madamjbarly one morning the next spring, of 1993, mariam stood bythe living-room window and watched rasheed escort the girlout of the house. the girl was tottering forward, bent at thewaist, one arm draped protectively across the taut drum of herbelly, the shape of which was visible through her burqa.

rasheed, anxious and overly attentive, was holding her elbow,directing her across the yard like a traffic policeman. he madeawait here gesture, rushed to the front gate, then motioned forthe girl to come forward, one foot propping the gate open.

when she reached him, he took her by the hand, helped herthrough the gate. mariam could almost hear him say,"watchyour step, now, my flower, my gul."they came back early the next evening.

mariam saw rasheed enter the yard first. he let the gate goprematurely, and it almost hit the girl on the face. he crossedthe yard in a few, quick steps. mariam detected a shadow onhis face, a darkness underlying the coppery light of dusk. inthe house, he took off his coat, threw it on the couch.

brushing past mariam, he said in a brusque voice, "i'm hungry.

get supper ready."the front door to the house opened. from the hallway,mariam saw the girl, a swaddled bundle in the hook of her leftarm. she had one foot outside, the other inside, against thedoor, to prevent it from springing shut. she was stooped overand was grunting, trying to reach for the paper bag ofbelongings that she had put down in order to open the door.

herface was grimacing with effort. she looked up and sawmariam.

mariam turned around and went to the kitchen to warmrasheed'smeal.

* * *"irs like someone is ramming a screwdriver into my ear,"rasheed said, rubbing his eyes.he was standing in mariam'sdoor, puffy-eyed, wearing only aiumban tied with a floppyknot.his white hair was straggly, pointing every which way.

"this crying. i can't stand it."downstairs, the girl was walking the baby across the floor,trying to sing to her.

"i haven't had adecent night's sleep in twomonths," rasheedsaid. "and the room smells like a sewer. there'sshit cloths lyingall over the place. i stepped on onejust the other night."mariam smirked inwardly with perverse pleasure.

"take her outside!" rasheed yelled over his shoulder. "can'tyou take her outside?"the singing was suspended briefly."she'll catch pneumonia!""it's summertime!"'what?

rasheed clenched his teeth and raised his voice. "i said, it'swarm out!""i'm not taking her outside!"the singing resumed"sometimes, i swear, sometimes i want to put that thing in abox and let her float down kabul river. like baby moses."mariam never heard him call his daughter by the name thegirl had given her, aziza, the cherished one. it was alwaysthebaby, or, when he was really exasperated,thai thing.

some nights, mariam overheard them arguing. she tiptoed totheir door, listened to him complain about the baby-always thebaby-the insistent crying, the smells, the toys that made himtrip, the way the baby had hijacked laila's attentions from himwith constant demands to be fed, burped, changed, walked,held. the girl, in turn, scolded him for smoking in the room,for not letting the baby sleep with them.

there were other arguments waged in voices pitched low.

"the doctor said six weeks.""not yet, rasheed. no. let go. come on. don't do that.""it's been two months.""sshi.there. you woke up the baby." then moresharply,"khosh shodi? happy now?"mariam would sneak back to her room.

"can't you help?" rasheed said now. "there must besomething you can do.""what do i know about babies?" mariam said.

"rasheed! can you bring the bottle? it's sitting on thealmari.

she won't feed. i want to try the bottle again."the baby's screeching rose and fell like a cleaver on meat.

rasheed closed his eyes. "that thing is a warlord. hekmatyar.

i'm telling you, laila's given birth to gulbuddin hekmatyar."* * *mariam watched as the girl's days became consumed withcycles of feeding, rocking, bouncing, walking. even when thebaby napped, there were soiled diapers to scrub and leave tosoak in a pail of the disinfectant that the girl had insistedrasheed buy for her. there were fingernails to trim withsandpaper, coveralls and pajamas to wash and hang to dry.

these clothes, like other things about the baby, became a pointof contention.

"what's the matter with them?" rasheed said"they're boys' clothes. for abacha""you think she knows the difference? i paid good money forthose clothes. and another thing, i don't care for that tone.

consider that a warning."every week, without fail, the girl heated a black metal brazierover a flame, tossed a pinch of wild rue seeds in it, andwafted theespandi smoke in her baby's direction to ward offevil.

mariam found it exhausting to watch the girl's lollopingenthusiasm-and had to admit, if only privately, to a degree ofadmiration. she marveled at how the girl's eyes shone withworship, even in the mornings when her face drooped and hercomplexion was waxy from a night's worth of walking the baby.

the girl had fits of laughter when the baby passed gas. thetiniest changes in the baby enchanted her, and everything it didwas declared spectacular.

"look! she's reaching for the rattle. how clever she is.""i'll call the newspapers," said rasheed.

every night, there were demonstrations. when the girl insistedhe witness something, rasheed tipped his chin upward and castan impatient, sidelong glance down the blue-veined hook of hisnose.

"watch. watch how she laughs when i snap my fingers.

there. see? did you see?"rasheed would grunt, and go back to his plate. mariamremembered how the girl's mere presence used to overwhelmhim. everything she said used to please him, intrigue him,make him look up from his plate and nod with approval.

the strange thing was, the girl's fall from grace ought to havepleased mariam, brought her a sense of vindication. but itdidn't. it didn't. to her own surprise, mariam found herselfpitying the girl.

it was also over dinner that the girl let loose a steady streamof worries. topping the list was pneumonia, which wassuspected with every minor cough. then there was dysentery,the specter of which was raised with every loose stool. everyrash was either chicken pox or measles.

"you should not get so attached," rasheed said one night.

"what do you mean?""i was listening to the radio the other night. voice of america.

i heard an interesting statistic. they said that in afghanistanone out of four children will die before the age of five. that'swhat they said. now, they-what? what? where are you going?

come back here. get back here this instant!"he gave mariam a bewildered look. "what's the matter withher?"that night, mariam was lying in bed when the bickeringstarted again. it was a hot, dry summer night, typical of themonth ofsaratan in kabul. mariam had opened her window,then shut it when no breeze came through to temper the heat,only mosquitoes. she could feel the heat rising from the groundoutside, through the wheat brown, splintered planks of theouthouse in the yard, up through the walls and into her room.

usually, the bickering ran its course after a few minutes, buthalf an hour passed and not only was it still going on, it wasescalating. mariam could hear rasheed shouting now. the girl'svoice, underneath his, was tentative and shrill. soon the babywas wailing.

then mariam heard their door open violently. in the morning,she would find the doorknob's circular impression in thehallway wall. she was sitting up in bed when her own doorslammed open and rasheed came through.

he was wearing white underpants and a matching undershirt,stained yellow in the underarms with sweat. on his feet hewore flip-flops. he held a belt in his hand, the brown leatherone he'd bought for hisnikka with the girl, and was wrappingthe perforated end around his fist.

"it's your doing. i know it is," he snarled, advancing on her.

mariam slid out of her bed and began backpedaling. herarms instinctively crossed over her chest, where he often struckher first.

"what are you talking about?" she stammered.

"her denying me. you're teaching her to."over the years, mariam had learned to harden herself againsthis scorn and reproach, his ridiculing and reprimanding. butthis fear she had no control over. all these years and still sheshivered with fright when he was like this, sneering, tighteningthe belt around his fist, the creaking of the leather, the glint inhis bloodshot eyes. it was the fear of the goat, released in thetiger's cage, when the tiger first looks up from its paws, beginsto growl-now the girl was in the room, her eyes wide, her facecontorted"i should have known that you'd corrupt her," rasheed spatat mariam. he swung the belt, testing it against his own thigh.

the buckle jingled loudly.

"stop it,basl" the girl said. "rasheed, you can't do this.""go back to the room."mariam backpedaled again.

"no! don't do this!"now!

rasheed raised the belt again and this time came at mariam.

then an astonishing thing happened: the girl lunged at him.

she grabbed his arm with both hands and tried to drag himdown, but she could do no more than dangle from it. she didsucceed in slowing rasheed's progress toward mariam.

"let go!" rasheed cried.

"you win. you win. don't do this. please, rasheed, no beating!

please don't do this."they struggled like this, the girl hanging on, pleading, rasheedtrying to shake her off, keeping his eyes on mariam, who wastoo stunned to do anything.

in the end, mariam knew that there would be no beating, notthat night. he'd made his point. he stayed that way a fewmoments longer, arm raised, chest heaving, a fine sheen ofsweat filming his brow. slowly, rasheed lowered his arm. thegirl's feet touched ground and still she wouldn't let go, as ifshe didn't trust him. he had to yank his arm free of her grip.

"i'm on to you," he said, slinging the belt over his shoulder.

"i'm on to you both. i won't be made anahmaq, a fool, in myown house."he threw mariam one last, murderous stare, and gave the girla shove in the back on the way out.

when she heard their door close, mariam climbed back intobed, buried her head beneath the pillow, and waited for theshaking to stop.

* * *three times that night, mariam was awakened from sleep. thefirst time, it was the rumble of rockets in the west, comingfrom the direction of karteh-char. the second time, it was thebaby crying downstairs, the girl's shushing, the clatter of spoonagainst milk bottle. finally, it was thirst that pulled her out ofbed.

downstairs, the living room was dark, save for a bar ofmoonlight spilling through the window. mariam could hear thebuzzing of a fly somewhere, could make out the outline of thecast-iron stove in the corner, its pipe jutting up, then making asharp angle just below the ceiling.

on her way to the kitchen, mariam nearly tripped oversomething. there was a shape at her feet. when her eyesadjusted, she made out the girl and her baby lying on thefloor on top of a quilt.

the girl was sleeping on her side, snoring. the baby wasawake. mariam lit the kerosene lamp on the table andhunkered down. in the light, she had her first real close-uplook at the baby, the tuft of dark hair, the thick-lashed hazeleyes, the pink cheeks, and lips the color of ripe pomegranate.

mariam had the impression that the baby too was examiningher. she was lying on her back, her head tilted sideways,looking at mariam intently with a mixture of amusement,confusion, and suspicion. mariam wondered if her face mightfrighten her, but then the baby squealed happily and mariamknew that a favorable judgment had been passed on herbehalf.

"shh,"mariam whispered "you'll wake up your mother, halfdeaf as she is."the baby's hand balled into a fist. it rose, fell, found a spasticpath to her mouth. around a mouthful of her own hand, thebaby gave mariam a grin, little bubbles of spittle shining on herlips.

"look at you. what a sorry sight you are, dressed like adamn boy. and all bundled up in this heat. no wonder you'restill awake."mariam pulled the blanket off the baby, was horrified to finda second one beneath, clucked her tongue, and pulled that oneoff too. the baby giggled with relief. she flapped her arms likea bird.

"better,naytas mariam was pulling back, the baby grabbed her pinkie.

the tiny fingers curled themselves tightly around it. they feltwarm and soft, moist with drool.

"gunuh,"the baby said.

"all right, ms; let go."the baby hung on, kicked her legs again.

mariam pulled her finger free. the baby smiled and made aseries of gurgling sounds. the knuckles went back to themouth.

"what are you so happy about? huh? what are you smilingat? you're not so clever as your mother says. you have abrute for a father and a fool for a mother. you wouldn't smileso much if you knew. no you wouldn't. go to sleep, now. goon."mariam rose to her feet and walked a few steps before thebaby started making theeh, eh, eh sounds that mariam knewsignaled the onset of a hearty cry. she retraced her steps.

"what is it? what do you want fromme?"the baby grinned toothlessly.

mariam sighed. she sat down and let her finger be grabbed,looked on as the baby squeaked, as she flexed her plump legsat the hips and kicked air. mariam sat there, watching, untilthe baby stopped moving and began snoring softly.

outside, mockingbirds were singing blithely, and, once in awhile, when the songsters took flight, mariam could see theirwings catching the phosphorescent blue of moonlight beamingthrough the clouds. and though her throat was parched withthirst and her feet burned with pins and needles, it was a longtime before mariam gently freed her finger from the baby's gripand got up.