A Thousand Splendid Suns

bewildered, almost harmless. Like someone who had accepted without a
sigh of protest the indignities life had doled out to him. Someone both
pathetic and admirable in his docility.
They rode the bus to Titanic City. They walked into the riverbed,
flanked on either side by makeshift stalls clinging to the dry banks. Near
the bridge, as they were descending the steps, a barefoot man dangled
dead from a crane, his ears cut off, his neck bent at the end of a rope. In
the river, they melted into the horde of shoppers milling about, the
money changers and bored-looking NGO workers, the cigarette vendors,
the covered women who thrust fake antibiotic prescriptions at people and
begged for money to fill them. Whip-toting, naswar-chew'mg Talibs
patrolled Titanic City on the lookout for the indiscreet laugh, the unveiled
face.
From a toy kiosk, between apoosieen coat vendor and a fake-flower
stand, Zalmai picked out a rubber basketball with yellow and blue swirls.
"Pick something," Rasheed said to Aziza.
Aziza hedged, stiffened with embarrassment.
"Hurry. I have to be at work in an hour."
Aziza chose a gum-ball machine-the same coin could be inserted to get
candy, then retrieved from the flap-door coin return below.
Rasheed's eyebrows shot up when the seller quoted him the price. A
round of haggling ensued, at the end of which Rasheed said to Aziza
contentiously, as if it were she who'd haggled him, "Give it back. I can't
afford both."