Khyber Run by Amber Green Page A

enough that no shame would fall on the roof.
    As the boy pelted off, the proprietor invited us inside for tea. I started to accept, but in midbow Oscar bumped my elbow. “What did he say?"
    Without the boy, we had no translator. I bowed again to hide my face and told the man in English that I wished I knew what he was saying.
    He bowed to me and motioned us inside, flapping those empty sleeves.
    I threw a look at Oscar, to see if that was good enough for him. He didn't look thrilled, but he didn't stop me from going in.
    The room was dim, lit by a break in the roof and the cold bluish light spilling in from the doorway. It looked like the beam from a cheap fluorescent tube, only stronger. To the right, a large brass dish had been set to catch the light and reflect it over the wares in brass dishes on a shelf to the left.
    The proprietor raised his voice and told someone to put the tea on for visitors and not to piss in it this time.
    I turned to study his wares in case my understanding showed in my face. All he had out in his brass dishes were meager piles of pistachios, peppercorns, cloves, something that looked like mustard seed, dried za'atar , and some other herbal stuff. No wonder he couldn't afford false teeth.
    I followed the shopkeeper through the rear door to the room he probably lived in, and remembered to clear the doorway while my eyes adjusted. I couldn't make anything out, except blocky shapes against the closer wall, and the ghostly paleness of the proprietor's clothing.
    I had no idea where Oscar stood. I suspected I was no more visible, though—being Oscar—he probably could find me by scent or instinct. Echolocation, for all I knew.
    A match scratched against the wall at belt height. At the other end of the room, a little girl, no more than seven or eight, lit a lamp. She hurried to light a second on the wall to my right, but the match burned down to her fingers before it caught. She bit her lip and shook her hand, but made no sound.
    The proprietor snapped at her to bring a twist of paper to light this lamp from the other.
    I blinked at his harsh tone and looked away. Oscar emerged from the gloom, all copper and black and narrow, glittering eyes. I imagined Cochise coming out of the night, blade clenched between his teeth, and blinked. No blade.
    The shopkeeper leaned toward him. “You are Tajik?"
    Ah, so he actually could be mistaken for a Tajik. So then what was I picturing, if not a Tajik face?
    Oscar shook his head. “ Na .” Then he surprised me by adding more, in rough Pashtun. “I am from the Desert People, Tohono O'odham."
    The shopkeeper nodded thoughtfully. “I have not heard of such people, but surely they are great warriors."
    Oscar's teeth flashed. "Ze na poegam.” I don't understand.
    I wasn't sure whether to believe him.
    The little girl lit the second lamp as instructed, then brought a bright cloth to spread over the worn-out rug. We men arranged ourselves on it, Oscar choosing a spot where his back almost touched a wall and he could see the door.
    She brought a tray of tea fixings, then set a blue-glazed ceramic bowl between my knees, and last brought a pitcher of water. She stood in front of me, expectantly. I put a hand out, wondering if she would hand me the pitcher. She toed the bowl squarely under my hand and carefully poured a thin stream of water over my fingers and palm.
    I quickly brought the other hand into play, scrubbing my hands against each other in the thin stream of water. I'm not stupid—just not used to this. Since I supposedly couldn't converse without a translator, I took my time with the washing. I wasn't sure how long it would take for the tea water to come up to temperature, but the time had to be taken up some way.
    Oscar followed my cue.
    The girl took away the basin, then came back for the pitcher. After another moment she reappeared in the inner doorway, stepping carefully, her wide dark gaze fixed on the teapot she held in mittened hands. She crouched