Laila remembered a gathering once, years before at the house, on one of Mammy's good days. The women had been sitting in the garden, eating from a platter of fresh mulberries that Wajma had picked from the tree in her yard. The plump mulberries had been white and pink, and some the same dark purple as the bursts of tiny veins on Wajma's nose.
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"You heard how his son died?" Wajma had said, energetically shoveling another handful of mulberries into her sunken mouth.
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"He drowned, didn't he?" Nila, Giti's mother, said. "At Ghargha Lake, wasn't it?"
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第三十二章
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