She began moving pots and pans around, theatrically, as though she were laying claim to them anew, restaking her territory, now that she was back.
Laila stayed out of her way. It was best. Mammy could be as indomitable in her fits of euphoria as in her attacks of rage.
With unsettling energy, Mammy set about cooking: aush soup with kidney beans and dried dill,
kofta, steaming hot mantu drenched with fresh yogurt and topped with mint.
“You’re plucking your eyebrows,” Mammy said, as she was opening a large burlap sack of rice by the kitchen counter. “Only a little.”
Mammy poured rice from the sack into a large black pot of water. She rolled up her sleeves and began stirring.
“How is Tariq?” “His father’s been ill,” Laila said. “How old is he now anyway?” “I don’t know. Sixties, I guess.”
“I meant Tariq.” “Oh. Sixteen.” “He’s a nice boy. Don’t you think?” Laila shrugged.
“Not really a boy anymore, though, is he? Sixteen. Almost a man. Don’t you think?”
“What are you getting at, Mammy?” “Nothing,” Mammy said, smiling innocently. “Nothing. It’s just that you... Ah, nothing. I’d better not say anyway.”
“I see you want to,” Laila said, irritated by this circuitous, playful accusation.
“Well.” Mammy folded her hands on the rim of the pot. Laila spotted an unnatural, almost rehearsed, quality to the way she said “Well”
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