Five

Spring 2003

The nurse, whose name is Amra Ademovic, had warned Idris and Timur.

She had pulled them

aside and said, “If you show reaction, even little, she going to be upset, and

I kick you out.”

They are standing at the end of a long, poorly lit hallway in the men’s wing

of Wazir Akbar Khan

Hospital. Amra said the only relative the girl had left—or the only one who

visited—was her

uncle, and if she’d been placed in the women’s wing he would not be

permitted to visit her.

Four

In the Name of Allah the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful, I know that I

will be gone when

you read this letter, Mr. Markos, for when I gave it to you I requested that

you not open it until

after my death.

Three

Spring 1949

Parwana smells it before she pulls back the quilt and sees it. It has smeared

all over Masooma’s

buttocks, down her thighs, against the sheets and the mattress and the quilt

too. Masooma

looks up at her over her shoulder with a timid plea for forgiveness, and

shame—still the shame

after all this time, all these years.

“I’m sorry,” Masooma whispers.

Two

Fall 1952

Father had never before hit Abdullah. So when he did, when he whacked

the side of his head,

just above the ear—hard, suddenly, and with an open palm—tears of

surprise sprung to

Abdullah’s eyes. He quickly blinked them back.

“Go home,” Father said through gritted teeth.

From up ahead, Abdullah heard Pari burst into sobs.

One

Fall 1952

So, then. You want a story and I will tell you one. But just the one. Don’t

either of you ask me

for more. It’s late, and we have a long day of travel ahead of us, Pari, you

and I. You will need

your sleep tonight. And you too, Abdullah. I am counting on you, boy, while

your sister and I are

away. So is your mother. Now. One story, then. Listen, both of you, listen

well. And don’t

interrupt.