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intended。
After twenty years of living in America； he said； swerving the truck to avoid a pothole the size of a beach ball。
I nodded。 I grew up in Afghanistan。 Farid snickered again。
Why do you do that？
Never mind； he murmured。
No； I want to know。 Why do you do that？
In his rearview mirror； I saw something flash in his eyes。 You want to know？ he sneered。 Let me imagine； Agha sahib。 You probably lived in a big two… or three…story house with a nice back yard that your gardener filled with flowers and fruit trees。 All gated； of course。 Your father drove an American car。 You had servants； probably Hazaras。 Your parents hired workers to decorate the house for the fancy mehmanis they threw； so their friends would e over to drink and boast about their travels to Europe or America。 And I would bet my first son s eyes that this is the first time you ve ever worn a pakol。 He grinned at me； revealing a mouthful of prematurely rotting teeth。 Am I close？
Why are you saying these things？ I said。
Because you wanted to know； he spat。 He pointed to an old man dressed in ragged clothes trudging down a dirt path； a large burlap pack filled with scrub grass tied to his back。 That s the real Afghanistan； Agha sahib。 That s the Afghanistan I know。 You？ You ve always been a tourist here； you just didn t know it。
Rahim Khan had warned me not to expect a warm wele in Afghanistan from those who had stayed behind and fought the wars。 I m sorry about your father； I said。 I m sorry about your daughters； and I m sorry about your hand。
That means nothing to me； he said。 He shook his head。 Why are you ing back here anyway？ Sell off your Baba s land？ Pocket the money and run back to your mother in America？
My mother died giving birth to me； I said。
He sighed and lit another cigarette。 Said nothing。
Pull over。
What？
Pull over； goddamn it！ I said。 I m going to be sick。 I tumbled out of the truck as it was ing to a rest on the gravel alongside the road。
BY LATE AFTERNOON； the terrain had changed from one of sun…beaten peaks and barren cliffs to a greener； more rural land scape。 The main pass had descended from Landi Kotal through Shinwari territory to Landi Khana。 We d entered Afghanistan at Torkham。 Pine trees flanked the road； fewer than I remembered and many of them bare； but it was good to see trees again after the arduous drive through the Khyber Pass。 We were getting closer to Jalalabad； where Farid had a brother who would take us in for the night。
The sun hadn t quite set when we drove into Jalalabad； capital of the state of Nangarhar； a city once renowned for its fruit and warm climate。 Farid drove past the buildings and stone houses of the city s central district。 There weren t as many palm trees there as I remembered； and some of the homes had been reduced to roofless walls and piles of twisted clay。
Farid turned onto a narrow unpaved road and parked the Land Cruiser along a dried…up gutter。 I slid out of the truck； stretched； and took a deep breath。 In the old days； the winds swept through the irrigated plains around Jalalabad where farmers grew sugarcane； and impregnated the city s air with a sweet scent。 I closed my eyes and searched for the sweetness。 I didn t find it。
Let s go； Farid said impatiently。 We walked up the dirt road past a few leafless poplars along a row of broken mud walls。 Farid led me to a dilapidated one…story house and knocked on the woodplank door。
A young woman with ocean…green eyes and a white scarf draped around her face peeked out。 She saw me first； flinched； spotted Farid and her eyes lit up。 Salaam alaykum； Kaka Farid！
Salaam； Maryam jan； Farid replied and gave her something he d denied me all day： a warm smile。 He planted a kiss on the top of her head。 The young woman stepped out of the way； eyeing me a little apprehensively as I followed Farid into the small house。
The adobe ceiling was low； the dirt walls entirely bare； and the only light came from a pair of lanterns set in a corner。 We took off our shoes and stepped on the straw mat that covered the floor。 Along one of the walls sat three young boys； cross…legged； on a mattress covered with a blanket with shredded borders。
A tall bearded man with broad shoulders stood up to greet us。 Farid and he hugged and kissed on the cheek。 Farid introduced him to me as Wahid； his older brother。 He s from America； he said to Wahid； flicking his thumb toward me。 He left us alone and went to greet the boys。
Wahid sat with me against the wall across from the boys； who had ambushed Farid and climbed his shoulders。 Despite my protests； Wahid ordered one of the boys to fetch another blanket so I d be more fortable on the floor； and asked Maryam to bring me some tea。 He asked about the ride from Peshawar； the drive over the Khyber Pass。
I hope you didn t e across any dozds； he said。 The Khyber Pass was as famous for its terrain as for the bandits who used that terrain to rob travelers。 Before I could answer； he winked and said in a loud voice； Of course no dozd would waste his time on a car as ugly as my brother s。
Farid wrestled the smallest of the three boys to the floor and tickled him on the ribs with his good hand。 The kid giggled and kicked。 At least I have a car； Farid panted。 How is your donkey these days？
My donkey is a better ride than your car。
Khar khara mishnassah； Farid shot back。 Takes a donkey to know a donkey。 They all laughed and I joined in。 I heard female voices from the adjoining room。 I could see half of the room from where I sat。 Maryam and an older woman wearing a brown hijab……presumably her mother……were speaking in low voices and pouring tea from a kettle into a pot。
So what do you do in America； Amir agha？ Wahid asked。
I m a writer； I said。 I thought I heard Farid chuckle at that。
A writer？ Wahid said； clearly impressed。 Do you write about Afghanistan？
Well； I have。 But not currently； I said。 My last novel； A Season for Ashes； had been about a university professor who joins a clan of gypsies after he finds his wife in bed with one of his stu dents。 It wasn t a bad book。 Some reviewers had called it a good book； and one had even used the word riveting。 But suddenly I was embarrassed by it。 I hoped Wahid wouldn t ask what it was about。
Maybe you should write about Afghanistan again； Wahid said。 Tell the rest of the world what the Taliban are doing to our country。
Well； I m not。。。 I m not quite that kind of writer。
Oh； Wahid said； nodding and blushing a bit。 〃You know best； of course。 It s not for me to suggest。。。
Just then； Maryam and the other woman came into the room with a pair of cups and a teapot