Page 104 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

Kabul, the house has a whiff of past splendor beneath the ruin that has been

visited upon it—of which there is ample evidence: bullet holes and zigzagging
cracks in the sooty walls, exposed bricks beneath wide missing patches of
plaster, dead bushes in the driveway, leafless trees in the garden, yellowed lawn.
More than half of the veranda that overlooks the backyard is missing. But also
like many things in Kabul, there is evidence of slow, hesitant rebirth. Someone
has begun to repaint the house, planted rosebushes in the garden, a missing
chunk of the garden’s east-facing wall has been replaced, albeit a little clumsily.
A ladder is propped against the side of the house facing the street, leading Idris
to think that roof repair is under way. Repair on the missing half of the veranda
has apparently begun.
They meet Markos in the foyer. He has thinning gray hair and pale blue eyes.
He wears gray Afghan garments and a black-and-white-checkered kaffiyeh
elegantly wrapped around his neck. He shows them into a noisy room thick with
smoke.

“I have tea, wine, and beer. Or maybe you prefer something heavier?”
“You point and I pour,” Timur said.
“Oh, I like you. There, by the stereo. Ice is safe, by the way. Made from
bottled water.”

“God bless.”
Timur is in his element at gatherings like this, and Idris cannot help but
admire him for the ease of his manners, the effortless wisecracking, the self-
possessed charm. He follows Timur to the bar, where Timur pours them drinks
from a ruby bottle.
The twenty or so guests sit on cushions around the room. The floor is covered
with a burgundy red Afghan rug. The décor is understated, tasteful, what Idris
has come to think of as “expat chic.” A Nina Simone CD plays softly. Everyone
is drinking, nearly everyone smoking, talking about the new war in Iraq, what it

will mean for Afghanistan. The television in the corner is tuned to CNN
International, the volume muted. Nighttime Baghdad, in the throes of Shock and
Awe, keeps lighting up in flashes of green.
Vodka on ice in hand, they are joined by Markos and a pair of serious-looking
young Germans who work for the World Food Program. Like many of the aid
workers he has met in Kabul, Idris finds them slightly intimidating, world savvy,
impossible to impress.

He says to Markos, “This is a nice house.”
“Tell the owner, then.” Markos goes across the room and returns with a thin,
elderly man. The man has a thick wall of salt-and-pepper hair combed back from