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hour； sometimes two； listening to their laughter； their chatter。
The living room downstairs had a curved wall with custombuilt cabinets。 Inside sat framed family pictures： an old； grainy photo of my grandfather and King Nadir Shah taken in 1931； two years before the king s assassination； they are standing over a dead deer； dressed in knee…high boots； rifles slung over their shoulders。 There was a picture of my parents wedding night； Baba dashing in his black suit and my mother a smiling young princess in white。 Here was Baba and his best friend and business partner； Rahim Khan； standing outside our house； neither one smiling……I am a baby in that photograph and Baba is holding me； looking tired and grim。 I m in his arms； but it s Rahim Khan s pinky my fingers are curled around。
The curved wall led into the dining room； at the center of which was a mahogany table that could easily sit thirty guests…… and； given my father s taste for extravagant parties； it did just that almost every week。 On the other end of the dining room was a tall marble fireplace； always lit by the orange glow of a fire in the wintertime。
A large sliding glass door opened into a semicircular terrace that overlooked two acres of backyard and rows of cherry trees。 Baba and Ali had planted a small vegetable garden along the eastern wall： tomatoes； mint； peppers； and a row of corn that never really took。 Hassan and I used to call it the Wall of Ailing Corn。
On the south end of the garden； in the shadows of a loquat tree； was the servants home； a modest little mud hut where Hassan lived with his father。
It was there； in that little shack； that Hassan was born in the winter of 1964； just one year after my mother died giving birth to me。
In the eighteen years that I lived in that house； I stepped into Hassan and Ali s quarters only a handful of times。 When the sun dropped low behind the hills and we were done playing for the day； Hassan and I parted ways。 I went past the rosebushes to Baba s mansion； Hassan to the mud shack where he had been born； where he d lived his entire life。 I remember it was spare； clean； dimly lit by a pair of kerosene lamps。 There were two mattresses on opposite sides of the room； a worn Herati rug with frayed edges in between； a three…legged stool； and a wooden table in the corner where Hassan did his drawings。 The walls stood bare； save for a single tapestry with sewn…in beads forming the words _Allah…u…akbar_。 Baba had bought it for Ali on one of his trips to Mashad。
It was in that small shack that Hassan s mother； Sanaubar； gave birth to him one cold winter day in 1964。 While my mother hemorrhaged to death during childbirth； Hassan lost his less than a week after he was born。 Lost her to a fate most Afghans considered far worse than death： She ran off with a clan of traveling singers and dancers。
Hassan never talked about his mother； as if she d never existed。 I always wondered if he dreamed about her； about what she looked like； where she was。 I wondered if he longed to meet her。 Did he ache for her； the way I ached for the mother I had never met？ One day； we were walking from my father s house to Cinema Zainab for a new Iranian movie； taking the shortcut through the military barracks near Istiqlal Middle School……Baba had forbidden us to take that shortcut； but he was in Pakistan with Rahim Khan at the time。 We hopped the fence that surrounded the barracks； skipped over a little creek； and broke into the open dirt field where old； abandoned tanks collected dust。 A group of soldiers huddled in the shade of one of those tanks； smoking cigarettes and playing cards。