Chapter 14 chapter Ten

Mariam barely left her room for the first few days.She woke at dawn to the prayer bells in the distance, and after morning prayers she would crawl back into bed.She didn't get up when she heard Rasheed wash up in the bathroom; she was still in bed when Rasheed came to see her in her room before going to the shoe store.From the window she saw him go into the yard, tie his lunch to the back frame of his bicycle, and push the bike across the yard and out into the street.She saw him pedal away on his bicycle, watched his broad-shouldered figure disappear around the corner at the end of the street.

Mariam spends most of her time in bed these days, feeling empty and abandoned.Sometimes she would go downstairs, into the kitchen, and run her hands through the sticky, grease-stained cabinets and the plastic flower-patterned curtains.The curtains smelled of burning meat.She opened the crudely crafted drawers and looked at the misfit sets of spoons and knives, the colander and the chipped wooden spatula that would become the tools of her new life.All these reminded her of her tragic experience, made her feel that she was in a foreign country, she didn't know where she was, as if she had broken into someone else's life.

In the kolba, her stomach was hungry every time it was time to eat.Here, she rarely thought about eating.Sometimes she would go into the living room with a plate of plain rice and a piece of bread, and stand by the window.From there she could see the roofs of the bungalows on their street.She could also see their yards, and see the women of the houses drying their clothes, and chasing their children yelling, and the chickens pecking at the dirt, and the shovels and shovels, and the cows tied to the trees. . She thought of those summer nights in the past when she and Nana slept on the flat roof of the kolba and looked at the bright moon over Guldman; those nights were hot and the shirts clinged like wet leaves glued to the windows. on their chests.She misses those winter afternoons when she and Mullah Faizullah read in their kolba, as icicles from trees jingled, jingled, and fell on her roof, and crows wailed from the snow-covered branches outside.

Mariam was alone in the house, walking restlessly from the kitchen to the living room, up the stairs to her bedroom and down again.She would end up in her room and say her prayers, or sit on the bed thinking about her mother, feeling dizzy and wanting to go home. Anxiety really began to eat into Mariam's heart as the sun slowly crept westward.Her teeth chattered at the thought of the night, when Rasheed might decide to do to her what husbands do to wives.When he ate alone downstairs, she would lie in bed, too nervous to move. He always stopped at her door and poked his head in. "You can't be asleep. It's only seven o'clock. Are you awake? Answer me. Come on."

He kept asking until Mariam said in the dark, "Here I am." He knelt down and sat by her door.From the bed, she could see his tall figure, his long legs, the smoke around his hook-nosed face, the blue light on the end of the cigarette flickering and then dimming. He told her about the day.He customized a pair of casual shoes for the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs.Rashid said the deputy minister only bought shoes from him.A Polish diplomat and his wife asked him to make sandals.He told her about all the superstitions people had about shoes: putting them on the bed would kill someone in the family, and putting on the left shoe first would cause a fight.

"Unless it's done inadvertently, and it's Friday," he said. "You know, people think it's bad luck to tie two shoes together and hang them on a nail?" Rasheed himself didn't believe any of this.In his view, superstitions are basically only women who take superstitions seriously. He told her some news he had heard on the street, such as how President Nixon resigned because of a scandal. Mariam hadn't heard anything about Nixon, and she didn't know what scandal forced him to resign, so she didn't answer him.She waited nervously for Rasheed to end the conversation, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked away.Only when she heard him walk down the corridor, and the sound of his door opening and closing, only then did her hanging heart fall to the ground.

Then, one night, he stubbed out his cigarette, and instead of saying goodnight, he leaned against the door. "Aren't you going to open that thing?" he said, lifting his chin and pointing to her suitcase.He folded his arms across his chest. "I thought you might need a little time. But this is ridiculous. It's been a week...well, I hope you'll be able to act like a wife starting tomorrow morning. Do you understand?" Mariam's teeth chattered. "I want to know the answer." "Understood." "Very well," he said, "what are you thinking? Is this a hotel? I run a hotel? Well, it's . What's it? Mariam. You're still crying, what did I tell you about it?"

The next morning, after Rasheed left for work, Mariam unpacked the suitcase and put the clothes in the closet.She drew a pail of water from the well, took a rag, and wiped the windows of her room and the windows of the living room below.She mopped the floor and cleaned cobwebs hanging from the corners of the ceiling.She opened the window to air the room. She soaked three cups of lentils in a jar, found a kitchen knife, sliced ​​some carrots and two potatoes, and soaked them too.She looked for flour and found it in a cupboard behind a row of dirty spice jars.She kneaded the dough and kneaded it the way Nana had taught her; she kneaded the dough with the ends of her palms, folded the outer dough, turned it over, and went on kneading.When the dough was combined, she wrapped it in a damp cloth, put on a veil, and went out to find the communal oven.

Rasheed had told her where the oven was, and down the street, turning first left and then right, but Mariam could only follow a group of women and children going down the same road.Mariam saw the children in their patched clothes, some chasing after their mothers, some running ahead of them.Their trousers looked either too big or too small, and their worn slippers slapped and slapped.They rolled discarded old bicycle tires on sticks. Their mothers walked together in small groups, some dressed and some not.Mariam could hear their high-pitched conversation and their growing laughter.She walked forward with her head down, hearing bits and pieces of conversation, their chatter always seemed to be about someone's sick child, someone's lazy and sloppy husband.

It seems that the meals are prepared by themselves. God knows, there is not even a moment of rest. He said to me, I kid you not, it's true, he did say to me... The endless conversation, the flat but occasionally excited tone, kept ringing in Mariam's ears.She listened to the gossip and walked down the street, rounded the corner, and joined the line in front of the oven.Some husbands like to gamble.There are husbands who give their mothers everything they want, but don't want to spend a penny on them—these wives.Mariam wondered how so many women had suffered the same tragedy, married to such a horrible man.Or was it just a wives' game she didn't understand, a daily ritual like soaking rice and kneading dough?Would they expect her to join soon?

In the line in front of the oven, Mariam saw people staring at her and heard people whispering to her.Her palms began to sweat.She imagined that they all knew she was Harami, bringing shame on her father and his family.They all knew that she had betrayed her mother and humiliated herself. She grabbed the corner of the veil and wiped the sweat from her upper lip, trying to calm herself down. A few minutes passed, and everything was business as usual. Then someone tapped her on the shoulder.Mariam turned to see a plump woman with a fair complexion who, like her, was also veiled.She has short, thick black hair and a cheerful, round face.Her lips were fuller than Mariam's, and the lower lip drooped a little, as if pulled down by the large mole that followed it.Her big bright green eyes looked expectantly at Mariam. "You're dear Rashid's new wife, aren't you?" said the woman, with a big smile, "the one from Herat. You're so young! Mariam dear, aren't you? My name My name is Fariba. I live on your street, the fifth house on the left of your house is ours, the one with the green gate. This is my son Nur." The boy next to her had a flat, happy face, with hair as coarse as his mother's.There is a small tuft of black hair on the lobe of his left ear, and there is a mischievous and mischievous look in his eyes.He raised his hand and said, "Hello, dear auntie." "Nur is ten years old. I have an older boy named Ahmed." "He's thirteen," Noor said. "Thirteen is almost forty," the woman named Fariba laughed. "My husband's name is Hakim," she said, "he teaches here in De Mazan. If you are free, come to our house and we will make you a cup..." Suddenly the other women, as if emboldened, pushed Fariba away and pushed towards Mariam, forming a circle around her very quickly. "So you are dear Rasheed's young bride..." "Do you like Kabul?" "I've been to Herat. I have a cousin over there." "Do you want the first child to be a boy or a girl?" "There are steeples! Oh, how beautiful they are! It is a beautiful city." "Boys are better, Mariam dear, they can carry on the family..." "Bah! Marry a daughter-in-law and die a son. The girl will stay at home and take care of you when you get old." "We heard you were coming." "Twins. A boy and a girl! That'll make everyone happy." Mariam took a step back.Her breathing became rapid.Her ears were ringing, her pulse was pounding, and she was staring at one face after another.She took another step back, but there was nowhere to go—she was in the middle of a circle.She looked at Fariba; Fariba could tell she was nervous and frowning. "Leave her alone!" said Fariba. "Go away, leave her alone! You are frightening her!" Mariam hugged the dough tightly to her chest and pushed through the crowd around her. "Where are you going, dear sister?" She just pushed forward, didn't know how to get out of the crowd, and then ran along the street.She ran until the intersection before realizing she was going in the wrong direction.She turned around and ran in the opposite direction with her head down.She fell and scraped a large part of her knee, then got up and continued to run, rushing past the women. "What's the matter with you?" "You're bleeding, dear sister!" Mariam turned one corner and another.She found that it was the right way, but suddenly she couldn't remember which house was Rasheed's.She ran up and down the street, out of breath, on the verge of tears, and began to push and push the doors blindly.Some are locked and others are unlocked, only to reveal unfamiliar yards, barking dogs and terrified chickens.She pictured Rasheed walking home to find her bleeding knees, lost in her own street, still looking for her house in the same way.she began to cry.She pushed open one door after another, begging Allah in a panic, with tears streaming down her face, until one door was pushed open, and she saw the toilet, the well, and the room where the tools were placed. The shack finally breathed a sigh of relief.She went in, slammed the door shut, and bolted it.Then she lay down against the wall, retching.After she caught her breath, she got up and sat against the wall, her feet stretched out in front of her.For the first time in her life, she felt so alone. When Rashid came home that night, he carried a brown paper bag with him.Mariam was disappointed that he did not notice that the windows had been cleaned, the floors had been mopped, and the cobwebs had disappeared.But he looked satisfied when he saw that Mariam had laid a clean tablecloth on the living room floor and set dinner for him. "I made bean soup," Mariam said. "Good. I'm hungry." Mariam poured him water from a round open basin and told him to wash his hands.While he wiped his hands with a towel, she brought him a steaming bowl of bean soup and a plate of fluffy white rice.It was the first meal she had cooked for him, Mariam thought, and if only she had been in better shape while it was cooking.While cooking, she was still shaking at what was happening at the oven.All day long she was afraid that the bean soup wasn't thick enough, that the color wasn't good enough, that he would think she had put too much ginger or not enough ginger. He spooned into the golden bean soup. Mariam was a little apprehensive.What if he is disappointed or angry?What if he pushes the plate away in displeasure? "Be careful," she tried, "it's hot." Rasheed pursed his lips, blew, and put the spoon in his mouth. "It tastes good," he said. "With less salt, it tastes good. It's even delicious." Relieved, Mariam watched him eat.A flash of pride flashed in her heart, and she relaxed her vigilance.She had done well—deliciously, even—and she was overjoyed, thrilled by his little compliment.The unhappiness from earlier in the day subsided slightly. "Tomorrow is Friday," Rasheed said, "How about I show you around?" "In Kabul?" "No, go." Mariam blinked. "Just kidding. In Kabul, of course. Where else?" He reached into the brown paper bag. "However, I have something to tell you first." He took out a sky-blue burqa from his bag.He lifted the burqa, and the wrinkled garment fell to his knees.He rolled it up and looked at Mariam. "I've had customers, Mariam, men, who come into my store with their wives. The women come in with their faces uncovered, and they talk to me and look at me without shame. They put on makeup, Wearing skirts that show knees. Sometimes they even put their feet in front of me, these women, let me measure, and their husbands stand there watching. They allow this to happen. They think strangers touch The bare feet of their wives are okay! They think they are modern people, intellectuals, I think maybe because they are educated. They don’t understand that doing this is destroying their honor and dignity.” He shook his head. "Most of them live in the rich part of Kabul. I'll take you over there. You'll see. But there are people like that here too, Mariam, near where we live. There's a teacher who lives In this street his name is Hakim and I always see his wife Fariba walking alone in the street with nothing on her head but a scarf. Frankly speaking, seeing a man can't control him wife, I feel very uncomfortable." He stared at Mariam sternly. "But I'm a man with a different blood, Mariam. Where I come from, if you look at a woman by mistake or say something inappropriate, it causes bleeding. Where I come from place, a woman's face can only be seen by her husband. I hope you remember. Do you understand?" Mariam nodded.He handed her the bag, and she took it. The joy he had given her by complimenting her cooking just now had evaporated.Instead, there was a chilling feeling.Mariam felt that the man's will was as strong and unshakable as the Shafid Mountains overlooking Guldman's village. Rasheed handed her the paper bag. "Then let's talk about it. Here, get me another bowl of bean soup."

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