And the Mountains Echoed by Khaled Hosseini Read Free Book Online Page B

shrouded figure, sitting in a corner in stiff silence, shriveled up into a ball. She had sat with her shoulders gathered, feet tucked beneath her swollen belly, like she was trying to disappear into the wall. Her face was shielded from view with a soiled veil. She held a knotted clump of it under her chin. Abdullah could almost see the shame rising from her, like steam, the embarrassment, how small she felt, and he had felt a surprising swell of sympathy for his stepmother.
    Mrs. Wahdati reached for the pack next to the cookie plate and lit herself a cigarette.
    â€œWe took a long detour on the way, and I showed them a little of the city,” Uncle Nabi said.
    â€œGood! Good,” Mrs. Wahdati said. “Have you been to Kabul before, Saboor?”
    Father said, “Once or twice, Bibi Sahib.”
    â€œAnd, may I ask, what is your impression?”
    Father shrugged. “It’s very crowded.”
    â€œYes.”
    Mr. Wahdati picked at a speck of lint on the sleeve of his jacket and looked down at the carpet.
    â€œCrowded, yes, and at times tiresome as well,” his wife said.
    Father nodded as if he understood.
    â€œKabul is an island, really. Some say it’s progressive, and that may be true. It’s true enough, I suppose, but it’s also out of touch with the rest of this country.”
    Father looked down at the skullcap in his hands and blinked.
    â€œDon’t misunderstand me,” she said. “I would wholeheartedly support any progressive agenda coming out of the city. God knows this country could use it. Still, the city is sometimes a little too pleased with itself for my taste. I swear, the pomposity in this place.” She sighed. “It does grow tiresome. I’ve always admired the countryside myself. I have a great fondness for it. The distant provinces, the
qaria
s, the small villages. The
real
Afghanistan, so to speak.”
    Father nodded uncertainly.
    â€œI may not agree with all or even most of the tribal traditions, but it seems to me that, out there, people live more authentic lives. They have a sturdiness about them. A refreshing humility. Hospitality too. And resilience. A sense of pride. Is that the right word, Suleiman?
Pride?
”
    â€œStop it, Nila,” her husband said quietly.
    A dense silence followed. Abdullah watched Mr. Wahdati drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, and his wife, smiling tightly, the pink smudge on the butt end of her cigarette, her feet crossed at the ankles, her elbow resting on the arm of the chair.
    â€œProbably not the right word,” she said, breaking the silence. “
Dignity
, perhaps.” She smiled, revealing teeth that were straightand white. Abdullah had never seen teeth like these. “That’s it. Much better. People in the countryside carry a sense of dignity. They wear it, don’t they? Like a badge? I’m being genuine. I see it in you, Saboor.”
    â€œThank you, Bibi Sahib,” Father muttered, shifting on the couch, still looking down at his skullcap.
    Mrs. Wahdati nodded. She turned her gaze to Pari. “And, may I say, you are so lovely.” Pari nudged closer to Abdullah.
    Slowly, Mrs. Wahdati recited, “Today I have seen the charm, the beauty, the unfathomable grace of the face that I was looking for.” She smiled. “Rumi. Have you heard of him? You’d think he’d composed it just for you, my dear.”
    â€œMrs. Wahdati is an accomplished poet,” Uncle Nabi said.
    Across the room, Mr. Wahdati reached for a cookie, split it in half, and took a small bite.
    â€œNabi is being kind,” Mrs. Wahdati said, casting him a warm glance. Abdullah again caught a flush creeping up Uncle Nabi’s cheeks.
    Mrs. Wahdati crushed her cigarette, giving the butt a series of sharp taps against the ashtray. “Maybe I could take the children somewhere?” she said.
    Mr. Wahdati let out a breath huffily, slapped both palms against the arms of his