And the Mountains Echoed by Khaled Hosseini, Hosseini Read Free Book Online

thick scarves and heavy coats, a river flowing foamily behind them. In another picture, Mrs. Wahdati, holding a glass, laughing, her bare arm around the waist of a man who, unthinkably to Abdullah, was not Mr. Wahdati. There was a wedding photo as well, he tall and trim in a black suit, she in a flowing white dress, both of them smiling with their mouths closed.
    Abdullah stole a glance at her, at her thin waist, her small, pretty mouth and perfectly arched eyebrows, her pink toenails and matching lipstick. He remembered her now from a couple of years earlier, when Pari was almost two. Uncle Nabi had brought her toShadbagh because she had said she wanted to meet his family. She had worn a peach dress without sleeves—he remembered the look of astonishment on Father’s face—and dark sunglasses with thick white rims. She smiled the whole time, asking questions about the village, their lives, asking after the children’s names and ages. She acted like she belonged there in their low-ceilinged mud house, her back against a wall black with soot, sitting next to the flyspecked window and the cloudy plastic sheet that separated the main room from the kitchen, where Abdullah and Pari also slept. She had made a show of the visit, insisting on taking off her high-heeled shoes at the door, choosing the floor when Father had sensibly offered her a chair. Like she was one of them. He was only eight then, but Abdullah had seen through it.
    What Abdullah remembered most about the visit was how Parwana—who had been pregnant with Iqbal then—had remained a 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