Then the door opened and the guard walked in。 He carried a stereo……a boom box……on his shoulder。 Behind him； a boy dressed in a loose； sapphire blue pirhan…tumban followed。
The resemblance was breathtaking。 Disorienting。 Rahim Khan s Polaroid hadn t done justice to it。
The boy had his father s round moon face； his pointy stub of a chin； his twisted； seashell ears； and the same slight frame。 It was the Chinese doll face of my childhood； the face peering above fanned…out playing cards all those winter days； the face behind the mosquito net when we slept on the roof of my father s house in the summer。 His head was shaved； his eyes darkened with mascara； and his cheeks glowed with an unnatural red。 When he stopped in the middle of the room； the bells strapped around his anklets stopped jingling。 His eyes fell on me。 Lingered。 Then he looked away。 Looked down at his naked feet。
One of the guards pressed a button and Pashtu music filled the room。 Tabla； harmonium； the whine of a dil…roba。 I guessed music wasn t sinful as long as it played to Taliban ears。 The three men began to clap。
Wah wah！ _Mashallah_！ they cheered。
Sohrab raised his arms and turned slowly。 He stood on tiptoes； spun gracefully； dipped to his knees； straightened； and spun again。 His little hands swiveled at the wrists； his fingers snapped； and his head swung side to side like a pendulum。 His feet pounded the floor； the bells jingling in perfect harmony with the beat of the tabla。 He kept his eyes closed。
_Mashallah_！ they cheered。 Shahbas！ Bravo！ The two guards whistled and laughed。 The Talib in white was tilting his head back and forth with the music； his mouth half…open in a leer。
Sohrab danced in a circle； eyes closed； danced until the music stopped。 The bells jingled one final time when he stomped his foot with the song s last note。 He froze in midspin。
Bia； bia； my boy； the Talib said； calling Sohrab to him。 Sohrab went to him； head down； stood between his thighs。 The Talib wrapped his arms around the boy。 How talented he is； nay； my Hazara boy！ he said。 His hands slid down the child s back； then up； felt under his armpits。 One of the guards elbowed the other and snickered。 The Talib told them to leave us alone。
Yes； Agha sahib； they said as they exited。
The Talib spun the boy around so he faced me。 He locked his arms around Sohrab s belly； rested his chin on the boy s shoulder。 Sohrab looked down at his feet； but kept stealing shy； furtive glances at me。 The man s hand slid up and down the boy s belly。 Up and down； slowly； gently。
I ve been wondering； the Talib said； his bloodshot eyes peering at me over Sohrab s shoulder。 Whatever happened to old Babalu； anyway？
The question hit me like a hammer between the eyes。 I felt the color drain from my face。 My legs went cold。 Numb。
He laughed。 What did you think？ That you d put on a fake beard and I wouldn t recognize you？ Here s something I ll bet you never knew about me： I never forget a face。 Not ever。 He brushed his lips against Sohrab s ear； kept his eye on me。 I heard your father died。 Tsk…tsk。 I always did want to take him on。 Looks like I ll have to settle for his weakling of a son。 Then he took off his sunglasses and locked his bloodshot blue eyes on mine。
I tried to take a breath and couldn t。 I tried to blink and couldn t。 The moment felt surreal……no； not surreal； absurd……it had knocked the breath out of me； brought the world around me to a standstill。 My face was burning。 What was the old saying about the bad penny？ My past was like that； always turning up。 His name rose from the deep and I didn t want to say it； as if uttering it might conjure him。 But he was already here； in the flesh； sitting less than ten feet from me； after all these years。 His name escaped my lips： Assef。
Ainir jan。
What are you doing here？ I said； knowing how utterly foolish the question sounded； yet unable to think of anything else to say。
Me？ Assef arched an eyebrow I m in my element。 The question is what are you doing here？
I already told you； I said。 My voice was trembling。 I wished it wouldn t do that； wished my flesh wasn t shrinking against my bones。
The boy？
Yes。
Why？
I ll pay you for him； I said。 I can have money wired。
Money？ Assef said。 He tittered。 Have you ever heard of Rockingham？ Western Australia； a slice of heaven。 You should see it； miles and miles of beach。 Green water； blue skies。 My parents live there； in a beachfront villa。 There s a golf course behind the villa and a little lake。 Father plays golf every day。 Mother； she prefers tennis……Father says she has a wicked backhand。 They own an Afghan restaurant and two jewelry stores； both businesses are doing spectacularly。 He plucked a red grape。 Put it； lovingly； in Sohrab s mouth。 So if I need money； I ll have them wire it to me。 He kissed the side of Sohrab s neck。 The boy flinched a little； closed his eyes again。 Besides； I didn t fight the Shorawi for money。 Didn t join the Taliban for money either。 Do you want to know why I joined them？
My lips had gone dry。 I licked them and found my tongue had dried too。
Are you thirsty？ Assef said； smirking。
I think you re thirsty。
I m fine； I said。 The truth was； the room felt too hot suddenly……sweat was bursting from my pores； prickling my skin。 And was this really happening？ Was I really sitting across from Assef？
As you wish； he said。 Anyway； where was I？ Oh yes； how I joined the Taliban。 Well； as you may remember； I wasn t much of a religious type。 But one day I had an epiphany。 I had it in jail。 Do you want to hear？
I said nothing。
Good。 I ll tell you； he said。 I spent some