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

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 chair, and made as if to get up, though he didn’t.
    â€œI’ll take them to the bazaar,” Mrs. Wahdati said to Father now. “If that’s all right with you, Saboor. Nabi will drive us. Suleiman can show you to the work site out back. So you can see it for yourself.”
    Father nodded.
    Mr. Wahdati’s eyes slowly fell shut.
    They got up to go.
    Suddenly, Abdullah wished Father would thank these people for their cookies and tea, take his hand and Pari’s, and leave this house and its paintings and drapes and overstuffed luxury and comfort. They could refill their water bag, buy bread and a few boiled eggs, and go back the way they had come. Back through the desert, the boulders, the hills, Father telling them stories. They would take turns pulling Pari in the wagon. And in two, maybe three, days’ time, though there would be dust in their lungs and tiredness in their limbs, they would be back in Shadbagh again. Shuja would see them coming and he would hurry over, prance circles around Pari. They would be home.
    Father said, “Go on, children.”
    Abdullah took a step forward, meaning to say something, but then Uncle Nabi’s thick hand was on his shoulder, turning him around, Uncle Nabi leading him down the hallway, saying, “Wait ’til you see the bazaars in this place. You’ve not seen the likes of it, you two.”
    Mrs. Wahdati sat in the backseat with them, the air filled with the thick weight of her perfume and something Abdullah didn’t recognize, something sweet, a little pungent. She peppered them with questions as Uncle Nabi drove. Who were their friends? Did they go to school? Questions about their chores, their neighbors, games they played. The sun fell on the right half of her face. Abdullah could see the fuzzy little hairs on her cheek and the faint line below her jaw where the makeup ended.
    â€œI have a dog,” Pari said.
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œHe’s quite the specimen,” Uncle Nabi said from the front seat.
    â€œHis name is Shuja. He knows when I’m sad.”
    â€œDogs are like that,” Mrs. Wahdati said. “They’re better at it than some people I’ve come across.”
    They drove past a trio of schoolgirls skipping down the sidewalk. They wore black uniforms with white scarves tied under their chins.
    â€œI know what I said earlier, but Kabul