“There is a rumor,” Rasheed said over dinner that night, smacking his lips, taking no notice of Aziza or the pajamas Laila had put on her,
“that Dostum is going to change sides and join Hekmatyar. Massoud will have his hands full then, fighting those two.”
“And we mustn't forget the Hazaras.” He took a pinch of the pickled eggplant Mariam had made that summer.
“Let's hope it's just that, a rumor. Because if that happens, this war,” he waved one greasy hand, “will seem like a Friday picnic at Paghman.”
Later, he mounted her and relieved himself with wordless haste, fully dressed save for his tumban, not removed but pulled down to the ankles.
When the frantic rocking was over, he rolled off her and was asleep in minutes.
Laila slipped out of the bedroom and found Mariam in the kitchen squatting, cleaning a pair of trout.
A pot of rice was already soaking beside her. The kitchen smelled like cumin and smoke, browned onions and fish.
Laila sat in a corner and draped her knees with the hem of her dress. “Thank you,” she said.
Mariam took no notice of her. She finished cutting up the first trout and picked up the second.
With a serrated knife, she clipped the fins, then turned the fish over, its underbelly facing her, and sliced it expertly from the tail to the gills.
Laila watched her put her thumb into its mouth, just over the lower jaw, push it in,
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