Page 86 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

their donkeys, chanting, Cherries! Fresh cherries!

When I told him about this surprise, he asked me what it was. I slid my arm
under his neck and told him we were going downstairs first. In those days, I had
little trouble carrying him for I was still young and able. I lifted him with ease
and carried him to the living room, where I gently reclined him on the sofa.
“Well?” he said.
I pushed in the wheelchair from the foyer. For over a year, I had lobbied for
it, and he had obstinately refused. Now I had taken the initiative and bought one
anyway. Immediately, he was shaking his head.

“Is it the neighbors?” I said. “Are you embarrassed by what people will say?”
He told me to take him back upstairs.
“Well, I don’t give one damn what the neighbors think or say,” I said. “So,
what we are going to do today is go for a walk. It’s a lovely day and we are
going for a walk, you and I, and that is that. Because if we don’t get out of this
house, I am going to lose my mind, and where would that leave you if I went

insane? And honestly, Suleiman, quit your crying. You’re like an old woman.”
Now he was crying and laughing, and still saying, “No! No!” even as I lifted
him and lowered him into the wheelchair, and as I covered him with a blanket
and wheeled him through the front door.
It would merit mentioning here that I did at first search for a replacement for
myself. I did not tell Suleiman I was doing so; I thought it best to find the right
person and then bring the news to him. A number of people came to inquire
about the work. I met with them outside the house so as to not rouse suspicion in
Suleiman. But the search proved far more problematic than I had anticipated.
Some of the candidates were clearly made of the same cloth as Zahid, and those

—whom I sniffed out easily due to my lifelong dealings with their sort—I
dismissed swiftly. Others didn’t have the necessary cooking skills, for, as I
mentioned earlier, Suleiman was a rather fussy eater. Or they could not drive.
Many could not read, which was a serious impediment now that I habitually read
to Suleiman late in the afternoons. Some I found to be impatient, another grave
shortcoming when it came to caring for Suleiman, who could be exasperating
and at times childishly petulant. Others I intuitively judged to lack the necessary
temperament for the arduous task at hand.
And so three years on, I was still at the house, still telling myself I intended to
leave once I felt assured Suleiman’s fate was in hands I could trust. Three years

on, I was still the one washing his body every other day with a wet cloth,
shaving his face, clipping his nails, cutting his hair. I fed him his food and
helped him on the bedpan, and I wiped him clean, the way you do an infant, and