There was something she hadn't told Babi up there atop the Buddha: that, in one important way, she was glad they couldn't go.
She would miss Giti and her pinch faced earnestness, yes, and Hasina too, with her wicked laugh and reckless clowning around.
But, mostly, Laila remembered all too well the inescapable drudgery of those four weeks without Tariq when he had gone to Ghazni.
She remembered all too well how time had dragged without him, how she had shuffled about feeling waylaid, out of balance.
How could she ever cope with his permanent absence?
Maybe it was senseless to want to be near a person so badly here in a country where bullets had shredded her own brothers to pieces.
But all Laila had to do was picture Tariq going at Khadim with his leg and then nothing in the world seemed more sensible to her.
SIX MONTHS LATER, IN APRIL 1988, BABI CAME HOME WITH BIG NEWS.
“They signed a treaty!” he said. “In Geneva. It's official! They're leaving.”
Within nine months, there won't be any more Soviets in Afghanistan!”
Mammy was sitting up in bed. She shrugged. “But the communist regime is staying,” she said.
“Najibullah is the Soviets' puppet president. He's not going anywhere. No, the war will go on. This is not the end.”
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