Free The Patience Stone by Atiq Rahimi

you—why are you here?”
    “To work. I need to earn my living, so I can feed my two kids.”
    “And what do you do for work?”
    The woman looks him straight in the eye, and says it: “I earn my living by the sweat of my body.”
    “What?” he asks, confused.
    The woman replies, her voice shameless: “I sell my body.”
    “What bullshit is this?”
    “I sell my body, as you sell your blood.”
    “What are you on about?”
    “I sell my body for the pleasure of men!”
    Overcome with rage, the man spits, “
Allah, Al-Rahman! Al-Mu’min!
Protect me!”
    “Against who?”
    The cigarette smoke spews out of the man’s mouth as he continues to invoke his God, “In the name of Allah!” to drive away the devil, “Protect me from Satan!”then takes another huge drag to belch out alongside words of fury, “But aren’t you ashamed to say this?!”
    “To say it, or to do it?”
    “Are you a Muslim, or aren’t you?”
    “I’m a Muslim.”
    “You will be stoned to death! You’ll be burned alive in the flames of hell!”
    He stands up and recites a long verse from the Koran. The woman is still sitting. Her gaze is scornful. Defiantly, she looks him up and down, from head to foot, and foot to head. He is spitting. The smoke of his cigarette veils the fury of his beard, the blackness of his eyes. He moves forward with a dark look. Pointing his gun at the woman, he bawls, “I’m going to kill you, whore!” The barrel sits on her belly. “I’m going to explode your filthy cunt! Dirty whore! Devil!” He spits on her face. The woman doesn’t move. She scoffs at the man. Impassive, she seems to be daring him to shoot.
    The man clenches his teeth, gives a great yell, and leaves the house.
    The woman remains motionless until she hears the man reach the courtyard, and call out to the other,“Come on, we’re getting out of here. This is an ungodly house!” Until she hears the flight of their footsteps down the muddy road.
    She closes her eyes, sighs, breathes out the smoky air she has been holding in her lungs for a long time. A triumphant smile flickers across her dry lips. After a long gaze at the green curtain, she unfolds her body and moves over to her man. “Forgive me!” she whispers. “I had to tell him that—otherwise, he would have raped me.” She is shaken by a sarcastic laugh. “For men like him, to fuck or rape a whore is not an achievement. Putting his filth into a hole that has already served hundreds before him does not engender the slightest masculine pride. Isn’t that right, my
sang-e saboor
? You should know. Men like him are afraid of whores. And do you know why? I’ll tell you, my
sang-e saboor
: when you fuck a whore, you don’t dominate her body. It’s a matter of exchange. You give her money, and she gives you pleasure. And I can tell you that often she’s the dominant one. It’s she who is fucking you.” The woman calms down. Her voice serene, she continues, “So, raping a whore is not rape. But raping a young girl’s virginity, a woman’s honor! Now that’s your creed!” She stops, leaving a longmoment of silence for her man—if he can, and she hopes he can—to think about her words.
    “Don’t you agree, my
sang-e saboor
?” she continues. She approaches the curtain, moving aside some of the mattresses concealing the hiding place. She looks deep into her man’s glassy eyes, and says, “I do hope you’re managing to grasp and absorb everything I’m telling you, my
sang-e saboor
.” Her head is poking slightly through the curtain. “Perhaps you’re wondering where I could have picked all this up! Oh my
sang-e saboor
, I’ve still so much to tell you …” She moves back. “Things that have been stored up inside me for a while now. We’ve never had the chance to discuss them. Or—let’s be honest—you’ve never given me the chance.” She pauses, for one breath, asking herself where and how she should start. But the mullah’s cry, calling the faithful to