morbidly fascinating that he hadn t changed clothes after the executions earlier that day。
Periodically； his free hand floated up and his thick fingers batted at something in the air。 They made slow stroking motions； up and down； side to side； as if he were caressing an invisible pet。 One of his sleeves retracted and I saw marks on his forearm……I d seen those same tracks on homeless people living in grimy alleys in San Francisco。
His skin was much paler than the other two men s； almost sallow； and a crop of tiny sweat beads gleamed on his forehead just below the edge of his black turban。 His beard； chest…length like the others； was lighter in color too。
Salaam alaykum； he said。
Salaam。
You can do away with that now； you know； he said。
Pardon？
He turned his palm to one of the armed men and motioned。 Rrrriiiip。 Suddenly my cheeks were stinging and the guard was tossing my beard up and down in his hand； giggling。 The Talib grinned。 One of the better ones I ve seen in a while。 But it really is so much better this way； I think。 Don t you？ He twirled his fingers； snapped them； fist opening and closing。 So； _Inshallah_； you enjoyed the show today？
Was that what it was？ I said； rubbing my cheeks； hoping my voice didn t betray the explosion of terror I felt inside。
Public justice is the greatest kind of show； my brother。 Drama。 Suspense。 And； best of all； education en masse。 He snapped his fingers。 The younger of the two guards lit him a cigarette。 The Talib laughed。 Mumbled to himself。 His hands were shaking and he almost dropped the cigarette。 But you want a real show； you should have been with me in Mazar。 August 1998； that was。
I m sorry？
We left them out for the dogs； you know。
I saw what he was getting at。
He stood up； paced around the sofa once； twice。 Sat down again。 He spoke rapidly。 Door to door we went； calling for the men and the boys。 We d shoot them right there in front of their families。 Let them see。 Let them remember who they were； where they belonged。 He was almost panting now。 Sometimes； we broke down their doors and went inside their homes。 And。。。 I d。。。 I d sweep the barrel of my machine gun around the room and fire and fire until the smoke blinded me。 He leaned toward me； like a man about to share a great secret。 You don t know the meaning of the word liberating until you ve done that； stood in a roomful of targets； let the bullets fly； free of guilt and remorse； knowing you are virtuous； good； and decent。 Knowing you re doing God s work。 It s breathtaking。 He kissed the prayer beads； tilted his head。 You remember that； Javid？
Yes； Agha sahib； the younger of the guards replied。 How could I forget？
I had read about the Hazara massacre in Mazar…i…Sharif in the papers。 It had happened just after the Taliban took over Mazar； one of the last cities to fall。 I remembered Soraya handing me the article over breakfast； her face bloodless。
Door…to…door。 We only rested for food and prayer； the Talib said。 He said it fondly； like a man telling of a great party he d attended。 We left the bodies in the streets； and if their families tried to sneak out to drag them back into their homes； we d shoot them too。 We left them in the streets for days。 We left
them for the dogs。 Dog meat for dogs。 He crushed his cigarette。 Rubbed his eyes with tremulous hands。 You e from America？
Yes。
How is that whore these days？
I had a sudden urge to urinate。 I prayed it would pass。 I m looking for a boy。
Isn t everyone？ he said。 The men with the Kalashnikovs laughed。 Their teeth were stained green with naswar。
I understand he is here； with you； I said。 His name is Sohrab。
I ll ask you something： What are you doing with that whore？ Why aren t you here； with your Muslim brothers； serving your country？
I ve been away a long time； was all I could think of saying。 My head felt so hot。 I pressed my knees together； held my bladder。
The Talib turned to the two men standing by the door。 That s an answer？ he asked them。
Nay； Agha sahib； they said in unison； smiling。
He turned his eyes to me。 Shrugged。 Not an answer； they say。 He took a drag of his cigarette。 There are those in my circle who believe that abandoning watan when it needs you the most is the same as treason。 I could have you arrested for treason； have you shot for it even。 Does that frighten you？
I m only here for the boy。
Does that frighten you？
Yes。
It should； he said。 He leaned back in the sofa。 Crushed the cigarette。
I thought about Soraya。 It calmed me。 I thought of her sickleshaped birthmark； the elegant curve of her neck； her luminous eyes。 I thought of our wedding night； gazing at each other s reflection in the mirror under the green veil； and how her cheeks blushed when I whispered that I loved her。 I remembered the two of us dancing to an old Afghan song； round and round； everyone watching and clapping； the world a blur of flowers； dresses； tuxedos； and smiling faces。
The Talib was saying something。
Pardon？
I said would you like to see him？ Would you like to see my boy？ His upper lip curled up in a sneer when he said those last two words。
Yes。
The guard left the room。 I heard the creak of a door swinging open。 Heard the guard say something in Pashtu； in a hard voice。 Then； footfalls； and the jingle of bells with each step。 It reminded me of the Monkey Man Hassan and I used to
chase down in Shar e…Nau。 We used to pay him a rupia of our allowance for a dance。 The bell around his monkey s neck had made that same jingling sound。
Then the door opened and the guard walked in。 He carried a stereo……a boom box……on his shoulder