I want a life that won’t crumble between my fingers. I’ll be returned to dust one day, but until then let me and my children endure.
I think of my father, alone in his browned orchard, sleeping in a grove of organic rubble. I don’t know if he is alive or dead. It’s been so long since I last heard his voice. I know why he refused to leave. He learned to love the transience of everything, an acceptance that can only come when we near the end of the road. Whether the end comes today or tomorrow does not matter to him. He is ready to be returned to the earth. In and out, he will breathe the dust of the crumbling orchard walls and the soil of the gardens every day until, like an hourglass, his lungs fill. Time will stop then.
It is easier to love my father from a distance. From here, I do not see his weaknesses or his failures. From here, I see only those glimmering moments when he looked at me as his best and most precious child, those moments when he talked about my mother and made me feel whole. The rest of my childhood . . . well, maybe it’s best if it crumbles to nothing.
I meet my reflection in the mirror. I look much older than I remember. I touch the skin of my face. It feels rough. I’m almost glad. I never was a very delicate creature. Every day, my skin thickens and I find myself doing things I never imagined doing, not even with the help of my husband. The stronger I am, the better our chances of survival.
I’ve left them too long. I need these moments though, moments when I can step away, collect the pieces of myself and return to them as a mother.
But the seconds tick on and I must return to my two children. The moment we’ve been preparing for is almost here.
CHAPTER 40
Saleem
A HALF WEEK LATER, ROKSANA RETURNED. SALEEM SCRAMBLED for what he would say to her. He hadn’t felt good about the way their last conversation ended. He hoped she hadn’t detected the ugly twinge in him. She did the usual distributions with her colleagues before making her way over to Saleem.
“Can you meet me in the playground where you stayed with your mother? Later tonight—around eight o’clock?” Saleem agreed, ready to apologize, but she moved on quickly. Before he could attempt any further conversation, she and the other volunteers had left.
Saleem did not want to miss his meeting with her. He spent the afternoon listening to Abdullah and Hassan tell the same tired mullah jokes they’d told a thousand times before. The one about the mullah and the pumpkin. The one about the mullah and the one-eyed donkey. Afghans loved to poke fun at their clergymen.
“The guy walking along the riverbank sees the mullah on the other side and calls out to him: ‘Hey, how do I get across?’ and the mullah says: ‘Are you a fool? You are across!’”
Hassan chuckled. To laugh at a joke he’d laughed at as a boy in Afghanistan was to call to mind better times. There was a sweet nostalgia to these droll vignettes. Had Saleem been less anxious about the hour, he might have appreciated them more.
He spun his watch around his wrist. Judging by the sky, it was probably nearing seven o’clock.
“My friends,” Saleem yawned. He rose to his feet slowly, hands on his knees for support. He arched his back and let out a soft grunt for good measure. “My back is so stiff . . . I think I need to walk around a bit.”
“You sure you want to walk? If you’d like, I can have my chauffeur take you for a drive.”
Saleem forced a smile.
“Maybe next time.”
AT THE PARK, THREE YOUNG GIRLS PROPELLED THEMSELVES upward on the swings, pushing their legs out and bringing them back in as they swooped back down. Two school-age boys climbed a wooden ladder and crossed a play bridge. Their parents watched on, stealing sidelong glances at Saleem.