits of jade green eyes moving behind her puffylids. They smiled at each other when they heard her voice forthe first time, a cry that started like the mewl of a cat andexploded into a healthy, full-throated yowl. Noor said her eyeswere like gemstones. Ahmad, who was the most religiousmember of the family, sang theazan in his baby sister's earand blew in her face three times.
"Laila it is, then?" Hakim asked, bouncing his daughter.
"Laila it is," Fariba said, smiling tiredly. "Night Beauty. It'sperfect."* * *Rasheed made a ball of rice with his fingers. He put it in hismouth, chewed once, then twice, before grimacing and spittingit out on thesofrah.
"What's the matter?" Mariam asked, hating the apologetic toneof her voice. She could feel her pulse quickening, her skinshrinking.
"What's the matter?" he mewled, mimicking her. "What's thematter is that you've done it again.""But I boiled it five minutes more than usual.""That's a bold lie.""I swear-"He shook the rice angrily from his fingers and pushed theplate away, spilling sauce and rice on thesojrah. Mariamwatched as he stormed out of the living room, then out of thehouse, slamming the door on his way out.
Mariam kneeled to the ground and tried to pick up the grainsof rice and put them back on the plate, but her hands wereshaking badly, and she had to wait for them to stop. Dreadpressed down on her chest. She tried taking a few deepbreaths. She caught her pale reflection in the darkenedliving-room window and looked away.
Then she heard the front door opening, and Rasheed wasback in the living room.
"Get up," he said. "Come here. Get up."He snatched her hand, opened it, and dropped a handful ofpebbles into it.
"Put these in your mouth." "What?""Put. These. In your mouth.""Stop it, Rasheed, I'm-"His powerful hands clasped her jaw. He shoved two fingersinto her mouth and pried it open, then forced the cold, hardpebbles into it. Mariam struggled against him, mumbling, but hekept pushing the pebbles in, his upper lip curled in a sneer.
"Now chew," he said.
Through the mouthful of grit and pebbles, Mariam mumbled aplea. Tears were leaking out of the corners of her eyes.
"CHEW!" he bellowed. A gust of his smoky breath slammedagainst her face.
Mariam chewed. Something in the back of her mouth cracked.
"Good," Rasheed said. His cheeks were quivering. "Now youknow what your rice tastes like. Now you know what you'vegiven me in this marriage. Bad food, and nothing else."Then he was gone, leaving Mariam to spit out pebbles, blood,and the fragments of two broken molars.