Page 87 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

I washed the soiled diapers I pinned on him. In that time, we had developed

between us an unspoken language born of familiarity and routine, and,
inevitably, a degree of previously unthinkable informality had seeped into our
relationship.
Once I got him to agree to the wheelchair, the old ritual of morning strolls
was restored. I wheeled him out of the house, and we would go down the street
and say hello to the neighbors as we passed by. One of them was Mr. Bashiri, a
young, recent graduate of Kabul University who worked for the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs. He, his brother, and their respective wives had moved into a big
two-story home three houses down across the street from us. Sometimes we ran
into him as he was warming up his car in the morning to go to work, and I
always stopped for a few pleasantries. I often wheeled Suleiman over to Shar-e-
Nau Park, where we sat in the shade of the elms and watched the traffic—the
taxi drivers pounding palms against horns, the ding-a-ding of bicycles, donkeys
braying, pedestrians suicidally stepping into the path of buses. We became a

familiar sight, Suleiman and I, in and around the park. On the way home, we
paused often for good-humored exchanges with magazine vendors and butchers,
a few cheerful words with the young policemen directing traffic. We chatted up
drivers leaning against their fenders, waiting for pickups.
Sometimes I lowered him into the backseat of the old Chevrolet, stowed the
wheelchair in the trunk, and drove out to Paghman, where I could always find a
pretty green field and a bubbling little stream shaded by trees. He tried his hand
at sketching after we ate lunch, but it was a struggle, for the stroke had affected
his dominant right hand. Still, using his left hand, he managed to recreate trees
and hills and bundles of wildflowers with far greater artistry than I could with

my intact faculties. Eventually, Suleiman would tire and doze off, the pencil
slipping from his hand. I would cover his legs with a blanket and lie on the grass
beside his chair. I would listen to the breeze catching the trees, gaze up at the
sky, the strips of clouds gliding overhead.
Sooner or later, I would find my thoughts drifting to Nila, who was an entire
continent away from me now. I would picture the soft sheen of her hair, the way
she bounced her foot, the sandal slapping her heel to the crackle of a burning
cigarette. I thought of the curve of her back and the swell of her chest. I longed
to be near her again, to be engulfed in her smell, to feel the old familiar flutter of
the heart when she touched my hand. She had promised to write me, and though
years had passed and in all likelihood she had forgotten me, I cannot lie now and
claim I did not still feel an upsurge of anticipation each time we received
correspondence at the house.