icked up his broken glasses and turned them in his hands。 I want you to go now。 The children are frightened。
He escorted us out。
As the truck pulled away； I saw Zaman in the side…view mirror； standing in the doorway。 A group of children surrounded him； clutching the hem of his loose shirt。 I saw he had put on his broken glasses。
TWENTY…ONE
We crossed the river and drove north through the crowded Pashtunistan Square。 Baba used to take me to Khyber Restaurant there for kabob。 The building was still standing； but its doors were padlocked； the windows shattered； and the letters K and R missing from its name。
I saw a dead body near the restaurant。 There had been a hanging。 A young man dangled from the end of a rope tied to a beam； his face puffy and blue； the clothes he d worn on the last day of his life shredded； bloody。 Hardly anyone seemed to notice him。
We rode silently through the square and headed toward the WazirAkbar Khan district。 Everywhere I looked； a haze of dust covered the city and its sun…dried brick buildings。 A few blocks north of Pashtunistan Square； Farid pointed to two men talking animatedly at a busy street corner。 One of them was hobbling on one leg； his other leg amputated below the knee。 He cradled an artificial leg in his arms。 You know what they re doing？ Haggling over the leg。
He s selling his leg？
Farid nodded。 You can get good money for it on the black market。 Feed your kids for a couple of weeks。
To MY SURPRISE； most of the houses in the WazirAkbar Khan district still had roofs and standing walls。 In fact； they were in pretty good shape。 Trees still
peeked over the walls； and the streets weren t nearly as rubble…strewn as the ones in Karteh…Seh。 Faded streets signs； some twisted and bullet…pocked； still pointed the way。
This isn t so bad； I remarked。
No surprise。 Most of the important people live here now。
Taliban？
Them too； Farid said。
Who else？
He drove us into a wide street with fairly clean sidewalks and walled homes on either side。 The people behind the Taliban。 The real brains of this government； if you can call it that： Arabs； Chechens； Pakistanis； Farid said。 He pointed northwest。 Street 15； that way； is called Sarak…e…Mehmana。 Street of the Guests。 That s what they call them here； guests。 I think someday these guests are going to pee all over the carpet。
I think that s it！ I said。 Over there！ I pointed to the landmark that used to serve as a guide for me when I was a kid。 If you ever get lost； Baba used to say； remember that our street is the one with the pink house at the end of it。 The pink house with the steeply pitched roof had been the neighborhood s only house of that color in the old days。 It still was。
Farid turned onto the street。 I saw Baba s house right away。
WE FIND THE LITTLE TURTLE behind tangles of sweetbrier in the yard。 We don t know how it got there and we re too excited to care。 We paint its shell a bright red； Hassan s idea； and a good one：
This way； we ll never lose it in the bushes。 We pretend we re a pair of daredevil explorers who ve discovered a giant prehistoric monster in some distant jungle and we ve brought it back for the world to see。 We set it down in the wooden wagon Ali built Hassan last winter for his birthday； pretend it s a giant steel cage。 Behold the firebreathing monstrosity！ We march on the grass and pull the wagon behind us； around apple and cherry trees； which bee skyscrap ers soaring into clouds； heads poking out of thousands of windows to watch the spectacle passing below。 We walk over the little semi lunar bridge Baba has built near a cluster of fig trees； it bees a great suspension bridge joining cities； and the little pond below； a foamy sea。 Fireworks explode above the bridge s massive pylons and armed soldiers salute us on both sides as gigantic steel cables shoot to the sky。 The little turtle bouncing around in the cab； we drag the wagon around the circular red brick driveway outside the wroughtiron gates and return the salutes of the world s leaders as they stand and applaud。 We are Hassan and Amir； famed adventurers and the world s greatest explorers； about to receive a medal of honor for our courageous feat。。。
GINGERLY； I WALKED up the driveway where tufts of weed now grew between the sun…faded bricks。 I stood outside the gates of my father s house； feeling like a stranger。 I set my hands on the rusty bars； remembering how I d run through these same gates thousands of times as a child； for things that mattered not at all now and yet had seemed so important then。 I peered in。
The driveway extension that led from the gates to the yard； where Hassan and I took turns falling the summer we learned to ride a bike； didn t look as wide or as long as I remembered it。 The asphalt had split in a lightning…streak pattern； and more tangles of weed sprouted through the fissures。 Most of the poplar trees had been chopped down……the trees Hassan and I used to climb to shine our mirrors into the neighbors homes。 The ones still standing were nearly leafless。 The Wall of Ailing Corn was still there； though I saw no corn； ailing or otherwise； along that wall now。 The paint had begun to peel and sections of it had sloughed off altogether。 The lawn had turned the same brown as the haze of dust hovering over the city； dotted by bald patches of dirt where nothing grew at all。
A jeep was parked in the driveway and that looked all wrong：
Baba s black Mustang belonged there。 For years； the Mustang s eight cylinders roared to life every morning； rousing me from sleep。 I saw that oil had spilled under the jeep and stained the driveway like a big Rorschach inkblot。 Be