The End of Manners
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Maria Galante and Imo Glass are on assignment in Afghanistan: outgoing Imo to interview girls who have attempted suicide to avoid forced marriage to older men; and shy, perfectionist Maria to photograph them. But in a culture in which women shroud their faces and suicide is a grave taboo, to photograph these women puts everyone in danger. Before the assignment is over, Maria is forced to decide if it's more important to succeed at her work —and please Imo—or to follow her own moral compass. The End of Manners is a story of friendship and loyalty, of the transformative power of journeying outside oneself into the wider world.
single name; for the whole journey I pretended to be reading the Guardian, half listening to their wry comments on what was awaiting us. The redbrick station was in the middle of the countryside—it looked like an idyllic English countryside, all right, with Jersey cows and lots of green. I picked the awaiting Defender at once because he was watching us from a distance and didn’t move forward. He stood next to a brick pylon, a cigarette dangling from his lips, waiting for us to go over to him
noticed a dodgy car was following us.” “Yes, a car I did not like, it would not leave us. I decided we must lose them,” Hanif said. “So Hanif accelerated. We were in his beaten-up Ford, right? And I thought, oh, my God, one of the tires is going to burst any moment. We managed to outstrip them a bit and after a while we came across a truck loaded with people and goats and God knows what else; Hanif made me get out in a flash, barked orders to the chap at the wheel and shoved me up in the back.
nothing new was happening in Milan, work was slow and she was dying to hear my exciting news. There was one from my father giving me an indignant summary of the latest misdeeds of the Italian government and sending me a link for an article in the Guardian about an Afghan film director. The food editor of a weekly magazine was offering me a gig shooting an Easter lunch spread for the April issue of her magazine. She went on at length about the feeling the pictures had to have, suggesting I scatter
the fluids from my body. I drank from a water bottle and handed it to Imo. The water was cold. It tasted wonderful. Imo sighed and fell back on the seat. She looked at me. “Sorry I totally lost it. But you were very cool, Maria.” I smiled. “Have a piece of bread. It’s really good.” I tore off a piece and offered it to her. “Thank you,” she said, then grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard. We looked at one another. “Never again, Imo,” I said. “What?” “Going off like this without
softened. And now the scene had come to me the way dreams do, unbidden, with staggering clarity. Jeremy was standing in the kitchen doorway watching me cry. He touched my shoulder as he went to turn the coffee off. “Has something happened?” “No, nothing. I’m just…I don’t know…” I quickly wiped my nose with my sleeve. “It’s okay. Sugar?” “No, thanks. Have your friends left?” “Not all of them. Some are still sleeping.” He sat down, facing me. There was only the sound of the teaspoons