turning it in his hands。
I looked at the photo。 Your father was a man torn between two halves； Rahim Khan had said in his letter。 I had been the entitled half； the society…approved； legitimate half； the unwitting embodiment of Baba s guilt。 I looked at Hassan； showing those two missing front teeth； sunlight slanting on his face。 Baba s other half。 The unentitled； unprivileged half。 The half who had inherited what had been pure and noble in Baba。 The half that； maybe； in the most secret recesses of his heart； Baba had thought of as his true son。
I slipped the picture back where I had found it。 Then I realized something： That last thought had brought no sting with it。 Closing Sohrab s door； I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded； not with the fanfare of epiphany； but with pain gathering its things； packing up； and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night。
THE GENERAL AND KHALA JAMILA came over for dinner the following night。 Khala Jamila； her hair cut short and a darker shade of red than usual； handed Soraya the plate of almondtopped maghout she had brought for dessert。 She saw Sohrab and beamed。 _Mashallah_！ Soraya jan told us how khoshteep you were； but you are even more handsome in person； Sohrab jan。 She handed him a blue turtleneck sweater。 I knitted this for you； she said。 For next winter。 _Inshallah_； it will fit you。
Sohrab took the sweater from her。
Hello； young man； was all the general said； leaning with both hands on his cane； looking at Sohrab the way one might study a bizarre decorative item at someone s house。
I answered； and answered again； Khala Jamila s questions about my injuries……I d asked Soraya to tell them I had been mugged……reassuring her that I had no permanent damage； that the wires would e out in a few weeks so I d be able to eat her cooking again； that； yes； I would try rubbing rhubarb juice and sugar on my scars to make them fade faster。
The general and I sat in the living room and sipped wine while Soraya and her mother set the table。 I told him about Kabul and the Taliban。 He listened and nodded； his cane on his lap； and tsk ed when I told him of the man I had spotted selling his artificial leg。 I made no mention of the executions at Ghazi Stadium and Assef。 He asked about Rahim Khan； whom he said he had met in Kabul a few times； and shook his head solemnly when I told him of Rahim Khan s illness。 But as we spoke； I caught his eyes drifting again and again to Sohrab sleeping on
the couch。 As if we were skirting around the edge of what he really wanted to know。
The skirting finally came to an end over dinner when the general put down his fork and said； So； Amir jan； you re going to tell us why you have brought back this boy with you？
Iqbal jan！ What sort of question is that？ Khala Jamila said。
〃While you re busy knitting sweaters； my dear； I have to deal with the munity s perception of our family。 People will ask。 They will want to know why there is a Hazara boy living with our daughter。 What do I tell them？
Soraya dropped her spoon。 Turned on her father。 You can tell them……
It s okay； Soraya； I said； taking her hand。 It s okay。 General Sahib is quite right。 People will ask。
Amir…… she began。
It s all right。 I turned to the general。 You see； General Sahib； my father slept with his servant s wife。 She bore him a son named Hassan。 Hassan is dead now。 That boy sleeping on the couch is Hassan s son。 He s my nephew。 That s what you tell people when they ask。
They were all staring at me。
And one more thing； General Sahib； I said。 You will never again refer to him as Hazara boy in my presence。 He has a name and it s Sohrab。
No one said anything for the remainder of the meal。
IT WOULD BE ERRONEOUS to say Sohrab was quiet。 Quiet is peace。 Tranquillity。 Quiet is turning down the VOLUME knob on life。
Silence is pushing the OFF button。 Shutting it down。 All of it。
Sohrab s silence wasn t the self…imposed silence of those with convictions； of protesters who seek to speak their cause by not speaking at all。 It was the silence of one who has taken cover in a dark place； curled up all the edges and tucked them under。
He didn t so much live with us as occupy space。 And precious little of it。 Sometimes； at the market； or in the park； I d notice how other people hardly seemed to even see him； like he wasn t there at all。 I d look up from a book and realize Sohrab had entered the room； had sat across from me； and I hadn t noticed。 He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footprints。 He moved as if not to stir the air around him。 Mostly； he slept。
Sohrab s silence was hard on Soraya too。 Over that long…distance line to Pakistan； Soraya had told me about the things she was planning for Sohrab。 Swimming classes。 Soccer。 Bowling league。 Now she d walk past Sohrab s room and catch a glimpse of books sitting unopened in the wicker basket； the growth chart unmarked； the jigsaw puzzle unassembled； each item a reminder of a life that could have been。 A reminder of a dream that was wilting even as it was budding。 But she hadn t been alone。 I d had my own dreams for Sohrab。
While Sohrab was silent； the world was not。 One Tuesday morning last September； the Twin Towers came crumbling down and； overnight； the world changed。 The American flag suddenly appeared everywhere； on the antennae of yellow cabs weaving around traffic； on the lapels of pedestrians walking the sidewalks in a steady stream； even on the grimy caps of San Francisco s pan handlers sitting beneath the awnings of small art galleries and open…fronted shops。 One day I passed Edith； the homeless woman who plays the accordion every day on the