“You're not from Herat, are you?” he said companionably. “Everyone knows where Jalil Khan lives.”
“Can you point me?” He opened a foil-wrapped toffee and said, “Are you alone?”
“Yes.” “Climb on. I'll take you.” “I can't pay you. I don't have any money.”
He gave her the toffee. He said he hadn't had a ride in two hours and he was planning on going home anyway.
Jalil's house was on the way. Mariam climbed onto the gari. They rode in silence, side by side.
On the way there, Mariam saw herb shops, and open fronted cubbyholes where shoppers bought oranges and pears, books, shawls, even falcons.
Children played marbles in circles drawn in dust.
Outside teahouses, on carpet-covered wooden platforms, men drank tea and smoked tobacco from hookahs.
The old man turned onto a wide, conifer lined street. He brought his horse to a stop at the midway point.
“There. Looks like you're in luck, dokhiarjo. That's his car.”
Mariam hopped down. He smiled and rode on. Mariam had never before touched a car.
She ran her fingers along the hood of Jalil's car, which was black, shiny,
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