A Thousand Splendid Suns

punishment. Then, on Fridays, he went to Ghazi Stadium, bought a Pepsi,
and watched the spectacle. In bed, he made Laila listen as he described
with a queer sort of exhilaration the hands he'd seen severed, the
lashings, the hangings, the beheadings.
"I saw a man today slit the throat of his brother's murderer," he said
one night, blowing halos of smoke.
"They're savages," Laila said.
"You think?" he said "Compared to what? The Soviets killed a million
people. Do you know how many people the Mujahideen killed in Kabul
alone these last four years? Fifty thousand Fifty thousand! Is it so
insensible, by comparison, to chop the hands off a few thieves? Eye for
an eye, tooth for a tooth. It's in the Koran. Besides, tell me this: If
someone killed Aziza, wouldn't you want the chance to avenge her?"
Laila shot him a disgusted look.
"I'm making a point," he said.
"You're just like them."
"It's an interesting eye color she has, Aziza. Don't you think? It's neither
yours nor mine."
Rasheed rolled over to face her, gently scratched her thigh with the
crooked nail of his index finger.
"Let me explain," he said. "If the fancy should strike me-and I'm not
saying it will, but it could, it could-I would be within my rights to give
Aziza away. How would you like that? Or I could go to the Taliban one
day, just walk in and say that I have my suspicions about you. That's all
it would take. Whose word do you think they would believe? What do you
think they'd do to you?"
Laila pulled her thigh from him.
"Not that I would," he said. "I wouldn't. Nay. Probably not. You know
me."