to lift her burqa to put morsels of food into her mouth.
A hint of the same anxiety as the day at the tandoor stirred in her stomach, but Rasheed's presence was of some comfort,
and, after a while, she did not mind so much the music, the smoke, even the people.
And the burqa, she learned to her surprise, was also comforting.
It was like a one way window. Inside it, she was an observer, buffered from the scrutinizing eyes of strangers.
She no longer worried that people knew, with a single glance, all the shameful secrets of her past.
On the streets, Rasheed named various buildings with authority; this is the American Embassy, he said, that the Foreign Ministry.
He pointed to cars, said their names and where they were made: Soviet Volgas, American Chevrolets, German Opels.
“Which is your favorite?” he asked. Mariam hesitated, pointed to a Volga, and Rasheed laughed.
Kabul was far more crowded than the little that Mariam had seen of Herat.
There were fewer trees and fewer garis pulled by horses, but more cars, taller buildings, more traffic lights and more paved roads.
And everywhere Mariam heard the city's peculiar dialect: “Dear” was jon instead of jo, “sister” became hamshira instead of hamshireh, and so on.
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