Laila
The next day,Laila stayed in bed. She was under the blanket inthe morning when Rasheed poked his head in and said hewas going to the barber. She was still in bed when he camehome late in the afternoon, when he showed her his newhaircut, his new used suit, blue with cream pinstripes, and thewedding band he'd bought her.
Rasheed sat on the bed beside her, made a great show ofslowly undoing the ribbon, of opening the box and plucking outthe ring delicately. He let on that he'd traded in Mariam's oldwedding ring for it.
"She doesn't care. Believe me. She won't even notice."Laila pulled away to the far end of the bed. She could hearMariam downstairs, the hissing of her iron.
"She never wore it anyway," Rasheed said.
"I don't want it," Laila said, weakly. "Not like this. You haveto take it back.""Take it back?" An impatient look flashed across his face andwas gone. He smiled. "I had to add some cash too-quite a lot,in fact. This is a better ring, twenty-two-karat gold. Feel howheavy? Go on, feel it. No?" He closed the box. "How aboutflowers? That would be nice. You like flowers? Do you have afavorite? Daisies?
Tulips? Lilacs? No flowers? Good! I don't see the point myself.
I just thought…Now, I know a tailor here in Deh-Mazang. Iwas thinking we could take you there tomorrow, get you fittedfor a proper dress."Laila shook her head.
Rasheed raised his eyebrows.
"I'd just as soon-" Laila began.
He put a hand on her neck. Laila couldn't help wincing andrecoiling. His touch felt like wearing a prickly old wet woolsweater with no undershirt.
"Yes?""I'd just as soon we get it done."Rasheed's mouth opened, then spread in a yellow, toothy grin.
"Eager," he said.
* * *Before Abdul Sharif's visit, Laila had decided to leave forPakistan. Even after Abdul Sharif came bearing his news, Lailathought now, she might have left. Gone somewhere far fromhere. Detached herself from this city where every street cornerwas a trap, where every alley hid a ghost that sprang at herlike a jack-in-the-box. She might have taken the risk.
But, suddenly, leaving was no longer an option.
Not with this daily retching.
This new fullness in her breasts.
And the awareness, somehow, amid all of this turmoil, thatshe had missed a cycle.
Laila pictured herself in a refugee camp, a stark field withthousands of sheets of plastic strung to makeshift poles flappingin the cold, stinging wind. Beneath one of these makeshift tents,she saw her baby, Tariq's baby, its temples wasted, its jawsslack, its skin mottled, bluish gray. She pictured its tiny bodywashed by strangers, wrapped in a tawny shroud, lowered intoa hole dug in a patch of windswept land under thedisappointed gaze of vultures.
How could she run now?
Laila took grim inventory of the people in her life. Ahmad andNoor, dead. Hasina, gone. Giti, dead. Mammy, dead. Babi, dead.
Now Tariq…But, miraculously, something of her former life remained, herlast link to the person that she had been before she hadbecome so utterly alone. A part of Tariq still alive inside her,sprouting tiny arms, growing translucent hands.
How could she jeopardize the only thing she had left of him,of her old life?
She made her decision quickly. Six weeks had passed sinceher time with Tariq. Any longer and Rasheed would growsuspicious.
She knew that what she was doing was dishonorable.
Dishonorable, disingenuous, and shameful. And spectacularlyunfair to Mariam. But even though the baby inside her was nobigger than a mulberry, Laila already saw the sacrifices amother had to make. Virtue was only the first.
She put a hand on her belly. Closed her eyes.
* * *Laila would remember the muted ceremony in bits andfragments. The cream-colored stripes of Rasheed's suit. Thesharp smell of his hair spray. The small shaving nick justabove his Adam's apple. The rough pads of his tobacco-stainedfingers when he slid the ring on her. The pen. Its not working.
The search for a new pen. The contract. The signing, hissure-handed, hers quavering. The prayers. Noticing, in themirror, that Rasheed had trimmed his eyebrows.
And, somewhere in the room, Mariam watching. The airchoking with her disapproval.
Laila could not bring herself to meet the older woman's gaze.
* * *Lying beneath his cold sheets that night, she watched him pullthe curtains shut. She was shaking even before his fingersworked her shirt buttons, tugged at the drawstring of hertrousers. He was agitated. His fingers fumbled endlessly with hisown shirt, with undoing his belt. Laila had a full view of hissagging breasts, his protruding belly button, the small blue veinin the center of it, the tufts of thick white hair on his chest,his shoulders, and upper arms. She felt his eyes crawling allover her.
"God help me, I think I love you," he said-Through chatteringteeth, she asked him to turn out the lights.
Later, when she was sure that he was asleep, Laila quietlyreached beneath the mattress for the knife she had hiddenthere earlier. With it, she punctured the pad of her indexfinger. Then she lifted the blanket and let her finger bleed onthe sheets where they had lain together.
The next day,Laila stayed in bed. She was under the blanket inthe morning when Rasheed poked his head in and said hewas going to the barber. She was still in bed when he camehome late in the afternoon, when he showed her his newhaircut, his new used suit, blue with cream pinstripes, and thewedding band he'd bought her.
Rasheed sat on the bed beside her, made a great show ofslowly undoing the ribbon, of opening the box and plucking outthe ring delicately. He let on that he'd traded in Mariam's oldwedding ring for it.
"She doesn't care. Believe me. She won't even notice."Laila pulled away to the far end of the bed. She could hearMariam downstairs, the hissing of her iron.
"She never wore it anyway," Rasheed said.
"I don't want it," Laila said, weakly. "Not like this. You haveto take it back.""Take it back?" An impatient look flashed across his face andwas gone. He smiled. "I had to add some cash too-quite a lot,in fact. This is a better ring, twenty-two-karat gold. Feel howheavy? Go on, feel it. No?" He closed the box. "How aboutflowers? That would be nice. You like flowers? Do you have afavorite? Daisies?
Tulips? Lilacs? No flowers? Good! I don't see the point myself.
I just thought…Now, I know a tailor here in Deh-Mazang. Iwas thinking we could take you there tomorrow, get you fittedfor a proper dress."Laila shook her head.
Rasheed raised his eyebrows.
"I'd just as soon-" Laila began.
He put a hand on her neck. Laila couldn't help wincing andrecoiling. His touch felt like wearing a prickly old wet woolsweater with no undershirt.
"Yes?""I'd just as soon we get it done."Rasheed's mouth opened, then spread in a yellow, toothy grin.
"Eager," he said.
* * *Before Abdul Sharif's visit, Laila had decided to leave forPakistan. Even after Abdul Sharif came bearing his news, Lailathought now, she might have left. Gone somewhere far fromhere. Detached herself from this city where every street cornerwas a trap, where every alley hid a ghost that sprang at herlike a jack-in-the-box. She might have taken the risk.
But, suddenly, leaving was no longer an option.
Not with this daily retching.
This new fullness in her breasts.
And the awareness, somehow, amid all of this turmoil, thatshe had missed a cycle.
Laila pictured herself in a refugee camp, a stark field withthousands of sheets of plastic strung to makeshift poles flappingin the cold, stinging wind. Beneath one of these makeshift tents,she saw her baby, Tariq's baby, its temples wasted, its jawsslack, its skin mottled, bluish gray. She pictured its tiny bodywashed by strangers, wrapped in a tawny shroud, lowered intoa hole dug in a patch of windswept land under thedisappointed gaze of vultures.
How could she run now?
Laila took grim inventory of the people in her life. Ahmad andNoor, dead. Hasina, gone. Giti, dead. Mammy, dead. Babi, dead.
Now Tariq…But, miraculously, something of her former life remained, herlast link to the person that she had been before she hadbecome so utterly alone. A part of Tariq still alive inside her,sprouting tiny arms, growing translucent hands.
How could she jeopardize the only thing she had left of him,of her old life?
She made her decision quickly. Six weeks had passed sinceher time with Tariq. Any longer and Rasheed would growsuspicious.
She knew that what she was doing was dishonorable.
Dishonorable, disingenuous, and shameful. And spectacularlyunfair to Mariam. But even though the baby inside her was nobigger than a mulberry, Laila already saw the sacrifices amother had to make. Virtue was only the first.
She put a hand on her belly. Closed her eyes.
* * *Laila would remember the muted ceremony in bits andfragments. The cream-colored stripes of Rasheed's suit. Thesharp smell of his hair spray. The small shaving nick justabove his Adam's apple. The rough pads of his tobacco-stainedfingers when he slid the ring on her. The pen. Its not working.
The search for a new pen. The contract. The signing, hissure-handed, hers quavering. The prayers. Noticing, in themirror, that Rasheed had trimmed his eyebrows.
And, somewhere in the room, Mariam watching. The airchoking with her disapproval.
Laila could not bring herself to meet the older woman's gaze.
* * *Lying beneath his cold sheets that night, she watched him pullthe curtains shut. She was shaking even before his fingersworked her shirt buttons, tugged at the drawstring of hertrousers. He was agitated. His fingers fumbled endlessly with hisown shirt, with undoing his belt. Laila had a full view of hissagging breasts, his protruding belly button, the small blue veinin the center of it, the tufts of thick white hair on his chest,his shoulders, and upper arms. She felt his eyes crawling allover her.
"God help me, I think I love you," he said-Through chatteringteeth, she asked him to turn out the lights.
Later, when she was sure that he was asleep, Laila quietlyreached beneath the mattress for the knife she had hiddenthere earlier. With it, she punctured the pad of her indexfinger. Then she lifted the blanket and let her finger bleed onthe sheets where they had lain together.