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ped at garage sales and bought knickknacks that people no longer wanted。 We haggled over old sewing machines； one…eyed Barbie dolls； wooden tennis rackets； guitars with missing strings； and old Electrolux vacuum cleaners。 By midafternoon； we d filled the back of the VW bus with used goods。 Then early Sunday mornings； we drove to the San Jose flea market off Berryessa； rented a spot； and sold the junk for a small profit： a Chicago record that we d bought for a quarter the day before might go for 1； or 4 for a set of five； a ramshackle Singer sewing machine purchased for 10 might； after some bargaining； bring in 25。
By that summer； Afghan families were working an entire section of the San Jose flea market。 Afghan music played in the aisles of the Used Goods section。 There was an unspoken code of behavior among Afghans at the flea market： You greeted the guy across the aisle； you invited him for a bite of potato bolani or a little qabuli； and you chatted。 You offered tassali； condolences； for the death of a parent； congratulated the birth of children； and shook your head mournfully when the conversation turned to Afghanistan and the Roussis……which it inevitably did。 But you avoided the topic of Saturday。 Because it might turn out that the fellow across the isle was the guy you d nearly blindsided at the freeway exit yesterday in order to beat him to a promising garage sale。
The only thing that flowed more than tea in those aisles was Afghan gossip。 The flea market was where you sipped green tea with almond kolchas； and learned whose daughter had broken off an engagement and run off with her American boyfriend； who used to be Parchami……a munist……in Kabul； and who had bought a house with under…the…table money while still on welfare。 Tea； Politics； and Scandal； the ingredients of an Afghan Sunday at the flea market。
I ran the stand sometimes as Baba sauntered down the aisle； hands respectfully pressed to his chest； greeting people he knew from Kabul： mechanics and tailors selling hand…me…down wool coats and scraped bicycle helmets； alongside former ambassadors； out…of…work surgeons； and university professors。
One early Sunday morning in July 1984； while Baba set up； I bought two cups of coffee from the concession stand and returned to find Baba talking to an older； distinguished…looking man。 I put the cups on the rear bumper of the bus； next to the REAGAN/BUSH FOR 84 sticker。
Amir； Baba said； motioning me over； this is General Sahib； Mr。 Iqbal Taheri。 He was a decorated general in Kabul。 He worked for the Ministry of Defense。
Taheri。 Why did the name sound familiar？ The general laughed like a man used to attending formal parties where he d laughed on cue at the minor jokes of important people。 He had wispy silver…gray hair bed back from his smooth； tanned forehead； and tufts of white in his bushy eye brows。 He smelled like cologne and wore an iron…gray three…piece suit； shiny from too many pressings； the gold chain of a pocket watch dangled from his vest。
Such a lofty introduction； he said； his voice deep and cultured。 _Salaam； bachem_。 Hello； my child