city of ghosts for me。 A city of harelipped ghosts。
America was different。 America was a river； roaring along； unmindful of the past。 I could wade into this river； let my sins drown to the bottom； let the waters carry me someplace far。 Someplace with no ghosts； no memories； and no sins。
If for nothing else； for that； I embraced America。
THE FOLLOWING SUMMER； the summer of 1984……the summer I turned twenty…one……Baba sold his Buick and bought a dilapidated 71 Volkswagen bus for 550 from an old Afghan acquaintance who d been a high…school science teacher in Kabul。 The neighbors heads turned the afternoon the bus sputtered up the street and farted its way across our lot。 Baba killed the engine and let the bus roll silently into our designated spot。 We sank in our seats； laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks； and； more important； until we were sure the neighbors weren t watching anymore。 The bus was a sad carcass of rusted metal； shattered windows replaced with black garbage bags； balding tires； and upholstery shredded down to the springs。 But the old teacher had reassured Baba that the engine and transmission were sound and； on that account； the man hadn t lied。
On Saturdays； Baba woke me up at dawn。 As he dressed； I scanned the classifieds in the local papers and circled the garage sale ads。 We mapped our route……Fremont； Union City； Newark； and Hayward first； then San Jose； Milpitas； Sunnyvale； and Campbell if time permitted。 Baba drove the bus； sipping hot tea from the thermos； and I navigated。 We stopped at garage sales and bought knickknacks that people no longer wanted。 We haggled over old sewing machines； one…eyed Barbie dolls； wooden tennis rackets； guitars with missing strings； and old Electrolux vacuum cleaners。 By midafternoon； we d filled the back of the VW bus with used goods。 Then early Sunday mornings； we drove to the San Jose flea market off Berryessa； rented a spot； and sold the junk for a small profit： a Chicago record that we d bought for a quarter the day before might go for 1； or 4 for a set of five； a ramshackle Singer sewing machine purchased for 10 might； after some bargaining； bring in 25。
By that summer； Afghan families were working an entire section of the San Jose flea market。 Afghan music played in the aisles of the Used Goods section。 There was an unspoken code of behavior among Afghans at the flea market： You greeted the guy across the aisle； you invited him for a bite of potato bolani or a little qabuli； and you chatted。 You offered tassali； condolences； for the death of a parent； congratulated the birth of children； and shook your head mournfully when the conversation turned to Afghanistan and the Roussis……which it inevitably did。 But you avoided the topic of Saturday。 Because it might turn out that the fellow across the isle was the guy you d nearly blindsided at the freeway exit yesterday in order to beat him to a promising garage sale。
The only thing that flowed more than tea in those aisles was Afghan gossip。 The flea market was where you sipped green tea with almond kolchas； and learned whose daughter had broken off an engagement and run off with her American boyfriend； who used to be Parchami……a munist……in Kabul； and who had bought a house with under…the…table money while still on welfare。 Tea； Politics； and Scandal； the ingredients of an Afghan Sunday at the flea market。
I ran the stand sometimes as Baba sauntered down the aisle； hands respectfully pressed to his chest； greeting people he knew from Kabul： mechanics and tailors selling hand…me…down wool coats and scraped bicycle helmets； alongside former ambassadors； out…of…work surgeons； and university professors。
One early Sunday morning in July 1984； while Baba set up； I bought two cups of coffee from the concession stand and returned to find Baba talking to an older； distinguished…looking man。 I put the cups on the rear bumper of the bus； next to the REAGAN/BUSH FOR 84 sticker。
Amir； Baba said； motioning me over； this is General Sahib； Mr。 Iqbal Taheri。 He was a decorated general in Kabul。 He worked for the Ministry of Defense。
Taheri。 Why did the name sound familiar？ The general laughed like a man used to attending formal parties where he d laughed on cue at the minor jokes of important people。 He had wispy silver…gray hair bed back from his smooth； tanned forehead； and tufts of white in his bushy eye brows。 He smelled like cologne and wore an iron…gray three…piece suit； shiny from too many pressings； the gold chain of a pocket watch dangled from his vest。
Such a lofty introduction； he said； his voice deep and cultured。 _Salaam； bachem_。 Hello； my child。
_Salaam_； General Sahib； I said； shaking his hand。 His thin hands belied a firm grip； as if steel hid beneath the moisturized skin。
Amir is going to be a great writer； Baba said。 I did a double take at this。 He has finished his first year of college and earned A s in all of his courses。
Junior college； I corrected him。
_Mashallah_； General Taheri said。 Will you be writing about our country； history perhaps？ Economics？
I write fiction； I said； thinking of the dozen or so short stories I had written in the leather…bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me； wondering why I was suddenly embarrassed by them in this man s presence。
Ah； a storyteller； the general said。 Well； people need stories to divert them at difficult times like this。 He put his hand on Baba s shoulder and turned to me。 Speaking of stories； your father and I hunted pheasant together one summer day in Jalalabad； he said。 It was a marvelous time。 If I recall correctly； your father s eye proved as keen in the hunt as it ha