“If all that you’ve described outrages you,” I respond, “then please show some mercy on me. I’ll leave Kabul soon enough with nothing but the grief that brought me here.”

The mustached man says nothing. He purses his lips and looks over my head to the curious people listening in on our conversation.

“Be ready tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll send a car to your hotel. But be warned. You may think you’ve come only with grief, but that’s not true. You’ve come with hope too. Don’t blame me if you leave Kabul feeling robbed.”

Chapter 55

We’ve chosen a restaurant hidden from the street by thick blast walls. Once I’ve scanned the room and located all the exits, I take a second survey of the restaurant’s decor, which is nothing like the damask and rococo designs of the hotel dining hall. The chairs here are not lacquered. There are no chandeliers.

Our table is set against a wall of exposed brick, and our faces are illuminated in candlelight. We are in a restaurant named after Rumi, the Sufi poet. Expats gather around low-set tables, resting against merlot-colored pillows and cushions with arabesque motifs. Lanterns hang from the ceiling and cast a light as soothing as birdsong.

Mom and I sip saffron tea, liquid sunsets, from ceramic mugs with Sufi wisdom written into the glaze.

My soul is from elsewhere and I intend to end up there.

The weight of the poetry and the warmth of the drink help settle me. At least a dozen nationalities are represented in the room. Calligraphy in the Nastaliq style gilds the walls. Each word, each letter, creates shapes on the wall—a whirling dervish, a vessel, a mountain peak, a winged bird. This restaurant would fit perfectly in my transforming neighborhood back home.

Books are arranged artistically on floating shelves with small signs inviting customers to feed their souls while they feed their bodies. I reach over and select a thin volume of poetry written by a woman who had been murdered by her husband. I flip it open and my eyes fall on a line printed neatly at the very center of the page.

Sparks rain from my sighs like stars

Our waiter sets down steaming plates before us. As if he’s pushed a rewind button, my head spools in reverse, back to the dinners of my childhood. Seasoned kofta kebabs adorned with lemon wedges and perky sprigs of cilantro and mounds of long-grain rice browned with caramelized sugar and topped with sautéed and julienned carrots, plump raisins, and pistachio slivers. Mom dips her fork into the fried eggplant drizzled with tomato sauce, garlicked yogurt, and a dusting of dried mint.

“Well,” Mom begins. Her headscarf, like mine, has fallen to her shoulders.

“It’s been a long day for us all.”