one sunday that september, laila is putting zalmai, who hasa cold, down for a nap when tariq bursts into their bungalow.

"did you hear?" he says, panting a little. "they killed him.

ahmad shah massoud. he's dead.""what?"from the doorway, tariq tells her what he knows.

"they say he gave an interview to a pair of journalists whoclaimed they were belgians originally from morocco. as they'retalking, a bomb hidden in the video camera goes off. killsmassoud and one of the journalists. they shoot the other oneas he tries to run. they're saying now the journalists wereprobably al-qaeda men."laila remembers the poster of ahmad shah massoud thatmammy had nailed to the wall of her bedroom. massoudleaning forward, one eyebrow cocked, his face furrowed inconcentration, as though he was respectfully listening tosomeone. laila remembers how grateful mammy was thatmassoud had said a graveside prayer at her sons' burial, howshe told everyone about it. even after war broke out betweenhis faction and the others, mammy had refused to blamehim.he's a good man, she used to say.

he wants peace. he wants to rebuild afghanistan. but theywon 't let him. they just won 't let him.for mammy, even inthe end, even after everything went so terribly wrong andkabul lay in ruins, massoud was still the lion of panjshir.

laila is not as forgiving- massoud's violent end brings her nojoy, but she remembers too well the neighborhoods razedunder his watch, the bodies dragged from the rubble, thehands and feet of children discovered on rooftops or the highbranch of some tree days after their funeral she rememberstoo clearly the look on mammy's own face moments before therocket slammed in and, much as she has tried to forget, babi'sheadless torso landing nearby, the bridge tower printed on hist-shirt poking through thick fog and blood.

"there is going to be a funeral," tariq is saying. "i'm sure ofit. probably in rawalpindi. it'll be huge."zalmai, who was almost asleep, is sitting up now, rubbing hiseyes with balled fists.

two days later, they are cleaning a room when they hear acommotion. tariq drops the mop and hurries out. laila tailshim.

thenoise is coming from the hotel lobby. there is a loungearea to the right of the reception desk, with several chairs andtwo couches upholstered in beige suede. in the corner, facingthe couches, is a television, and sayeed, the concierge, andseveral guests are gathered in front of.

laila and tariq work their way in.

the tv is tuned to bbc. on the screen is a building, atower, black smoke billowing from its top floors. tariq sayssomething to sayeed and sayeed is in midreply when a planeappears from the corner of the screen. it crashes into theadjacent tower, exploding into a fireball that dwarfs any ball offire that laila has ever seen. a collective yelp rises fromeveryone in the lobby.

in less than two hours, both towers have collapsedsoon all the tv stations are talking about afghanistan and thetaliban and osama bin laden.

* * *"did you hear what the taliban said?" tariq asks. "about binladen?"aziza is sitting across from him on the bed, considering theboard. tariq has taught her to play chess. she is frowning andtapping her lower lip now, mimicking the body language herfather assumes when he's deciding on a move.

zalmai's cold is a little better. he is asleep, and laila isrubbing vicks on his chest.

"i heard," she says.

the taliban have announced that they won't relinquish binladen because he is amehman, a guest, who has foundsanctuary in afghanistan and it is against thepashiunwali codeof ethics to turn over a guest. tariq chuckles bitterly, and lailahears in his chuckle that he is revolted by this distortion of anhonorable pashtun custom, this misrepresentation of his people'sways.

a few days after the attacks, laila and tariq are in the hotellobby again. on the tv screen, george w. bush is speaking.

there is a big american flag behind him. at one point, hisvoice wavers, and laila thinks he is going to weep.

sayeed, who speaks english, explains to them that bush hasjust declared war.

"on whom?" says tariq.

"on your country, to begin with."* * *"it may not be such a bad thing," tariq says.

they have finished making love. he's lying beside her, hishead on her chest, his arm draped over her belly. the firstfew times they tried, there was difficulty. tariq was all apologies,laila all reassurances. there are still difficulties, not physicalnow but logistical. the shack they share with the children issmall. the children sleep on cots below them and so there islittle privacy. most times, laila and tariq make love in silence,with controlled, muted passion, fully clothed beneath the blanketas a precaution against interruptions by the children. they areforever wary of the rustling sheets, the creaking bedsprings. butfor laila, being with tariq is worth weathering theseapprehensions. when they make love, laila feels anchored, shefeels sheltered. her anxieties, that their life together is atemporary blessing, that soon it will come loose again in stripsand tatters, are allayed. her fears of separation vanish.

"what do you mean?" she says now.

"what's going on back home. it may not be so bad in theend."back home, bombs are falling once again, this time americanbombs-laila has been watching images of the war every dayon the television as she changes sheets and vacuums. theamericans have armed the warlords once more, and enlistedthe help of the northern alliance to drive out the taliban andfind bin laden.

but it rankles laila, what tariq is saying. shepushes his headroughly off her chest.

"not so bad? people dying? women, children, old people?

homes destroyed again? not so bad?""shh.you'll wake the children.""how can you say that, tariq?" she snaps. "after the so-calledblunder in karam? a hundred innocent people! you saw thebodies for yourself!""no," tariq says. he props himself up on his elbow, looksdown at laila. "you misunderstand. what i meant was-""you wouldn't know," laila says. she is aware that her voiceis rising, that they are having their first fight as husband andwife. "you left when the mujahideen began fighting, remember?

i'm the one who stayed behind. me. iknow war.i lost myparents to war. myparents, tariq. and now to hear you saythat war is not so bad?""i'm sorry, laila. i'm sorry." he cups her face in his hands.

"you're right. i'm sorry. forgive me. what i meant wasthat maybe there will be hope at the other end of this war,that maybe for the first time in a long time-""i don't want to talk about this anymore," laila says, surprisedat how she has lashed out at him. it's unfair, she knows, whatshe said to him-hadn't war taken his parents too?-andwhatever flared in her is softening already. tariq continues tospeak gently, and, when he pulls her to him, she lets him.

when he kisses her hand, then her brow, she lets him. sheknows that he is probably right. she knows how his commentwas intended. maybe thisis necessary. maybe theremil be hopewhen bush's bombs stop falling. but she cannot bring herselfto say it, not when what happened to babi and mammy ishappening to someone now in afghanistan, not when someunsuspecting girl or boy back home has just been orphanedby a rocket as she was. laila cannot bring herself to say it.

it's hard to rejoice. it seems hypocritical, perverse.

that night, zalmai wakes up coughing. before laila can move,tariq swings his legs over the side of the bed. he straps onhis prosthesis and walks over to zalmai, lifts him up into hisarms. from the bed, laila watches tariq's shape moving backand forth in the darkness. she sees the outline of zalmai'shead on his shoulder, the knot of his hands at tariq's neck,his small feet bouncing by tariq's hip.

when tariq comes back to bed, neither of them saysanything. laila reaches over and touches his face. tariq'scheeks are wet.