A Thousand Splendid Suns

you won't go hungry. They have rice and bread and water, and maybe
even fruit."
"Butyou won't be here. And Khala Mariam won't be with me."
"I'll come and see you," Laila said. "All the time. Look at me, Aziza. I'll
come and see you. I'm your mother. If it kills me, I'll come and see
you."
* * *
The orphanage director was a stooping, narrow-chested man with a
pleasantly lined face. He was balding, had a shaggy beard, eyes like
peas. His name was Zaman. He wore a skullcap. The left lens of his
eyeglasses was chipped.
As he led them to his office, he asked Laila and Mariam their names,
asked for Aziza's name too, her age. They passed through poorly lit
hallways where barefoot children stepped aside and watched They had
disheveled hair or shaved scalps. They wore sweaters with frayed
sleeves, ragged jeans whose knees had worn down to strings, coats
patched with duct tape. Laila smelled soap and talcum, ammonia and
urine, and rising apprehension in Aziza, who had begun whimpering.
Laila had a glimpse of the yard: weedy lot, rickety swing set, old tires,
a deflated basketball. The rooms they passed were bare, the windows
covered with sheets of plastic. A boy darted from one of the rooms and
grabbed Laila's elbow, and tried to climb up into her arms. An attendant,
who was cleaning up what looked like a puddle of urine, put down his
mop and pried the boy off.
Zaman seemed gently proprietary with the orphans. He patted the