She had kept it for days, beneath her pillow, picking it up now and then, turning it over in her hands.
In the end, she had shredded it unopened. And now here she was, after all these years, calling him.
Mariam regretted her foolish, youthful pride now. She wished now that she had let him in.
What would have been the harm to let him in, sit with him, let him say what he'd come to say? He was her father.
He'd not been a good father, it was true, but how ordinary his faults seemed now, how forgivable,
when compared to Rasheed's malice, or to the brutality and violence that she had seen men inflict on one another.
She wished she hadn't destroyed his letter. A man's deep voice spoke in her ear and informed her that she'd reached the mayor's office in Herat.
Mariam cleared her throat. “Salaam, brother, I am looking for someone who lives in Herat. Or he did, many years ago.”
His name is Jalil Khan. He lived in Shar-e-Nau and owned the cinema. Do you have any information as to his whereabouts?
The irritation was audible in the man's voice. “This is why you call the mayor's office?”
Mariam said she didn't know who else to call. “Forgive me, brother.
I know you have important things to tend to, but it is life and death, a question of life and death I am calling about.”
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