A Thousand Splendid Suns

Roadmaster. Mullah Faizullah twirling his rosary beads, walking with her
along the stream, their twin shadows gliding on the water and on the
grassy banks sprinkled with a blue-lavender wild iris that, in this dream,
smelled like cloves. She dreamed of Nana in the doorway of the kolba,
her voice dim and distant, calling her to dinner, as Mariam played in
cool, tangled grass where ants crawled and beetles scurried and
grasshoppers skipped amid all the different shades of green. The squeak
of a wheelbarrow laboring up a dusty path. Cowbells clanging. Sheep
baaing on a hill.
* * *
On the way to Ghazi Stadium, Mariam bounced in the bed of the truck
as it skidded around potholes and its wheels spat pebbles. The bouncing
hurt her tailbone. A young, armed Talib sat across from her looking at
her.
Mariam wondered if he would be the one, this amiable-looking young
man with the deep-set bright eyes and slightly pointed face, with the
black-nailed index finger drumming the side of the truck.
"Are you hungry, mother?" he said.
Mariam shook her head.
"I have a biscuit. It's good. You can have it if you're hungry. I don't
mind."
"No. Tashakor, brother."
He nodded, looked at her benignly. "Are you afraid, mother?"