She'd been two years old when Ahmad and Noor had left Kabul for Panjshir up north,
to join Commander Ahmad Shah Massoud's forces and fight the jihad. Laila hardly remembered anything at all about them.
A shiny Allah pendant around Ahmad's neck. A patch of black hairs on one of Noor's ears. And that was it.
“What about Azita?” “The rugmaker's daughter?” Mammy said, slapping her cheek with mock outrage.
She has a thicker mustache than Hakim!” “There's Anahita. We hear she's top in her class at Zarghoona.
Have you seen the teeth on that girl? Tombstones. She's hiding a graveyard behind those lips.
How about the Wahidi sisters?” “Those two dwarfs? No, no, no. Oh, no. Not for my sons. Not for my sultans. They deserve better.
As the chatter went on, Laila let her mind drift, and, as always, it found Tariq.
Mammy had pulled the yellowish curtains. In the darkness, the room had a layered smell about it:
sleep, unwashed linen, sweat, dirty socks, perfume, the previous night's left-over qurma.
Laila waited for her eyes to adjust before she crossed the room.
Even so, her feet became entangled with items of clothing that littered the floor.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색