A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Anyway, I hope I am not boring you with all this talk of politics."
Later, Mariam was in the kitchen, soaking dishes in soapy water, a
tightly wound knot in her belly-It wasn't so much what he said, the
blatant lies, the contrived empathy, or even the fact that he had not
raised a hand to her, Mariam, since he had dug the girl out from under
those bricks.
It was the staged delivery. Like a performance. An attempt on his part,
both sly and pathetic, to impress. To charm.
And suddenly Mariam knew that her suspicions were right. She
understood with a dread that was like a blinding whack to the side of her
head that what she was witnessing was nothing less than a courtship.
* * *
When shed at last worked up the nerve, Mariam went to his room.
Rasheed lit a cigarette, and said, "Why not?"
Mariam knew right then that she was defeated. She'd half expected,
half hoped, that he would deny everything, feign surprise, maybe even
outrage, at what she was implying. She might have had the upper hand
then. She might have succeeded in shaming him. But it stole her grit, his
calm acknowledgment, his matter-of-fact tone.
"Sit down," he said. He was lying on his bed, back to the wall, his thick,
long legs splayed on the mattress. "Sit down before you faint and cut
your head open."
Mariam felt herself drop onto the folding chair beside his bed.
"Hand me that ashtray, would you?" he said.
Obediently, she did.
Rasheed had to be sixty or more now-though Mariam, and in fact
Rasheed himself did not know his exact age. His hair had gone white, but