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ht about Hassan。 Thought about Baba。 Ali。 Kabul。 I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came and changed everything。 And made me what I am today。
TWO
When we were children； Hassan and I used to climb the poplar trees in the driveway of my father s house and annoy our neighbors by reflecting sunlight into their homes with a shard of mirror。 We would sit across from each other on a pair of high branches； our naked feet dangling； our trouser pockets filled with dried mulberries and walnuts。 We took turns with the mirror as we ate mulberries； pelted each other with them； giggling； laughing； I can still see Hassan up on that tree； sunlight flickering through the leaves on his almost perfectly round face； a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood： his flat； broad nose and slanting； narrow eyes like bamboo leaves； eyes that looked； depending on the light； gold； green； even sapphire I can still see his tiny low…set ears and that pointed stub of a chin； a meaty appendage that looked like it was added as a mere afterthought。 And the cleft lip； just left of midline； where the Chinese doll maker s instrument may have slipped； or perhaps he had simply grown tired and careless。
Sometimes； up in those trees； I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbor s one…eyed German shepherd。 Hassan never wanted to； but if I asked； _really_ asked； he wouldn t deny me。 Hassan never denied me anything。 And he was deadly with his slingshot。 Hassan s father； Ali； used to catch us and get mad； or as mad as someone as gentle as Ali could ever get。 He would wag his finger and wave us down from the tree。 He would take the mirror and tell us what his mother had told him； that the devil shone mirrors too； shone them to distract Muslims during prayer。 And he laughs while he does it； he always added； scowling at his son。
Yes； Father； Hassan would mumble； looking down at his feet。 But he never told on me。 Never told that the mirror； like shooting walnuts at the neighbor s dog； was always my idea。
The poplar trees lined the redbrick driveway； which led to a pair of wrought…iron gates。 They in turn opened into an extension of the driveway into my father s estate。 The house sat on the left side of the brick path； the backyard at the end of it。
Everyone agreed that my father； my Baba； had built the most beautiful house in the Wazir Akbar Khan district； a new and affluent neighborhood in the northern part of Kabul。 Some thought it was the prettiest house in all of Kabul。 A broad entryway flanked by rosebushes led to the sprawling house of marble floors and wide windows。 Intricate mosaic tiles； handpicked by Baba in Isfahan； covered the floors of the four bathrooms。 Gold…stitched tapestries； which Baba had bought in Calcutta； lined the walls； a crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling。
Upstairs was my bedroom； Baba s room； and his study； also known as the smoking room； which perpetually smelled of tobacco and cinnamon。 Baba and his friends reclined on black leather chairs there after Ali had served dinner。 They stuffed their pipes……except Baba always called it fattening the pipe ……and discussed their favorite three topics： politics； business； soccer。 Sometimes I asked Baba if I could sit with them； but Baba would stand in the doorway。 Go on； now； he d say。 This is grown…ups time。 Why don t you go read one of those books of yours？ He d close the door； leave me to wonder why it was always grown…ups time with him。 I d sit by the door； knees drawn to my chest。 Sometimes I sat there for an hour； sometimes two； listening to their laughter；