I smiled. “Okay.” I gave him the phone and the little black notebook where Baba had scribbled his Afghan friends’ numbers. He looked up the Taheris. Dialed. Brought the receiver to his ear. My heart was doing pirouettes in my chest.
“Jamila jan? Salaam alaykum,” he said. He introduced himself. Paused. “Much better, thank you. It was so gracious of you to come.” He listened for a while. Nodded. “I’ll remember that, thank you. Is General Sahib home?” Pause. “Thank you.”
His eyes flicked to me. I wanted to laugh for some reason. Or scream. I brought the ball of my hand to my mouth and bit on it. Baba laughed softly through his nose.
“General Sahib, Salaam alaykum... Yes, much much better... Balay... You’re so kind. General Sahib, I’m calling to ask if I may pay you and Khanum Taheri a visit tomorrow morning. It’s an honorable matter... Yes... Eleven o’clock is just fine. Until then. Khoda h?fez.”
He hung up. We looked at each other. I burst into giggles. Baba joined in.
BABA WET HIS HAIR and combed it back. I helped him into a clean white shirt and knotted his tie for him, noting the two inches of empty space between the collar button and Baba’s neck. I thought of all the empty spaces Baba would leave behind when he was gone, and I made myself think of something else. He wasn’t gone. Not yet. And this was a day for good thoughts. The jacket of his brown suit, the one he’d worn to my graduation, hung over him--too much of Baba had melted away to fill it anymore. I had to roll up the sleeves. I stooped and tied his shoelaces for him.
The Taheris lived in a flat, one-story house in one of the residential areas in Fremont known for housing a large number of Afghans. It had bay windows, a pitched roof, and an enclosed front porch on which I saw potted geraniums. The general’s gray van was parked in the driveway.
I helped Baba out of the Ford and slipped back behind the wheel. He leaned in the passenger window. “Be home, I’ll call you in an hour.”
“Okay, Baba,” I said. “Good luck.”
He smiled.
I drove away. In the rearview mirror, Baba was hobbling up the Taheris’ driveway for one last fatherly duty.
I PACED THE LIVING ROOM of our apartment waiting for Baba’s call. Fifteen paces long. Ten and a half paces wide. What if the general said no? What if he hated me? I kept going to the kitchen, checking the oven clock.
The phone rang just before noon. It was Baba.
“Well?”
“The general accepted.”
I let out a burst of air. Sat down. My hands were shaking. “He did?”
“Yes, but Soraya jan is upstairs in her room. She wants to talk to you first.”
“Okay.”
Baba said something to someone and there was a double click as he hung up.
“Amir?” Soraya’s voice. “Salaam.”
“My father said yes.”
“I know,” I said. I switched hands. I was smiling. “I’m so happy I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m happy too, Amir. I... can’t believe this is happening.”
I laughed. “I know.”
“Listen,” she said, “I want to tell you something. Something you have to know before...”
“I don’t care what it is.”
“You need to know. I don’t want us to start with secrets. And I’d rather you hear it from me.”
“If it will make you feel better, tell me. But it won’t change anything.”
There was a long pause at the other end. “When we lived in Virginia, I ran away with an Afghan man. I was eighteen at the time... rebellious... stupid, and... he was into drugs... We lived together for almost a month. All the Afghans in Virginia were talking about it.
“Padar eventually found us. He showed up at the door and... made me come home. I was hysterical. Yelling. Screaming. Saying I hated him...