Mariam sat down on the bed. “Is there anything you want?” Jalil said.
Mariam lay down. Closed her eyes. After a while, she heard him softly shut the door.
Except for when she had to use the bathroom down the hall, Mariam stayed in the room.
The girl with the tattoo, the one who had opened the gates to her, brought her meals on a tray: lamb kebab, sabzi, aush soup.
Most of it went uneaten. Jalil came by several times a day, sat on the bed beside her, asked her if she was all right.
“You could eat downstairs with the rest of us,” he said, but without much conviction.
He understood a little too readily when Mariam said she preferred to eat alone.
From the window, Mariam watched impassively what she had wondered about and longed to see for most of her life:
the comings and goings of Jalil's daily life. Servants rushed in and out of the front gates.
A gardener was always trimming bushes, watering plants in the greenhouse.
Cars with long, sleek hoods pulled up on the street.
From them emerged men in suits, in chapans and caracul hats, women in hijabs, children with neatly combed hair.
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