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he 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