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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 Mass