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im and Soraya too。 They took walks together； went to lunch on Saturdays； and； sometimes； the general sat in on some of her classes。 He d sit in the back of the room； dressed in his shiny old gray suit； wooden cane across his lap； smiling。 Sometimes he even took notes。
THAT NIGHT； Soraya and I lay in bed； her back pressed to my chest； my face buried in her hair。 I remembered when we used to lay forehead to forehead； sharing afterglow kisses and whispering until our eyes drifted closed； whispering about tiny； curled toes； first smiles； first words； first steps。 We still did sometimes； but the whispers were about school； my new book； a giggle
over someone s ridiculous dress at a party。 Our lovemaking was still good； at times better than good； but some nights all I d feel was a relief to be done with it； to be free to drift away and forget； at least for a while； about the futility of what we d just done。 She never said so； but I knew sometimes Soraya felt it too。 On those nights； we d each roll to our side of the bed and let our own savior take us away。 Soraya s was sleep。 Mine； as always； was a book。
I lay in the dark the night Rahim Khan called and traced with my eyes the parallel silver lines on the wall made by moonlight pouring through the blinds。 At some point； maybe just before dawn； I drifted to sleep。 And dreamed of Hassan running in the snow； the hem of his green chapan dragging behind him； snow crunching under his black rubber boots。 He was yelling over his shoulder： For you； a thousand times over！
A WEEK LATER； I sat on a window seat aboard a Pakistani International Airlines flight； watching a pair of uniformed airline workers remove the wheel chocks。 The plane taxied out of the terminal and； soon； we were airborne； cutting through the clouds。 I rested my head against the window。 Waited； in vain； for sleep。
FIFTEEN
Three hours after my flight landed in Peshawar； I was sitting on shredded upholstery in the backseat of a smoke…filled taxicab。 My driver； a chain…smoking； sweaty little man who introduced himself as Gholam； drove nonchalantly and recklessly； averting collisions by the thinnest of margins； all without so much as a pause in the incessant stream of words spewing from his mouth：
？？terrible what is happening in your country； yar。 Afghani people and Pakistani people they are like brothers； I tell you。 Muslims have to help Muslims so。。。
I tuned him out； switched to a polite nodding mode。 I remembered Peshawar pretty well from the few months Baba and I had spent there in 1981。 We were heading west now on Jamrud road； past the Cantonment and its lavish； high…walled homes。 The bustle of the city blurring past me reminded me of a busier； more crowded version of the Kabul I knew； particularly of the KochehMorgha； or Chicken Bazaar； where Hassan and I used to buy chutney…dipped potatoes and cherry water。 The streets were clogged with bicycle riders； milling pedestrians； and rickshaws popping blue smoke； all weaving through a maze of narrow lanes and alleys。 Bearded vendors draped in thin blankets sold animalskin lampshades； carpets； embroidered shawls； and copper goods from rows of small； tightly jammed stalls。 The city was bursting with sounds； the shouts of vendors rang in my ears mingled with the blare of Hindi music； the sputtering of rickshaws； and the jingling bells of horse…drawn carts。 Rich scents； both pleasant and not so pleasant； drifted to me through the passenger window； the spicy aroma of pakora and the nihari Baba had loved so much blended with the sting of diesel fumes； the stench of rot； garbage； and feces。
A little past the redbrick buildings of Peshawar University； we entered an area my garrulous driver referred to as Afghan Town。 I saw sweetshops and carpet vendors； kabob stalls； kids with dirtcaked hands selling cigarettes； tiny restaurants……maps of Afghanistan painted on their windows……all interlaced with backstreet aid agencies。 Many of your brothers in this area； yar。 They are opening businesses； but most of them are very poor。 He tsk ed his tongue and sighed。 Anyway； we re getting close now。
I thought about the last time I had seen Rahim Khan； in 1981。 He had e to say good…bye the night Baba and I had fled Kabul。 I remember Baba and him embracing in the foyer； crying softly。 When Baba and I arrived in the U。S。； he and Rahim Khan kept in touch。 They would speak four or five times a year and； sometimes； Baba would pass me the receiver。 The last time I had spoken to Rahim Khan had been shortly after Baba s death。 The news had reached Kabul and he had called。 We d only spoken for a few minutes and lost the connection。
The driver pulled up to a narrow building at a busy corner where two winding streets intersected。 I paid the driver； took my lone suitcase； and walked up to the intricately carved door。 The building had wooden balconies with open shutters……from many of them； laundry was hanging to dry in the sun。 I walked up the creaky stairs to the second floor； down a dim hallway to the last door on the right。 Checked the address on the piece of stationery paper in my palm。 Knocked。
Then； a thing made of skin and bones pretending to be Rahim Khan opened the door。
A CREATIVE WRITING TEACHER at San Jose State used to say about clich閟： Avoid them like the plague。 Then he d laugh at his own joke。 The class laughed along with him； but I always thought clich閟 got a bum rap。 Because； often； they re dead…on。 But the aptness of the clich閐 saying is overshadowed by the nature of the saying as a clich椤！or example； the elephant in the room saying。 Nothing could more correctly describe the initial moments of my reunion with Rahim Khan。
We sat on a wispy mattress set along the wall； across the window overlooking the noisy street below。 Sunlight slanted in and cast a triangular wedge of light onto the Afghan rug on the floor。 Two folding chairs rested against one wall and a small copper samovar sat in the opposite corner。 I poured us tea from it。
How did you find me？ I asked。
It s not difficult to find people in America。 I bought a map of the U。S。； and called up information for cities in Northern California； he said。 It s wonderfully strange to see you as a grown man。
I smiled and dropped three sugar cubes in my tea。 He liked his black and bitter； I remembered。 Baba didn t get the chance to tell you but I got married fifteen years ago。 The truth was； by then； the cancer in Baba s brain had made him forgetful； negligent。
You are married？ To whom？
Her name is Soraya Taheri。 I thought of her back home； worrying about me。 I was glad she wasn t alone。
Taheri。。。 whose daughter is she？
I told him。 His eyes brightened。 Oh； y