When he came back, Nana said, he sounded like a warden bragging about the clean walls and shiny floors of his prison.
And so, your father built us this rathole.”
Nana had almost married once, when she was fifteen. The suitor had been a boy from Shindand, a young parakeet seller.
Mariam knew the story from Nana herself, and, though Nana dismissed the episode,
Mariam could tell by the wistful light in her eyes that she had been happy.
Perhaps for the only time in her life, during those days leading up to her wedding, Nana had been genuinely happy.
As Nana told the story, Mariam sat on her lap and pictured her mother being fitted for a wedding dress.
She imagined her on horseback, smiling shyly behind a veiled green gown, her palms painted red with henna,
her hair parted with silver dust, the braids held together by tree sap.
She saw musicians blowing the shahnai flute and banging on dohol drums, street children hooting and giving chase.
Then, a week before the wedding date, a jinn had entered Nana's body. This required no description to Mariam.
She had witnessed it enough times with her own eyes: Nana collapsing suddenly, her body tightening, becoming rigid, her eyes rolling back,
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