“_Mashallah_,” General Taheri said. “Will you be writing about our country, history perhaps? Economics?”
“I write fiction,” I said, thinking of the dozen or so short stories I had written in the leather-bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me, wondering why I was suddenly embarrassed by them in this man’s presence.
“Ah, a storyteller,” the general said. “Well, people need stories to divert them at difficult times like this.” He put his hand on Baba’s shoulder and turned to me. “Speaking of stories, your father and I hunted pheasant together one summer day in Jalalabad,” he said. “It was a marvelous time. If I recall correctly, your father’s eye proved as keen in the hunt as it had in business.”
Baba kicked a wooden tennis racket on our tarpaulin spread with the toe of his boot. “Some business.”
General Taheri managed a simultaneously sad and polite smile, heaved a sigh, and gently patted Baba’s shoulder. “Zendagi migzara,” he said. Life goes on. He turned his eyes to me. “We Afghans are prone to a considerable degree of exaggeration, bachem, and I have heard many men foolishly labeled great. But your father has the distinction of belonging to the minority who truly deserves the label.” This little speech sounded to me the way his suit looked: often used and unnaturally shiny.
“You’re flattering me,” Baba said.
“I am not,” the general said, tilting his head sideways and pressing his hand to his chest to convey humility. “Boys and girls must know the legacy of their fathers.” He turned to me. “Do you appreciate your father, bachem? Do you really appreciate him?”
“Balay, General Sahib, I do,” I said, wishing he’d not call me “my child.”
“Then congratulations, you are already halfway to being a man,” he said with no trace of humor, no irony, the compliment of the casually arrogant.
“Padar jan, you forgot your tea.” A young woman’s voice. She was standing behind us, a slim-hipped beauty with velvety coal black hair, an open thermos and Styrofoam cup in her hand. I blinked, my heart quickening. She had thick black eyebrows that touched in the middle like the arched wings of a flying bird, and the gracefully hooked nose of a princess from old Persia--maybe that of Tahmineh, Rostam’s wife and Sohrab’s mother from the _Shahnamah_. Her eyes, walnut brown and shaded by fanned lashes, met mine. Held for a moment. Flew away.
“You are so kind, my dear,” General Taheri said. He took the cup from her. Before she turned to go, I saw she had a brown, sickle-shaped birthmark on the smooth skin just above her left jawline. She walked to a dull gray van two aisles away and put the thermos inside. Her hair spilled to one side when she kneeled amid boxes of old records and paperbacks.
“My daughter, Soraya jan,” General Taheri said. He took a deep breath like a man eager to change the subject and checked his gold pocket watch. “Well, time to go and set up.” He and Baba kissed on the cheek and he shook my hand with both of his. “Best of luck with the writing,” he said, looking me in the eye. His pale blue eyes revealed nothing of the thoughts behind them.
For the rest of that day, I fought the urge to look toward the gray van.
IT CAME TO ME on our way home. Taheri, I knew I’d heard that name before.
“Wasn’t there some story floating around about Taheri’s daughter?” I said to Baba, trying to sound casual.
“You know me,” Baba said, inching the bus along the queue exiting the flea market. “Talk turns to gossip and I walk away.”
“But there was, wasn’t there?” I said.
“Why do you ask?” He was looking at me coyly.
I shrugged and fought back a smile. “Just curious, Baba.”
“Really? Is that all?” he said, his eyes playful, lingering on mine. “Has she made an impression on you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Please, Baba.”