A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Of course. And you are widowed? You said you were. My condolences.
And this uncle, this kaka, where does he live?"
"In Peshawar."
"Yes, you said that." He licked the point of his pencil and poised it over
a blank sheet of paper. "But where in Peshawar? Which neighborhood,
please? Street name, sector number."
Laila tried to push back the bubble of panic that was coming up her
chest. She gave him the name of the only street she knew in
Peshawar-she'd heard it mentioned once, at the party Mammy had
thrown when the Mujahideen had first come to Kabul-"Jamrud Road."
"Oh, yes. Same street as the Pearl Continental Hotel. He might have
mentioned it."
Laila seized this opportunity and said he had. "That very same street,
yes."
"Except the hotel is on Khyber Road."
Laila could hear Aziza crying in the corridor. "My daughter's frightened.
May I get her, brother?"
"I prefer 'Officer.' And you'll be with her shortly. Do you have a
telephone number for this uncle?"
"I do. I did. I…" Even with the burqa between them, Laila was not
buffered from his penetrating eyes. "I'm so upset, I seem to have
forgotten it."
He sighed through his nose. He asked for the uncle's name, his wife's
name. How many children did he have? What were their names? Where
did he work? How old was he? His questions left Laila flustered.
He put down his pencil, laced his fingers together, and leaned forward
the way parents do when they want to convey something to a toddler.
"You do realize, hamshira, that it is a crime for a woman to run away.
We see a lot of it. Women traveling alone, claiming their husbands have