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ipar……which means Flying Fish ……was a high summit with a precipitous drop overlooking the hydro plant the Germans had built for Afghanistan back in 1967。 Baba and I had driven over the summit countless times on our way to Jalalabad； the city of cypress trees and sugarcane fields where Afghans vacationed in the winter。
I hopped down the back of the truck and lurched to the dusty embankment on the side of the road。 My mouth filled with saliva； a sign of the retching that was yet to e。 I stumbled to the edge of the cliff overlooking the deep valley that was shrouded in dark ness。 I stooped； hands on my kneecaps； and waited for the bile。 Somewhere； a branch snapped； an owl hooted。 The wind； soft and cold； clicked through tree branches and stirred the bushes that sprinkled the slope。 And from below； the faint sound of water tumbling through the valley。
Standing on the shoulder of the road； I thought of the way we d left the house where I d lived my entire life； as if we were going out for a bite： dishes smeared with kofta piled in the kitchen sink； laundry in the wicker basket in
the foyer； beds unmade； Baba s business suits hanging in the closet。 Tapestries still hung on the walls of the living room and my mother s books still crowded the shelves in Baba s study。 The signs of our elopement were subtle： My parents wedding picture was gone； as was the grainy photograph of my grandfather and King Nader Shah standing over the dead deer。 A few items of clothing were missing from the closets。 The leather…bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me five years earlier was gone。
In the morning； Jalaluddin……our seventh servant in five years……would probably think we d gone out for a stroll or a drive。 We hadn t told him。 You couldn t trust anyone in Kabul any more……for a fee or under threat； people told on each other； neighbor on neighbor； child on parent； brother on brother； servant on master； friend on friend。 I thought of the singer Ahmad Zahir； who had played the accordion at my thirteenth birthday。 He had gone for a drive with some friends； and someone had later found his body on the side of the road； a bullet in the back of his head。 The rafiqs； the rades； were everywhere and they d split Kabul into two groups： those who eavesdropped and those who didn t。 The tricky part was that no one knew who belonged to which。 A casual remark to the tailor while getting fitted for a suit might land you in the dungeons of Poleh…charkhi。 plain about the curfew to the butcher and next thing you knew； you were behind bars staring at the muzzle end of a Kalashnikov。 Even at the dinner table； in the privacy of their home； people had to speak in a calculated manner……the rafiqs were in the classrooms too； they d taught children to spy on their parents； what to listen for； whom to tell。
What was I doing on this road in the middle of the night？ I should have been in bed； under my blanket； a book with dog…eared pages at my side。 This had to be a dream。 Had to be。 Tomorrow morning； I d wake up； peek out the window： No grim…faced Russian soldiers patrolling the sidewalks； no tanks rolling up and do