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parent； congratulated the birth of children； and shook your head mournfully when the conversation turned to Afghanistan and the Roussis……which it inevitably did。 But you avoided the topic of Saturday。 Because it might turn out that the fellow across the isle was the guy you d nearly blindsided at the freeway exit yesterday in order to beat him to a promising garage sale。
The only thing that flowed more than tea in those aisles was Afghan gossip。 The flea market was where you sipped green tea with almond kolchas； and learned whose daughter had broken off an engagement and run off with her American boyfriend； who used to be Parchami……a munist……in Kabul； and who had bought a house with under…the…table money while still on welfare。 Tea； Politics； and Scandal； the ingredients of an Afghan Sunday at the flea market。
I ran the stand sometimes as Baba sauntered down the aisle； hands respectfully pressed to his chest； greeting people he knew from Kabul： mechanics and tailors selling hand…me…down wool coats and scraped bicycle helmets； alongside former ambassadors； out…of…work surgeons； and university professors。
One early Sunday morning in July 1984； while Baba set up； I bought two cups of coffee from the concession stand and returned to find Baba talking to an older； distinguished…looking man。 I put the cups on the rear bumper of the bus； next to the REAGAN/BUSH FOR 84 sticker。
Amir； Baba said； motioning me over； this is General Sahib； Mr。 Iqbal Taheri。 He was a decorated general in Kabul。 He worked for the Ministry of Defense。
Taheri。 Why did the name sound familiar？ The general laughed like a man used to attending formal parties where he d laughed on cue at the minor jokes of important people。 He had wispy silver…gray hair bed back from his smooth； tanned forehead； and tufts of white in his bushy eye brows。 He smelled like cologne and wore an iron…gray three…piece suit； shiny from too many pressings； the gold chain of a pocket watch dangled from his vest。
Such a lofty introduction； he said； his voice deep and cultured。 _Salaam； bachem_。 Hello； my child。
_Salaam_； General Sahib； I said； shaking his hand。 His thin hands belied a firm grip； as if steel hid beneath the moisturized skin。
Amir is going to be a great writer； Baba said。 I did a double take at this。 He has finished his first year of college and earned A s in all of his courses。
Junior college； I corrected him。
_Mashallah_； General Taheri said。 Will you be writing about our country； history perhaps？ Economics？
I write fiction； I said； thinking of the dozen or so short stories I had written in the leather…bound notebook Rahim Khan had given me； wondering why I was suddenly embarrassed by them in this man s presence。
Ah； a storyteller； the general said。 Well； people need stories to divert them at difficult times like this。 He put his hand on Baba s shoulder and turned to me。 Speaking of stories； your father and I hunted pheasant together one summer day in Jalalabad； he said。 It was a marvelous time。 If I recall correctly； your father s eye proved as keen in the hunt as it had in business。
Baba kicked a wooden tennis racket on our tarpaulin spread with the toe of his boot。 Some business。
General Taheri managed a simultaneously sad and polite smile； heaved a sigh； and gently patted Baba s shoulder。 Zendagi migzara； he said。 Life goes on。 He turned his eyes to me。 We Afghans are prone to a considerable degree of exaggeration； bachem； and I have heard many men foolishly labeled great。 But your father has the distinction of belonging to the minority who truly deserves the l