m。
You didn t ask； I said。
You should have told me。
You didn t ask。
He rolled to face me。 Curled his arm under his head。 Maybe I will help you find this boy。
Thank you； Farid； I said。
It was wrong of me to assume。
I sighed。 Don t worry。 You were more right than you know。
HIS HANDS ARE TIED BEHIND HIM with roughly woven rope cutting through the flesh of his wrists。 He is blindfolded with black cloth。 He is kneeling on the street； on the edge of a gutter filled with still water； his head drooping between his shoulders。 His knees roll on the hard ground and bleed through his pants as he rocks in prayer。 It is late afternoon and his long shadow sways back and forth on the gravel。 He is muttering something under his breath。 I step closer。 A thousand times over； he mutters。 For you a thousand times over。 Back and forth he rocks。 He lifts his face。 I see a faint scar above his upper lip。
We are not alone。
I see the barrel first。 Then the man standing behind him。 He is tall； dressed in a herringbone vest and a black turban。 He looks down at the blindfolded man before him with eyes that show nothing but a vast； cavernous emptiness。 He takes a step back and raises the barrel。 Places it on the back of the kneeling man s head。 For a moment； fading sunlight catches in the metal and twinkles。
The rifle roars with a deafening crack。
I follow the barrel on its upward arc。 I see the face behind the plume of smoke swirling from the muzzle。 I am the man in the herringbone vest。
I woke up with a scream trapped in my throat。
I STEPPED OUTSIDE。 Stood in the silver tarnish of a half…moon and glanced up to a sky riddled with stars。 Crickets chirped in the shuttered darkness and a wind wafted through the trees。 The ground was cool under my bare feet and suddenly； for the first time since we had crossed the border； I felt like I was back。 After all these years； I was home again； standing on the soil of my ancestors。 This was the soil on which my great…grandfather had married his third wife a year before dying in the cholera epidemic that hit Kabul in 1915。 She d borne him what his first two wives had failed to； a son at last。 It was on this soil that my grandfather had gone on a hunting trip with King Nadir Shah and shot a deer。 My mother had died on this soil。 And on this soil； I had fought for my father s love。
I sat against one of the house s clay walls。 The kinship I felt suddenly for the old land。。。 it surprised me。 I d been gone long enough to forget and be forgotten。 I had a home in a land that might as well be in another galaxy to the people sleeping on the other side of the wall I leaned against。 I thought I had forgotten about this land。 But I hadn t。 And； under the bony glow of a halfmoon； I sensed Afghanistan humming under my feet。 Maybe Afghanistan hadn t forgotten me either。
I looked westward and marveled that； somewhere over those mountains； Kabul still existed。 It really existed； not just as an old memory； or as the heading of an AP story on page 15 of the San Francisco Chronicle。 Somewhere over those mountains in the west slept the city where my harelipped brother and I had run kites。 Somewhere over there； the blindfolded man from my dream had died a
needless death。 Once； over those mountains； I had made a choice。 And now； a quarter of a century later； that choice had landed me right back on this soil。
I was about to go back inside when I heard voices ing from the house。 I recognized one as Wahid s。
……nothing left for the children。
We re hungry but we re not savages！ He is a guest！ What was I supposed to do？ he said in a strained voice。
……to find something tomorrow She sounded near tears。 What do I feed……
I tiptoed away。 I understood now why the boys hadn t shown any interest in the watch。 They hadn t been staring at the watch at all。 They d been staring at my food。
WE SAID OUR GOOD … BYE S early the next morning。 Just before I climbed into the Land Cruiser； I thanked Wahid for his hospitality。 He pointed to the little house behind him。 This is your home； he said。 His three sons were standing in the doorway watching us。 The little one was wearing the watch……it dangled around his twiggy wrist。
I glanced in the side…view mirror as we pulled away。 Wahid stood surrounded by his boys in a cloud of dust whipped up by the truck。 It occurred to me that； in a different world； those boys wouldn t have been too hungry to chase after the car。
Earlier that morning； when I was certain no one was looking； I did something I had done twenty…six years earlier： I planted a fistful of crumpled money under a mattress。
TWENTY
Farid had warned me。 He had。 But； as it turned out； he had wasted his breath。
We were driving down the cratered road that winds from Jalalabad to Kabul。 The last time I d traveled that road was in a tarpaulin…covered truck going the other way。 Baba had nearly gotten himself shot by a singing； stoned Roussi officer……Baba had made me so mad that night； so scared； and； ultimately； so proud。 The trek between Kabul and Jalalabad； a bone…jarring ride down a teetering pass snaking through the rocks； had bee a relic now； a relic of two wars。 Twenty years earlier； I had seen some of the first war with my own eyes。 Grim reminders of it were strewn along the road： burned carcasses of old Soviet tanks； overturned military trucks gone to rust； a crushed Russian jeep that had plunged over the mountainside。 The second war； I had watched on my TV screen。 And now I was seeing it through Farid s eyes。
Swerving effortlessly around potholes in the middle of the broken road； Farid was a man in his element。 He had bee much chattier since our overnight st