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ake some thing up； but he bit into a peach and waved his hand； Don t bother； Amir。 Just remember what I said。
THAT NIGHT IN BED； I thought of the way dappled sunlight had danced in Soraya s eyes； and of the delicate hollows above her collarbone。 I replayed our conversation over and over in my head。 Had she said I heard you write or I heard you re a writer？ Which was it？ I tossed in my sheets and stared at the ceiling； dismayed at the thought of six laborious； interminable nights of yelda until I saw her again。
IT WENT ON LIKE THAT for a few weeks。 I d wait until the general went for a stroll； then I d walk past the Taheris stand。 If Khanum Taheri was there； she d offer me tea and a kolcha and we d chat about Kabul in the old days； the people we knew； her arthritis。 Undoubtedly； she had noticed that my appearances always coincided with her husband s absences； but she never let on。 Oh you just missed your Kaka； she d say。 I actually liked it when Khanum Taheri was there； and not just because of her amiable ways； Soraya was more relaxed； more talkative with her mother around。 As if her presence legitimized whatever was happening between us……though certainly not to the same degree that the general s would have。 Khanum Taheri s chaperoning made our meetings； if not gossip…proof； then less gossip…worthy； even if her borderline fawning on me clearly embarrassed Soraya。
One day； Soraya and I were alone at their booth； talking。 She was telling me about school； how she too was working on her general education classes； at Ohlone Junior College in Fremont。
What will you major in？
I want to be a teacher； she said。
Really？ Why？
I ve always wanted to。 When we lived in Virginia； I became ESL certified and now I teach at the public library one night a week。 My mother was a teacher too； she taught Farsi and history at Zarghoona High School for girls in Kabul。
A potbellied man in a deerstalker hat offered three dollars for a five…dollar set of candlesticks and Soraya let him have it。 She dropped the money in a little candy box by her feet。 She looked at me shyly。 I want to tell you a story； she said； but I m a little embarrassed about it。
Tell me。
It s kind of silly。
Please tell me。
She laughed。 Well； when I was in fourth grade in Kabul； my father hired a woman named Ziba to help around the house。 She had a sister in Iran； in Mashad； and； since Ziba was illiterate； she d ask me to write her sister letters once in a while。 And when the sister replied； I d read her letter to Ziba。 One day； I asked her if she d like to learn to read and write。 She gave me this big smile； crinkling her eyes； and said she d like that very much。 So we d sit at the kitchen table after I was done with my own schoolwork and I d teach her Alef…beh。 I remember looking up sometimes in the middle of homework and seeing Ziba in the kitchen； stirring meat in the pressure cooker； then sitting down with a pencil to do the alphabet homework I d assigned to her the night before。
Anyway； within a year； Ziba could read children s books。 We sat in the yard and she read me the tales of