r father s eye proved as keen in the hunt as it had in business。
Baba kicked a wooden tennis racket on our tarpaulin spread with the toe of his boot。 Some business。
General Taheri managed a simultaneously sad and polite smile； heaved a sigh； and gently patted Baba s shoulder。 Zendagi migzara； he said。 Life goes on。 He turned his eyes to me。 We Afghans are prone to a considerable degree of exaggeration； bachem； and I have heard many men foolishly labeled great。 But your father has the distinction of belonging to the minority who truly deserves the label。 This little speech sounded to me the way his suit looked： often used and unnaturally shiny。
You re flattering me； Baba said。
I am not； the general said； tilting his head sideways and pressing his hand to his chest to convey humility。 Boys and girls must know the legacy of their fathers。 He turned to me。 Do you appreciate your father； bachem？ Do you really appreciate him？
Balay； General Sahib； I do； I said； wishing he d not call me my child。
Then congratulations； you are already halfway to being a man； he said with no trace of humor； no irony； the pliment of the casually arrogant。
Padar jan； you forgot your tea。 A young woman s voice。 She was standing behind us； a slim…hipped beauty with velvety coal black hair； an open thermos and Styrofoam cup in her hand。 I blinked； my heart quickening。 She had thick black eyebrows that touched in the middle like the arched wings of a flying bird； and the gracefully hooked nose of a princess from old Persia……maybe that of Tahmineh； Rostam s wife and Sohrab s mother from the _Shahnamah_。 Her eyes； walnut brown and shaded by fanned lashes； met mine。 Held for a moment。 Flew away。
You are so kind； my dear； General Taheri said。 He took the cup from her。 Before she turned to go； I saw she had a brown； sickle…shaped birthmark on the smooth skin just above her left jawline。 She walked to a dull gray van two aisles away and put the thermos inside。 Her hair spilled to one side when she kneeled amid boxes of old records and paperbacks。
My daughter； Soraya jan； General Taheri said。 He took a deep breath like a man eager to change the subject and checked his gold pocket watch。 Well； time to go and set up。 He and Baba kissed on the cheek and he shook my hand with both of his。 Best of luck with the writing； he said； looking me in the eye。 His pale blue eyes revealed nothing of the thoughts behind them。
For the rest of that day； I fought the urge to look toward the gray van。
IT CAME TO ME on our way home。 Taheri； I knew I d heard that name before。
Wasn t there some story floating around about Taheri s daughter？ I said to Baba； trying to sound casual。
You know me； Baba said； inching the bus along the queue exiting the flea market。 Talk turns to gossip and I walk away。
But there was； wasn t there？ I said。
Why do you ask？ He was looking at me coyly。
I shrugged and fought back a smile。 Just curious； Baba。
Really？ Is that all？ he said； his eyes playful； lingering on mine。 Has she made an impression on you？
I rolled my eyes。 Please； Baba。
He smiled； and swung the bus out of the flea market。 We headed for Highway 680。 We drove in silence for a while。 All I ve heard is that there was a man once and things。。。 didn t go well。 He said this gravely； like he d disclosed to me that she had breast cancer。
I hear she is a decent girl； hardworking and kind。 But no khastegars； no suitors； have knocked on the general s door since。 Baba sighed。 It may be unfair； but what happens in a few days； sometimes even a single day； can change the course of a whole lifetime； Amir； he said。
LYING AWAKE IN BED that night； I thought of Soraya Taheri s sickle…shaped birthmark； her gently hooked nose； and the way her luminous eyes had fleetingly held mine。 My heart stuttered at the thought of her。 Soraya Taheri。 My Swap Meet Princess。
TWELVE
In Afghanistan； _yelda_ is the first night of the month of _Jadi_； the first night of winter； and the longest night of the year。 As was the tradition； Hassan and I used to stay up late； our feet tucked under the kursi； while Ali tossed apple skin into the stove and told us ancient tales of sultans and thieves to pass that longest of nights。 It was from Ali that I learned the lore of _yelda_； that bedeviled moths flung themselves at candle flames； and wolves climbed mountains looking for the sun。 Ali swore that if you ate water melon the night of _yelda_； you wouldn t get thirsty the ing summer。
When I was older； I read in my poetry books that _yelda_ was the starless night tormented lovers kept vigil； enduring the endless dark； waiting for the sun to rise and bring with it their loved one。 After I met Soraya Taheri； every night of the week became a _yelda_ for me。 And when Sunday mornings came； I rose from bed； Soraya Taheri s brown…eyed face already in my head。 In Baba s bus； I counted the miles until I d see her sitting barefoot； arranging cardboard boxes of yellowed encyclopedias； her heels white against the asphalt； silver bracelets jingling around her slender wrists。 I d think of the shadow her hair cast on the ground when it slid off her back and hung down like a velvet curtain。 Soraya。 Swap Meet Princess。 The morning sun to my yelda。
I invented excuses to stroll down the aisle……which Baba acknowledged with a playful smirk……and pass the Taheris stand。 I would wave at the general； perpetually dressed in his shiny overpressed gray suit； and he would wave back。 Sometimes he d get up from his director s chair and we d make small talk about my writing； the war； the day s bargains。 And I d have to will my eyes not to peel awa