Page 157 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

NW: This isn’t a fashion statement. I slipped and fell a couple

of days ago, tore my forehead open. Still, I should have
known. About you, I mean. In my experience, men who
understand women as well as you seem to rarely want to have
anything to do with them.

She gives me the coffee, lights a cigarette, and takes a seat.

NW: I have a theory about marriage, Monsieur Boustouler.
And it’s that nearly always you will know within two weeks if
it’s going to work. It’s astonishing how many people remain
shackled for years, decades even, in a protracted and mutual
state of self-delusion and false hope when in fact they had
their answer in those first two weeks. Me, I didn’t even need
that long. My husband was a decent man. But he was much

too serious, aloof, and uninteresting. Also, he was in love with
the chauffeur.

EB: Ah. That must have come as a shock.

NW: Well, it did thicken the proverbial plot.

She smiles a little sadly.

NW: I felt sorry for him, mostly. He could not have chosen a
worse time or worse place to be born the way he was.

He died of a stroke when our daughter was six. At that point,
I could have stayed in Kabul. I had the house and my
husband’s wealth. There was a gardener and the
aforementioned chauffeur. It would have been a comfortable
life. But I packed our bags and moved us, Pari and me, to
France.

EB: Which, as you indicated earlier, you did for her benefit.

NW: Everything I’ve done, Monsieur Boustouler, I’ve done
for my daughter. Not that she understands, or appreciates,