A Thousand Splendid Suns

over Babi and said in a mincing way, That's your business, isn't it,
cousin? To make nothing your business. Even your own sons going to war.
Howl pleaded with you. Bui you buried your nose in those cursed books
and let our sons go like they were a pair of haramis.
Babi pedaled up the street, Laila on the back, her arms wrapped around
his belly. As they passed the blue Benz, Laila caught a fleeting glimpse of
the man in the backseat: thin, white-haired, dressed in a dark brown
suit, with a white handkerchief triangle in the breast pocket. The only
other thing she had time to notice was that the car had Herat license
plates.
They rode the rest of the way in silence, except at the turns, where
Babi braked cautiously and said, "Hold on, Laila. Slowing down. Slowing
down. There."
* * *
In class that day, Laila found it hard to pay attention, between Tariq's
absence and her parents' fight. So when the teacher called on her to
name the capitals of Romania and Cuba, Laila was caught off guard.
The teacher's name was Shanzai, but, behind her back, the students
called her Khala Rangmaal, Auntie Painter, referring to the motion she
favored when she slapped students-palm, then back of the hand, back
and forth, like a painter working a brush. Khala Rangmaal was a
sharp-faced young woman with heavy eyebrows. On the first day of
school, she had proudly told the class that she was the daughter of a
poor peasant from Khost. She stood straight, and wore her jet-black hair