Laila remembered a gathering once, years before at the house, on one of Mammy's good days.
The women had been sitting in the garden, eating from a platter of fresh mulberries that Wajma had picked from the tree in her yard.
The plump mulberries had been white and pink, and some the same dark purple as the bursts of tiny veins on Wajma's nose.
“You heard how his son died?” Wajma had said, energetically shoveling another handful of mulberries into her sunken mouth.
“He drowned, didn't he?” Nila, Giti's mother, said. “At Ghargha Lake, wasn't it?”
“But did you know, did you know that Rasheed...” Wajma raised a finger, made a show of nodding and chewing and making them wait for her to swallow.
“Did you know that he used to drink sharab back then, that he was crying drunk that day? It's true.
Crying drunk, is what I heard. And that was midmorning. By noon, he had passed out on a lounge chair.
You could have fired the noon cannon next to his ear and he wouldn't have batted an eyelash.”
Laila remembered how Wajma had covered her mouth, burped; how her tongue had gone exploring between her few remaining teeth.
“You can imagine the rest. The boy went into the water unnoticed. They spotted him a while later, floating face down.
People rushed to help, half trying to wake up the boy, the other half the father.
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