Page 95 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

have a light to read by and a fan to keep me cool in the summer. As for space, I

did not need much. My possessions amounted to little more than a bed, some
clothes, and the box containing Suleiman’s drawings. I know this may strike you
as odd, Mr. Markos. Yes, legally the house and everything in it belonged to me
now, but I felt no true sense of ownership over any of it, and I knew I never
really would.
I read quite a bit, books I took from Suleiman’s old study. I returned each
when I had finished. I planted some tomatoes, a few sprigs of mint. I went for
walks around the neighborhood, but my knees often ached before I had covered
even two blocks, forcing me to return. Sometimes I pulled up a chair in the
garden and just sat idly. I was not like Suleiman: Solitude did not suit me well.
Then one day in 2002 you rang the bell at the front gates.

By then, the Taliban had been driven out by the Northern Alliance, and the
Americans had come to Afghanistan. Thousands of aid workers were flocking to
Kabul from all over the world to build clinics and schools, to repair roads and
irrigation canals, to bring food and shelter and jobs.
The translator who accompanied you was a young local Afghan who wore a
bright purple jacket and sunglasses. He asked for the owner of the house. There
was a quick exchange of glances between the two of you when I told the
translator he was speaking to the owner. He smirked and said, “No, Kaka, the

owner.” I invited you both in for tea.
The conversation that ensued, on the surviving section of the veranda over
cups of green tea, was in Farsi—I have, as you know, Mr. Markos, learned some
English in the seven years since, largely thanks to your guidance and generosity.
Through the translator, you said you were from Tinos, which was an island in
Greece. You were a surgeon, part of a medical group that had come to Kabul to
operate on children who had suffered injuries to their face. You said you and
your colleagues needed a residence, a guesthouse, as it is called these days.
You asked how much I would charge you for rent.

I said, “Nothing.”
I recall still how you blinked after the young man in the purple jacket
translated. You repeated your question, perhaps thinking I had misunderstood.
The translator drew himself forward to the edge of his chair and leaned
toward me. He spoke in a confidential tone. He asked if my mind had gone to
rot, whether I had any idea what your group was willing to pay, did I have any

notion of what rentals were going for now in Kabul? He said I was sitting on
gold.
I told him to remove his sunglasses when he spoke to an elder. Then I