gned interest。 Well； that s very good； isn t it？ he said。 Then nothing more。 He just looked at me through the cloud of smoke。
I probably stood there for under a minute； but； to this day； it was one of the longest minutes of my life。 Seconds plodded by； each separated from the next by an eternity。 Air grew heavy damp； almost solid。 I was breathing bricks。 Baba went on staring me down； and didn t offer to read。
As always； it was Rahim Khan who rescued me。 He held out his hand and favored me with a smile that had nothing feigned about it。 May I have it； Amir jan？ I would very much like to read it。 Baba hardly ever used the term of endearment _jan_ when he addressed me。
Baba shrugged and stood up。 He looked relieved； as if he too had been rescued by Rahim Khan。 Yes； give it to Kaka Rahim。 I m going upstairs to get ready。 And with that； he left the room。 Most days I worshiped Baba with an intensity approaching the religious。 But right then； I wished I could open my veins and drain his cursed blood from my body。
An hour later； as the evening sky dimmed； the two of them drove off in my father s car to attend a party。 On his way out； Rahim Khan hunkered before me and handed me my story and another folded piece of paper。 He flashed a smile and winked。 For you。 Read it later。 Then he paused and added a single word that did more to encourage me to pursue writing than any pliment any editor has ever paid me。 That word was _Bravo_。
When they left； I sat on my bed and wished Rahim Khan had been my father。 Then I thought of Baba and his great big chest and how good it felt when he held me against it； how he smelled of Brut in the morning； and how his beard tickled my face。 I was overe with such sudden guilt that I bolted to the bathroom and vomited in the sink。
Later that night； curled up in bed； I read Rahim Khan s note over and over。 It read like this：
Amir jan；
I enjoyed your story very much。 _Mashallah_； God has granted you a special talent。 It is now your duty to hone that talent； because a person who wastes his God…given talents is a donkey。 You have written your story with sound grammar and interesting style。 But the most impressive thing about your story is that it
has irony。 You may not even know what that word means。 But you will someday。 It is something that some writers reach for their entire careers and never attain。 You have achieved it with your first story。
My door is and always will be open to you； Amir jan。 I shall hear any story you have to tell。 Bravo。
Your friend；
Rahim
Buoyed by Rahim Khan s note； I grabbed the story and hurried downstairs to the foyer where Ali and Hassan were sleeping on a mattress。 That was the only time they slept in the house； when Baba was away and Ali had to watch over me。 I shook Hassan awake and asked him if he wanted to hear a story。
He rubbed his sleep…clogged eyes and stretched。 Now？ What time is it？
Never mind the time。 This story s special。 I wrote it myself； I whispered； hoping not to wake Ali。 Hassan s face brightened。
Then I _have_ to hear it； he said； already pulling the blanket off him。
I read it to him in the living room by the marble fireplace。 No playful straying from the words this time； this was about me！ Hassan was the perfect audience in many ways； totally immersed in the tale； his face shifting with the changing tones in the story。 When I read the last sentence； he made a muted clapping sound with his hands。
_Mashallah_； Amir agha。 Bravo！ He was beaming。
You liked it？ I said； getting my second taste……and how sweet it was……of a positive review。
Some day； _Inshallah_； you will be a great writer； Hassan said。 And people all over the world will read your stories。
You exaggerate； Hassan； I said； loving him for it。
No。 You will be great and famous； he insisted。 Then he paused； as if on the verge of adding something。 He weighed his words and cleared his throat。 But will you permit me to ask a question about the story？ he said shyly。
Of course。
Well。。。 he started； broke off。
Tell me； Hassan； I said。 I smiled； though suddenly the insecure writer in me wasn t so sure he wanted to hear it。
Well； he said； if I may ask； why did the man kill his wife？ In fact； why did he ever have to feel sad to shed tears？ Couldn t he have just smelled an onion？
I was stunned。 That particular point； so obvious it was utterly stupid； hadn t even occurred to me。 I moved my lips soundlessly。 It appeared that on the same night I had learned about one of writing s objectives； irony； I would also be introduced to one of its pitfalls： the Plot Hole。 Taught by Hassan； of all people。 Hassan who couldn t read and had never written a single word in his
entire life。 A voice； cold and dark； suddenly whispered in my ear； _What does he know； that illiterate Hazara？ He ll never be anything but a cook。 How dare he criticize you？_
Well； I began。 But I never got to finish that sentence。
Because suddenly Afghanistan changed forever。
FIVE
Something roared like thunder。 The earth shook a little and we heard the _rat…a…tat…tat_ of gunfire。 Father！ Hassan cried。 We sprung to our feet and raced out of the living room。 We found Ali hobbling frantically across the foyer。
Father！ What s that sound？ Hassan yelped； his hands outstretched toward Ali。 Ali wrapped his arms around us。 A white light flashed； lit the sky in silver。 It flashed again and was followed by a rapid staccato of gunfire。
They re hunting ducks； Ali said in a hoarse voice。 They hunt ducks at night； you know。 Don t be afraid。
A siren went off in the distance。 Somewhere glass shattered and someone shouted。 I heard people on the street； j