“Come in,” Hamza says. He swings the door open. “Please come in.”
They sit on the floor in a sparsely furnished room.
There is a Herati rug on the floor, beaded cushions to sit on, and a framed photo of Mecca on the wall.
They sit by the open window, on either side of an oblong patch of sunlight. Laila hears women's voices whispering from another room.
A little barefoot boy places before them a platter of green tea and pistachio gaaz nougats. Hamza nods at him. “My son.”
The boy leaves soundlessly. “So tell me,” Hamza says tiredly. Laila does.
She tells him everything. It takes longer than she'd imagined. Toward the end, she struggles to maintain composure.
It still isn't easy, one year later, talking about Mariam. When she's done, Hamza doesn't say anything for a long time.
He slowly turns his teacup on its saucer, one way, then the other.
My father, may he rest in peace, was so very fond of her,he says at last.
He was the one who sang azan in her ear when she was born, you know. He visited her every week, never missed. Sometimes he took me with him.”
He was her tutor, yes, but he was a friend too. He was a charitable man, my father. It nearly broke him when Jalil Khan gave her away.”
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