“Yes, Agha sahib,” the younger of the guards replied. “How could I forget?”I had read about the Hazara massacre in Mazar-i-Sharif in the papers. It had happened just after the Taliban took over Mazar, one of the last cities to fall. I remembered Soraya handing me the article over breakfast, her face bloodless.
“Door-to-door. We only rested for food and prayer,” the Talib said. He said it fondly, like a man telling of a great party he’d attended. “We left the bodies in the streets, and if their families tried to sneak out to drag them back into their homes, we’d shoot them too. We left them in the streets for days. We left them for the dogs. Dog meat for dogs.” He crushed his cigarette. Rubbed his eyes with tremulous hands. “You come from America?”
“How is that whore these days?”I had a sudden urge to urinate. I prayed it would pass. “I’m looking for a boy.”“Isn’t everyone?” he said. The men with the Kalashnikovs laughed. Their teeth were stained green with naswar.“I understand he is here, with you,” I said. “His name is Sohrab.”“I’ll ask you something: What are you doing with that whore? Why aren’t you here, with your Muslim brothers, serving your country?”“I’ve been away a long time,” was all I could think of saying. My head felt so hot. I pressed my knees together, held my bladder.The Talib turned to the two men standing by the door. “That’s an answer?” he asked them.“Nay, Agha sahib,” they said in unison, smiling.He turned his eyes to me. Shrugged. “Not an answer, they say.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “There are those in my circle who believe that abandoning watan when it needs you the most is the same as treason. I could have you arrested for treason, have you shot for it even. Does that frighten you?”
“I’m only here for the boy.”
“Does that frighten you?”
“Yes.”