Hosseini, Khaled - And the Mountains Echoed by Hosseini Khaled

Author:Hosseini, Khaled [Hosseini, Khaled]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / Literary
ISBN: 9780143188704
Publisher: Riverhead
Published: 2013-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

FROM “AFGHAN SONGBIRD,” AN INTERVIEW WITH

NILA WAHDATI BY ÉTIENNE BOUSTOULER,

Parallaxe 84 (Winter 1974), p. 38

EB: Did you learn your French here?

NW: My mother taught me in Kabul when I was little. She spoke only French to me. We had lessons every day. It was very hard on me when she left Kabul.

EB: For France?

NW: Yes. My parents divorced in 1939 when I was ten. I was my father’s only child. Letting me go with her was out of the question. So I stayed, and she left for Paris to live with her sister, Agnes. My father tried to mitigate the loss for me by occupying me with a private tutor and riding lessons and art lessons. But nothing replaces a mother.

EB: What happened to her?

NW: Oh, she died. When the Nazis came to Paris. They didn’t kill her. They killed Agnes. My mother, she died of pneumonia. My father didn’t tell me until the Allies had liberated Paris, but by then I already knew. I just knew.

EB: That must have been difficult.

NW: It was devastating. I loved my mother. I had planned on living with her in France after the war.

EB: I assume that means your father and you didn’t get along.

NW: There were strains between us. We were quarreling. Quite a lot, which was a novelty for him. He wasn’t accustomed to being talked back to, certainly not by women. We had rows over what I wore, where I went, what I said, how I said it, who I said it to. I had turned bold and adventurous, and he even more ascetic and emotionally austere. We had become natural opponents.

She chuckles, and tightens the bandanna’s knot at the back of her head.

NW: And then I took to falling in love. Often, desperately, and, to my father’s horror, with the wrong sort. A housekeeper’s son once, another time a low-level civil servant who handled some business affairs for my father. Foolhardy, wayward passions, all of them doomed from the start. I arranged clandestine rendezvous and slipped away from home, and, of course, someone would inform my father that I’d been spotted on the streets somewhere. They would tell him that I was cavorting—they always put it like that—I was “cavorting.” Or else they would say I was “parading” myself. My father would have to send a search party to bring me back. He would lock me up. For days. He would say from the other side of the door, You humiliate me. Why do you humiliate me so? What will I do about you? And sometimes he answered that question with his belt, or a closed fist. He’d chase me around the room. I suppose he thought he could terrorize me into submission. I wrote a great deal at that time, long, scandalous poems dripping with adolescent passion. Rather melodramatic and histrionic as well, I fear. Caged birds and shackled lovers, that sort of thing. I am not proud of them.

I sense that false modesty is not her suit and therefore can assume only that this is her honest assessment of these early writings.

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