Ai-Khanoum, in the northern part of the country, was one of the farthest reaches of an ancient Greek kingdom. I’d been reading so much about the constellations and the myths associated with the Greek gods that I’d gotten Neelab interested as well. We tried to guess at what treasures might have been left behind centuries ago.

The room stirred with polite applause, the clinking of glasses, and celebratory drags on cigarettes.

The minister picked up a crowbar that had been placed next to the crate and placed it in the hands of the Russian.

“Finally!” Neelab said, squeezing my arm softly. We’d waited a month for this crate to arrive and then another week for these thirty people—a mix of Afghan, French, Russian, and American nationals—to gather for the revealing of what lay inside. My mother and father were now standing side by side, speaking with foreigners I didn’t recognize.

“I bet they pull out a sculpture of a bull. Taurus, right? Or what was the one you found today, a dragon?” Neelab whispered to me.

“Shh! I can’t hear what the Russian is saying.”

The Russian spoke in halting Dari, his accent so thick that I could barely make out his meaning.

“. . . These pieces of old Afghanistan . . . a new home in the Kabul Museum . . . all that remains of a civilization . . .”

A hum of approval moved through the room, while I sat back with my arms folded. How could a kingdom capable of erecting cities in far-off lands be reduced to a few trinkets in a crate?

I wanted to get a closer look.

The Russian man lifted a velvet-lined box into the circle and opened it. He pulled back a square of fabric and tilted the container, arms extended above his shoulders and the heads of the guests so everyone could see its contents. When he swiveled slowly and by degrees to the right, I nearly slipped down the steps, struggling to get a better view.

It was a gold ring with inset teardrops of turquoise and garnet. The stones were nearly the size of my fingernails and easily seen even from a distance. The room thrummed with wonder.

“Centuries . . . centuries old . . . beautiful Bactrian gold,” the Russian explained. “Proof of the long history between Greeks and Afghanistan.”

“And of the longer relationship between women and jewelry!” shouted a jovial voice. My mother laughed. The mood was bubbly. Even the president’s usually stoic face had lightened.

The Russian continued retrieving items from the crate. He held up coins, a bone figurine, and a small statue. My father and President Daoud slipped away from the festivities, coming together to stand side by side beneath the tapestry with half-emptied glasses in their hands.