hrough the irrigated plains around Jalalabad where farmers grew sugarcane； and impregnated the city s air with a sweet scent。 I closed my eyes and searched for the sweetness。 I didn t find it。
Let s go； Farid said impatiently。 We walked up the dirt road past a few leafless poplars along a row of broken mud walls。 Farid led me to a dilapidated one…story house and knocked on the woodplank door。
A young woman with ocean…green eyes and a white scarf draped around her face peeked out。 She saw me first； flinched； spotted Farid and her eyes lit up。 Salaam alaykum； Kaka Farid！
Salaam； Maryam jan； Farid replied and gave her something he d denied me all day： a warm smile。 He planted a kiss on the top of her head。 The young woman stepped out of the way； eyeing me a little apprehensively as I followed Farid into the small house。
The adobe ceiling was low； the dirt walls entirely bare； and the only light came from a pair of lanterns set in a corner。 We took off our shoes and stepped on the straw mat that covered the floor。 Along one of the walls sat three young boys； cross…legged； on a mattress covered with a blanket with shredded borders。
A tall bearded man with broad shoulders stood up to greet us。 Farid and he hugged and kissed on the cheek。 Farid introduced him to me as Wahid； his older brother。 He s from America； he said to Wahid； flicking his thumb toward me。 He left us alone and went to greet the boys。
Wahid sat with me against the wall across from the boys； who had ambushed Farid and climbed his shoulders。 Despite my protests； Wahid ordered one of the boys to fetch another blanket so I d be more fortable on the floor； and asked Maryam to bring me some tea。 He asked about the ride from Peshawar； the drive over the Khyber Pass。
I hope you didn t e across any dozds； he said。 The Khyber Pass was as famous for its terrain as for the bandits who used that terrain to rob travelers。 Before I could answer； he winked and said in a loud voice； Of course no dozd would waste his time on a car as ugly as my brother s。
Farid wrestled the smallest of the three boys to the floor and tickled him on the ribs with his good hand。 The kid giggled and kicked。 At least I have a car； Farid panted。 How is your donkey these days？
My donkey is a better ride than your car。
Khar khara mishnassah； Farid shot back。 Takes a donkey to know a donkey。 They all laughed and I joined in。 I heard female voices from the adjoining room。 I could see half of the room from where I sat。 Maryam and an older woman wearing a brown hijab……presumably her mother……were speaking in low voices and pouring tea from a kettle into a pot。
So what do you do in America； Amir agha？ Wahid asked。
I m a writer； I said。 I thought I heard Farid chuckle at that。
A writer？ Wahid said； clearly impressed。 Do you write about Afghanistan？
Well； I have。 But not currently； I said。 My last novel； A Season for Ashes； had been about a university professor who joins a clan of gypsies after he finds his wife in bed with one of his stu dents。 It wasn t a bad book。 Some reviewers had called it a good book； and one had even used the word riveting。 But suddenly I was embarrassed by it。 I hoped Wahid wouldn t ask what it was about。
Maybe you should write about Afghanistan again； Wahid said。 Tell the rest of the world what the Taliban are doing to our country。
Well； I m not。。。 I m not quite that kind of writer。
Oh； Wahid said； nodding and blushing a bit。 〃You know best； of course。 It s not for me to suggest。。。
Just then； Maryam and the other woman came into the room with a pair of cups and a teapot