Mom opens her mouth to speak but stops short. Her brows come together, and she takes a long hard look at the stage. She watches the rest of the show a bit flattened. I should have kept my remarks for the ride home.

During the intermission, we stand in the line for the bathroom. Mom shakes her head.

“I’ll admit, the peddler is a curious character. I don’t know how Rodgers and Hammerstein came up with him. Things are different now. When we did the show in Kabul, I honestly don’t think anyone raised an eyebrow. It was just good fun.”

“Did you get an Afghan to play the part of Ali Hakim?”

“No,” Mom says as she tries to recall. “I remember trying to get my driver to do it. He came in for one rehearsal and read a few lines. But then he dropped out. Apparently his wife told him he should leave the stage for people who look more like movie stars.”

“He would have choked on those lines about women swimming naked.”

“I suppose he would have,” Mom admits. “Mansour was a good man. A terrible singer, but a good man.”

The door opens and there’s finally enough room for Mom and me to step into the ladies’ room. Two gray-haired women stand at the sinks. One touches up her lipstick while the other shakes drops of water from her fingertips. A toilet flushes.

Mom disappears into a stall while I wait for the next one. Somewhere behind me, I hear a woman speaking in Russian. I think of all the lemon candies my father gave me, and the chocolates with the fanciful wrappers, small treasures from the land of the hammer and scythe. I would eat them wearing my American denim.

I remember my father’s amusement to see the Americans and the Russians investing competitively in Afghanistan’s resources.

One dollar comes in, two rubles come in. One builds a university, another builds a tunnel. One day I told the Americans that the Russians were planning an irrigation project for one of the provinces. The next day the Americans asked for a meeting with me to discuss building a highway across the country. They fight like siblings and we are the favorite toy.

Years later I learned that this sibling rivalry was also called the Cold War and that everyone from Reagan to Rocky Balboa was involved.

I remember watching my mother dress the night of the Ai-Khanoum party and asking her about both the Russians and the Americans being present together.

They should know better than to have their schoolyard scuffle in our home. Our people have seen enough.

Mom and I are walking back to our seats when my phone buzzes. It’s not Adam this time. It’s the answering service. I show Mom my phone and sneak out of the theater as the lights dim.