Chapter 23.

April1992Three years passed.
In that time, Tariq's father had a series of strokes. They lefthim with a clumsy left hand and a slight slur to his speech.
When he was agitated, which happened frequently, the slurringgot worse.
Tariq outgrew his leg again and was issued a new leg by theRed Cross, though he had to wait six months for it.
As Hasina had feared, her family took her to Lahore, whereshe was made to marry the cousin who owned the auto shop.
The morning that they took her, Laila and Giti went toHasina's house to say good-bye. Hasina told them that thecousin, her husband-to-be, had already started the process tomove them to Germany, where his brothers lived. Within theyear, she thought, they would be in Frankfurt. They cried thenin a three-way embrace. Giti was inconsolable. The last timeLaila ever saw Hasina, she was being helped by her father intothe crowded backseat of a taxi.
The Soviet union crumbled with astonishing swiftness. Everyfew weeks, it seemed to Laila, Babi was coming home withnews of the latest republic to declare independence. Lithuania.
Estonia. Ukraine. The Soviet flag was lowered over the Kremlin.
The Republic of Russia was born.
In Kabul, Najibullah changed tactics and tried to portrayhimself as a devout Muslim. "Too little and far too late," saidBabi. "You can't be the chief of KHAD one day and the nextday pray in a mosque with people whose relatives you torturedand killed" Feeling the noose tightening around Kabul,Najibullah tried to reach a settlement with the Mujahideen butthe Mujahideen balked.
From her bed, Mammy said, "Good for them." She kept hervigils for the Mujahideen and waited for her parade. Waited forher sons' enemies to fall.
* * *And, eventually, they did. In April 1992, the year Laila turnedfourteen.
Najibullah surrendered at last and was given sanctuary in theUN compound near Darulaman Palace, south of the city.
The jihad was over. The various communist regimes that hadheld power since the night Laila was born were all defeated.
Mammy's heroes, Ahmad's and Noor's brothers-in-war, hadwon. And now, after more than a decade of sacrificingeverything, of leaving behind their families to live in mountainsand fight for Afghanistan's sovereignty, the Mujahideen werecoming to Kabul, in flesh, blood, and battle-weary bone.
Mammy knew all of their names.
There was Dostum, the flamboyant Uzbek commander, leaderof the Junbish-i-Milli faction, who had a reputation for shiftingallegiances. The intense, surly Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, leader ofthe Hezb-e-Islami faction, a Pashtun who had studiedengineering and once killed a Maoist student. Rabbani, Tajikleader of the Jamiat-e-Islami faction, who had taught Islam atKabul University in the days of the monarchy. Sayyaf, aPashtun from Paghman with Arab connections, a stout Muslimand leader of the Ittehad-i-Islami faction. Abdul Ali Mazari,leader of the Hizb-e-Wahdat faction, known as Baba Mazariamong his fellow Hazaras, with strong Shi'a ties to Iran.
And, of course, there was Mammy's hero, Rabbani's ally, thebrooding, charismatic Tajik commander Ahmad Shah Massoud,the Lion of Panjshir. Mammy had nailed up a poster of him inher room. Massoud's handsome, thoughtful face, eyebrowcocked and trademarkpakoltilted, would become ubiquitous inKabul. His soulful black eyes would gaze back from billboards,walls, storefront windows, from little flags mounted on theantennas of taxicabs.
For Mammy, this was the day she had longed for. Thisbrought to fruition all those years of waiting.
At last, she could end her vigils, and her sons could rest inpeace.
* * *The day after Najibullah surrendered, Mammy rose from beda new woman. For the first time in the five years since Ahmadand Noor had becomeshaheed,she didn't wear black. She puton a cobalt blue linen dress with white polka dots. She washedthe windows, swept the floor, aired the house, took a longbath. Her voice was shrill with merriment.
"A party is in order," she declared-She sent Laila to inviteneighbors. "Tell them we're having a big lunch tomorrow!"In the kitchen, Mammy stood looking around, hands on herhips, and said, with friendly reproach, "What have you done tomy kitchen, Laila?Wboy. Everything is in a different place."She began moving pots and pans around, theatrically, asthough she were laying claim to them anew, restaking herterritory, now that she was back. Laila stayed out of her way.
It was best. Mammy could be as indomitable in her fits ofeuphoria as in her attacks of rage. With unsettling energy,Mammy set about cooking:aush soup with kidney beans anddried dill,kofia, steaming hotmaniu drenched with fresh yogurtand topped with mint.
"You're plucking your eyebrows," Mammy said, as she wasopening a large burlap sack of rice by the kitchen counter.
"Only a little."Mammy poured rice from the sack into a large black pot ofwater. She rolled up her sleeves and began stirring.
"How is Tariq?""His father's been ill," Laila said "How old is he nowanyway?""I don't know. Sixties, I guess.""I meant Tariq.""Oh. Sixteen.""He's a nice boy. Don't you think?"Laila shrugged.
"Not really a boy anymore, though, is he? Sixteen. Almost aman. Don't you think?""What are you getting at, Mammy?""Nothing," Mammy said, smiling innocently. "Nothing. It's justthat you…Ah, nothing. I'd better not say anyway.""I see you want to," Laila said, irritated by this circuitous,playful accusation.
"Well." Mammy folded her hands on the rim of the pot. Lailaspotted an unnatural, almost rehearsed, quality to the way shesaid "Well" and to this folding of hands. She feared a speechwas coming.
"It was one thing when you were little kids running around.
No harm in that. It was charming- But now. Now. I noticeyou're wearing a bra, Laila."Laila was caught off guard.
"And you could have told me, by the way, about the bra. Ididn't know. I'm disappointed you didn't tell me." Sensing heradvantage, Mammy pressed on.
"Anyway, this isn't about me or the bra. It's about you andTariq. He's a boy, you see, and, as such, what does he careabout reputation? But you? The reputation of a girl, especiallyone as pretty as you, is a delicate thing, Laila. Like a mynahbird in your hands. Slacken your grip and away it flies.""And what about all your wall climbing, the sneaking aroundwith Babi in the orchards?" Laila said, pleased with her quickrecovery.
"We were cousins. And we married. Has this boy asked foryour hand?""He's a friend. Arqfiq. It's not like that between us," Laila said,sounding defensive, and not very convincing. "He's like abrother to me," she added, misguidedly. And she knew, evenbefore a cloud passed over Mammy's face and her featuresdarkened, that she'd made a mistake.
"Thathe is not," Mammy said flatly. "You will not liken thatone-legged carpenter's boy to your brothers. There isno onelike your brothers.""I didn't say he…That's not how I meant it."Mammy sighed through the nose and clenched her teeth.
"Anyway," she resumed, but without the coy lightheadednessof a few moments ago, "what I'm trying to say is that if you'renot careful, people will talk."Laila opened her mouth to say something. It wasn't thatMammy didn't have a point. Laila knew that the days ofinnocent, unhindered frolicking in the streets with Tariq hadpassed. For some time now, Laila had begun to sense a newstrangeness when the two of them were out in public. Anawareness of being looked at, scrutinized, whispered about, thatLaila had never felt before. Andwouldn't have felt even now butfor one fundamental fact: She had fallen for Tariq. Hopelesslyand desperately. When he was near, she couldn't help but beconsumed with the most scandalous thoughts, of his lean, barebody entangled with hers. Lying in bed at night, she picturedhim kissing her belly, wondered at the softness of his lips, atthe feel of his hands on her neck, her chest, her back, andlower still. When she thought of him this way, she wasovertaken with guilt, but also with a peculiar, warm sensationthat spread upward from her belly until it felt as if her facewere glowing pink.
No. Mammy had a point. More than she knew, in fact. Lailasuspected that some, if not most, of the neighbors were alreadygossiping about her and Tariq. Laila had noticed the sly grins,was aware of the whispers in the neighborhood that the two ofthem were a couple. The other day, for instance, she andTariq were walking up the street together when they'd passedRasheed, the shoemaker, with his burqa-clad wife, Mariam, intow. As he'd passed by them, Rasheed had playfully said, "If itisn't Laili and Majnoon," referring to the star-crossed lovers ofNezami's popular twelfth-century romantic poem-a Farsi versionofRomeo and Juliet,Babi said, though he added thatNezami hadwritten his tale of ill-fated lovers four centuries beforeShakespeare.
Mammy had a point.
What rankled Laila was that Mammy hadn't earned the rightto make it. It would have been one thing if Babi had raisedthis issue. But Mammy? All those years of aloofness, of coopingherself up and not caring where Laila went and whom shesaw and what she thought…It was unfair. Laila felt like shewas no better than these pots and pans, something that couldgo neglected, then laid claim to, at will, whenever the moodstruck.
But this was a big day, an important day, for all of them. Itwould be petty to spoil it over this. In the spirit of things, Lailalet it pass.
"I get your point," she said.
"Good!" Mammy said. "That's resolved, then. Now, where isHakim? Where, oh where, is that sweet little husband ofmine?"* * *It was a dazzling, cloudless day, perfect for a party. The mensat on rickety folding chairs in the yard. They drank tea andsmoked and talked in loud bantering voices about theMujahideen's plan. From Babi, Laila had learned the outline ofit: Afghanistan was now called the Islamic State of Afghanistan.
An Islamic Jihad Council, formed in Peshawar by several of theMujahideen factions, would oversee things for two months, ledby Sibghatullah Mojadidi. This would be followed then by aleadership council led by Rabbani, who would take over forfour months. During those six months, aloyajirga would be held,a grand council of leaders and elders, who would form aninterim government to hold power for two years, leading up todemocratic elections.
One of the men was fanning skewers of lamb sizzling over amakeshift grill Babi and Tariq's father were playing a game ofchess in the shade of the old pear tree. Their faces werescrunched up in concentration. Tariq was sitting at the boardtoo, in turns watching the match, then listening in on thepolitical chat at the adjacent table.
The women gathered in the living room, the hallway, and thekitchen. They chatted as they hoisted their babies and expertlydodged, with minute shifts of their hips, the children tearingafter each other around the house. An Ustad Sarahangghazalblared from a cassette player.
Laila was in the kitchen, making carafes ofdogh with Giti. Gitiwas no longer as shy, or as serious, as before. For severalmonths now, the perpetual severe scowl had cleared from herbrow. She laughed openly these days, more frequently, and-itstruck Laila-a bit flirtatiously. She had done away with the drabponytails, let her hair grow, and streaked it with red highlights.
Laila learned eventually that the impetus for this transformationwas an eighteen-year-old boy whose attention Giti had caught.
His name was Sabir, and he was a goalkeeper on Giti's olderbrother's soccer team.
"Oh, he has the most handsome smile, and this thick, thickblack hair!" Giti had told Laila. No one knew about theirattraction, of course. Giti had secretly met him twice for tea,fifteen minutes each time, at a small teahouse on the other sideof town, in Taimani.
"He's going to ask for my hand, Laila! Maybe as early as thissummer. Can you believe it? I swear I can't stop thinkingabout him.""What about school?" Laila had asked. Giti had tilted her headand given her aWe both know better look.
By the time we're twenty,Hasina used to say,Giti and I, we'llhave pushed out four, five kids each Bui you, Laila, you'1Imake m two dummies proud. You 're going to be somebody.
I know one day I'll pick up a newspaper and find your pictureon the frontpage.
Giti was beside Laila now, chopping cucumbers, with adreamy, far-off look on her face.
Mammy was nearby, in her brilliant summer dress, peelingboiled eggs with Wajma, the midwife, and Tariq's mother.
"I'm going to present Commander Massoud with a picture ofAhmad and Noor," Mammy was saying to Wajma as Wajmanodded and tried to look interested and sincere.
"He personally oversaw the burial. He said a prayer at theirgrave. It'll be a token of thanks for his decency." Mammycracked another boiled egg. "I hear he's a reflective, honorableman. I think he would appreciate it."All around them, women bolted in and out of the kitchen,carried out bowls ofqurma, platters ofmasiawa, loaves of bread,and arranged it all onthesofrah spread on the living-room floor.
Every once in a while, Tariq sauntered in. He picked at this,nibbled on that.
"No men allowed," said Giti.
"Out, out, out," cried Wajma.
Tariq smiled at the women's good-humored shooing. Heseemed to take pleasure in not being welcome here, in infectingthis female atmosphere with his half-grinning, masculineirreverence.
Laila did her best not to look at him, not to give thesewomen any more gossip fodder than they already had So shekept her eyes down and said nothing to him, but sheremembered a dream she'd had a few nights before, of hisface and hers, together in a mirror, beneath a soft, green veil.
And grains of rice, dropping from his hair, bouncing off theglass with alink.
Tariq reached to sample a morsel of veal cooked withpotatoes.
"Ho bacha!"Giti slapped the back of his hand. Tariq stole itanyway and laughed.
He stood almost a foot taller than Laila now. He shaved. Hisface was leaner, more angular. His shoulders had broadened.
Tariq liked to wear pleated trousers, black shiny loafers, andshort-sleeve shirts that showed off his newly musculararms-compliments of an old, rusty set of barbells that he lifteddaily in his yard. His face had lately adopted an expression ofplayful contentiousness. He had taken to a self-consciouscocking of his head when he spoke, slightly to the side, and toarching one eyebrow when he laughed. He let his hair growand had fallen into the habit of tossing the floppy locks oftenand unnecessarily. The corrupt half grin was a new thing too.
The last time Tariq was shooed out of the kitchen, his mothercaught Laila stealing a glance at him. Laila's heart jumped, andher eyes fluttered guiltily. She quickly occupied herself withtossing the chopped cucumber into the pitcher of salted,watered-down yogurt. But she could sense Tariq's motherwatching, her knowing, approving half smile.
The men filled their plates and glasses and took their meals tothe yard. Once they had taken their share, the women andchildren settled on the floor around thesofrah and ate.
It was afterfat sofrah was cleared and the plates were stackedin the kitchen, when the frenzy of tea making andremembering who took green and who black started, that Tariqmotioned with his head and slipped out the door.
Laila waited five minutes, then followed.
She found him three houses down the street, leaning againstthe wall at the entrance of a narrow-mouthed alley betweentwo adjacent houses. He was humming an old Pashto song, byUstad Awal Mir:
Da ze ma ziba waian, da ze ma dada waian. This is ourbeautiful land, this is our beloved land.
And he was smoking, another new habit, which he'd pickedup from the guys Laila spotted him hanging around with thesedays. Laila couldn't stand them, these new friends of Tariq's.
They all dressed the same way, pleated trousers, and tightshirts that accentuated their arms and chest. They all wore toomuch cologne, and they all smoked. They strutted around theneighborhood in groups, joking, laughing loudly, sometimes evencalling after girls, with identical stupid, self-satisfied grins ontheir faces. One of Tariq's friends, on the basis of the mostpassing of resemblances to Sylvester Stallone, insisted he becalled Rambo.
"Your mother would kill you if she knew about yoursmoking," Laila said, looking one way, then the other, beforeslipping into the alley.
"But she doesn't," he said. He moved aside to make room.
"That could change.""Who is going to tell? You?"Laila tapped her foot. "Tell your secret to the wind, but don'tblame it for telling the trees."Tariq smiled, the one eyebrow arched. "Who said that?""Khalil Gibran.""You're a show-off.""Give me a cigarette."He shook his head no and crossed his arms. This was a newentry in his repertoire of poses: back to the wall, arms crossed,cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his good legcasually bent.
"Why not?""Bad for you," he said.
"And it's not bad for you?""I do it for the girls.""What girls?"He smirked. "They think it's sexy.""It's not.""No?""I assure you.""Not sexy?""You lookkhila, like a half-wit.""That hurts," he said"What girls anyway?""You're jealous.""I'm indifferently curious.""You can't be both." He took another drag and squintedthrough the smoke. "I'll bet they're talking about us now."In Laila's head, Mammy's voice rang out.Like a mynah bird inyour hands. Slacken your grip and away it flies. Guilt bore itsteeth into her. Then Laila shut off Mammy's voice. Instead, shesavored the way Tariq had saidus. How thrilling, howconspiratorial, it sounded coming from him. And how reassuringto hear him say it like that-casually, naturally.Us. Itacknowledged their connection, crystallized it.
"And what are they saying?""That we're canoeing down the River of Sin," he said. "Eatinga slice of Impiety Cake.""Riding the Rickshaw of Wickedness?" Laila chimed in.
"Making SacrilegeQurma."They both laughed. Then Tariq remarked that her hair wasgetting longer. "It's nice," he said Laila hoped she wasn'tblushing- "You changed the subject.""From what?""The empty-headed girls who think you're sexy.""You know.""Know what?""That I only have eyes for you."Laila swooned inside. She tried to read his face but was metby a look that was indecipherable: the cheerful, cretinous grinat odds with the narrow, half-desperate look in his eyes. Aclever look, calculated to fall precisely at the midpoint betweenmockery and sincerity.
Tariq crushed his cigarette with the heel of his good foot. "Sowhat do you think about all this?""The party?""Who's the half-wit now?I meant the Mujahideen, Laila. Theircoming to Kabul."Oh.
She started to tell him something Babi had said, about thetroublesome marriage of guns and ego, when she heard acommotion coming from the house. Loud voices. Screaming.
Laila took off running. Tariq hobbled behind her.
There was a melee in the yard. In the middle of it were twosnarling men, rolling on the ground, a knife between them.
Laila recognized one of them as a man from the table whohad been discussing politics earlier. The other was the manwho had been fanning the kebab skewers. Several men weretrying to pull them apart. Babi wasn't among them. He stoodby the wall, at a safe distance from the fight, with Tariq'sfather, who was crying.
From the excited voices around her, Laila caught snippets thatshe put together: The fellow at the politics table, a Pashtun,had called Ahmad Shah Massoud a traitor for "making a deal"with the Soviets in the 1980s. The kebab man, a Tajik, hadtaken offense and demanded a retraction. The Pashtun hadrefused. The Tajik had said that if not for Massoud, the otherman's sister would still be "giving it" to Soviet soldiers. Theyhad come to blows. One of them had then brandished a knife;there was disagreement as to who.
With horror, Laila saw that Tariq had thrown himself into thescuffle. She also saw that some of the peacemakers were nowthrowing punches of their own. She thought she spotted asecond knife.
Later that evening, Laila thought of how the melee hadtoppled over, with men falling on top of one another, amidyelps and cries and shouts and flying punches, and, in themiddle of it, a grimacing Tariq, his hair disheveled, his leg comeundone, trying to crawl out.
* * *It was dizzyinghow quickly everything unraveled.
The leadership council was formed prematurely. It electedRabbani president. The other factions criednepotism. Massoudcalled for peace and patience.
Hekmatyar, who had been excluded, was incensed. TheHazaras, with their long history of being oppressed andneglected, seethed.
Insults were hurled. Fingers pointed. Accusations flew. Meetingswere angrily called off and doors slammed. The city held itsbreath. In the mountains, loaded magazines snapped intoKalashnikovs.
The Mujahideen, armed to the teeth but now lacking acommon enemy, had found the enemy in each other.
Kabul's day of reckoning had come at last.
And when the rockets began to rain down on Kabul, peopleran for cover. Mammy did too, literally. She changed into blackagain, went to her room, shut the curtains, and pulled theblanket over her head.