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c people； we Afghans； aren t we？ Often； we wallow too much in ghamkhori and self…pity。 We give in to loss； to suffering； accept it as a fact of life； even see it as
necessary。 Zendagi migzara； we say； life goes on。 But I am not surrendering to fate here； I am being pragmatic。 I have seen several good doctors here and they have given the same answer。 I trust them and believe them。 There is such a thing as God s will。
There is only what you do and what you don t do； I said。
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