“I don't know any Abdul Sharif.” “Well, he's here asking for you. You need to come down and talk to him.”
28. Laila
Laila sat across from Abdul Sharif, who was a thin, small-headed man with a bulbous nose pocked with the same cratered scars that pitted his cheeks.
His hair, short and brown, stood on his scalp like needles in a pincushion.
“You'll have to forgive me, hamshira,” he said, adjusting his loose collar and dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief.
“I still haven't quite recovered, I fear. Five more days of these, what are they called... sulfa pills.”
Laila positioned herself in her seat so that her right ear, the good one, was closest to him.
“Were you a friend of my parents?” “No, no,” Abdul Sharif said quickly.
“Forgive me.” He raised a finger, took a long sip of the water that Mariam had placed in front of him.
“I should begin at the beginning, I suppose.” He dabbed at his lips, again at his brow.
“I am a businessman. I own clothing stores, mostly men's clothing.”
“Chapans, hats, tumbans, suits, ties—you name it. Two stores here in Kabul, in Taimani and Shar-e-Nau, though I just sold those.”
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