housewarming presents。 The general gave me an additional present； a brand new IBM typewriter。 In the box； he had slipped a note written in Farsi：
Amir jan；
I hope you discover many tales on these keys。
General Iqbal Taheri
I sold Baba s VW bus and； to this day； I have not gone back to the flea market。 I would drive to his gravesite every Friday； and； sometimes； I d find a fresh bouquet of freesias by the headstone and know Soraya had been there too。
Soraya and I settled into the routines……and minor wonders…… of married life。 We shared toothbrushes and socks； passed each other the morning paper。 She slept on the right side of the bed； I preferred the left。 She liked fluffy pillows； I liked the hard ones。 She ate her cereal dry； like a snack； and chased it with milk。
I got my acceptance at San Jose State that summer and declared an English major。 I took on a security job； swing shift at a furniture warehouse in Sunnyvale。 The job was dreadfully boring； but its saving grace was a considerable one： When everyone left at 6 P。M。 and shadows began to crawl between aisles of plastic…covered sofas piled to the ceiling； I took out my books and studied。 It was in the Pine…Sol…scented office of that furniture warehouse that I began my first novel。
Soraya joined me at San Jose State the following year and enrolled； to her father s chagrin； in the teaching track。
I don t know why you re wasting your talents like this； the general said one night over dinner。 Did you know； Amir jan； that she earned nothing but A s in high school？ He turned to her。 An intelligent girl like you could bee a lawyer； a political scientist。 And； _Inshallah_； when Afghanistan is free； you could help write the new constitution。 There would be a need for young talented Afghans like you。 They might even offer you a ministry position； given your family name。
I could see Soraya holding back； her face tightening。 I m not a girl； Padar。 I m a married woman。 Besides； they d need teachers too。
Anyone can teach。
Is there any more rice； Madar？ Soraya said。
After the general excused himself to meet some friends in Hayward； Khala Jamila tried to console Soraya。 He means well； she said。 He just wants you to be successful。
So he can boast about his attorney daughter to his friends。 Another medal for the general； Soraya said。
Such nonsense you speak！
Successful； Soraya hissed。 At least I m not like him； sitting around while other people fight the Shorawi； waiting for when the dust settles so he can move in and reclaim his posh little government position。 Teaching may not pay much； but it s what I want to do！ It s what I love； and it s a whole lot better than collecting welfare； by the way。
Khala Jamila bit her tongue。 If he ever hears you saying that； he will never speak to you again。
Don t worry； Soraya snapped； tossing her napkin on the plate。 I won t bruise his precious ego。
IN THE SUMMER of 1988； about six months before the Soviets withdrew from Afghanistan； I finished my first novel； a father…son story set in Kabul； written mostly with the typewriter the general had given me。 I sent query letters to a dozen agencies and was stunned one August day when I opened our mailbox and found a request from a New York agency for the pleted manuscript。 I mailed it the next day。 Soraya kissed the carefully wrapped manuscript and Khala Jamila insisted we pass it under the Koran。 She told me that she was going to do nazr for me； a vow to have a sheep slaughtered and the meat given to the poor if my book was accepted。
Please； no nazn； Khala jan； I said； kissing her face。 Just do _zakat_； give the money to someone in need； okay？ No sheep killing。
Six weeks later； a man named Martin Greenwalt called from New York and offered to represent me。 I only told Soraya about it。 But just because I have an agent doesn t mean I ll get published。 If Martin sells the novel； then we ll celebrate。
A month later； Martin called and informed me I was going to be a published novelist。 When I told Soraya； she screamed。
We had a celebration dinner with Soraya s parents that night。 Khala Jamila made kofta……meatballs and white rice……and white ferni。 The general； a sheen of moisture in his eyes； said that he was proud of me。 After General Taheri and his wife left； Soraya and I celebrated with an expensive bottle of Merlot I had bought on the way home……the general did not approve of women drinking alcohol； and Soraya didn t drink in his presence。
I am so proud of you； she said； raising her glass to mine。 Kaka would have been proud too。
I know； I said； thinking of Baba； wishing he could have seen me。
Later that night； after Soraya fell asleep……wine always made her sleepy……I stood on the balcony and breathed in the cool summer air。 I thought of Rahim Khan and the little note of support he had written me after he d read my first story。 And I thought of Hassan。 Some day； _Inshallah_； you will be a great writer； he had said once； and people all over the world will read your stories。 There was so much goodness in my life。 So much happiness。 I wondered whether I deserved any of it。
The novel was released in the summer of that following year； 1989； and the publisher sent me on a five…city book tour。 I became a minor celebrity in the Afghan munity。 That was the year that the Shorawi pleted their withdrawal
from Afghanistan。 It should have been a time of glory for Afghans。 Instead； the war raged on； this time between Afghans； the Mujahedin； against the Soviet puppet government of Najibullah； and Afghan refugees kept flocking to Pakistan。 That was the year that the cold war ended； the year the Berlin Wall came