Page 77 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

sought a measure of penance in the hardship of the journey. Or perhaps it was

Saboor’s pride, and he would not ride in the car of the man who was buying his
daughter. But, in the end, there they were, the three of them, coated in dust,
waiting, as agreed, near the mosque. As I drove them to the Wahdati home, I did
my best to seem cheerful for the children’s benefit, the children who were
oblivious to their fate—and to the terrible scene that would soon unfold.
There is little point in recounting it in detail, Mr. Markos, the scene that did
unfold precisely as I had feared. But all these years later, I still feel my heart
clench when the memory of it forces its way to the fore. How could it not? I took
those two helpless children, in whom love of the simplest and purest kind had
found expression, and I tore one from the other. I will never forget the sudden
emotional mayhem. Pari slung over my shoulder, panic-stricken, kicking her
legs, shrieking, Abollah! Abollah! as I whisked her away. Abdullah, screaming
his sister’s name, trying to fight past his father. Nila, wide-eyed, her mouth
covered with both hands, perhaps to silence her own scream. It weighs on me.

All this time has passed, Mr. Markos, and it still weighs on me.

Pari was nearly four years old at the time, but, despite her young age,

there were forces in her life that needed to be reshaped. She was instructed not to
call me Kaka Nabi any longer, for instance, but simply Nabi. And her mistakes
were gently corrected, by me included, over and over until she came to believe
that we bore no relation to each other. I became for her Nabi the cook and Nabi
the driver. Nila became “Maman,” and Mr. Wahdati “Papa.” Nila set about
teaching her French, which had been her own mother’s tongue.
Mr. Wahdati’s chilly reception of Pari lasted only a brief time before, perhaps
to his own surprise, little Pari’s tearful anxiety and homesickness disarmed him.
Soon, Pari joined us on our morning strolls. Mr. Wahdati lowered her into a
stroller and pushed her around the neighborhood as we walked. Or else he sat
her up on his lap behind the wheel of the car and smiled patiently while she
pushed the horn. He hired a carpenter and had him build a three-drawer trundle
bed for Pari, a maple chest for toys, and a small, short armoire. He had all the

furniture in Pari’s room painted yellow since he had discovered this was her
favorite color. And I found him one day sitting cross-legged before the armoire,
Pari at his side, as he painted, with rather remarkable skill, giraffes and long-
tailed monkeys over its doors. It should speak volumes about his private nature,