He's a Pashtun, from Kandahar originally, but he lives in Kabul, in the Deh Mazang district, in a two-story house that he owns.”
Afsoon was nodding. “And he does speak Farsi, like us, like you. So you won't have to learn Pashto.”
Mariam's chest was tightening. The room was reeling up and down, the ground shifting beneath her feet.
“He's a shoemaker,” Khadija was saying now. “But not some kind of ordinary street-side moochi, no, no.”
“He has his own shop, and he is one of the most sought-after shoemakers in Kabul.
He makes them for diplomats, members of the presidential family—that class of people.
So you see, he will have no trouble providing for you.” Mariam fixed her eyes on Jalil, her heart somersaulting in her chest.
“Is this true? What she's saying, is it true?” But Jalil wouldn't look at her.
He went on chewing the corner of his lower lip and staring at the pitcher.
“Now he is a little older than you,” Afsoon chimed in. “But he can't be more than... forty. Forty-five at the most. Wouldn't you say, Nargis?”
“Yes. But I've seen nine-year-old girls given to men twenty years older than your suitor, Mariam.”
“We all have. What are you, fifteen? That's a good, solid marrying age for a girl.”
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