People walked along the paths, sat on benches and sipped tea.
Mariam could hardly believe that she was here. Her heart was battering with excitement.
She wished Mullah Faizullah could see her now. How daring he would find her. How brave!
She gave herself over to the new life that awaited her in this city, a life with a father, with sisters and brothers,
a life in which she would love and be loved back, without reservation or agenda, without shame.
Sprightly, she walked back to the wide thoroughfare near the park.
She passed old vendors with leathery faces sitting under the shade of plane trees,
gazing at her impassively behind pyramids of cherries and mounds of grapes.
Barefoot boys gave chase to cars and buses, waving bags of quinces.
Mariam stood at a street corner and watched the passersby, unable to understand how they could be so indifferent to the marvels around them.
After a while, she worked up the nerve to ask the elderly owner of a horse drawn gari if he knew where Jalil, the cinema's owner, lived.
The old man had plump cheeks and wore a rainbow striped chapan.
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