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f old records and paperbacks。
My daughter； Soraya jan； General Taheri said。 He took a deep breath like a man eager to change the subject and checked his gold pocket watch。 Well； time to go and set up。 He and Baba kissed on the cheek and he shook my hand with both of his。 Best of luck with the writing； he said； looking me in the eye。 His pale blue eyes revealed nothing of the thoughts behind them。
For the rest of that day； I fought the urge to look toward the gray van。
IT CAME TO ME on our way home。 Taheri； I knew I d heard that name before。
Wasn t there some story floating around about Taheri s daughter？ I said to Baba； trying to sound casual。
You know me； Baba said； inching the bus along the queue exiting the flea market。 Talk turns to gossip and I walk away。
But there was； wasn t there？ I said。
Why do you ask？ He was looking at me coyly。
I shrugged and fought back a smile。 Just curious； Baba。
Really？ Is that all？ he said； his eyes playful； lingering on mine。 Has she made an impression on you？
I rolled my eyes。 Please； Baba。
He smiled； and swung the bus out of the flea market。 We headed for Highway 680。 We drove in silence for a while。 All I ve heard is that there was a man once and things。。。 didn t go well。 He said this gravely； like he d disclosed to me that she had breast cancer。
I hear she is a decent girl； hardworking and kind。 But no khastegars； no suitors； have knocked on the general s door since。 Baba sighed。 It may be unfair； but what happens in a few days； sometimes even a single day； can change the course of a whole lifetime； Amir； he said。
LYING AWAKE IN BED that night； I thought of Soraya Taheri s sickle…shaped birthmark； her gently hooked nose； and the way her luminous eyes had fleetingly held mine。 My heart stuttered at the thought of her。 Soraya Taheri。 My Swap Meet Princess。
TWELVE
In Afghanistan； _yelda_ is the first night of the month of _Jadi_； the first night of winter； and the longest night of the year。 As was the tradition； Hassan and I used to stay up late； our feet tucked under the kursi； while Ali tossed apple skin into the stove and told us ancient tales of sultans and thieves to pass that longest of nights。 It was from Ali that I learned the lore of _yelda_； that bedeviled moths flung themselves at candle flames； and wolves climbed mountains looking for the sun。 Ali swore that if you ate water melon the night of _yelda_； you wouldn t get thirsty the ing summer。
When I was older； I read in my poetry books that _yelda_ was the starless night tormented lovers kept vigil； enduring the endless dark； waiting for the sun to rise and bring with it their loved one。 After I met Soraya Taheri； every night of the week became a _yelda_ for me。 And when Sunday mornings came； I rose from bed； Soraya Taheri s brown…eyed face already in my head。 In Baba s bus； I counted the miles until I d see her sitting barefoot； arranging cardboard boxes of yellowed encyclopedias； her heels white against the asphalt； silver bracelets jingling around her slender wrists。 I d think of the shadow her hair cast on the ground when it slid off her back and hung down like a velvet curtain。 Soraya。 Swap Meet Princess。 The morning sun to my yelda。
I invented excuses to stroll down the aisle……which Baba acknowledged with a playful smirk……and pass the Taheris stand。 I would wave at the general； perpetually dressed in his shiny overpressed gray suit； and he would wave back。 Sometimes he d get up from his director s chair and we d make small talk about my writing； the war； the day s bargains。 And I d have to will my eyes not to peel away； not to wander to where Soraya sat reading a paperback。 The general and I would say our good…byes and I d try not to slouch as I walked away。
Sometimes she sat alone； the general off to some other row to socialize； and I would walk by； pretending not to know her； but dying to。 Sometimes she was there with a portly middle…aged woman with pale skin and dyed red hair。 I promised myself that I would talk to her before the summer was over； but schools reopened； the leaves reddened； yellowed； and fell； the rains of winter swept in
and wakened Baba s joints； baby leaves sprouted once more； and I still hadn t had the heart； the dil； to even look her in the eye。
The spring quarter ended in late May 1985。 I aced all of my general education classes； which was a minor miracle given how I d sit in lectures and think of the soft hook of Soraya s nose。
Then； one sweltering Sunday that summer； Baba and I were at the flea market； sitting at our booth； fanning our faces with news papers。 Despite the sun bearing down like a branding iron； the market was crowded that day and sales had been strong……it was only 12：30 but we d already made 160。 I got up； stretched； and asked Baba if he wanted a Coke。 He said he d love one。
Be careful； Amir； he said as I began to walk。 Of what； Baba？
I am not an ahmaq； so don t play stupid with me。
I don t know what you re talking about。
Remember this； Baba said； pointing at me； The man is a Pashtun to the root。 He has nang and namoos。 Nang。 Namoos。 Honor and pride。 The tenets of Pashtun men。 Especially when it came to the chastity of a wife。 Or a daughter。
I m only going to get us drinks。
Just don t embarrass me； that s all I ask。
I won t。 God； Baba。
Baba lit a cigarette and started fanning himself again。
I walked toward the concession booth initially； then turned left at the T…shirt stand……where； for 5； you could have the face of Jesus； Elvis； Jim Morrison； or all three； pressed on a white nylon T…shirt。 Mariachi music played overhead； and I smelled pickles and grilled meat。
I spotted the Taheris gray van two rows from ours； next to a kiosk selling mango…on…a…stick。 She was alone； reading。 White ankle…length summer dress today。 Open…toed sandals。 Hair pulled back and crowned with a tulip…shaped bun。 I meant to simply walk by again and I thought I had； except suddenly I was standing at the edge of the Taheris white tablecloth； staring at Soraya across curling irons and old neckties。 She looked up。
Salaam； I said。 I m sorry to be mozahem； I didn t mean to disturb