Page 196 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

wearing the last time my father saw him.”

Adel blinked.
Gholam flicked his gaze to the coat. It was a cutting, punishing look, meant to
inflict shame. It worked. Adel shrunk. In his hand, he felt the coat shifting,
transforming from peace offering to bribe.
Gholam spun around and hurried back toward the road in brisk, busy steps.

The evening of the same day that he returned, Baba jan threw a party
at the house. Adel was sitting now beside his father at the head of the big cloth
that had been spread on the floor for the meal. Baba jan sometimes preferred to
sit on the ground and to eat with his fingers, especially if he was seeing friends
from his jihadi years. Reminds me of the cave days, he joked. The women were
eating at the table in the dining room with spoons and forks, Adel’s mother

seated at the head. Adel could hear their chatter echoing off the marble walls.
One of them, a thick-hipped woman with long hair dyed red, was engaged to be
married to one of Baba jan’s friends. Earlier in the evening, she had shown
Adel’s mother pictures on her digital camera of the bridal shop they had visited
in Dubai.
Over tea after the meal, Baba jan told a story about the time his unit had
ambushed a Soviet column to stop it from entering a valley up north. Everyone
listened closely.
“When they entered the kill zone,” Baba jan said, one hand absently stroking
Adel’s hair, “we opened fire. We hit the lead vehicle, then a few jeeps. I thought
they would back out or try to plow through. But the sons of whores stopped,

dismounted, and engaged us in gunfire. Can you believe it?”
A murmur spread around the room. Heads shook. Adel knew that at least half
the men in the room were former Mujahideen.
“We outnumbered them, maybe three to one, but they had heavy weaponry
and it wasn’t long before they were attacking us! Attacking our positions in the
orchards. Soon, everybody was scattered. We ran for it. Me and this guy,
Mohammad something or other, we ran together. We’re running side by side in a

field of grapevines, not the kind on posts and wires but the kind that people let
grow out on the ground. Bullets are flying everywhere and we’re running for our
lives, and suddenly we both trip and go down. In a second flat, I’m back up on
my feet running, but there’s no sign of this Mohammad something or other. I