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e kissed the prayer beads； tilted his head。 You remember that； Javid？
Yes； Agha sahib； the younger of the guards replied。 How could I forget？
I had read about the Hazara massacre in Mazar…i…Sharif in the papers。 It had happened just after the Taliban took over Mazar； one of the last cities to fall。 I remembered Soraya handing me the article over breakfast； her face bloodless。
Door…to…door。 We only rested for food and prayer； the Talib said。 He said it fondly； like a man telling of a great party he d attended。 We left the bodies in the streets； and if their families tried to sneak out to drag them back into their homes； we d shoot them too。 We left them in the streets for days。 We left
them for the dogs。 Dog meat for dogs。 He crushed his cigarette。 Rubbed his eyes with tremulous hands。 You e from America？
Yes。
How is that whore these days？
I had a sudden urge to urinate。 I prayed it would pass。 I m looking for a boy。
Isn t everyone？ he said。 The men with the Kalashnikovs laughed。 Their teeth were stained green with naswar。
I understand he is here； with you； I said。 His name is Sohrab。
I ll ask you something： What are you doing with that whore？ Why aren t you here； with your Muslim brothers； serving your country？
I ve been away a long time； was all I could think of saying。 My head felt so hot。 I pressed my knees together； held my bladder。
The Talib turned to the two men standing by the door。 That s an answer？ he asked them。
Nay； Agha sahib； they said in unison； smiling。
He turned his eyes to me。 Shrugged。 Not an answer； they say。 He took a drag of his cigarette。 There are those in my circle who believe that abandoning watan when it needs you the most is the same as treason。 I could have you arrested for treason； have you shot for it even。 Does that frighten you？
I m only here for the boy。
Does that frighten you？
Yes。
It should； he said。 He leaned back in the sofa。 Crushed the cigarette。
I thought about Soraya。 It calmed me。 I thought of her sickleshaped birthmark； the elegant curve of her neck； her luminous eyes。 I thought of our wedding night； gazing at each other s reflection in the mirror under the green veil； and how her cheeks blushed when I whispered that I loved her。 I remembered the two of us dancing to an old Afghan song； round and round； everyone watching and clapping； the world a blur of flowers； dresses； tuxedos； and smiling faces。
The Talib was saying something。
Pardon？
I said would you like to see him？ Would you like to see my boy？ His upper lip curled up in a sneer when he said those last two words。
Yes。
The guard left the room。 I heard the creak of a door swinging open。 Heard the guard say something in Pashtu； in a hard voice。 Then； footfalls； and the jingle of bells with each step。 It reminded me of the Monkey Man Hassan and I used to
chase down in Shar e…Nau。 We used to pay him a rupia of our allowance for a dance。 The bell around his monkey s neck had made that same jingling sound。
Then the door opened and the guard walked in。 He carried a stereo……a boom box……on his shoulder