the cabinet, the clock ticked on and on.
“Jalil jo?” one of the women said at last.
Jalil’s eyes lifted slowly, met Mariam’s, lingered for a moment, then dropped. He opened his mouth, but all that came forth
was a single, pained groan.
“Say something,” Mariam said.
Then Jalil did, in a thin, threadbare voice. “Goddamn it, Mariam, don’t do this to me,” he said as though he was the one to
whom something was being done.
And, with that, Mariam felt the tension vanish from the room.
As Jalil’s wives began a new—and more sprightly—round of reassuring, Mariam looked down at the table. Her eyes traced the
sleek shape of the table’s legs, the sinuous curves of its corners, the gleam of its reflective, dark brown surface. She noticed
that every time she breathed out, the surface fogged, and she disappeared from her father’s table.
Afsoon escorted her back to the room upstairs. When Afsoon closed the door, Mariam heard the rattling of a key as it turned
in the lock.
8.
I n the morning, Mariam was given a long-sleeved, dark green dress to wear over white cotton trousers. Afsoon gave her
a green hijab and a pair of matching sandals.
She was taken to the room with the long, brown table, except now there was a bowl of sugar-coated almond candy in the middle
of the table, a Koran, a green veil, and a mirror. Two men Mariam had never seen before—witnesses, she presumed—and a mullah
she did not recognize were already seated at the table.
Jalil showed her to a chair. He was wearing a light brown suit and a red tie. His hair was washed. When he pulled out the
chair for her, he tried to smile encouragingly. Khadija and Afsoon sat on Mariam’s side of the table this time.
The mullah motioned toward the veil, and Nargis arranged it on Mariam’s head before taking a seat.
Mariam looked down at her hands.
“You can call him in now,” Jalil said to someone.
Mariam smelled him before she saw him. Cigarette smoke and thick, sweet cologne, not faint like Jalil’s. The scent of it flooded
Mariam’s nostrils. Through the veil, from the corner of her eye, Mariam saw a tall man, thick-bellied and broad-shouldered,
stooping in the doorway. The size of him almost made her gasp, and she had to drop her gaze, her heart hammering away. She
sensed him lingering in the doorway. Then his slow, heavy-footed movement across the room. The candy bowl on the table clinked
in tune with his steps. With a thick grunt, he dropped on a chair beside her. He breathed noisily.
The mullah welcomed them. He said this would not be a traditional nikka.
“I understand that Rasheed agha has tickets for the bus to Kabul that leaves shortly. So, in the interest of time, we will bypass some of the traditional
steps to speed up the proceedings.”
The mullah gave a few blessings, said a few words about the importance of marriage. He asked Jalil if he had any objections
to this union, and Jalil shook his head. Then the mullah asked Rasheed if he indeed wished to enter into a marriage contract
with Mariam. Rasheed said, “Yes.” His harsh, raspy voice reminded Mariam of the sound of dry autumn leaves crushed underfoot.
“And do you, Mariam jan, accept this man as your husband?”
Mariam stayed quiet. Throats were cleared.
“She does,” a female voice said from down the table.
“Actually,” the mullah said, “she herself has to answer.
And she should wait until I ask three times. The point is, he’s seeking her, not the other way around.”
He asked the question two more times. When Mariam didn’t answer, he asked it once more, this time more forcefully. Mariam
could feel Jalil beside her shifting on his seat, could sense feet crossing and uncrossing beneath the table. There was more
throat clearing. A small, white hand reached out and flicked a bit of dust off the table.
“Mariam,” Jalil whispered.
“Yes,” she said shakily.
A mirror was passed beneath the veil. In it, Mariam
“Jalil jo?” one of the women said at last.
Jalil’s eyes lifted slowly, met Mariam’s, lingered for a moment, then dropped. He opened his mouth, but all that came forth
was a single, pained groan.
“Say something,” Mariam said.
Then Jalil did, in a thin, threadbare voice. “Goddamn it, Mariam, don’t do this to me,” he said as though he was the one to
whom something was being done.
And, with that, Mariam felt the tension vanish from the room.
As Jalil’s wives began a new—and more sprightly—round of reassuring, Mariam looked down at the table. Her eyes traced the
sleek shape of the table’s legs, the sinuous curves of its corners, the gleam of its reflective, dark brown surface. She noticed
that every time she breathed out, the surface fogged, and she disappeared from her father’s table.
Afsoon escorted her back to the room upstairs. When Afsoon closed the door, Mariam heard the rattling of a key as it turned
in the lock.
8.
I n the morning, Mariam was given a long-sleeved, dark green dress to wear over white cotton trousers. Afsoon gave her
a green hijab and a pair of matching sandals.
She was taken to the room with the long, brown table, except now there was a bowl of sugar-coated almond candy in the middle
of the table, a Koran, a green veil, and a mirror. Two men Mariam had never seen before—witnesses, she presumed—and a mullah
she did not recognize were already seated at the table.
Jalil showed her to a chair. He was wearing a light brown suit and a red tie. His hair was washed. When he pulled out the
chair for her, he tried to smile encouragingly. Khadija and Afsoon sat on Mariam’s side of the table this time.
The mullah motioned toward the veil, and Nargis arranged it on Mariam’s head before taking a seat.
Mariam looked down at her hands.
“You can call him in now,” Jalil said to someone.
Mariam smelled him before she saw him. Cigarette smoke and thick, sweet cologne, not faint like Jalil’s. The scent of it flooded
Mariam’s nostrils. Through the veil, from the corner of her eye, Mariam saw a tall man, thick-bellied and broad-shouldered,
stooping in the doorway. The size of him almost made her gasp, and she had to drop her gaze, her heart hammering away. She
sensed him lingering in the doorway. Then his slow, heavy-footed movement across the room. The candy bowl on the table clinked
in tune with his steps. With a thick grunt, he dropped on a chair beside her. He breathed noisily.
The mullah welcomed them. He said this would not be a traditional nikka.
“I understand that Rasheed agha has tickets for the bus to Kabul that leaves shortly. So, in the interest of time, we will bypass some of the traditional
steps to speed up the proceedings.”
The mullah gave a few blessings, said a few words about the importance of marriage. He asked Jalil if he had any objections
to this union, and Jalil shook his head. Then the mullah asked Rasheed if he indeed wished to enter into a marriage contract
with Mariam. Rasheed said, “Yes.” His harsh, raspy voice reminded Mariam of the sound of dry autumn leaves crushed underfoot.
“And do you, Mariam jan, accept this man as your husband?”
Mariam stayed quiet. Throats were cleared.
“She does,” a female voice said from down the table.
“Actually,” the mullah said, “she herself has to answer.
And she should wait until I ask three times. The point is, he’s seeking her, not the other way around.”
He asked the question two more times. When Mariam didn’t answer, he asked it once more, this time more forcefully. Mariam
could feel Jalil beside her shifting on his seat, could sense feet crossing and uncrossing beneath the table. There was more
throat clearing. A small, white hand reached out and flicked a bit of dust off the table.
“Mariam,” Jalil whispered.
“Yes,” she said shakily.
A mirror was passed beneath the veil. In it, Mariam
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