KITE RUNNER 5 страница

bisecting the bazaar. I turned onto the rutted track and followed the voices. My boot squished in mud with every step and my breath puffed out in white clouds before me. The narrow path ran parallel on one side to a snow-filled ravine through which a stream may have tumbled in the spring. To my other side stood rows of snow-burdened cypress trees peppered among flat-topped clay houses--no more

than mud shacks in most cases--separated by narrow alleys.

I heard the voices again, louder this time, coming from one of the alleys. I crept close to the mouth of the alley. Held my breath. Peeked around the corner.

Hassan was standing at the blind end of the alley in a defiant stance: fists curled, legs slightly apart. Behind him, sitting on piles of scrap and rubble, was the blue kite. My key to Baba’s heart.

Blocking Hassan’s way out of the alley were three boys, the same three from that day on the hill, the day after Daoud Khan’s coup, when Hassan had saved us with his slingshot. Wali was standing on

one side, Kamal on the other, and in the middle, Assef. I felt my body clench up, and something cold rippled up my spine. Assef seemed relaxed, confident. He was twirling his brass knuckles. The other

two guys shifted nervously on their feet, looking from Assef to Hassan, like they’d cornered some kind of wild animal that only Assef could tame.

“Where is your slingshot, Hazara? ” Assef said, turning the brass knuckles in his hand. “What was it you said? ‘They’ll have to call you One-Eyed Assef. ’ That’s right. One-Eyed Assef. That was clever.

Really clever. Then again, it’s easy to be clever when you’re holding a loaded weapon. ”

I realized I still hadn’t breathed out. I exhaled, slowly, quietly. I felt paralyzed. I watched them close in on the boy I’d grown up with, the boy whose harelipped face had been my first memory.

“But today is your lucky day, Hazara, ” Assef said. He had his back to me, but I would have bet he was grinning. “I’m in a mood to forgive. What do you say to that, boys? ”

“That’s generous, ” Kamal blurted, “Especially after the rude manners he showed us last time. ” He was trying to sound like Assef, except there was a tremor in his voice. Then I understood:

He wasn’t afraid of Hassan, not really. He was afraid because he had no idea what Assef had in mind.

Assef waved a dismissive hand. “Bakhshida. Forgiven. It’s done. ” His voice dropped a little. “Of course, nothing is free in this world, and my pardon comes with a small price. ”

“That’s fair, ” Kamal said.

“Nothing is free, ” Wali added.

“You’re a lucky Hazara, ” Assef said, taking a step toward Hassan. “Because today, it’s only going to cost you that blue kite. A fair deal, boys, isn’t it? ”

“More than fair, ” Kamal said.

Even from where I was standing, I could see the fear creeping into Hassan’s eyes, but he shook his head. “Amir agha won the tournament and I ran this kite for him. I ran it fairly. This is his kite. ”

“A loyal Hazara. Loyal as a dog, ” Assef said. Kamal’s laugh was a shrill, nervous sound.

“But before you sacrifice yourself for him, think about this:

Would he do the same for you? Have you ever wondered why he never includes you in games when he has guests? Why he only plays with you when no one else is around? I’ll tell you why, Hazara.

Because to him, you’re nothing but an ugly pet. Something he can play with when he’s bored, something he can kick when he’s angry. Don’t ever fool yourself and think you’re something more. ”

“Amir agha and I are friends, ” Hassan said. He looked flushed.

“Friends? ” Assef said, laughing. “You pathetic fool! Someday you’ll wake up from your little fantasy and learn just how good of a friend he is. Now, bas! Enough of this. Give us that kite. ”

Hassan stooped and picked up a rock.

Assef flinched. He began to take a step back, stopped. “Last chance, Hazara. ”

Hassan’s answer was to cock the arm that held the rock.

“Whatever you wish. ” Assef unbuttoned his winter coat, took it off, folded it slowly and deliberately. He placed it against the wall.

I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But I didn’t. I just watched. Paralyzed.

Assef motioned with his hand, and the other two boys separated, forming a half circle, trapping Hassan in the alley.

“I’ve changed my mind, ” Assef said. “I’m letting you keep the kite, Hazara. I’ll let you keep it so it will always remind you of what I’m about to do. ”

Then he charged. Hassan hurled the rock. It struck Assef in the forehead. Assef yelped as he flung himself at Hassan, knocking him to the ground. Wall and Kamal followed.

I bit on my fist. Shut my eyes.

A MEMORY:

Did you know Hassan and you fed from the same breast? Did you know that, Amir agha? Sakina, her name was. She was a fair, blue-eyed Hazara woman from Bamiyan and she sang you old wedding

songs. They say there is a brotherhood between people who’ve fed from the same breast. Did you know that?

A memory:

“A rupia each, children. Just one rupia each and I will part the curtain of truth. ” The old man sits against a mud wall. His sightless eyes are like molten silver embedded in deep, twin craters.

Hunched over his cane, the fortune-teller runs a gnarled hand across the surface of his deflated cheeks. Cups it before us. “Not much to ask for the truth, is it, a rupia each? ” Hassan drops a coin in the

leathery palm. I drop mine too. “In the name of Allah most beneficent, most merciful, ” the old fortune-teller whispers. He takes Hassan’s hand first, strokes the palm with one hornlike fingernail, round and

round, round and round. The finger then floats to Hassan’s face and makes a dry, scratchy sound as it slowly traces the curve of his cheeks, the outline of his ears. The calloused pads of his fingers brush

against Hassan’s eyes. The hand stops there. Lingers. A shadow passes across the old man’s face. Hassan and I exchange a glance. The old man takes Hassan’s hand and puts the rupia back in

Hassan’s palm. He turns to me. “How about you, young friend? ” he says. On the other side of the wall, a rooster crows. The old man reaches for my hand and I withdraw it.

A dream:

I am lost in a snowstorm. The wind shrieks, blows stinging sheets of snow into my eyes. I stagger through layers of shifting white. I call for help but the wind drowns my cries. I fall and lie panting on the

snow, lost in the white, the wind wailing in my ears. I watch the snow erase my fresh footprints. I’m a ghost now, I think, a ghost with no footprints. I cry out again, hope fading like my footprints. But this time,

a muffled reply. I shield my eyes and manage to sit up. Out of the swaying curtains of snow, I catch a glimpse of movement, a flurry of color. A familiar shape materializes. A hand reaches out for me. I see

deep, parallel gashes across the palm, blood dripping, staining the snow. I take the hand and suddenly the snow is gone. We’re standing in afield of apple green grass with soft wisps of clouds drifting

above. I look up and see the clear sky is filled with kites, green, yellow, red, orange. They shimmer in the afternoon light.

A HAVOC OF SCRAP AND RUBBLE littered the alley. Worn bicycle tires, bottles with peeled labels, ripped up magazines, yellowed newspapers, all scattered amid a pile of bricks and slabs of

cement. A rusted cast-iron stove with a gaping hole on its side tilted against a wall. But there were two things amid the garbage that I couldn’t stop looking at: One was the blue kite resting against the wall. close to the cast-iron stove; the other was Hassan’s brown corduroy pants thrown on a heap of eroded bricks.

“I don’t know, ” Wali was saying. “My father says it’s sinful. ” He sounded unsure, excited, scared, all at the same time. Hassan lay with his chest pinned to the ground. Kamal and Wali each gripped an

arm, twisted and bent at the elbow so that Hassan’s hands were pressed to his back. Assef was standing over them, the heel of his snow boots crushing the back of Hassan’s neck.

“Your father won’t find out, ” Assef said. “And there’s nothing sinful about teaching a lesson to a disrespectful donkey. ”

“I don’t know, ” Wali muttered.

“Suit yourself, ” Assef said. He turned to Kamal. “What about you? ”

“I... well... ”

“It’s just a Hazara, ” Assef said. But Kamal kept looking away.

“Fine, ” Assef snapped. “All I want you weaklings to do is hold him down. Can you manage that? ”

Wali and Kamal nodded. They looked relieved.

Assef knelt behind Hassan, put his hands on Hassan’s hips and lifted his bare buttocks. He kept one hand on Hassan’s back and undid his own belt buckle with his free hand. He unzipped his jeans.

Dropped his underwear. He positioned himself behind Hassan. Hassan didn’t struggle. Didn’t even whimper. He moved his head slightly and I caught a glimpse of his face. Saw the resignation in it. It was

a look I had seen before. It was the look of the lamb.

TOMORROW IS THE TENTH DAY of Dhul-Hijjah, the last month of the Muslim calendar, and the first of three days of Eid AlAdha, or Eid-e-Qorban, as Afghans call it--a day to celebrate how the prophet

Ibrahim almost sacrificed his own son for God. Baba has handpicked the sheep again this year, a powder white one with crooked black ears.

We all stand in the backyard, Hassan, Ali, Baba, and I. The mullah recites the prayer, rubs his beard. Baba mutters, Get on with it, under his breath. He sounds annoyed with the endless praying, the

ritual of making the meat halal. Baba mocks the story behind this Eid, like he mocks everything religious. But he respects the tradition of Eid-e-Qorban. The custom is to divide the meat in thirds, one for

the family, one for friends, and one for the poor. Every year, Baba gives it all to the poor. The rich are fat enough already, he says.

The mullah finishes the prayer. Ameen. He picks up the kitchen knife with the long blade. The custom is to not let the sheep see the knife. All feeds the animal a cube of sugar--another custom, to make

death sweeter. The sheep kicks, but not much. The mullah grabs it under its jaw and places the blade on its neck. Just a second before he slices the throat in one expert motion, I see the sheep’s eyes. It is

a look that will haunt my dreams for weeks. I don’t know why I watch this yearly ritual in our backyard; my nightmares persist long after the bloodstains on the grass have faded. But I always watch. I watch

because of that look of acceptance in the animal’s eyes. Absurdly, I imagine the animal understands. I imagine the animal sees that its imminent demise is for a higher purpose. This is the look...

I STOPPED WATCHING, turned away from the alley. Something warm was running down my wrist. I blinked, saw I was still biting down on my fist, hard enough to draw blood from the knuckles. I realized

something else. I was weeping. From just around the corner, I could hear Assef’s quick, rhythmic grunts.

I had one last chance to make a decision. One final opportunity to decide who I was going to be. I could step into that alley, stand up for Hassan--the way he’d stood up for me all those times in the past--

and accept whatever would happen to me. Or I could run.

In the end, I ran.

I ran because I was a coward. I was afraid of Assef and what he would do to me. I was afraid of getting hurt. That’s what I told myself as I turned my back to the alley, to Hassan. That’s what I made myself

believe. I actually aspired to cowardice, because the alternative, the real reason I was running, was that Assef was right: Nothing was free in this world. Maybe Hassan was the price I had to pay, the lamb I

had to slay, to win Baba. Was it a fair price? The answer floated to my conscious mind before I could thwart it: He was just a Hazara, wasn’t he?

I ran back the way I’d come. Ran back to the all but deserted bazaar. I lurched to a cubicle and leaned against the padlocked swinging doors. I stood there panting, sweating, wishing things had turned

out some other way.

About fifteen minutes later, I heard voices and running footfalls. I crouched behind the cubicle and watched Assef and the other two sprinting by, laughing as they hurried down the deserted

lane. I forced myself to wait ten more minutes. Then I walked back to the rutted track that ran along the snow-filled ravine. I squinted in the dimming light and spotted Hassan walking slowly toward me. I

met him by a leafless birch tree on the edge of the ravine.

He had the blue kite in his hands; that was the first thing I saw. And I can’t lie now and say my eyes didn’t scan it for any rips. His chapan had mud smudges down the front and his shirt was ripped just

below the collar. He stopped. Swayed on his feet like he was going to collapse. Then he steadied himself. Handed me the kite.

“Where were you? I looked for you, ” I said. Speaking those words was like chewing on a rock.

Hassan dragged a sleeve across his face, wiped snot and tears. I waited for him to say something, but we just stood there in silence, in the fading light. I was grateful for the early-evening shadows that

fell on Hassan’s face and concealed mine. I was glad I didn’t have to return his gaze. Did he know I knew? And if he knew, then what would I see if I did look in his eyes? Blame? Indignation? Or, God

forbid, what I feared most: guileless devotion? That, most of all, I couldn’t bear to see.

He began to say something and his voice cracked. He closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. Took a step back. Wiped his face. And that was as close as Hassan and I ever came to

discussing what had happened in the alley. I thought he might burst into tears, but, to my relief, he didn’t, and I pretended I hadn’t heard the crack in his voice. Just like I pretended I hadn’t seen the dark

stain in the seat of his pants. Or those tiny drops that fell from between his legs and stained the snow black.

“Agha sahib will worry, ” was all he said. He turned from me and limped away.

IT HAPPENED JUST THE WAY I’d imagined. I opened the door to the smoky study and stepped in. Baba and Rahim Khan were drinking tea and listening to the news crackling on the radio. Their

heads turned. Then a smile played on my father’s lips. He opened his arms. I put the kite down and walked into his thick hairy arms. I buried my face in the warmth of his chest and wept. Baba held me

close to him, rocking me back and forth. In his arms, I forgot what I’d done. And that was good.

EIGHT

For a week, I barely saw Hassan. I woke up to find toasted bread, brewed tea, and a boiled egg already on the kitchen table. My clothes for the day were ironed and folded, left on the cane-seat chair in the foyer where Hassan usually did his ironing. He used to wait for me to sit at the breakfast table before he started ironing--that way, we could talk. Used to sing too, over the hissing of the iron, sang old Hazara songs about tulip fields. Now only the folded clothes greeted me. That, and a breakfast I hardly finished anymore.

One overcast morning, as I was pushing the boiled egg around on my plate, Ali walked in cradling a pile of chopped wood. I asked him where Hassan was.

“He went back to sleep, ” Ali said, kneeling before the stove. He pulled the little square door open.

Would Hassan be able to play today?

Ali paused with a log in his hand. A worried look crossed his face. “Lately, it seems all he wants to do is sleep. He does his chores--I see to that--but then he just wants to crawl under his blanket. Can I ask you something? ”

“If you have to. ”

“After that kite tournament, he came home a little bloodied and his shirt was torn. I asked him what had happened and he said it was nothing, that he’d gotten into a little scuffle with some kids over the kite. ”

I didn’t say anything. Just kept pushing the egg around on my plate.

“Did something happen to him, Amir agha? Something he’s not telling me? ”

I shrugged. “How should I know? ”

“You would tell me, nay? ‘Inshallah’, you would tell me if some thing had happened? ”

“Like I said, how should I know what’s wrong with him? ” I snapped. “Maybe he’s sick. People get sick all the time, Ali. Now, am I going to freeze to death or are you planning on lighting the stove today? ”

THAT NIGHT I asked Baba if we could go to Jalalabad on Friday. He was rocking on the leather swivel chair behind his desk, reading a newspaper. He put it down, took off the reading glasses I disliked so much--Baba wasn’t old, not at all, and he had lots of years left to live, so why did he have to wear those stupid glasses?

“Why not! ” he said. Lately, Baba agreed to everything I asked. Not only that, just two nights before, he’d asked me if I wanted to see ‘El Cid’ with Charlton Heston at Cinema Aryana. “Do you want to ask Hassan to come along to Jalalabad? ”

Why did Baba have to spoil it like that? “He’s mazreez, ” I said. Not feeling well.

“Really? ” Baba stopped rocking in his chair. “What’s wrong with him? ”

I gave a shrug and sank in the sofa by the fireplace. “He’s got a cold or something. Ali says he’s sleeping it off. ”

“I haven’t seen much of Hassan the last few days, ” Baba said. “That’s all it is, then, a cold? ” I couldn’t help hating the way his brow furrowed with worry.

“Just a cold. So are we going Friday, Baba? ”

“Yes, yes, ” Baba said, pushing away from the desk. “Too bad about Hassan. I thought you might have had more fun if he came. ”

“Well, the two of us can have fun together, ” I said. Baba smiled. Winked. “Dress warm, ” he said.

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN just the two of us--that was the way, I wanted it--but by Wednesday night, Baba had managed to invite another two dozen people. He called his cousin Homayoun--he was actually Baba’s second cousin--and mentioned he was going to Jalalabad on Friday, and Homayoun, who had studied engineering in France and had a house in Jalalabad, said he’d love to have everyone over, he’d bring the kids, his two wives, and, while he was at it, cousin Shafiqa and her family were visiting from Herat, maybe she’d like to tag along, and since she was staying with cousin Nader in Kabul, his family would have to be invited as well even though Homayoun and Nader had a bit of a feud going, and if Nader was invited, surely his brother Faruq had to be asked too or his feelings would be hurt and he might not invite them to his daughter’s wedding next month and...

We filled three vans. I rode with Baba, Rahim Khan, Kaka Homayoun--Baba had taught me at a young age to call any older male Kaka, or Uncle, and any older female, Khala, or Aunt. Kaka Homayoun’s

two wives rode with us too--the pinch-faced older one with the warts on her hands and the younger one who always smelled of perfume and danced with her eyes close--as did Kaka Homayoun’s twin girls.

I sat in the back row, carsick and dizzy, sandwiched between the seven-year-old twins who kept reaching over my lap to slap at each other. The road to Jalalabad is a two-hour trek through mountain roads

winding along a steep drop, and my stomach lurched with each hairpin turn. Everyone in the van was talking, talking loudly and at the same time, nearly shrieking, which is how Afghans talk. I asked one of

the twins--Fazila or Karima, I could never tell which was which--if she’d trade her window seat with me so I could get fresh air on account of my car sickness. She stuck her tongue out and said no. I told her

that was fine, but I couldn’t be held accountable for vomiting on her new dress. A minute later, I was leaning out the window. I watched the cratered road rise and fall, whirl its tail around the mountainside,

counted the multicolored trucks packed with squatting men lumbering past. I tried closing my eyes, letting the wind slap at my cheeks, opened my mouth to swallow the clean air. I still didn’t feel better. A

finger poked me in the side. It was Fazila/Karima.

“What? ” I said.

“I was just telling everyone about the tournament, ” Baba said from behind the wheel. Kaka Homayoun and his wives were smiling at me from the middle row of seats.

“There must have been a hundred kites in the sky that day? ” Baba said. “Is that about right, Amir? ”

“I guess so, ” I mumbled.

“A hundred kites, Homayoun jan. No ‘laaf’. And the only one still flying at the end of the day was Amir’s. He has the last kite at home, a beautiful blue kite. Hassan and Amir ran it together. ”

“Congratulations, ” Kaka Homayoun said. His first wife, the one with the warts, clapped her hands. “Wah wah, Amir jan, we’re all so proud of you! ” she said. The younger wife joined in. Then they were all

clapping, yelping their praises, telling me how proud I’d made them all. Only Rahim Khan, sitting in the passenger seat next to Baba, was silent. He was looking at me in an odd way.

“Please pull over, Baba, ” I said.

“What? ”

“Getting sick, ” I muttered, leaning across the seat, pressing against Kaka Homayoun’s daughters.

Fazilal/Karima’s face twisted. “Pull over, Kaka! His face is yellow! I don’t want him throwing up on my new dress! ” she squealed.

Baba began to pull over, but I didn’t make it. A few minutes later, I was sitting on a rock on the side of the road as they aired out the van. Baba was smoking with Kaka Homayoun who was telling

Fazila/Karima to stop crying; he’d buy her another dress in Jalalabad. I closed my eyes, turned my face to the sun. Little shapes formed behind my eyelids, like hands playing shadows on the wall. They

twisted, merged, formed a single image: Hassan’s brown corduroy pants discarded on a pile of old bricks in the alley.

KAKA HOMAYOUN’S WHITE, two-story house in Jalalabad had a balcony overlooking a large, walled garden with apple and persimmon trees. There were hedges that, in the summer, the gardener

shaped like animals, and a swimming pool with emeraldcolored tiles. I sat on the edge of the pool, empty save for a layer of slushy snow at the bottom, feet dangling in. Kaka Homayoun’s kids were

playing hide-and-seek at the other end of the yard. The women were cooking and I could smell onions frying already, could hear the phht-phht of a pressure cooker, music, laughter. Baba, Rahim Khan,

Kaka Homayoun, and Kaka Nader were sitting on the balcony, smoking. Kaka Homayoun was telling them he’d brought the projector along to show his slides of France. Ten years since he’d returned

from Paris and he was still showing those stupid slides.

It shouldn’t have felt this way. Baba and I were finally friends. We’d gone to the zoo a few days before, seen Marjan the lion, and I had hurled a pebble at the bear when no one was watching. We’d gone

to Dadkhoda’s Kabob House afterward, across from Cinema Park, had lamb kabob with freshly baked ‘naan’ from the tandoor. Baba told me stories of his travels to India and Russia, the people he had

met, like the armless, legless couple in Bombay who’d been married forty-seven years and raised eleven children. That should have been fun, spending a day like that with Baba, hearing his stories. I

finally had what I’d wanted all those years. Except now that I had it, I felt as empty as this unkempt pool I was dangling my legs into.

The wives and daughters served dinner--rice, kofta, and chicken ‘qurma’--at sundown. We dined the traditional way, sitting on cushions around the room, tablecloth spread on the floor, eating with our

hands in groups of four or five from common platters. I wasn’t hungry but sat down to eat anyway with Baba, Kaka Faruq, and Kaka Homayoun’s two boys. Baba, who’d had a few scotches before dinner,

was still ranting about the kite tournament, how I’d outlasted them all, how I’d come home with the last kite. His booming voice dominated the room. People raised their heads from their platters, called out

their congratulations. Kaka Faruq patted my back with his clean hand. I felt like sticking a knife in my eye.

Later, well past midnight, after a few hours of poker between Baba and his cousins, the men lay down to sleep on parallel mattresses in the same room where we’d dined. The women went upstairs. An

hour later, I still couldn’t sleep. I kept tossing and turning as my relatives grunted, sighed, and snored in their sleep. I sat up. A wedge of moonlight streamed in through the window.

“I watched Hassan get raped, ” I said to no one. Baba stirred in his sleep. Kaka Homayoun grunted. A part of me was hoping someone would wake up and hear, so I wouldn’t have to live with this lie

anymore. But no one woke up and in the silence that followed, I understood the nature of my new curse: I was going to get away with it.

I thought about Hassan’s dream, the one about us swimming in the lake. There is no monster, he’d said, just water. Except he’d been wrong about that. There was a monster in the lake. It had grabbed

Hassan by the ankles, dragged him to the murky bottom. I was that monster.

That was the night I became an insomniac.

I DIDN’T SPEAK TO HASSAN until the middle of the next week. I had just half-eaten my lunch and Hassan was doing the dishes. I was walking upstairs, going to my room, when Hassan asked if I

wanted to hike up the hill. I said I was tired. Hassan looked tired too--he’d lost weight and gray circles had formed under his puffed-up eyes. But when he asked again, I reluctantly agreed.

We trekked up the hill, our boots squishing in the muddy snow. Neither one of us said anything. We sat under our pomegranate tree and I knew I’d made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come up the hill. The

words I’d carved on the tree trunk with Ali’s kitchen knife, Amir and Hassan: The Sultans of Kabul... I couldn’t stand looking at them now.

He asked me to read to him from the ‘Shahnamah’ and I told him I’d changed my mind. Told him I just wanted to go back to my room. He looked away and shrugged. We walked back down the way

we’d gone up in silence. And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t wait for spring.

MY MEMORY OF THE REST of that winter of 1975 is pretty hazy. I remember I was fairly happy when Baba was home. We’d eat together, go to see a film, visit Kaka Homayoun or Kaka Faruq.

Sometimes Rahim Khan came over and Baba let me sit in his study and sip tea with them. He’d even have me read him some of my stories. It was good and I even believed it would last. And Baba

believed it too, I think. We both should have known better. For at least a few months after the kite tournament, Baba and I immersed ourselves in a sweet illusion, saw each other in a way that we never had

before. We’d actually deceived ourselves into thinking that a toy made of tissue paper, glue, and bamboo could somehow close the chasm between us.

But when Baba was out--and he was out a lot--I closed myself in my room. I read a book every couple of days, wrote sto ries, learned to draw horses. I’d hear Hassan shuffling around the kitchen in the

morning, hear the clinking of silverware, the whistle of the teapot. I’d wait to hear the door shut and only then I would walk down to eat. On my calendar, I circled the date of the first day of school and began

a countdown.

To my dismay, Hassan kept trying to rekindle things between us. I remember the last time. I was in my room, reading an abbreviated Farsi translation of Ivanhoe, when he knocked on my door.

“What is it? ”

“I’m going to the baker to buy ‘naan’, ” he said from the other side. “I was wondering if you... if you wanted to come along. ”

“I think I’m just going to read, ” I said, rubbing my temples. Lately, every time Hassan was around, I was getting a headache.

“It’s a sunny day, ” he said.

“I can see that. ”

“Might be fun to go for a walk. ”

“You go. ”

“I wish you’d come along, ” he said. Paused. Something thumped against the door, maybe his forehead. “I don’t know what I’ve done, Amir agha. I wish you’d tell me. I don’t know why we don’t play

anymore. ”

“You haven’t done anything, Hassan. Just go. ”

“You can tell me, I’ll stop doing it. ”

I buried my head in my lap, squeezed my temples with my knees, like a vice. “I’ll tell you what I want you to stop doing, ” I said, eyes pressed shut.

“Anything. ”

“I want you to stop harassing me. I want you to go away, ” I snapped. I wished he would give it right back to me, break the door open and tell me off--it would have made things easier, better. But he didn’t

do anything like that, and when I opened the door minutes later, he wasn’t there. I fell on my bed, buried my head under the pillow, and cried.

HASSAN MILLED ABOUT the periphery of my life after that. I made sure our paths crossed as little as possible, planned my day that way. Because when he was around, the oxygen seeped out of the

room. My chest tightened and I couldn’t draw enough air; I’d stand there, gasping in my own little airless bubble of atmosphere. But even when he wasn’t around, he was. He was there in the hand-washed

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