And the Mountains Echoed

hypersexual beings who must be restrained lest they jump into bed with every Ahmad and Mahmood.
    EB: But—forgive me for saying this—you did just that, no?
    NW: Only as a protest against that very notion.
    She has a delightful laugh, full of mischief and cunning intelligence. She asks if I want lunch. She says her daughter has recently restocked her refrigerator and proceeds to make what turns out to be an excellent
jambon fumé
sandwich. She makes only one. For herself, she uncorks a new bottle of wine and lights another cigarette. She sits down.
    NW: Do you agree, for the sake of this chat, that we should remain on good terms, Monsieur Boustouler?
    I tell her I do.
    NW: Then do me two favors. Eat your sandwich and quit looking at my glass.
    Needless to say, this preemptively quells any impulse I may have had to ask about the drinking.
    EB: What happened next?
    NW: I fell ill in 1948, when I was nearly nineteen. It was serious, and I will leave it at that. My father took me to Delhi for treatment. He stayed with me for six weeks while doctors tended to me. I was told I could have died. Perhaps I should have. Dying can be quite the career move for a young poet. When we returned, I was frail and withdrawn. I couldn’t be bothered with writing. I had little interest in food or conversation or entertainment. I was averse to visitors. I just wanted to pull the curtains and sleep all day every day. Which was what I did mostly. Eventually, I got out of bed and slowly resumed my daily routines, by which I mean the stringent essentials a person must tend to in order to remain functional and nominally civil. But I felt diminished. Like I had left something vital of myself behind in India.
    EB: Was your father concerned?
    NW: Quite the contrary. He was encouraged. He thought that my encounter with mortality had shaken me out of my immaturity and waywardness. He didn’t understand that I felt lost. I’ve read, Monsieur Boustouler, that if an avalanche buries you and you’re lying there underneath all that snow, you can’t tell which way is up or down. You want to dig yourself out but pick the wrong way, and you dig yourself to your own demise. That was how I felt, disoriented, suspended in confusion, stripped of my compass. Unspeakably depressed as well. And, in that state, you are vulnerable. Which is likely why I said yes the following year, in 1949, when Suleiman Wahdati asked my father for my hand.
    EB: You were twenty.
    NW: He was not.
    She offers me another sandwich, which I decline, and a cup of coffee, which I accept. As she sets water on to boil, she asks if I am married. I tell her I am not and that I doubt I ever will be. She looks at me over her shoulder, her gaze lingering, and grins.
    NW: Ah. I can usually tell.
    EB: Surprise!
    NW: Maybe it’s the concussion.
    She points to the bandanna.
    NW: This isn’t a fashion statement. I slipped and fell a couple of days ago, tore my forehead open. Still, I should have known. About you, I mean. In my experience, men who understand women as well as you seem to rarely want to have anything to do with them.
    She gives me the coffee, lights a cigarette, and takes a seat.
    NW: I have a theory about marriage, Monsieur Boustouler. And it’s that nearly always you will know within two weeks if it’s going to work. It’s astonishing how many people remain shackled for years, decades even, in a protracted and mutual state of self-delusion and false hope when in fact they had their answer in those first two weeks. Me, I didn’t even need that long. My husband was a decent man. But he was much too serious, aloof, and uninteresting. Also, he was in love with the chauffeur.
    EB: Ah. That must have come as a shock.
    NW: Well, it did thicken the proverbial plot.
    She smiles a little sadly.
    NW: I felt sorry for him, mostly. He could not have chosen a worse time or worse place to be born the way he was.
    He died of a stroke when our daughter was six. At that point, I could have stayed in Kabul. I had the house and my husband’s wealth. There was a gardener and the aforementioned chauffeur. It would have been a comfortable life. But I packed our bags and moved us, Pari and me, to France.
    EB: Which, as you indicated earlier, you did for her benefit.
    NW: Everything I’ve done, Monsieur Boustouler, I’ve done for my daughter. Not that she understands, or appreciates, the full measure of what I’ve done for her. She can be