Zalmai is clutching an inflatable dolphin that squeaks when its snout is squeezed.
“How are you?” Tariq asks, putting his arm around her shoulder. “I'm fine,” Laila says. “I'll tell you later.”
They walk to a nearby kebab house to eat. It's a small place, with sticky, vinyl tablecloths, smoky and loud.
But the lamb is tender and moist and the bread hot. They walk the streets for a while after.
Tariq buys the children rosewater ice cream from a street side kiosk. They eat, sitting on a bench,
the mountains behind them silhouetted against the scarlet red of dusk. The air is warm, rich with the fragrance of cedar.
Laila had opened the envelope earlier when she'd come back to the room after viewing the videotape.
In it was a letter, handwritten in blue ink on a yellow, lined sheet of paper. It read: May 13, 1987 My dear Mariam:
I pray that this letter finds you in good health. As you know, I came to Kabul a month ago to speak with you. But you would not see me.
I was disappointed but could not blame you. In your place, I might have done the same.
I lost the privilege of your good graces a long time ago and for that I only have myself to blame.
But if you are reading this letter, then you have read the letter that I left at your door.
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