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ed； bearded young men crammed into the cabs。 Farid cursed under his breath every time we passed one。
I paid for a room at a small hotel near Pashtunistan Square。 Three little girls dressed in identical black dresses and white scarves clung to the slight； bespectacled man behind the counter。 He charged me 75； an unthinkable price given the run…down appearance of the place； but I didn t mind。 Exploitation to finance a beach house in Hawaii was one thing。 Doing it to feed your kids was another。
There was no hot running water and the cracked toilet didn t flush。 Just a single steel…frame bed with a worn mattress； a ragged blanket； and a wooden chair in the corner。 The window overlooking the square had broken； hadn t been replaced。 As I lowered my suitcase； I noticed a dried bloodstain on the wall behind the bed。
I gave Farid some money and he went out to get food。 He returned with four sizzling skewers of kabob； fresh _naan_； and a bowl of white rice。 We sat on the bed and all but devoured the food。 There was one thing that hadn t changed in Kabul after all：
The kabob was as succulent and delicious as I remembered。
That night； I took the bed and Farid lay on the floor； wrapped himself with an extra blanket for which the hotel owner charged me an additional fee。 No light came into the room except for the moonbeams streaming through the broken window。 Farid said the owner had told him that Kabul had been without electricity for two days now and his generator needed fixing。 We talked for a while。 He told me about growing up in Mazar…i…Sharif； in Jalalabad。 He told me about a time shortly after he and his father joined the jihad and fought the Shorawi in the Panjsher Valley。 They were stranded without food and ate locust to survive。 He told me of the day helicopter gunfire killed his father； of the day the land mine took his two daughters。 He asked me about America。 I told him that in America you could step into a grocery store and buy any of fifteen or twenty different types of cereal。 The lamb was always fresh and the milk cold； the fruit plentiful and the water clear。 Every home had a TV； and every TV a remote； and you could get a satellite dish if you wanted。 Receive over five hundred channels。
Five hundred？ Farid exclaimed。
Five hundred。
We fell silent for a while。 Just when I thought he had fallen asleep； Farid chuckled。 Agha； did you hear what Mullah Nasrud din did when his daughter came home and plained that her husband had beaten her？ I could feel him smiling in the dark and a smile of my own formed on my face。 There wasn t an Afghan in the world who didn t know at least a few jokes about the bumbling mullah。
What？
He beat her too； then sent her back to tell the husband that Mullah was no fool： If the bastard was going to beat his daughter； then Mullah would beat his wife in return。
I laughed。 Partly at the joke； partly at how Afghan humor never changed。 Wars were waged； the Internet was invented； and a robot had rolled on the surface of Mars； and in Afghanistan we were still telling Mullah Nasruddin jokes。 Did you hear about the time Mullah had placed a heavy bag on his shoulders and was riding his donkey？ I said。
No。
Someone on the street said why don t you put the bag on the donkey？ And he said； That would be cruel； I m heavy enough already for the poor thing。
We exchanged Mullah Nasruddin jokes until we ran out of them and we fell silent again。
Amir agha？ Farid said； startling me from near sleep。
Yes？
Why are you here？ I mean； why are you really here？
I told you。
For the boy？
For the boy。
Farid shifted on the gro