Page 81 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

much to the disgust of the mother-in-law, who doubtless expected—and, really,

who could blame her?—Nila to remain at her son’s side, at least for the sake of
appearances if nothing else. Of course Nila cared nothing about appearances or
what might be said about her. And plenty was. “What sort of wife is this?” I
heard the mother-in-law exclaim more than once. She complained to anyone
who would listen that Nila was heartless, that she had a gaping hole in her soul.
Where was she now that her husband needed her? What sort of wife abandoned
her loyal, loving husband?
Some of what the old woman said, of course, was accurate. Indeed, it was I
who could be found most reliably at Mr. Wahdati’s bedside, I who gave him his
pills and greeted those who entered the room. It was me to whom the doctor
spoke most often, and therefore it was me, and not Nila, whom people asked
about Mr. Wahdati’s condition.

Mr. Wahdati’s dismissal of visitors relieved Nila of one discomfort but
presented her with another. By holing up in Pari’s room and closing the door,
she had kept herself at a remove not only from the disagreeable mother-in-law
but also from the mess that her husband had become. Now the house was vacant,
and she faced spousal duties for which she was uniquely ill suited.
She couldn’t do it.
And she didn’t.

I am not saying she was cruel or callous. I have lived a long time, Mr.
Markos, and one thing I have come to see is that one is well served by a degree
of both humility and charity when judging the inner workings of another
person’s heart. What I am saying is that I walked into Mr. Wahdati’s room one
day and found Nila sobbing into his belly, a spoon still in her hand, as pureed
lentil daal dripped from his chin onto the bib tied around his neck.
“Let me, Bibi Sahib,” I said gently. I took the spoon from her, wiped his
mouth clean, and went to feed him, but he moaned, squeezed his eyes shut, and
turned his face.

It was not long after that I was lugging a pair of suitcases down the stairs and
handing them to a driver, who stowed them in the trunk of his idling car. I
helped Pari, who was wearing her favorite yellow coat, climb into the backseat.
“Nabi, will you bring Papa and visit us in Paris like Maman said?” she asked,
giving me her gap-toothed smile.
I told her I certainly would when her father felt better. I kissed the back of

each of her little hands. “Bibi Pari, I wish you luck and I wish you happiness,” I
said.
I met Nila as she came down the front steps with puffy eyes and smudged