The Monsoon War

Prologue The Black Thread In the public square of a small town in Dhofar, three days’ drive away from Green City, a black veil hangs from the end of a lamppost. It flaps in the wind, a flock of crows, the sail of a pirate ship, rippling in the sky as twilight retreats and the black thread of night approaches. The few passersby going home at sunset do a doubletake; at first it looks like the body of a woman suspended in the air. Then they gawk as they realize that there is no woman there. It is as if she has simply climbed to the top of the pole, taken off her clothes, and flown away. Within several hours, town officers come to cut it down and send it to the state lab for analysis. The owner of PART ONE The Wife 1. Alia surveys the items on her pantry shelves, her eyes taking in the bottles, cans, boxes arranged in careful symmetry, according to her meticulous likes and dislikes. A strong smell comes from one of her large pickling jars. Tears prickle her eyes. She hates preparing torshi in her own home; the stench haunts the corners of the house for weeks, getting into their clothes and drapes, the cushions on the chairs. It’s impossible to wash out of her hair or get it off her hands, no matter how many lemons she rubs over her skin until it stings. But her children love the tart, sharp taste of any pickles: radishes, onions, or turnips, they crave them all. When she makes mango torshi with turmeric and saffron, the children dance around her and catch her