ought children s books for Sohrab from the bookstore by Cinema Park……they have destroyed that too now……and Sohrab read them as quickly as I could get them to him。 He reminded me of you； how you loved to read when you were little； Amir jan。 Sometimes； I read to him at night； played riddles with him； taught him card tricks。 I miss him terribly。
In the wintertime； Hassan took his son kite running。 There were not nearly as many kite tournaments as in the old days……no one felt safe outside for too long……but there were still a few scattered tournaments。 Hassan would prop Sohrab on his shoulders and they would go trotting through the streets； running kites； climbing trees where kites had dropped。 You remember； Amir Jan； what a good kite runner Hassan was？ He was still just as good。 At the end of winter； Hassan and Sohrab would hang the kites they had run all winter on the walls of the main hallway。 They would put them up like paintings。
I told you how we all celebrated in 1996 when the Taliban rolled in and put an end to the daily fighting。 I remember ing home that night and finding Hassan in the kitchen； listening to the radio。 He had a sober look in his eyes。 I asked
him what was wrong； and he just shook his head。 God help the Hazaras now； Rahim Khan sahib； he said。
The war is over； Hassan； I said。 There s going to be peace； _Inshallah_； and happiness and calm。 No more rockets； no more killing； no more funerals！ But he just turned off the radio and asked if he could get me anything before he went to bed。
A few weeks later； the Taliban banned kite fighting。 And two years later； in 1998； they massacred the Hazaras in Mazar…i…Sharif。
SEVENTEEN
Rahim Khan slowly uncrossed his legs and leaned against the bare wall in the wary； deliberate way of a man whose every movement triggers spikes of pain。 Outside； a donkey was braying and some one was shouting something in Urdu。 The sun was beginning to set； glittering red through the cracks between the ramshackle buildings。
It hit me again； the enormity of what I had done that winter and that following summer。 The names rang in my head： Hassan； Sohrab； Ali； Farzana； and Sanaubar。 Hearing Rahim Khan speak Ali s name was like finding an old dusty music box that hadn t been opened in years； the melody began to play immediately： Who did you eat today； Babalu？ Who did you eat； you slant…eyed Babalu？ I tried to conjure Ali s frozen face； to really see his tranquil eyes； but time can be a greedy thing……sometimes it steals all the details for itself。
Is Hassan still in that house now？ I asked。
Rahim Khan raised the teacup to his parched lips and took a sip。 He then fished an envelope from the breast pocket of his vest and handed it to me。 For you。
I tore the sealed envelope。 Inside； I found a Polaroid photograph and a folded letter。 I stared at the photograph for a full minute。
A tall man dressed in a white turban and a green…striped chapan stood with a little boy in front of a set of wrought…iron gates。 Sunlight slanted in from the left； casting a shadow on half of his rotund face。 He was squinting and smiling at the camera； showing a pair of missing front teeth。 Even in this blurry Polaroid； the man in the chapan exuded a sense of self…assuredness； of ease。 It was in the way he stood； his feet slightly apart； his arms fortably crossed on his chest； his head titled a little toward the sun。 Mostly； it was in the way he smiled。 Looking at the photo； one might have concluded that this was a man who thought the world had been good to him。 Rahim Khan was right： I would have recognized him if I had bumped into him on the street。 The little boy stood bare foot； one arm wrapped around the man s thigh； his shaved head resting against his father s hip。 He too was grinning and squinting。
I unfolded the letter。 It was written in Farsi。 No dots were omitted； no crosses forgotten； no words blurred together……the handwriting was almost childlike in its neatness。 I began to read：
In the name of Allah the most beneficent； the most merciful； Amir agha； with my deepest respects；
Farzana jan； Sohrab； and I pray that this latest letter finds you in good health and in the light of Allah s good graces。 Please offer my warmest thanks to Rahim
Khan sahib for carrying it to you。 I am hopeful that one day I will hold one of your letters in my hands and read of your life in America。 Perhaps a photograph of you will even grace our eyes。 I have told much about you to Farzana jan and Sohrab； about us growing up together and playing games and running in the streets。 They laugh at the stories of all the mischief you and I used to cause！
Amir agha；
Alas the Afghanistan of our youth is long dead。 Kindness is gone from the land and you cannot escape the killings。 Always the killings。 In Kabul； fear is everywhere； in the streets； in the stadium； in the markets； it is a part of our lives here； Amir agha。 The savages who rule our watan don t care about human decency。 The other day； I acpanied Farzana Jan to the bazaar to buy some potatoes and _naan_。 She asked the vendor how much the potatoes cost； but he did not hear her； I think he had a deaf ear。 So she asked louder and suddenly a young Talib ran over and hit her on the thighs with his wooden stick。 He struck her so hard she fell down。 He was screaming at her and cursing and saying the Ministry of Vice and Virtue does not allow women to speak loudly。 She had a large purple bruise on her leg for days but what could I do except stand and watch my wife get beaten？ If I fought； that dog would have surely put a bullet in me； and gladly！ Then what would happen to my Sohrab？ The streets are full enough already of hun