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eny him one child； he takes ten。 So I let him take one and leave the judging to Allah。 I swallow my pride and take his goddamn filthy。。。 dirty money。 Then I go to the bazaar and buy food for the children。
Farid dropped his eyes。
What happens to the children he takes？ I asked。
Zaman rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb。 Some times they e back。
Who is he？ How do we find him？ I said。
Go to Ghazi Stadium tomorrow。 You ll see him at halftime。 He ll be the one wearing black sunglasses。 He picked up his broken glasses and turned them in his hands。 I want you to go now。 The children are frightened。
He escorted us out。
As the truck pulled away； I saw Zaman in the side…view mirror； standing in the doorway。 A group of children surrounded him； clutching the hem of his loose shirt。 I saw he had put on his broken glasses。
TWENTY…ONE
We crossed the river and drove north through the crowded Pashtunistan Square。 Baba used to take me to Khyber Restaurant there for kabob。 The building was still standing； but its doors were padlocked； the windows shattered； and the letters K and R missing from its name。
I saw a dead body near the restaurant。 There had been a hanging。 A young man dangled from the end of a rope tied to a beam； his face puffy and blue； the clothes he d worn on the last day of his life shredded； bloody。 Hardly anyone seemed to notice him。
We rode silently through the square and headed toward the WazirAkbar Khan district。 Everywhere I looked； a haze of dust covered the city and its sun…dried brick buildings。 A few blocks north of Pashtunistan Square； Farid pointed to two men talking animatedly at a busy street corner。 One of them was hobbling on one leg； his other leg amputated below the knee。 He cradled an artificial leg in his arms。 You know what they re doing？ Haggling over the leg。
He s selling his leg？
Farid nodded。 You can get good money for it on the black market。 Feed your kids for a couple of weeks。
To MY SURPRISE； most of the houses in the WazirAkbar Khan district still had roofs and standing walls。 In fact； they were in pretty good shape。 Trees still
peeked over the walls； and the streets weren t nearly as rubble…strewn as the ones in Karteh…Seh。 Faded streets signs； some twisted and bullet…pocked； still pointed the way。
This isn t so bad； I remarked。
No surprise。 Most of the important people live here now。
Taliban？
Them too； Farid said。
Who else？
He drove us into a wide street with fairly clean sidewalks and walled homes on either side。 The people behind the Taliban。 The real brains of this government； if you can call it that： Arabs； Chechens； Pakistanis； Farid said。 He pointed northwest。 Street 15； that way； is called Sarak…e…Mehmana。 Street of the Guests。 That s what they call them here； guests。 I think someday these guests are going to pee all over the carpet。
I think that s it！ I said。 Over there！ I pointed to the landmark that used to serve as a guide for me when I was a kid。 If you ever get lost； Baba used to say； remember that our street is the one with the pink house at the end of it。 The pink house with the steeply pitched roof had been the neighborhood s only house of that color in the old days。 It still was。
Farid turned onto the street。 I saw Baba s house right away。
WE FIND THE LITTLE TURTLE behind tangles of sweetbrier in the yard。 We don t know how it got there and we re too excited to care。 We paint its shell a bright red； Hassan s idea； and a good one：
This way； we ll never lose it in the bushes。 We pretend we re a pair of daredevil explorers who ve discovered a giant prehistor