d me speaking for such an inappropriate length of time with his daughter。
Maybe I ll bring you one someday； I said。 I was about to say more when the woman I d seen on occasion with Soraya came walking up the aisle。 She was carrying a plastic bag full of fruit。 When she saw us； her eyes bounced from Soraya to me and back。 She smiled。
Amir jan； good to see you； she said； unloading the bag on the tablecloth。 Her brow glistened with a sheen of sweat。 Her red hair； coiffed like a helmet； glittered in the sunlight……I could see bits of her scalp where the hair had thinned。 She had small green eyes buried in a cabbage…round face； capped teeth； and little fingers like sausages。 A golden Allah rested on her chest； the chain burrowed under the skin tags and folds of her neck。 I am Jamila； Soraya jan s mother。
Salaam； Khala jan； I said； embarrassed； as I often was around Afghans； that she knew me and I had no idea who she was。
How is your father？ she said。
He s well； thank you。
You know； your grandfather； Ghazi Sahib； the judge？ Now； his uncle and my grandfather were cousins； she said。 So you see； we re related。 She smiled a cap…toothed smile； and I noticed the right side of her mouth drooping a little。 Her eyes moved between Soraya and me again。
I d asked Baba once why General Taheri s daughter hadn t married yet。 No suitors； Baba said。 No suitable suitors； he amended。 But he wouldn t say more……Baba knew how lethal idle talk could prove to a young woman s prospects of marrying well。 Afghan men； especially those from reputable families； were fickle creatures。 A whisper here； an insinuation there； and they fled like startled birds。 So weddings had e and gone and no one had sung ahesta boro for Soraya； no one had painted her palms with henna； no one had held a Koran over her headdress； and it had been General Taheri who d danced with her at every wedding。
And now； this woman； this mother； with her heartbreakingly eager； crooked smile and the barely veiled hope in her eyes。 I cringed a little at the position of power I d been granted； and all because I had won at the genetic lottery that had determined my sex。
I could never read the thoughts in the general s eyes； but I knew this much about his wife： If I was going to have an adversary in this……whatever this was……it would not be her。
Sit down； Amir jan； she said。 Soraya； get him a chair； hachem。 And wash one of those peaches。 They re sweet and fresh。
Nay； thank you； I said。 I should get going。 My father s waiting。
Oh？ Khanum Taheri said； clearly impressed that I d done the polite thing and declined the offer。 Then here； at least have this。 She threw a handful of kiwis and a few peaches into a paper bag and insisted I take them。 Carry my Salaam to your father。 And e back to see us again。
I will。 Thank you； Khala jan； I said。 Out of the corner of my eye； I saw Soraya looking away。
I THOUGHT YOU WERE GETTING COKES； Baba said； taking the bag of peaches from me。 He was looking at me in a simultaneously serious and playful way。 I began to make some thing up； but he bit into a peach and waved his hand； Don t bother； Amir。 Just remember what I said。
THAT NIGHT IN BED； I thought of the way dappled sunlight had danced in Soraya s eyes； and of the delicate hollows above her collarbone。 I replayed our conversation over and over in my head。 Had she said I heard you write or I heard you re a writer？ Which was it？ I tossed in my sheets and stared at the ceiling； dismayed at the thought of six laborious； interminable nights of yelda until I saw her again。
IT WENT ON LIKE THAT for a few weeks。 I d wait until the general went for a stroll； then I d walk past the Taheris stand。 If Khanum Taheri was there； she d offer me tea and a kolcha and we d chat about Kabul in the old days； the people we knew； her arthritis。 Undoubtedly； she had noticed that my appearances always coincided with her husband s absences； but she never let on。 Oh you just missed your Kaka； she d say。 I actually liked it when Khanum Taheri was there； and not just because of her amiable ways； Soraya was more relaxed； more talkative with her mother around。 As if her presence legitimized whatever was happening between us……though certainly not to the same degree that the general s would have。 Khanum Taheri s chaperoning made our meetings； if not gossip…proof； then less gossip…worthy； even if her borderline fawning on me clearly embarrassed Soraya。
One day； Soraya and I were alone at their booth； talking。 She was telling me about school； how she too was working on her general education classes； at Ohlone Junior College in Fremont。
What will you major in？
I want to be a teacher； she said。
Really？ Why？
I ve always wanted to。 When we lived in Virginia； I became ESL certified and now I teach at the public library one night a week。 My mother was a teacher too； she taught Farsi and history at Zarghoona High School for girls in Kabul。
A potbellied man in a deerstalker hat offered three dollars for a five…dollar set of candlesticks and Soraya let him have it。 She dropped the money in a little candy box by her feet。 She looked at me shyly。 I want to tell you a story； she said； but I m a little embarrassed about it。
Tell me。
It s kind of silly。
Please tell me。
She laughed。 Well； when I was in fourth grade in Kabul； my father hired a woman named Ziba to help around the house。 She had a sister in Iran； in Mashad； and； since Ziba was illiterate； she d ask me to write her sister letters once in a while。 And when the sister replied； I d read her letter to Ziba。 One day； I asked her if she d like to learn to read and write。 She ga