me down。 It was the year of Tiananmen Square。 In the midst of it all； Afghanistan was forgotten。 And General Taheri； whose hopes had stirred awake after the Soviets pulled out； went back to winding his pocket watch。
That was also the year that Soraya and I began trying to have a child。
THE IDEA OF FATHERHOOD unleashed a swirl of emotions in me。 I found it frightening； invigorating； daunting； and exhilarating all at the same time。 What sort of father would I make； I wondered。 I wanted to be just like Baba and I wanted to be nothing like him。
But a year passed and nothing happened。 With each cycle of blood； Soraya grew more frustrated； more impatient； more irritable。 By then； Khala Jamila s initially subtle hints had bee overt； as in Kho dega！ So！ When am I going to sing alahoo for my little nawasa？ The general； ever the Pashtun； never made any queries……doing so meant alluding to a sexual act between his daughter and a man； even if the man in question had been married to her for over four years。 But his eyes perked up when Khala Jamila teased us about a baby。
Sometimes； it takes a while； I told Soraya one night。
A year isn t a while； Amir！ she said； in a terse voice so unlike her。 Something s wrong； I know it。
Then let s see a doctor。
DR。 ROSEN； a round…bellied man with a plump face and small； even teeth； spoke with a faint Eastern European accent； some thing remotely Slavic。 He had a passion for trains……his office was littered with books about the history of railroads； model lootives； paintings of trains trundling on tracks through green hills and over bridges。 A sign above his desk read； LIFE IS A TRAIN。 GET ON BOARD。
He laid out the plan for us。 I d get checked first。 Men are easy； he said； fingers tapping on his mahogany desk。 A man s plumbing is like his mind： simple； very few surprises。 You ladies； on the other hand。。。 well； God put a lot of thought into making you。 I wondered if he fed that bit about the plumbing to all of his couples。
Lucky us； Soraya said。
Dr。 Rosen laughed。 It fell a few notches short of genuine。 He gave me a lab slip and a plastic jar； handed Soraya a request for some routine blood tests。 We shook hands。 Wele aboard； he said； as he showed us out。
I PASSED WITH FLYING COLORS。
The next few months were a blur of tests on Soraya： Basal body temperatures； blood tests for every conceivable hormone； urine tests； something called a Cervical Mucus Test； ultrasounds； more blood tests； and more urine tests。 Soraya underwent a procedure called a hysteroscopy……Dr。 Rosen inserted a
telescope into Soraya s uterus and took a look around。 He found nothing。 The plumbing s clear； he announced； snapping off his latex gloves。 I wished he d stop calling it that……we weren t bathrooms。 When the tests were over； he explained that he couldn t explain why we couldn t have kids。 And； apparently； that wasn t so unusual。 It was called Unexplained Infertility。
Then came the treatment phase。 We tried a drug called Clomiphene； and hMG； a series of shots which Soraya gave to herself。 When these failed； Dr。 Rosen advised in vitro fertilization。 We received a polite letter from our HMO； wishing us the best of luck； regretting they couldn t cover the cost。
We used the advance I had received for my novel to pay for it。 IVF proved lengthy； meticulous； frustrating； and ultimately unsuccessful。 After months of sitting in waiting rooms reading magazines like Good Housekeeping and Reader s Digest； after endless paper gowns and cold； sterile exam rooms lit by fluorescent lights； the repeated humiliation of discussing every detail of our sex life with a total stranger； the injections and probes and specimen collections； we went back to Dr。 Rosen and his trains。
He sat across from us； tapped his desk with his fingers； and used the word adoption for the first time。 Soraya cried all the way home。
Soraya broke the news to her parents the weekend after our last visit with Dr。 Rosen。 We were sitting on picnic chairs in the Taheris backyard； grilling trout and sipping yogurt dogh。 It was an early evening in March 1991。 Khala Jamila had watered the roses and her new honeysuckles； and their fragrance mixed with the smell of cooking fish。 Twice already； she had reached across her chair to caress Soraya s hair and say； God knows best； bachem。 Maybe it wasn t meant to be。
Soraya kept looking down at her hands。 She was tired； I knew； tired of it all。 The doctor said we could adopt； she murmured。
General Taheri s head snapped up at this。 He closed the barbecue lid。 He did？
He said it was an option； Soraya said。
We d talked at home about adoption。 Soraya was ambivalent at best。 I know it s silly and maybe vain； she said to me on the way to her parents house； but I can t help it。 I ve always dreamed that I d hold it in my arms and know my blood had fed it for nine months； that I d look in its eyes one day and be startled to see you or me； that the baby would grow up and have your smile or mine。 Without that。。。 Is that wrong？
No； I had said。
Am I being selfish？
No； Soraya。
Because if you really want to do it。。。
No； I said。 If we re going to do it； we shouldn t have any doubts at all about it； and we should both be in agreement。 It wouldn t be fair to the baby otherwise。
She rested her head on the window and said nothing else the rest of the way。
Now the general sat beside her。 Bachem； this adoption。。。 thing； I m not so sure it s for us Afghans。 Soraya looked at me tiredly and sighed。
For one thing； they grow up and want to know who their natural parents are； he said。 Nor can you blame them。 Sometimes； they leave the home in