A Thousand Splendid Suns

A lump closed off her throat. In a quivering voice, Mariam told him the
truth.
"Yes. I'm very afraid."
"I have a picture of my father," he said. "I don't remember him. He was
a bicycle repairman once, I know that much. But I don't remember how
he moved, you know, how he laughed or the sound of his voice." He
looked away, then back at Mariam. "My mother used to say that he was
the bravest man she knew. Like a lion, she'd say.
But she told me he was crying like a child the morning the communists
took him. I'm telling you so you know that it's normal to be scared. It's
nothing to be ashamed of, mother."
For the first time that day, Mariam cried a little.
* * *
Thousands of eyes bore down on her. In the crowded bleachers, necks
were craned for the benefit of a better view. Tongues clucked. A
murmuring sound rippled through the stadium when Mariam was helped
down from the truck. Mariam imagined heads shaking when the
loudspeaker announced her crime. But she did not look up to see
whether they were shaking with disapproval or charity, with reproach or
pity. Mariam blinded herself to them all.
Earlier that morning, she had been afraid that she would make a fool of
herself, that she would turn into a pleading, weeping spectacle. She had