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afternoon sun。 The hem of his loose shirt fluttered in the breeze； his arms spread like those of Jesus on the cross。 He greeted the crowd by turning slowly in a full circle。 When he faced our section； I saw he was wearing dark round sunglasses like the ones John Lennon wore。
That must be our man； Farid said。
The tall Talib with the black sunglasses walked to the pile of stones they had unloaded from the third truck。 He picked up a rock and showed it to the crowd。 The noise fell； replaced by a buzzing sound that rippled through the stadium。 I looked around me and saw that everyone was tsk ing。 The Talib； looking absurdly like a baseball pitcher on the mound； hurled the stone at the blindfolded man in the hole。 It struck the side of his head。 The woman screamed again。 The crowd made a startled OH！ sound。 I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands。 The spectators OH！ rhymed with each flinging of the stone； and that went on for a while。 When they stopped； I asked Farid if it was over。 He said no。 I guessed the people s throats had tired。 I don t know how much longer I sat with my face in my hands。 I know that I reopened my eyes when I heard people around me asking； Mord？ Mord？ Is he dead？
The man in the hole was now a mangled mess of blood and shredded rags。 His head slumped forward； chin on chest。 The Talib in the John Lennon sunglasses was looking down at another man squatting next to the hole； tossing a rock up and down in his
hand。 The squatting man had one end of a stethoscope to his ears and the other pressed on the chest of the man in the hole。 He removed the stethoscope from his ears and shook his head no at the Talib in the sunglasses。 The crowd moaned。
John Lennon walked back to the mound。
When it was all over； when the bloodied corpses had been unceremoniously tossed into the backs of red pickup trucks……separate ones……a few men with shovels hurriedly filled the holes。 One of them made a passing attempt at covering up the large blood stains by kicking dirt over them。 A few minutes later； the teams took the field。 Second half was under way。
Our meeting was arranged for three o clock that afternoon。 The swiftness with which the appointment was set surprised me。 I d expected delays； a round of questioning at least； perhaps a check of our papers。 But I was reminded of how unofficial even official matters still were in Afghanistan： all Farid had to do was tell one of the whip…carrying Talibs that we had personal business to discuss with the man in white。 Farid and he exchanged words。 The guy with the whip then nodded and shouted something in Pashtu to a young man on the field； who ran to the south…end goalposts where the Talib in the sunglasses was chatting with the plump cleric who d given the sermon。 The three spoke。 I saw the guy in the sunglasses look up。 He nodded。 Said something in the messenger s ear。 The young man relayed the message back to us。
It was set； then。 Three o clock。
TWENTY…TWO
Farid eased the Land Cruiser up the driveway of a big house in Wazir Akbar Khan。 He parked in the shadows of willow trees that spilled over the walls of the pound located on Street 15； Sarak…e…Mehmana； Street of the Guests。 He killed the engine and we sat for a minute； listening to the tink…tink of the engine cooling off； neither one of us saying anything。 Farid shifted on his seat and toyed with the keys still hanging from the ignition switch。 I could tell he was readying himself to tell me something。
I guess I ll wait in the car for you； he said finally； his tone a little apologetic。 He wouldn t look at me。 This is your business now。 I……
I patted his arm。 You ve done much more than I ve paid you for。 I don t expect you to go with me。 But I wished I didn t have to go in alone。 Despite what I had learned about Baba； I wished he were standing alongside me now。 Baba would have busted through the front doors and demanded to be taken to the man in charge； piss on the beard of anyone who stood in his way。 But Baba was long dead； buried in the Afghan section of a little cemetery in Hayward。 Just last month； Soraya and I had placed a bouquet of daisies and freesias beside his headstone。 I was on my own。
I stepped out of the car and walked to the tall； wooden front gates of the house。 I rang the bell but no buzz came……still no electricity……and I had to pound on the doors。 A moment later； I heard terse voices from the other side and a pair of men toting Kalash nikovs answered the door。
I glanced at Farid sitting in the car and mouthed； I ll be back； not so sure at all that I would be。
The armed men frisked me head to toe； patted my legs； felt my crotch。 One of them said something in Pashtu and they both chuckled。 We stepped through the front gates。 The two guards escorted me across a well…manicured lawn； past a row of geraniums and stubby bushes lined along the wall。 An old hand…pump water well stood at the far end of the yard。 I remembered how Kaka Homayoun s house in Jalalabad had had a water well like that……the twins； Fazila and Karima； and I used to drop pebbles in it； listen for the plink。
We climbed a few steps and entered a large； sparsely decorated house。 We crossed the foyer……a large Afghan flag draped one of the walls……and the men took me upstairs to a room with twin mint green sofas and a big…screen TV in the far corner。 A prayer rug showing a slightly oblong Mecca was nailed to one of the walls。 The older of the two men motioned toward the sofa with the barrel of his weapon。 I sat down。 They left the room。
I crossed my legs。 Uncrossed them。 Sat with my sweaty hands on my knees。 Did that make me look nervous？ I clasped them together； decided that was worse and just crossed my arms on my chest。 Blood thudded in my temples。 I felt utterly alone。 Thoughts were flying around in my head； but I didn t want to think at all； because a sober part of me knew that what I had managed to get myself into was insanity。 I was thousands of miles from my wife； sitting in a room that felt like a holding cell； waiting for a man I had seen murder two people that same day。 It was insanity。 Worse yet； it was irresponsible。 There was a very realistic chance that I was going to render Soraya a biwa； a widow； at the age of thirty…six。 This isn t you； Amir； part of me said。 You re gutless。 It s how you were made。 And that s not such a bad thing because your saving grace is that you ve never lied to yourself about it。 Not about that。 Nothing wrong with cowardice as long as it es with prudence。 But when a coward stops remembering who he is。。。 God help him。
There was a coffee table by the sofa。 The base was X…shaped； walnut…sized brass balls studding the ring where the meta