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Waiting。
I FOUND RAHIM KHAN praying _namaz_ in a corner of the room。 He was just a dark silhouette bowing eastward against a bloodred sky。 I waited for him to finish。
Then I told him I was going to Kabul。 Told him to call the Caldwells in the morning。
I ll pray for you； Amir jan； he said。
NINETEEN
Again； the car sickness。 By the time we drove past the bulletriddled sign that read THE KHYBER PASS WELES YOU； my mouth had begun to water。 Something inside my stomach churned and twisted。 Farid； my driver； threw me a cold glance。 There was no empathy in his eyes。
Can we roll down the window？ I asked。
He lit a cigarette and tucked it between the remaining two fingers of his left hand； the one resting on the steering wheel。 Keeping his black eyes on the road； he stooped forward； picked up the screwdriver lying between his feet； and handed it to me。 I stuck it in the small hole in the door where the handle belonged and turned it to roll down my window。
Farid gave me another dismissive look； this one with a hint of barely suppressed animosity； and went back to smoking his cigarette。 He hadn t said more than a dozen words since we d departed from Jamrud Fort。
Tashakor； I muttered。 I leaned my head out of the window and let the cold midafternoon air rush past my face。 The drive through the tribal lands of the Khyber Pass； winding between cliffs of shale and limestone； was just as I remembered it……Baba and I had driven through the broken terrain back in 1974。 The arid； imposing mountains sat along deep gorges and soared to jagged peaks。 Old fortresses； adobe…walled and crumbling； topped the crags。 I tried to keep my eyes glued to the snowcapped Hindu Kush on the north side； but each time my stomach settled even a bit； the truck skidded around yet another turn； rousing a fresh wave of nausea。
Try a lemon。
What？
Lemon。 Good for the sickness； Farid said。 I always bring one for this drive。
Nay； thank you； I said。 The mere thought of adding acidity to my stomach stirred more nausea。 Farid snickered。 It s not fancy like American medicine； I know； just an old remedy my mother taught me。
I regretted blowing my chance to warm up to him。 In that case； maybe you should give me some。
He grabbed a paper bag from the backseat and plucked a half lemon out of it。 I bit down on it； waited a few minutes。 You were right。 I feel better； I lied。 As an Afghan； I knew it was better to be miserable than rude。 I forced a weak smile。
Old watani trick； no need for fancy medicine； he said。 His tone bordered on the surly。 He flicked the ash off his cigarette and gave himself a self…satisfied look in the rearview mirror。 He was a Tajik； a lanky； dark man with a weather…beaten face； narrow shoulders； and a long neck punctuated by a protruding Adam s apple that only peeked from behind his beard when he turned his head。 He was dressed much as I was； though I suppose it was really the other way around： a rough…woven wool blanket wrapped over a gray pirhan…tumban and a vest。 On his head； he wore a brown pakol； tilted slightly to one side； like the Tajik hero Ahmad Shah Massoud……referred to by Tajiks as the Lion of Panjsher。
It was Rahim Khan who had introduced me to Farid in Peshawar。 He told me Farid was twenty…nine； though he had the wary； lined face of a man twenty years older。 He was born in Mazar…i…Sharif and lived there until his father moved the family to Jalalabad when Farid was ten。 At fourteen； he and his father had joined the jihad against the Shorawi。 They had fought in the Panjsher Valley for two years until helicopter gunfire had torn the older man to pieces。 Farid had two wives and five children。 He used to have seven； Rahim Khan said with a rueful look； but he d lost his two youngest girls a few years earlier in a land mine blast just outside Jalalabad； the same explosion that had severed toes from his feet and three fingers from his left hand。 After that； he had moved his wives and children to Peshawar。
Checkpoint； Farid grumbled。 I slumped a little in my seat； arms folded across my chest； forgetting for a moment about the nausea。 But I needn t have worried。 Two Pakistani militia approached our dilapidated Land Cruiser； took a cursory glance inside； and waved us on。
Farid was first on… the list of preparations Rahim Khan and I made； a list that included exchanging dollars for Kaldar and Afghani bills； my garment and pakol……ironically； I d never worn either when I d actually lived in Afghanistan……the Polaroid of Hassan and Sohrab； and； finally； perhaps the most important item： an artificial beard； black and chest length； Shari a friendly……or at least the Taliban version of Shari a。 Rahim Khan knew of a fellow in Peshawar who specialized in weaving them； sometimes for Western journalists who covered the war。
Rahim Khan had wanted me to stay with him a few more days； to plan more thoroughly。 But I knew I had to leave as soon as possible。 I was afraid I d change my mind。 I was afraid I d deliberate； ruminate； agonize； rationalize； and talk myself into not going。 I was afraid the appeal of my life in America would draw me back； that I would wade back into that great； big river and let myself forget； let the things I had learned these last few days sink to the bottom。 I was afraid that I d let the waters carry me away from what I had to do。 From Hassan。 From the past that had e calling。 And from this one last chance at redemption。 So I left before there was any possibility of that happening。 As for
Soraya； telling her I was going back to Afghanistan wasn t an option。 If I had； she would have booked herself on the next flight to Pakistan。
We had crossed the border and the signs of poverty were every where。 On either side of the road； I saw chains of little villages sprouting here and there； like discarded toys among the rocks； broken mud houses and huts consisting of little more than four wooden poles and a tattered cloth as a roof。 I saw children dressed in rags chasing a soccer ball outside the huts。 A few miles later； I spotted a cluster of men sitting on their haunches； like a row of crows； on the carcass of an old burned…out Soviet tank； the wind fluttering the edges of the blankets thrown around them。 Behind them； a woman in a brown burqa carried a large clay pot on her shoulder； down a rutted path toward a string of mud houses。
Strange； I said。
What？
I feel like a tourist in my own country； I said； taking in a goatherd leading a half…dozen emaciated goats along the side of the road。
Farid snickered。 Tossed his cigarette。 You still think of this place as your country？
I think a part of me always will； I said； more defensively than I had intended