A Thousand Splendid Suns

of her children. She had saved the biggest portion for herself.
Aziza's ribs began to push through the skin, and the fat from her cheeks
vanished. Her calves thinned, and her complexion turned the color of
weak tea. When Mariam picked her up, she could feel her hip bone
poking through the taut skin. Zalmai lay around the house, eyes dulled
and half closed, or in his father's lap limp as a rag. He cried himself to
sleep, when he could muster the energy, but his sleep was fitful and
sporadic. White dots leaped before Mariam's eyes whenever she got up.
Her head spun, and her ears rang all the time. She remembered
something Mullah Faizullah used to say about hunger when Ramadan
started: Even the snakebiiien man finds sleep, but not the hungry.
"My children are going to die," Laila said. "Right before my eyes."
"They are not," Mariam said. "I won't let them. It's going to be all right,
Laila jo. I know what to do."
* * *
One blistering-hot day, Mariam put on her burqa, and she and Rasheed
walked to the Intercontinental Hotel. Bus fare was an un-affordable
luxury now, and Mariam was exhausted by the time they reached the top
of the steep hill. Climbing the slope, she was struck by bouts of dizziness,
and twice she had to stop, wait for it to pass.
At the hotel entrance, Rasheed greeted and hugged one of the
doormen, who was dressed in a burgundy suit and visor cap. There was
some friendly-looking talk between them. Rasheed spoke with his hand
on the doorman's elbow. He motioned toward Mariam at one point, and
they both looked her way briefly. Mariam thought there was something