WE LEFT LATE THAT AFTERNOON, tired from the heat, but tired in a pleasant way. All the way back, I felt Sohrab watching me. I had the driver pull over at a store that sold calling cards. I gave him the money and a tip for running in and buying me one.
That night, we were lying on our beds, watching a talk show on TV. Two clerics with pepper gray long beards and white turbans were taking calls from the faithful all over the world. One caller from Finland, a guy named Ayub, asked if his teenaged son could go to hell for wearing his baggy pants so low the seam of his underwear showed.
“I saw a picture of San Francisco once,” Sohrab said.
“Really?”
“There was a red bridge and a building with a pointy top.”
“You should see the streets,” I said.
“What about them?” He was looking at me now. On the TV screen, the two mullahs were consulting each other.
“They’re so steep, when you drive up all you see is the hood of your car and the sky,” I said.
“It sounds scary,” he said. He rolled to his side, facing me, his back to the TV.
“It is the first few times,” I said. “But you get used to it.”
“Does it snow there?”
“No, but we get a lot of fog. You know that red bridge you saw?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes the fog is so thick in the morning, all you see is the tip of the two towers poking through.”There was wonder in his smile. “Oh.”
“Sohrab?”
“Yes.”
“Have you given any thought to what I asked you before?”
His smiled faded. He rolled to his back. Laced his hands under his head. The mullahs decided that Ayub’s son would go to hell after all for wearing his pants the way he did. They claimed it was in the Haddith. “I’ve thought about it,” Sohrab said.
“And?”