but she remembers too well the neighborhoods razed under his watch, the bodies dragged from the rubble,
the hands and feet of children discovered on rooftops or the high branch of some tree days after their funeral.
She remembers too clearly the look on Mammy's own face moments before the rocket slammed in
and, much as she has tried to forget, Babi's headless torso landing nearby,
the bridge tower printed on his T-shirt poking through thick fog and blood.
“There is going to be a funeral,” Tariq is saying. “I'm sure of it. Probably in Rawalpindi. It'll be huge.”
Zalmai, who was almost asleep, is sitting up now, rubbing his eyes with balled fists.
Two days later, they are cleaning a room when they hear a commotion. Tariq drops the mop and hurries out. Laila tails him.
The noise is coming from the hotel lobby.
There is a lounge area to the right of the reception desk, with several chairs and two couches upholstered in beige suede.
In the corner, facing the couches, is a television, and Sayeed, the concierge, and several guests are gathered in front of it.
Laila and Tariq work their way in. The TV is tuned to BBC.
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