On the bus ride home, Tariq and Laila sat behind her parents. Mammy was by the window, staring out, clutching the picture against her chest.
Beside her, Babi was impassively listening to a man who was arguing
that the Soviets might be leaving but that they would send weapons to Najibullah in Kabul.
“He’s their puppet. They’ll keep the war going through him, you can bet on that.”
Someone in the next aisle voiced his agreement. Mammy was muttering to herself,
long-winded prayers that rolled on and on until she had no breath left and had to eke out the last few words in a tiny, high-pitched squeak.
They went to Cinema Park later that day, Laila and Tariq,
and had to settle for a Soviet film that was dubbed, to unintentionally comic effect, in Farsi.
There was a merchant ship, and a first mate in love with the captain’s daughter. Her name was Alyona.
Then came a fierce storm, lightning, rain, the heaving sea tossing the ship. One of the frantic sailors yelled something.
An absurdly calm Afghan voice translated: “My dear sir, would you kindly pass the rope?”
At this, Tariq burst out cackling. And, soon, they both were in the grips of a hopeless attack of laughter.
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