excitedly, transistor radios pressed to their ears. She saw Fariba leaning against
the wall of her house, talking with a woman who was new to Deh-Mazang. Fariba was smiling, and her palms were pressed against
the swell of her pregnant belly. The other woman, whose name escaped Mariam, looked older than Fariba, and her hair had an
odd purple tint to it. She was holding a little boy’s hand. Mariam knew the boy’s name was Tariq, because she had heard this
woman on the street call after him by that name.
Mariam and Rasheed didn’t join the neighbors. They listened in on the radio as some ten thousand people poured into the streets
and marched up and down Kabul’s government district. Rasheed said that Mir Akbar Khyber had been a prominent communist, and
that his supporters were blaming the murder on President Daoud Khan’s government. He didn’t look at her when he said this.
These days, he never did anymore, and Mariam wasn’t ever sure if she was being spoken to.
“What’s a communist?” she asked.
Rasheed snorted, and raised both eyebrows. “You don’t know what a communist is? Such a simple thing. Everyone knows. It’s
common knowledge. You don’t . . . Bah. I don’t know why I’m surprised.” Then he crossed his ankles on the table and mumbled
that it was someone who believed in Karl Marxist.
“Who’s Karl Marxist?”
Rasheed sighed.
On the radio, a woman’s voice was saying that Taraki, the leader of the Khalq branch of the PDPA, the Afghan communist party,
was in the streets giving rousing speeches to demonstrators.
“What I meant was, what do they want?” Mariam asked. “These communists, what is it that they believe?”
Rasheed chortled and shook his head, but Mariam thought she saw uncertainty in the way he crossed his arms, the way his eyes
shifted. “You know nothing, do you? You’re like a child. Your brain is empty. There is no information in it.”
“I ask because—”
“ Chup ko. Shut up.”
Mariam did.
It wasn’t easy tolerating him talking this way to her, to bear his scorn, his ridicule, his insults, his walking past her
like she was nothing but a house cat. But after four years of marriage, Mariam saw clearly how much a woman could tolerate
when she was afraid. And Mariam was afraid. She lived in fear of his shifting moods, his volatile temperament, his insistence on steering even mundane exchanges
down a confrontational path that, on occasion, he would resolve with punches, slaps, kicks, and sometimes try to make amends
for with polluted apologies and sometimes not.
In the four years since the day at the bathhouse, there had been six more cycles of hopes raised then dashed, each loss, each
collapse, each trip to the doctor more crushing for Mariam than the last. With each disappointment, Rasheed had grown more
remote and resentful.
Now nothing she did pleased him. She cleaned the house, made sure he always had a supply of clean shirts, cooked him his favorite
dishes. Once, disastrously, she even bought makeup and put it on for him. But when he came home, he took one look at her and
winced with such distaste that she rushed to the bathroom and washed it all off, tears of shame mixing with soapy water, rouge,
and mascara.
Now Mariam dreaded the sound of him coming home in the evening. The key rattling, the creak of the door—these were sounds
that set her heart racing. From her bed, she listened to the click-clack of his heels, to the muffled shuffling of his feet after he’d shed his shoes. With her ears, she took inventory of his doings:
chair legs dragged across the floor, the plaintive squeak of the cane seat when he sat, the clinking of spoon against plate,
the flutter of newspaper pages flipped, the slurping of water. And as her heart pounded, her mind wondered what excuse he
would use that night to pounce on her. There was always something, some minor thing that would infuriate him, because no matter
what she
the wall of her house, talking with a woman who was new to Deh-Mazang. Fariba was smiling, and her palms were pressed against
the swell of her pregnant belly. The other woman, whose name escaped Mariam, looked older than Fariba, and her hair had an
odd purple tint to it. She was holding a little boy’s hand. Mariam knew the boy’s name was Tariq, because she had heard this
woman on the street call after him by that name.
Mariam and Rasheed didn’t join the neighbors. They listened in on the radio as some ten thousand people poured into the streets
and marched up and down Kabul’s government district. Rasheed said that Mir Akbar Khyber had been a prominent communist, and
that his supporters were blaming the murder on President Daoud Khan’s government. He didn’t look at her when he said this.
These days, he never did anymore, and Mariam wasn’t ever sure if she was being spoken to.
“What’s a communist?” she asked.
Rasheed snorted, and raised both eyebrows. “You don’t know what a communist is? Such a simple thing. Everyone knows. It’s
common knowledge. You don’t . . . Bah. I don’t know why I’m surprised.” Then he crossed his ankles on the table and mumbled
that it was someone who believed in Karl Marxist.
“Who’s Karl Marxist?”
Rasheed sighed.
On the radio, a woman’s voice was saying that Taraki, the leader of the Khalq branch of the PDPA, the Afghan communist party,
was in the streets giving rousing speeches to demonstrators.
“What I meant was, what do they want?” Mariam asked. “These communists, what is it that they believe?”
Rasheed chortled and shook his head, but Mariam thought she saw uncertainty in the way he crossed his arms, the way his eyes
shifted. “You know nothing, do you? You’re like a child. Your brain is empty. There is no information in it.”
“I ask because—”
“ Chup ko. Shut up.”
Mariam did.
It wasn’t easy tolerating him talking this way to her, to bear his scorn, his ridicule, his insults, his walking past her
like she was nothing but a house cat. But after four years of marriage, Mariam saw clearly how much a woman could tolerate
when she was afraid. And Mariam was afraid. She lived in fear of his shifting moods, his volatile temperament, his insistence on steering even mundane exchanges
down a confrontational path that, on occasion, he would resolve with punches, slaps, kicks, and sometimes try to make amends
for with polluted apologies and sometimes not.
In the four years since the day at the bathhouse, there had been six more cycles of hopes raised then dashed, each loss, each
collapse, each trip to the doctor more crushing for Mariam than the last. With each disappointment, Rasheed had grown more
remote and resentful.
Now nothing she did pleased him. She cleaned the house, made sure he always had a supply of clean shirts, cooked him his favorite
dishes. Once, disastrously, she even bought makeup and put it on for him. But when he came home, he took one look at her and
winced with such distaste that she rushed to the bathroom and washed it all off, tears of shame mixing with soapy water, rouge,
and mascara.
Now Mariam dreaded the sound of him coming home in the evening. The key rattling, the creak of the door—these were sounds
that set her heart racing. From her bed, she listened to the click-clack of his heels, to the muffled shuffling of his feet after he’d shed his shoes. With her ears, she took inventory of his doings:
chair legs dragged across the floor, the plaintive squeak of the cane seat when he sat, the clinking of spoon against plate,
the flutter of newspaper pages flipped, the slurping of water. And as her heart pounded, her mind wondered what excuse he
would use that night to pounce on her. There was always something, some minor thing that would infuriate him, because no matter
what she
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