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Rahim Khan laughed。 You sounded like your father just now。 I miss him so much。 But it is God s will； Amir jan。 It really is。 He paused。 Besides； there s another reason I asked you to e here。 I wanted to see you before I go； yes； but something else too。
Anything。
You know all those years I lived in your father s house after you left？
Yes。
I wasn t alone for all of them。 Hassan lived there with me。
Hassan； I said。 When was the last time I had spoken his name？ Those thorny old barbs of guilt bore into me once more； as if speaking his name had broken a spell； set them free to torment me anew。 Suddenly the air in Rahim Khan s little flat was too thick； too hot； too rich with the smell of the street。
I thought about writing you and telling you before； but I wasn t sure you wanted to know。 Was I wrong？
The truth was no。 The lie was yes。 I settled for something in between。 I don t know。
He coughed another patch of blood into the handkerchief。 When he bent his head to spit； I saw honey…crusted sores on his scalp。 I brought you here because I am going to ask something of you。 I m going to ask you to do something for me。 But before I do； I want to tell you about Hassan。 Do you understand？
Yes； I murmured。
I want to tell you about him。 I want to tell you everything。 You will listen？
I nodded。
Then Rahim Khan sipped some more tea。 Rested his head against the wall and spoke。
SIXTEEN
There were a lot of reasons why I went to Hazarajat to find Hassan in 1986。 The biggest one； Allah forgive me； was that I was lonely。 By then； most of my friends and relatives had either been killed or had escaped the country to Pakistan or Iran。 I barely knew anyone in Kabul anymore； the city where I had lived my entire life。 Everybody had fled。 I would take a walk in the Karteh Parwan section……where the melon vendors used to hang out in the old days； you remember that spot？……and I wouldn t recognize anyone there。 No one to greet； no one to sit down with for chai； no one to share stories with； just Roussi soldiers patrolling the streets。 So eventually； I stopped going out to the city。 I would spend my days in your father s house； up in the study； reading your
mother s old books； listening to the news； watching the munist propaganda on television。 Then I would pray natnaz； cook something； eat； read some more； pray again； and go to bed。 I would rise in the morning； pray； do it all over again。
And with my arthritis； it was getting harder for me to maintain the house。 My knees and back were always aching……I would get up in the morning and it would take me at least an hour to shake the stiffness from my joints； especially in the wintertime。 I did not want to let your father s house go to rot； we had all had many good times in that house； so many memories； Amir jan。 It was not right……your father had designed that house himself； it had meant so much to him； and besides； I had promised him I would care for it when he and you left for Pakistan。 Now it was just me and the house and。。。 I did my best。 I tried to water the trees every few days； cut the lawn； tend to the flowers； fix things that needed fixing； but； even then； I was not a young man anymore。
But even so； I might have been able to manage。 At least for a while longer。 But when news of your father s death reached me。。。 for the first time； I felt a terrible loneliness in that house。 An unbearable emptiness。
So one day； I fueled up the Buick and drove up to Hazarajat。 I remembered that； after Ali dismissed himself from the house； your father told me he and Hassan had moved to a small village just outside Bamiyan。 Ali had a cousin there as I recalled。 I had no idea if Hassan would still be there； if anyone would even know of him or his whereabouts。 After all； it had been ten years since Ali and Hassan had left your father s house。 Hassan would have been a grown man in 1986； twenty…two； twenty…three years old。 If he was even alive； that is……the Shorawi； may they rot in hell for what they did to our watan； killed so many of our young men。 I don t have to tell you that。
But； with the grace of God； I found him there。 It took very little searching……all I had to do was ask a few questions in Bamiyan and people pointed me to his village。 I do not even recall its name； or whether it even had one。 But I remember it was a scorching summer day and I was driving up a rutted dirt road； nothing on either side but sunbaked bushes； gnarled； spiny tree trunks； and dried grass like pale straw。 I passed a dead donkey rotting on the side of the road。 And then I turned a corner and； right in the middle of that barren land； I saw a cluster of mud houses； beyond them nothing but broad sky and mountains like jagged teeth。
The people in Bamiyan had told me I would find him easily……he lived in the only house in the village that had a walled garden。 The mud wall； short and pocked with holes； enclosed the tiny house……which was really not much more than a glorified hut。 Barefoot children were playing on the street； kicking a ragged tennis ball with a stick； and they stared when I pulled up and killed the engine。 I knocked on the wooden door and stepped through into a yard that had very little in it save for a parched strawberry patch and a bare lemon tree。 There was a tandoor in the corner in the shadow of an acacia tree and I saw a man squatting beside it。 He was placing dough on a large wooden spatula and slapping it against the walls of the _tandoor_。 He dropped the dough when he saw me。 I had to make him stop kissing my hands。
Let me look at you； I said。 He stepped away。 He was so tall now……I stood on my toes and still just came up to his chin。 The Bamiyan sun had toughened his skin； and turned it several shades darker than I remembered； and he had lost a few of his front teeth。 There were sparse strands of hair on his chin。 Other than that； he had those same narrow green eyes； that scar on his upper lip； that round
face； that affable smile。 You would have recognized him； Amir jan。 I am sure of it。
We went inside。 There was a young light…skinned Hazara woman； sewing a shawl in a corner of the room。 She was visibly expecting。 This is my wife；