The second guard, a rotund fellow with a scar down his right cheek, nodded. “Follow me,” this one said to Laila.
“We have to board this bus,” Laila cried, aware that her voice was shaking. “We have tickets. Why are you doing this?”
“You're not going to get on this bus. You might as well accept that. You will follow me. Unless you want your little girl to see you dragged.”
As they were led to a truck, Laila looked over her shoulder and spotted Wakil's boy at the rear of the bus. The boy saw her too and waved happily.
At the police station at Torabaz Khan Intersection, they were made to sit apart, on opposite ends of a long, crowded corridor,
between them a desk, behind which a man smoked one cigarette after another and clacked occasionally on a typewriter.
Three hours passed this way. Aziza tottered from Laila to Mariam, then back. She played with a paper clip that the man at the desk gave her.
She finished the crackers. Eventually, she fell asleep in Mariam's lap.
At around three o'clock, Laila was taken to an interview room. Mariam was made to wait with Aziza in the corridor.
The man sitting on the other side of the desk in the interview room was in his thirties and wore civilian clothes—black suit, tie, black loafers.
He had a neatly trimmed beard, short hair, and eyebrows that met. He stared at Laila, bouncing a pencil by the eraser end on the desk.
“We know,” he began, clearing his throat and politely covering his mouth with a fist, “that you have already told one lie today, hamshira.”
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색