Faisal dabbed at the sweat beads above his lips. “I’m familiar with the version of the situation you gave Mr. Andrews,” he said. His cheeks dimpled with a coy smile. He turned to Sohrab. “This must be the young man who’s causing all the trouble,” he said in Farsi.
“This is Sohrab,” I said. “Sohrab, this is Mr. Faisal, the lawyer I told you about.”
Sohrab slid down the side of his bed and shook hands with Omar Faisal. “Salaam alaykum,” he said in a low voice.“Alaykum salaam, Sohrab,” Faisal said. “Did you know you are named after a great warrior?”
Sohrab nodded. Climbed back onto his bed and lay on his side to watch TV.
“I didn’t know you spoke Farsi so well,” I said in English. “Did you grow up in Kabul?”
“No, I was born in Karachi. But I did live in Kabul for a number of years. Shar-e-Nau, near the Haji Yaghoub Mosque,” Faisal said. “I grew up in Berkeley, actually. My father opened a music store there in the late sixties. Free love, headbands, tiedyed shirts, you name it.” He leaned forward. “I was at Woodstock.”“Groovy,” I said, and Faisal laughed so hard he started sweating all over again. “Anyway,” I continued, “what I told Mr. Andrews was pretty much it, save for a thing or two. Or maybe three. I’ll give you the uncensored version.”
He licked a finger and flipped to a blank page, uncapped his pen. “I’d appreciate that, Amir. And why don’t we just keep it in English from here on out?”
“Fine.”