Fremont, California. 1980s
Baba loved the idea of America.
It was living in America that gave him an ulcer1.
I remember the two of us walking through Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont, a few streets down from our apartment, and watching boys at batting practice, little girls giggling2 on the swings in the playground. Baba would enlighten me with his politics during those walks with long-winded dissertations3. "There are only three real men in this world, Amir,?he'd say. He'd count them off on his fingers: America the brash savior, Britain, and Israel. "The rest of them--?he used to wave his hand and make a phht sound ?-they're like gossiping old women.?
The bit about Israel used to draw the ire of Afghans in Fremont who accused him of being pro-Jewish and, de facto, anti Islam. Baba would meet them for tea and rowt cake at the park, drive them crazy with his politics. "What they don't understand,?he'd tell me later, "is that religion has nothing to do with it.?In Baba's view, Israel was an island of "real men?in a sea of Arabs too busy getting fat off their oil to care for their own. "Israel does this, Israel does that,?Baba would say in a mock-Arabic accent. "Then do something about it! Take action. You're Arabs, help the Palestinians, then!?
He loathed4 Jimmy Carter, whom he called a "big-toothed cretin.?In 1980, when we were still in Kabul, the U.S. announced it would be boycotting5 the Olympic games in Moscow. "Wah wah!?Baba exclaimed with disgust. "Brezhnev is massacring Afghans and all that peanut eater can say is I won't come swim in your pool.?Baba believed Carter had unwittingly done more for communism than Leonid Brezhnev. "He's not fit to run this country. It's like putting a boy who can't ride a bike behind the wheel of a brand new Cadillac.?What America and the world needed was a hard man. A man to be reckoned with, someone who took action instead of wringing6 his hands. That someone came in the form of Ronald Reagan. And when Reagan went on TV and called the Shorawi "the Evil Empire,?Baba went out and bought a picture of the grinning president giving a thumbs up. He framed the picture and hung it in our hallway, nailing it right next to the old black-and-white of himself in his thin necktie shaking hands with King Zahir Shah. Most of our neighbors in Fremont were bus drivers, policemen, gas station attendants, and unwed mothers collecting welfare, exactly the sort of blue-collar people who would soon suffocate7 under the pillow Reganomics pressed to their faces. Baba was the lone8 Republican in our building.
But the Bay Area's smog stung his eyes, the traffic noise gave him headaches, and the pollen9 made him cough. The fruit was never sweet enough, the water never clean enough, and where were all the trees and open fields? For two years, I tried to get Baba to enroll10 in ESL classes to improve his broken English. But he scoffed11 at the idea. "Maybe I'll spell ‘cat?and the teacher will give me a glittery little star so I can run Home and show it off to you,?he'd grumble12.
One Sunday in the spring of 1983, I walked into a small bookstore that sold used paperbacks13, next to the Indian movie theater just west of where Amtrak crossed Fremont Boulevard. I told Baba I'd be out in five minutes and he shrugged14. He had been working at a gas station in Fremont and had the day off. I watched him jaywalk across Fremont Boulevard and enter Fast & Easy, a little grocery store run by an elderly Vietnamese couple, Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen. They were gray-haired, friendly people; she had Parkinson's, he'd had his hip15 replaced. "He's like Six Million Dollar Man now,?she always said to me, laughing toothlessly. "Remember Six Million Dollar Man, Amir??Then Mr. Nguyen would scowl16 like Lee Majors, pretend he was running in slow motion.
I was flipping17 through a worn copy of a Mike Hammer mystery when I heard screaming and glass breaking. I dropped the book and hurried across the street. I found the Nguyens behind the counter, all the way against the wall, faces ashen18, Mr. Nguyen's arms wrapped around his wife. On the floor: oranges, an overturned magazine rack, a broken jar of beef jerky, and shards19 of glass at Baba's feet.
It turned out that Baba had had no cash on him for the oranges. He'd written Mr. Nguyen a check and Mr. Nguyen had asked for an ID. "He wants to see my license20,?Baba bellowed21 in Farsi. "Almost two years we've bought his damn fruits and put money in his pocket and the son of a dog wants to see my license!?
"Baba, it's not personal,?I said, smiling at the Nguyens. "They're supposed to ask for an ID.?
"I don't want you here,?Mr. Nguyen said, stepping in front of his wife. He was pointing at Baba with his cane22. He turned to me.
"You're nice young man but your father, he's crazy. Not welcome anymore.?
"Does he think I'm a thief??Baba said, his voice rising. People had gathered outside. They were staring. "What kind of a country is this? No one trusts anybody!?
"I call police,?Mrs. Nguyen said, poking23 out her face. "You get out or I call police.?
"Please, Mrs. Nguyen, don't call the police. I'll take him Home. Just don't call the police, okay? Please??
"Yes, you take him Home. Good idea,?Mr. Nguyen said. His eyes, behind his wire-rimmed bifocals, never left Baba. I led Baba through the doors. He kicked a magazine on his way out. After I'd made him promise he wouldn't go back in, I returned to the store and apologized to the Nguyens. Told them my father was going through a difficult time. I gave Mrs. Nguyen our telephone number and address, and told her to get an estimate for the damages. "Please call me as soon as you know. I'll pay for everything, Mrs. Nguyen. I'm so sorry.?Mrs. Nguyen took the sheet of paper from me and nodded. I saw her hands were shaking more than usual, and that made me angry at Baba, his causing an old woman to shake like that.
"My father is still adjusting to life in America,?I said, by way of explanation.
I wanted to tell them that, in Kabul, we snapped a tree branch and used it as a credit card. Hassan and I would take the wooden stick to the bread maker24. He'd carve notches26 on our stick with his knife, one notch25 for each loaf of _naan_ he'd pull for us from the tandoor's roaring flames. At the end of the month, my father paid him for the number of notches on the stick. That was it. No questions. No ID.
But I didn't tell them. I thanked Mr. Nguyen for not calling the cops. Took Baba Home. He sulked and smoked on the balcony while I made rice with chicken neck stew27. A year and a half since we'd stepped off the Boeing from Peshawar, and Baba was still adjusting.
We ate in silence that night. After two bites, Baba pushed away his plate.
I glanced at him across the table, his nails chipped and black with engine oil, his knuckles28 scraped, the smells of the gas station--dust, sweat, and gasoline--on his clothes. Baba was like the widower29 who remarries but can't let go of his dead wife. He missed the sugarcane fields of Jalalabad and the gardens of Paghman. He missed people milling in and out of his house, missed walking down the bustling30 aisles31 of Shor Bazaar34 and greeting people who knew him and his father, knew his grandfather, people who shared ancestors with him, whose pasts intertwined with his.
For me, America was a place to bury my memories.
For Baba, a place to mourn his.
"Maybe we should go back to Peshawar,?I said, watching the ice float in my glass of water. We'd spent six months in Peshawar waiting for the INS to issue our visas. Our grimy one-bedroom apartment smelled like dirty socks and cat droppings, but we were surrounded by people we knew--at least people Baba knew. He'd invite the entire corridor of neighbors for dinner, most of them Afghans waiting for visas. Inevitably35, someone would bring a set of tabla and someone else a harmonium. Tea would brew36, and who ever had a passing singing voice would sing until the sun rose, the mosquitoes stopped buzzing, and clapping hands grew sore.
"You were happier there, Baba. It was more like Home,?I said.
"Peshawar was good for me. Not good for you.?
"You work so hard here.?
"It's not so bad now,?he said, meaning since he had become the day manager at the gas station. But I'd seen the way he winced37 and rubbed his wrists on damp days. The way sweat erupted on his forehead as he reached for his bottle of antacids after meals. "Besides, I didn't bring us here for me, did I??
I reached across the table and put my hand on his. My student hand, clean and soft, on his laborer's hand, grubby and calloused38. I thought of all the trucks, train sets, and bikes he'd bought me in Kabul. Now America. One last gift for Amir.
Just one month after we arrived in the U.S., Baba found a job off Washington Boulevard as an assistant at a gas station owned by an Afghan acquaintance--he'd started looking for work the same week we arrived. Six days a week, Baba pulled twelve-hour shifts pumping gas, running the register, changing oil, and washing windshields. I'd bring him lunch sometimes and find him looking for a pack of cigarettes on the shelves, a customer waiting on the other side of the oil-stained counter, Baba's face drawn39 and pale under the bright fluorescent40 lights. The electronic bell over the door would ding-dong when I walked in, and Baba would look over his shoulder, wave, and smile, his eyes watering from fatigue41.
The same day he was hired, Baba and I went to our eligibility42 officer in San Jose, Mrs. Dobbins. She was an overweight black woman with twinkling eyes and a dimpled smile. She'd told me once that she sang in church, and I believed her--she had a voice that made me think of warm milk and honey. Baba dropped the stack of food stamps on her desk. "Thank you but I don't want,?Baba said. "I work always. In Afghanistan I work, in America I work. Thank you very much, Mrs. Dobbins, but I don't like it free money.?
Mrs. Dobbins blinked. Picked up the food stamps, looked from me to Baba like we were pulling a prank43, or "slipping her a trick?as Hassan used to say. "Fifteen years I been doin?this job and nobody's ever done this,?she said. And that was how Baba ended those humiliating food stamp moments at the cash register and alleviated44 one of his greatest fears: that an Afghan would see him buying food with charity money. Baba walked out of the welfare office like a man cured of a tumor45.
THAT SUMMER OF 1983, I graduated from high school at the age of twenty, by far the oldest senior tossing his mortarboard on the football field that day. I remember losing Baba in the swarm46 of families, flashing cameras, and blue gowns. I found him near the twenty-yard line, hands shoved in his pockets, camera dangling47 on his chest. He disappeared and reappeared behind the people moving between us: squealing48 blue-clad girls hugging, crying, boys high-fiving their fathers, each other. Baba's beard was graying, his hair thinning at the temples, and hadn't he been taller in Kabul? He was wearing his brown suit--his only suit, the same one he wore to Afghan weddings and funerals--and the red tie I had bought for his fiftieth birthday that year. Then he saw me and waved. Smiled. He motioned for me to wear my mortarboard, and took a picture of me with the school's clock tower in the background. I smiled for him--in a way, this was his day more than mine. He walked to me, curled his arm around my neck, and gave my brow a single kiss. "I am moftakhir, Amir,?he said. Proud. His eyes gleamed when he said that and I liked being on the receiving end of that look.
He took me to an Afghan kabob house in Hayward that night and ordered far too much food. He told the owner that his son was going to college in the fall. I had debated him briefly49 about that just before graduation, and told him I wanted to get a job. Help out, save some money, maybe go to college the following year. But he had shot me one of his smoldering50 Baba looks, and the words had vaporized on my tongue.
After dinner, Baba took me to a bar across the street from the restaurant. The place was dim, and the acrid51 smell of beer I'd always disliked permeated52 the walls. Men in baseball caps and tank tops played pool, clouds of cigarette smoke hovering53 over the green tables, swirling54 in the fluorescent light. We drew looks, Baba in his brown suit and me in pleated slacks and sports jacket. We took a seat at the bar, next to an old man, his leathery face sickly in the blue glow of the Michelob sign overhead. Baba lit a cigarette and ordered us beers. "Tonight I am too much happy,?he announced to no one and everyone. "Tonight I drinking with my son. And one, please, for my friend,?he said, patting the old man on the back. The old fellow tipped his hat and smiled. He had no upper teeth.
Baba finished his beer in three gulps55 and ordered another. He had three before I forced myself to drink a quarter of mine. By then he had bought the old man a scotch56 and treated a foursome of pool players to a pitcher57 of Budweiser. Men shook his hand and clapped him on the back. They drank to him. Someone lit his cigarette. Baba loosened his tie and gave the old man a handful of quarters. He pointed58 to the jukebox. "Tell him to play his favorite songs,?he said to me. The old man nodded and gave Baba a salute59. Soon, country music was blaring, and, just like that, Baba had started a party.
At one point, Baba stood, raised his beer, spilling it on the sawdust floor, and yelled, "Fuck the Russia!?The bar's laughter, then its full-throated echo followed. Baba bought another round of pitchers60 for everyone.
When we left, everyone was sad to see him go. Kabul, Peshawar, Hayward. Same old Baba, I thought, smiling.
I drove us Home in Baba's old, ochre yellow Buick Century. Baba dozed61 off on the way, snoring like a jackhammer. I smelled tobacco on him and alcohol, sweet and pungent62. But he sat up when I stopped the car and said in a hoarse63 voice, "Keep driving to the end of the block.?
"Why, Baba??
"Just go.?He had me park at the south end of the street. He reached in his coat pocket and handed me a set of keys. "There,?he said, pointing to the car in front of us. It was an old model Ford64, long and wide, a dark color I couldn't discern in the moon light. "It needs painting, and I'll have one of the guys at the station put in new shocks, but it runs.?
I took the keys, stunned65. I looked from him to the car.
"You'll need it to go to college,?he said.
I took his hand in mine. Squeezed it. My eyes were tearing over and I was glad for the shadows that hid our faces. "Thank you, Baba.?
We got out and sat inside the Ford. It was a Grand Torino. Navy blue, Baba said. I drove it around the block, testing the brakes, the radio, the turn signals. I parked it in the lot of our apartment building and shut off the engine. "Tashakor, Baba jan,?I said. I wanted to say more, tell him how touched I was by his act of kindness, how much I appreciated all that he had done for me, all that he was still doing. But I knew I'd embarrass him. "Tashakor,?I repeated instead.
He smiled and leaned back against the headrest, his forehead almost touching66 the ceiling. We didn't say anything. Just sat in the dark, listened to the tink-tink of the engine cooling, the wail67 of a siren in the distance. Then Baba rolled his head toward me. "I wish Hassan had been with us today,?he said.
A pair of steel hands closed around my windpipe at the sound of Hassan's name. I rolled down the window. Waited for the steel hands to loosen their grip.
I WOULD ENROLL in junior college classes in the fall, I told Baba the day after graduation. He was drinking cold black tea and chewing cardamom seeds, his personal trusted antidote69 for hang over headaches.
"I think I'll major in English,?I said. I winced inside, waiting for his reply.
"English??
"Creative writing.?
He considered this. Sipped70 his tea. "Stories, you mean. You'll make up stories.?I looked down at my feet.
"They pay for that, making up stories??
"If you're good,?I said. "And if you get discovered.?
"How likely is that, getting discovered??
"It happens,?I said.
He nodded. "And what will you do while you wait to get good and get discovered? How will you earn money? If you marry, how will you support your khanum??
I couldn't lift my eyes to meet his. "I'll... find a job.?
"Oh,?he said. "Wah wah! So, if I understand, you'll study several years to earn a degree, then you'll get a chatti job like mine, one you could just as easily land today, on the small chance that your degree might someday help you get... discovered.?He took a deep breath and sipped his tea. Grunted71 something about medical school, law school, and "real work.?
My cheeks burned and guilt72 coursed through me, the guilt of indulging myself at the expense of his ulcer, his black fingernails and aching wrists. But I would stand my ground, I decided73. I didn't want to sacrifice for Baba anymore. The last time I had done that, I had damned myself.
Baba sighed and, this time, tossed a whole handful of car damom seeds in his mouth.
SOMETIMES, I GOT BEHIND the wheel of my Ford, rolled down the windows, and drove for hours, from the East Bay to the South Bay, up the Peninsula and back. I drove through the grids74 of cottonwood-lined streets in our Fremont neighborhood, where people who'd never shaken hands with kings lived in shabby, flat one-story houses with barred windows, where old cars like mine dripped oil on blacktop driveways. Pencil gray chain-link fences closed off the backyards in our neighborhood. Toys, bald tires, and beer bottles with peeling labels littered unkempt front lawns. I drove past tree-shaded parks that smelled like bark, past strip malls big enough to hold five simultaneous Buzkashi tournaments. I drove the Torino up the hills of Los Altos, idling past estates with picture windows and silver lions guarding the wrought-iron gates, homes with cherub75 fountains lining76 the manicured walkways and no Ford Torinos in the drive ways. Homes that made Baba's house in Wazir Akbar Khan look like a servant's hut.
I'd get up early some Saturday mornings and drive south on Highway 17, push the Ford up the winding77 road through the mountains to Santa Cruz. I would park by the old lighthouse and wait for sunrise, sit in my car and watch the fog rolling in from the sea. In Afghanistan, I had only seen the ocean at the cinema. Sitting in the dark next to Hassan, I had always wondered if it was true what I'd read, that sea air smelled like salt. I used to tell Hassan that someday we'd walk on a strip of seaweed-strewn beach, sink our feet in the sand, and watch the water recede78 from our toes. The first time I saw the Pacific, I almost cried. It was as vast and blue as the oceans on the movie screens of my childhood.
Sometimes in the early evening, I parked the car and walked up a freeway overpass79. My face pressed against the fence, I'd try to count the blinking red taillights inching along, stretching as far as my eyestould see. BMWs. Saabs. Porsches. Cars I'd never seen in Kabul, where most people drove Russian Volgas, old Opels, or Iranian Paikans.
Almost two years had passed since we had arrived in the U.S., and I was still marveling at the size of this country, its vastness. Beyond every freeway lay another freeway, beyond every city another city hills beyond mountains and mountains beyond hills, and, beyond those, more cities and more people.
Long before the Roussi army marched into Afghanistan, long before villages were burned and schools destroyed, long before mines were planted like seeds of death and children buried in rock-piled graves, Kabul had become a city of ghosts for me. A city of harelipped ghosts.
America was different. America was a river, roaring along, unmindful of the past. I could wade80 into this river, let my sins drown to the bottom, let the waters carry me someplace far. Someplace with no ghosts, no memories, and no sins.
If for nothing else, for that, I embraced America.
THE FOLLOWING SUMMER, the summer of 1984--the summer I turned twenty-one--Baba sold his Buick and bought a dilapidated ?1 Volkswagen bus for $550 from an old Afghan acquaintance who'd been a high-school science teacher in Kabul. The neighbors?heads turned the afternoon the bus sputtered81 up the street and farted its way across our lot. Baba killed the engine and let the bus roll silently into our designated spot. We sank in our seats, laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks, and, more important, until we were sure the neighbors weren't watching anymore. The bus was a sad carcass of rusted68 metal, shattered windows replaced with black garbage bags, balding tires, and upholstery shredded82 down to the springs. But the old teacher had reassured83 Baba that the engine and transmission were sound and, on that account, the man hadn't lied.
On Saturdays, Baba woke me up at dawn. As he dressed, I scanned the classifieds in the local papers and circled the garage sale ads. We mapped our route--Fremont, Union City, Newark, and Hayward first, then San Jose, Milpitas, Sunnyvale, and Campbell if time permitted. Baba drove the bus, sipping84 hot tea from the thermos85, and I navigated86. We stopped at garage sales and bought knickknacks that people no longer wanted. We haggled87 over old sewing machines, one-eyed Barbie dolls, wooden tennis rackets, guitars with missing strings88, and old Electrolux vacuum cleaners. By midafternoon, we'd filled the back of the VW bus with used goods. Then early Sunday mornings, we drove to the San Jose flea89 market off Berryessa, rented a spot, and sold the junk for a small profit: a Chicago record that we'd bought for a quarter the day before might go for $1, or $4 for a set of five; a ramshackle Singer sewing machine purchased for $10 might, after some bargaining, bring in $25.
By that summer, Afghan families were working an entire section of the San Jose flea market. Afghan music played in the aisles of the Used Goods section. There was an unspoken code of behavior among Afghans at the flea market: You greeted the guy across the aisle32, you invited him for a bite of potato bolani or a little qabuli, and you chatted. You offered tassali, condolences, for the death of a 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 isle33 was the guy you'd nearly blindsided at the freeway exit yesterday in order to beat him to a promising90 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 communist--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 concession91 stand and returned to find Baba talking to an older, distinguished-looking man. I put the cups on the rear bumper92 of the bus, next to the REAGAN/BUSH FOR ?4 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 Ministry93 of Defense94.?
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 minor95 jokes of important people. He had wispy96 silver-gray hair combed 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 dangled97 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 belied98 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 tarpaulin99 spread with the toe of his boot. "Some Business.?
General Taheri managed a simultaneously100 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 prone101 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 label.?This little speech sounded to me the way his suit looked: often used and unnaturally102 shiny.
"You're flattering me,?Baba said.
"I am not,?the general said, tilting103 his head sideways and pressing his hand to his chest to convey humility104. "Boys and girls must know the legacy105 of their fathers.?He turned to me. "Do you appreciate your father, bachem? Do you really appreciate him??
"Balay, General Sahib, I do,?I said, wishing he'd not call me "my child.?
"Then congratulations, you are already halfway106 to being a man,?he said with no trace of humor, no irony107, the compliment of the casually108 arrogant109.
"Padar jan, you forgot your tea.?A young woman's voice. She was standing110 behind us, a slim-hipped beauty with velvety111 coal black hair, an open thermos and Styrofoam cup in her hand. I blinked, my heart quickening. She had thick black eyebrows112 that touched in the middle like the arched wings of a flying bird, and the gracefully113 hooked nose of a princess from old Persia--maybe that of Tahmineh, Rostam's wife and Sohrab's mother from the _Shahnamah_. Her eyes, walnut114 brown and shaded by fanned lashes115, met mine. Held for a moment. Flew away.
"You are so kind, my dear,?General Taheri said. He took the cup from her. Before she turned to go, I saw she had a brown, sickle-shaped birthmark on the smooth skin just above her left jawline. She walked to a dull gray van two aisles away and put the thermos inside. Her hair spilled to one side when she kneeled amid boxes of 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 luminous116 eyes had fleetingly117 held mine. My heart stuttered at the thought of her. Soraya Taheri. My Swap118 Meet Princess.
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ulcer
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giggling
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dissertations
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loathed
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boycotting
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wringing
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suffocate
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lone
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pollen
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enroll
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scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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13
paperbacks
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| n.平装本，平装书( paperback的名词复数 ) | |
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14
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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15
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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16
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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17
flipping
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| 讨厌之极的 | |
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18
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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19
shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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20
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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21
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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22
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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23
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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24
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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25
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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26
notches
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| n.（边缘或表面上的）V型痕迹( notch的名词复数 )；刻痕；水平；等级 | |
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27
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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28
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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29
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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30
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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31
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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32
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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33
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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34
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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35
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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36
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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37
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
calloused
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| adj.粗糙的，粗硬的，起老茧的v.（使）硬结，（使）起茧( callous的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）冷酷无情 | |
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39
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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40
fluorescent
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| adj.荧光的，发出荧光的 | |
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41
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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42
eligibility
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| n.合格，资格 | |
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43
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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44
alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
tumor
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| n.（肿）瘤，肿块(英)tumour | |
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46
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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47
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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48
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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49
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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50
smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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51
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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52
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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53
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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54
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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55
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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56
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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57
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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58
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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59
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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60
pitchers
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| 大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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61
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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63
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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64
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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65
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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66
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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67
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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68
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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70
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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72
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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73
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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74
grids
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| n.格子( grid的名词复数 )；地图上的坐标方格；（输电线路、天然气管道等的）系统网络；（汽车比赛）赛车起跑线 | |
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75
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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76
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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77
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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78
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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79
overpass
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| n.天桥，立交桥 | |
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80
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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81
sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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82
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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83
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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84
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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85
thermos
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| n.保湿瓶，热水瓶 | |
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86
navigated
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| v.给（船舶、飞机等）引航，导航( navigate的过去式和过去分词 )；（从海上、空中等）横越；横渡；飞跃 | |
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87
haggled
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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89
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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90
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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91
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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92
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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93
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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94
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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95
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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96
wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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97
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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98
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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99
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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100
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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101
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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102
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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103
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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104
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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105
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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106
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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107
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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108
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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109
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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110
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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111
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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112
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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113
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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114
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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115
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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116
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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117
fleetingly
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| adv.飞快地，疾驰地 | |
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118
swap
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| n.交换；vt.交换，用...作交易 | |
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