r if she d like to learn to read and write。 She gave me this big smile； crinkling her eyes； and said she d like that very much。 So we d sit at the kitchen table after I was done with my own schoolwork and I d teach her Alef…beh。 I remember looking up sometimes in the middle of homework and seeing Ziba in the kitchen； stirring meat in the pressure cooker； then sitting down with a pencil to do the alphabet homework I d assigned to her the night before。
Anyway； within a year； Ziba could read children s books。 We sat in the yard and she read me the tales of Dara and Sara……slowly but correctly。 She started calling me Moalem Soraya； Teacher Soraya。 She laughed again。 I know it sounds childish； but the first time Ziba wrote her own letter； I knew there was nothing else I d ever want to be but a teacher。 I was so proud of her and I felt I d done something really worthwhile； you know？
Yes； I lied。 I thought of how I had used my literacy to ridicule Hassan。 How I had teased him about big words he didn t know。
My father wants me to go to law school； my mother s always throwing hints about medical school； but I m going to be a teacher。 Doesn t pay much here； but it s what I want。
My mother was a teacher too； I said。
I know； she said。 My mother told me。 Then her face red dened with a blush at what she had blurted； at the implication of her answer； that Amir Conversations took place between them when I wasn t there。 It took an enormous effort to stop myself from smiling。
I brought you something。 I fished the roll of stapled pages from my back pocket。 As promised。 I handed her one of my short stories。
Oh； you remembered； she said； actually beaming。 Thank you！ I barely had time to register that she d addressed me with tu for the first time and not the formal shoma； because suddenly her smile vanished。 The color dropped from her face； and her eyes fixed on something behind me。 I turned around。 Came face…to…face with General Taheri。
Amir jan。 Our aspiring storyteller。 What a pleasure； he said。 He was smiling thinly。
Salaam； General Sahib； I said through heavy lips。
He moved past me； toward the booth。 What a beautiful day it is； nay？ he said； thumb hooked in the breast pocket of his vest； the other hand extended toward Soraya。 She gave him the pages。
They say it will rain this week。 Hard to believe； isn t it？ He dropped the rolled pages in the garbage can。 Turned to me and gently put a hand on my shoulder。 We took a few steps together。
You know； bachem； I have grown rather fond of you。 You are a decent boy； I really believe that； but…… he sighed and waved a hand ……even decent boys need reminding sometimes。 So it s my duty to remind you that you are among peers in this flea market。 He stopped。 His expressionless eyes bore into mine。 You see； everyone here is a storyteller。 He smiled； revealing perfectly even teeth。 Do pass my respects to your father； Amir jan。
He dropped his hand。 Smiled again。
WHAT S WRONG？ Baba said。 He was taking an elderly woman s money for a rocking horse。
Nothing； I said。 I sat down on an old TV set。 Then I told him anyway。
Akh； Amir； he sighed。
As it turned out； I didn t get to brood too much over what had happened。
Because later that week； Baba caught a cold。
IT STARTED WITH A HACKING COUGH and the sniffles。 He got over the sniffles； but the cough persisted。 He d hack into his handkerchief； stow it in his pocket。 I kept after him to get it checked； but he d wave me away。 He hated doctors and hospitals。 To my knowledge； the only time Baba had ever gone to a doctor was the time he d caught malaria in India。
Then； two weeks later； I caught him coughing a wad of blood…stained phlegm into the toilet。
How long have you been doing that？ I said。
What s for dinner？ he said。
I m taking you to the doctor。
Even though Baba was a manager at the gas station； the owner hadn t offered him health insurance； and Baba； in his recklessness； hadn t insisted。 So I took him to the county hospital in San Jose。 The sallow； puffy…eyed doctor who saw us introduced himself as a second…year resident。 He looks younger than you and sicker than me； Baba grumbled。 The resident sent us down for a chest X…ray。 When the nurse called us back in； the resident was filling out a form。
Take this to the front desk； he said； scribbling quickly。
What is it？ I asked。
A referral。 Scribble scribble。
For what？
Pulmonary clinic。
What s that？
He gave me a quick glance。 Pushed up his glasses。 Began scribbling again。 He s got a spot on his right lung。 I want them to check it out。
A spot？ I said； the room suddenly too small。
Cancer？ Baba added casually。
Possible。 It s suspicious； anyway； the doctor muttered。
Can t you tell us more？ I asked。
Not really。 Need a CAT scan first； then see the lung doctor。 He handed me the referral form。 You said your father smokes； right？
Yes。
He nodded。 Looked from me to Baba and back again。 They ll call you within two weeks。
I wanted to ask him how I was supposed to live with that word； suspicious； for two whole weeks。 How was I supposed eat； work； study？ How could he send me home with that word？
I took the form and turned it in。 That night； I waited until Baba fell asleep； and then folded a blanket。 I used it as a prayer rug。 Bowing my head to the ground； I recited half…forgotten verses from the Koran……verses the mullah had made us mit to memory in Kabul……and asked for kindness from a God I wasn t sure existed。 I envied the mullah now； envied his faith and certainty。
Two weeks passed and no one called。 And when I called them； they told me they d lost the referral