eir 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。 Behind him； a boy dressed in a loose； sapphire blue pirhan…tumban followed。
The resemblance was breathtaking。 Disorienting。 Rahim Khan s Polaroid hadn t done justice to it。
The boy had his father s round moon face； his pointy stub of a chin； his twisted； seashell ears； and the same slight frame。 It was the Chinese doll face of my childhood； the face peering above fanned…out playing cards all those winter days； the face behind the mosquito net when we slept on the roof of my father s house in the summer。 His head was shaved； his eyes darkened with mascara； and his cheeks glowed with an unnatural red。 When he stopped in the middle of the room； the bells strapped around his anklets stopped jingling。 His eyes fell on me。 Lingered。 Then he looked away。 Looked down at his naked feet。
One of the guards pressed a button and Pashtu music filled the room。 Tabla； harmonium； the whine of a dil…roba。 I guessed music wasn t sinful as long as it played to Taliban ears。 The three men began to clap。
Wah wah！ _Mashallah_！ they cheered。
Sohrab raised his arms and turned slowly。 He stood on tiptoes； spun gracefully； dipped to his knees； straightened； and spun again。 His little hands swiveled at the wrists； his fingers snapped； and his head swung side to side like a pendulum。 His feet pounded the floor； the bells jingling in perfect harmony with the beat of the tabla。 He kept his eyes closed。
_Mashallah_！ they cheered。 Shahbas！ Bravo！ The two guards whistled and laughed。 The Talib in white was tilting his head back an