Zabi didn’t answer, intimidated by this young man. He was known in their village for his singing and poetry. Despite his youth, he would often sit and talk with adult men, sipping their bitter tea as though he was one of them. She asked, changing the subject:

—What have you been doing?

—I’ve been composing a poem.

—You can do that while walking?

Sayed smiled.

—I compose them in my head.

—You must have a good memory.

He seemed to think about this assertion seriously. Sayed thought about most things seriously.

—I have a technique for remembering poems. I sing them to other people. The ones that aren’t very good I quickly forget. Don’t you forget the things you don’t do very well?

Trying to imitate his thoughtfulness, Zabi nodded, slowly. Before she could reply, he noticed her fingers.

—Why are your fingers red?

—I’ve been making dye.

Zabi wanted to impress Sayed and blurted out:

—Did you know that the colour red tastes bitter?

To her surprise, he was interested.

—Is that so?

—I spent all morning making the dye. I tasted it several times.

—What is it made from?

—Pomegranate rinds.

Zabi was pleased that she hadn’t said something stupid. Sayed scratched his facp>

—Red has a bitter taste… I could use that idea in a poem.

Zabi was amazed.

—You could?

—The Soviet Union’s flag is red, so saying red has a bitter taste is a political statement.

He glanced at Zabi’s expression:

—Do you know what the Soviet Union is?

—They’re the invaders.

He nodded, pleased.

—The invaders! That can be the name of my poem. The first line could say something along the lines of. . .

He trailed off again, closing his eyes, deep in concentration, trying various ideas.

—Red flag as bitter as?

Zabi suggested:

—Pomegranate rinds?

Sayed laughed.

—Doesn’t that sound kind to our enemy? To suggest their ideology tastes like our national fruit? We can’t compare a fruit that grows here, in the soil of Afghanistan, to the flag of the invaders.

With that proclamation, Sayed walked off, apparently forgetting about Zabi. Wanting to hear more, and not wanting the conversation to end on her stupid suggestion, she caught up with him.

—Can you sing me a poem?

—I don’t sing my poems to little girls. I have a reputation to think of. I sing only to warriors.

Hurt, Zabi stopped walking. Sayed noticed her reaction.

—Don’t take it so badly.

Zabi wanted to cry. She hated being a girl. He softened his tone, saying: