Free A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini Page A

then put the spoon into his mouth.
    “It’s good,” he said. “A little undersalted but good.
    Maybe better than good, even.”
    Relieved, Mariam looked on as he ate. A flare of pride caught her off guard. She had done well — maybe better than good, even— and it surprised her, this thrill she felt over his small compliment. The day’s earlier unpleasantness receded a bit.
    “Tomorrow is Friday,” Rasheed said. “What do you say I show you around?”
    “Around Kabul?”
    “No. Calcutta.”
    Mariam blinked.
    “It’s a joke. Of course Kabul. Where else?” He reached into the brown paper bag. “But first, something I have to tell you.”
    He fished a sky blue burqa from the bag. The yards of pleated cloth spilled over his knees when he lifted it. He rolled up
     the burqa, looked at Mariam.
    “I have customers, Mariam, men, who bring their wives to my shop. The women come uncovered, they talk to me directly, look
     me in the eye without shame. They wear makeup and skirts that show their knees. Sometimes they even put their feet in front
     of me, the women do, for measurements, and their husbands stand there and watch.
    They allow it. They think nothing of a stranger touching their wives’ bare feet! They think they’re being modern men, intellectuals,
     on account of their education, I suppose. They don’t see that they’re spoiling their own nang and namoos, their honor and pride.”
    He shook his head.
    “Mostly, they live in the richer parts of Kabul. I’ll take you there. You’ll see. But they’re here too, Mariam, in this very
     neighborhood, these soft men. There’s a teacher living down the street, Hakim is his name, and I see his wife Fariba all the
     time walking the streets alone with nothing on her head but a scarf. It embarrasses me, frankly, to see a man who’s lost control
     of his wife.”
    He fixed Mariam with a hard glare.
    “But I’m a different breed of man, Mariam. Where I come from, one wrong look, one improper word, and blood is spilled. Where
     I come from, a woman’s face is her husband’s business only. I want you to remember that. Do you understand?”
    Mariam nodded. When he extended the bag to her, she took it.
    The earlier pleasure over his approval of her cooking had evaporated. In its stead, a sensation of shrinking. This man’s will
     felt to Mariam as imposing and immovable as the Safid-koh mountains looming over Gul Daman.
    Rasheed passed the paper bag to her. “We have an understanding, then. Now, let me have some more of that daal. ”

11.
    M ariam had never before worn a burqa. Rasheed had to help her put it on. The padded headpiece felt tight and heavy on
     her skull, and it was strange seeing the world through a mesh screen. She practiced walking around her room in it and kept
     stepping on the hem and stumbling. The loss of peripheral vision was unnerving, and she did not like the suffocating way the
     pleated cloth kept pressing against her mouth.
    “You’ll get used to it,” Rasheed said. “With time, I bet you’ll even like it.”
    They took a bus to a place Rasheed called the Shar-e-Nau Park, where children pushed each other on swings and slapped volleyballs
     over ragged nets tied to tree trunks. They strolled together and watched boys fly kites, Mariam walking beside Rasheed, tripping
     now and then on the burqa’s hem. For lunch, Rasheed took her to eat in a small kebab house near a mosque he called the Haji
     Yaghoub. The floor was sticky and the air smoky. The walls smelled faintly of raw meat and the music, which Rasheed described
     to her as logari, was loud. The cooks were thin boys who fanned skewers with one hand and swatted gnats with the other. Mariam, who had never
     been inside a restaurant, found it odd at first to sit in a crowded room with so many strangers, 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