“What did you mean it may be too late?” I said.
“Would you like some chai? I could make some.”
“Nay, thank you. I’d rather we talk.”Zaman tilted back in his chair and crossed his arms on his chest. “What I have to tell you is not pleasant. Not to mention that it may be very dangerous.”
“For whom?”
“You. Me. And, of course, for Sohrab, if it’s not too late already.”
“I need to know,” I said.
He nodded. “So you say. But first I want to ask you a question: How badly do you want to find your nephew?”
I thought of the street fights we’d get into when we were kids, all the times Hassan used to take them on for me, two against one, sometimes three against one. I’d wince and watch, tempted to step in, but always stopping short, always held back by something.
I looked at the hallway, saw a group of kids dancing in a circle. A little girl, her left leg amputated below the knee, sat on a ratty mattress and watched, smiling and clapping along with the other children. I saw Farid watching the children too, his own mangled hand hanging at his side. I remembered Wahid’s boys and... I realized something: I would not leave Afghanistan without finding Sohrab. “Tell me where he is,” I said.
Zaman’s gaze lingered on me. Then he nodded, picked up a pencil, and twirled it between his fingers. “Keep my name out of it.”
“I promise.”