A Thousand Splendid Suns

It was just as well, she said, her being here in prison. Her father had
sworn that the day she was released he would take a knife to her throat.
Listening to Naghma, Mariam remembered the dim glimmer of cold
stars and the stringy pink clouds streaking over the Safid-koh mountains
that long-ago morning when Nana had said to her, Like a compass needle
that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.
You remember that, Mariam.
* * *
Mamam'S trial had taken place the week before. There was no legal
council, no public hearing, no cross-examining of evidence, no appeals.
Mariam declined her right to witnesses. The entire thing lasted less than
fifteen minutes.
The middle judge, a brittle-looking Talib, was the leader. He was
strikingly gaunt, with yellow, leathery skin and a curly red beard. He
wore eyeglasses that magnified his eyes and revealed how yellow the
whites were. His neck looked too thin to support the intricately wrapped
turban on his head.
"You admit to this, hamshira? I he asked again in a tired voice.
"I do," Mariam said.
The man nodded. Or maybe he didn't. It was hard to tell; he had a
pronounced shaking of his hands and head that reminded Mariam of
Mullah Faizullah's tremor. When he sipped tea, he did not reach for his
cup. He motioned to the square-shouldered man to his left, who
respectfully brought it to his lips. After, the Talib closed his eyes gently,