Chapter 21 Chapter Seventeen

The pistol is red and the trigger guard is bright green.Behind the pistol was Kadim's grinning face.Kadim, like Tariq, was eleven.He was stocky, tall, with a chin that jutted out a lot.His father was a butcher in the De Mazan district, and Kadim was notorious for throwing the offal of calves to passers-by.Sometimes, when Tariq wasn't around Laila, Kadim would block Laila in a recess in the wall of the school playground, staring lewdly at her and whining incessantly.Once, he patted her on the shoulder and said, You are so beautiful, little girl.i want to marry you. Then he shook the gun in his hand. "Don't worry," he said, "I won't hit you. Not in your hair."

"Don't! I warn you." "What are you going to do?" he said. "Get your cripple against me? 'Ah, dear Tariq. Oh, why don't you come home and help me with this rascal!'" Lyra started to back away, but Kadim had already pulled the trigger.Tiny streams of warm water hit Laila's hair again and again; Laila raised her hands to shield her face, which were also wet. Several other boys came out of their hiding places, booing and laughing. A foul word from the street came to Lyra's lips.She didn't know exactly what it meant--not quite sure how it could be a curse--but the words came out of her mouth in a fit of rage.

"Your mother eats dick!" "At least her man isn't as stupid as your man," Kadim countered flatly, "at least my dad isn't a coward. By the way, why don't you smell your hands?" Several other boys shouted: "Smell your hands! Smell your hands!" Laila sniffed it, but she didn't even know why he said he wouldn't cum in her hair with it before she even smelled it.She let out a scream.The boys booed even louder at her exclamation. Laila turned and ran home, crying. She drew some water from the well, went into the bathroom, poured the water into a basin, and took off her clothes.She washed her hair with soap, scratched her scalp frantically with her fingers, and whimpered, sick.She poured a spoonful of water on her head and washed her hair with soap.Several times she almost threw up.She cried and shivered and wiped her face and neck again and again with a washcloth soaked in soapy suds until they were flushed.

She changed into a clean shirt and pants, and as she changed, she thought that this would never have happened if Tariq had been with her.Of course, Mom was supposed to pick her up, and if she had, this wouldn't have happened.Sometimes Laila wondered why Mama had brought her.Now she thinks that if people give all their love to the children they have already had, then they should have no more.It's so unfair.A burst of anger rose in her heart.Lyra went into her room and lay down on the bed. After calming down a bit, she walked along the corridor to the door of her mother's room and knocked on the door.In the early years, Laila used to sit by this doorway for hours.She would knock on the door softly, like a magician trying to break a spell, whispering to her mother again and again: Mom, mom, mom...but mom would never open the door.This time she didn't open the door either.Lyra turned the doorknob and walked in.

Mom also has good days.Her eyes lighted up, and she got up light and happy.Her drooping lower lip curled up into a smile.She takes a shower.She puts on clean clothes and puts on mascara.She asked Lyla to comb her hair, which she liked to do, and put the earrings in her pierced ears.They went shopping together in the Mandai market.Lyra played Snakes and Ladders with her, and they ate shavings from chunks of dark chocolate, one of the few things they both liked.Laila's happiest moments on Mama's good days were when Papa came home, and she and Mama would look up from the game board and grin at him, teeth studded with dark chocolate.At such times, a pleasurable air drifted through the room, and Lyra could sense a touch of tenderness she would never forget; when the house had been crowded, full of noise and joy, had surrounded her parents. Yes, how gentle and romantic it should be.

On days when she was in a good mood, Mum would sometimes bake some treats and invite the women who lived in the neighborhood over for tea and biscuits.While Mama set the table with teacups, tissues, and plates, Laila helped wipe down some of the dishes.Then, while the women chattered away, complimenting Mama on the delicious cakes, Laila would sit down at the living room table and try to chime in too.She didn't talk much though, and Laila liked to sit and listen to their chats, because on those occasions she was considered a rare treasure, and she could hear Mama speak affectionately about Papa.

"He turned out to be a first-rate teacher," said Mama, "and loved by his students. Not just because he never beat them with a ruler, unlike other teachers. They respected him, you know, because he respected They. He's a terrific guy." Mom likes to talk about their love history. "I was sixteen and he was nineteen. We lived next door in Panjshir. Well, I was the one who fell in love with him! I used to climb the wall between our two houses, and we were in his father's orchard. play. Hakeem was always afraid that we would be seen, and that my father would slap him. 'Your father will slap me,' he always said. Back then, he was so cautious, so Seriously. Then, one day, I said to him: 'Cousin, what are you going to do? Are you coming to our house to propose marriage, or are you going to ask me to propose to you?' That's what I said. Too bad you can't see him expression!"

Mom would clap and laugh with the other women, and Laila. Listening to Mama tell these stories, Laila knew that there had been a time when Mama had always said that about Papa.There was a time when her parents didn't sleep in separate rooms.If only she had been this big in those days, Lyra thought. Mom's engagement stories always inevitably turn to the topic of blind dates.When Afghanistan was out of the clutches of the Soviet Union and the boys returned home, they were going to need brides, so the women listed the girls from the neighborhood to see if they were worthy of Ahmad and Noor.When they talked about Lyra's two older brothers, she always felt cut off, as if the women were talking about a wonderful movie that only she hadn't seen.She was two years old that year when Ahmad and Noor left Kabul for the Panjshir in the north to join General Ahmad Shah Masood in jihad.Laila had forgotten almost everything about them.An Allah chain hangs around Ahmed's neck.Noor has a patch of black hair over one ear.That's all she remembers.

"How is Azitar?" "The one where her father made the rugs?" Mom feigned sullenness, patting her face lightly. "Her beard is thicker than Hakeem!" "There was one named Anahita. We heard she was at the top of her class at Saghhuna Secondary School." "Have you seen the girl's teeth? Like a tombstone. There's a cemetery in her mouth." "How about the Vassidy sisters?" "Those dwarfs? No, no. Oh, no. Not good enough for my son. Not good enough for my king. They should get better girls." They talked and talked, Laila's heart fluttered, and, as usual, the outcome was tied to Tariq again.

Mom has pulled up the yellow curtains.In the darkness, the room smelled of several smells: sleep, unwashed linen, sweat, dirty socks, perfume, last night's leftovers.Lyra steadied herself and waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness before crossing the room.Even so, her feet kept getting tripped up by some clothes left on the floor. Lyra drew the curtains aside.An old metal folding chair stood at the end of the bed.Lyra sat in her chair, looking at the motionless mass under the blanket: her mother was under the blanket. The walls of Mom's room are covered with pictures of Ahmed and Noor.No matter which way Lyra looked, two strangers always smiled at him.There is a photo of Noor on a tricycle.In another photo, Ahmed is praying, next to a sundial that his father made with him when he was twelve.There was another picture of the two of them—her brothers—sitting back to back under an old pear tree in the yard.

Under Mom's bed, Laila saw the corner of Ahmed's shoebox sticking out.Mom showed her again and again the crumpled newspaper clipping in the shoebox, and several pamphlets that Ahmad had managed to gather from insurgent groups and resistance groups based in Pakistan.Laila remembered a photo of a man in a white robe handing a lollipop to a little boy without legs.The caption below the photo read: Children were intentionally killed in Soviet mine warfare.The Soviets also liked to hide explosives inside brightly colored toys, the report said.If a child picks up such a toy, it explodes, blowing off a child's fingers or an entire hand.As a result, the child's father was unable to join the jihad: he had to stay at home and take care of his child.In another article in Ahmed's box, a young jihadist said that the Soviets had dropped gas bombs in his village, burning the skin and blinding the locals.He said he saw his mother and sister running towards the stream, coughing up blood as they ran. "Mother." The pile moved slightly.It groaned. "Get up, mother. It's three o'clock." There was another groan.A hand popped out like a submarine's periscope out of the water, and then lowered.At this moment, the wriggling of the pile became more obvious.The blanket was uncovered layer by layer, making a rustling sound.Slowly, the mother appeared piece by piece: first the disheveled hair, then the distorted white face, eyes blinded by the light, one hand touched the headboard of the bed, she got up with a whimper , the blankets that covered her slipped off her body.Mom struggled to lift her head, cringing as if afraid of the light, her head drooping on her chest. "How's your school?" she muttered. And so it started.Perfunctory questions, casual answers.Both are pretending.The two of them, the unenthusiastic partners, wearily danced the old dance. "School is fine," Lyra said. "Have you learned anything?" "Same as usual." "Have you eaten?" "have eaten." "very good." Mom looked up again, looking at the window.She frowned and blinked.The right side of her face is red, and the hair on this side is flattened. "I have headache." "Shall I get you some aspirin?" Mom rubbed her temples. "Wait a minute. Is your father home?" "It's only three o'clock." "Oh, yes. You just said that." Mom yawned. "I had a dream just now," she said, her voice a little louder than the rustle of her pajamas against the blankets, "just now, before you came in. But I can't remember what the dream was about now. You Have you ever encountered such a situation?" "It's happened to a lot of people, Mom." "really weird." "I want to tell you that while you were dreaming, a boy shot urine in my hair with a water gun." "Shot what? What was that? I didn't catch it." "Pee." "It's . . . it's dreadful. My God. I'm sorry, poor boy. I'm going to go to him first thing in the morning. Maybe his mother. Yes, that's better, I think." "I haven't told you who that man is yet." "Ah. Well, who is it?" "Don't worry about it." "You're angry?" "You agreed to pick me up." "I said," Mom's words caught in her throat.Lyra couldn't tell if it was a question or not.Mom started pulling her own hair.It was one of the mysteries that Laila couldn't figure out. Why didn't her head turn as bald as an egg when Ma kept pulling her hair? "That friend of yours... what's his name? Tariq? Yes. How is he?" "He's been gone for a week." "Oh," Mom said with a fake sigh, "did you wash it?" "Washed." "Then you are clean now." Mom looked towards the window again, "If you are clean, then you will be fine." Lyra stood up. "I'm going to do my homework." "Yes, yes. Draw the shades before you go, dear boy," said Mother, her voice trailing off.She had begun to crawl under the blankets. As Laila went to draw the shades, she saw a car passing in the street, its tail billowing with smoke.The blue Mercedes with Herat license plates finally drove away.She stared at the car, sunlight reflected in the rear windows, before it turned a corner and disappeared. "I won't forget it tomorrow," Mom said behind her, "I promise you." "You said the same thing yesterday." "You don't know, Laila." "Know what?" Lyra turned to face her mother. "What don't I know?" Mom raised her hand to her chest and patted it. "In it. Something in it." Then her voice faded, "You just don't know."