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saw the bus that had crashed into the tree. The policeman asked the farmer, who was working on his land as usual, when the accident had taken place. The farmer replied that the accident had taken place a few days earlier. The policeman then asked him about the identity of the travelers, and the farmer replied that ‘all the passengers were politicians’ and that he had buried them all. The policeman asked whether any of them had survived the crash. The farmer smiled and answered, ‘Maybe. Some of them told me they were alive, but we both know politicians lie a lot.’ ”
    As Ismerai ended, we all applauded the joke; however, it was Spandi who laughed the longest and loudest. He was practically doubled up, and I wondered whether this was from sitting so close to Ismerai’s burning cigarette. As my friend tried to take back control of his body, tears sprang from his eyes, forcing him to wipe them away with the back of his hand, which left black smudges on his face.
    Suddenly, Haji Khalid Khan stopped to look at him, dark and serious.
    “You sell
spand
, I take it?” he asked flatly.
    “Yes, Haji, I do,” Spandi replied, his shoulders relaxing from the fit that had just passed over him.
    “That’s hard work, boy,” Ismerai admitted, sucking again on his sweet-smelling cigarette before handing it over to Haji Khalid Khan, who took it and nodded.
    The big man then leaned over to his uncle and whispered something in his ear. Ismerai smiled, got to his feet, and walked out of the garden and through the gate without another word. None of us asked where he was going because inAfghanistan you don’t ask. In the company of men, a boy is merely expected to sit, watch, and learn. There are many rules in our country, but the rule of not asking is learned pretty quickly.
    About thirty minutes later, after James and even May had shared their own jokes with us—some of which I found hard to find funny because they didn’t mention mentals or donkeys—Ismerai came back with a long chain of cards. They were held together by plastic wrapping and advertised companies like Roshan, AWCC, and Areeba. Haji Khalid Khan handed over the chain and a small bag to Spandi. Inside were dozens of the cards that people bought in order to make calls on their mobile phones. They each had a special number that you had to scratch from the back and then dial into your phone. This was big business in Afghanistan because even if you didn’t own the clothes on your back you sure as hell owned a phone.
    “These are for you,” Haji Khalid Khan informed my friend. “From now on, you sell these cards, and for every card you sell you get to keep one dollar. The rest belongs to me. Okay?”
    Spandi looked at the cards lying in the bag beside him, his red eyes wide and amazed, and nodded his head.
    “Thank you,” he said quietly.
    “My pleasure, son,” replied Haji Khalid Khan, and Georgie placed her hand gently on his knee and smiled. In fact all of us smiled, and I saw in that one act something of the man she had fallen in love with, because giving Spandi the means to work away from his can was probably the greatest kindness I’d ever witnessed, but never thought of. If I had, maybe I could have convinced Georgie to find Spandi a different job, something away from the poison smoke that clogged his lungs and stung his eyes. But it was Haji Khalid Khan who looked through the black and saw the boy. He had thrownhim a second chance, and I felt ashamed of myself for having ignored what was so obvious. Even so, I also felt some small pride in having been the one to introduce Spandi to his new boss.
    And that’s when I felt my anger start to slip away from me.
     
    A little after eight, when all the adults had gone their separate ways—James and May to one of Kabul’s many bars, my mother to her room to watch the latest episode of a hysterical Indian soap opera on Tolo TV, and Georgie to Haji Khalid Khan’s house with Ismerai—Spandi and I walked to