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ell be in another galaxy to the people sleeping on the other side of the wall I leaned against。 I thought I had forgotten about this land。 But I hadn t。 And； under the bony glow of a halfmoon； I sensed Afghanistan humming under my feet。 Maybe Afghanistan hadn t forgotten me either。
I looked westward and marveled that； somewhere over those mountains； Kabul still existed。 It really existed； not just as an old memory； or as the heading of an AP story on page 15 of the San Francisco Chronicle。 Somewhere over those mountains in the west slept the city where my harelipped brother and I had run kites。 Somewhere over there； the blindfolded man from my dream had died a
needless death。 Once； over those mountains； I had made a choice。 And now； a quarter of a century later； that choice had landed me right back on this soil。
I was about to go back inside when I heard voices ing from the house。 I recognized one as Wahid s。
……nothing left for the children。
We re hungry but we re not savages！ He is a guest！ What was I supposed to do？ he said in a strained voice。
……to find something tomorrow She sounded near tears。 What do I feed……
I tiptoed away。 I understood now why the boys hadn t shown any interest in the watch。 They hadn t been staring at the watch at all。 They d been staring at my food。
WE SAID OUR GOOD … BYE S early the next morning。 Just before I climbed into the Land Cruiser； I thanked Wahid for his hospitality。 He pointed to the little house behind him。 This is your home； he said。 His three sons were standing in the doorway watching us。 The little one was wearing the watch……it dangled around his twiggy wrist。
I glanced in the side…view mirror as we pulled away。 Wahid stood surrounded by his boys in a cloud of dust whipped up by the truck。 It occurred to me that； in a different world； those boys wouldn t have been too hungry to chase after the car。
Earlier that morning； when I was certain no one was looking； I did something I had done twenty…six years earlier： I planted a fistful of crumpled money under a mattress。
TWENTY
Farid had warned me。 He had。 But； as it turned out； he had wasted his breath。
We were driving down the cratered road that winds from Jalalabad to Kabul。 The last time I d traveled that road was in a tarpaulin…covered truck going the other way。 Baba had nearly gotten himself shot by a singing； stoned Roussi officer……Baba had made me so mad that night； so scared； and； ultimately； so proud。 The trek between Kabul and Jalalabad； a bone…jarring ride down a teetering pass snaking through the rocks； had bee a relic now； a relic of two wars。 Twenty years earlier； I had seen some of the first war with my own eyes。 Grim reminders of it were strewn along the road： burned carcasses of old Soviet tanks； overturned military trucks gone to rust； a crushed Russian jeep that had plunged over the mountainside。 The second war； I had watched on my TV screen。 And now I was seeing it through Farid s eyes。
Swerving effortlessly around potholes in the middle of the broken road； Farid was a man in his element。 He had bee much chattier since our overnight stay at Wahid s house。 He had me sit in the passenger seat and looked at me when he spoke。 He even smiled once or twice。 Maneuvering the steering wheel with his mangled hand； he pointed to mud…hut villages along the way where he d known people years before。 Most of those people； he said； were either dead or in refugee camps in Pakistan。 And sometimes the dead are luckier； he said。
He pointed to the crumbled； charred remains of a tiny village。 It was just a tuft of blackened； roofless walls now。 I saw a dog