Good。 I ll tell you； he said。 I spent some time in jail； at Poleh…Charkhi； just after Babrak Karmal took over in 1980。 I ended up there one night； when a group of Parc hami soldiers marched into our house and ordered my father and me at gun point to follow them。 The bastards didn t give a reason； and they wouldn t answer my mother s questions。 Not that it was a mys tery； everyone knew the munists had no class。 They came from poor families with no name。 The same dogs who weren t fit to lick my shoes before the Shorawi came were now ordering me at gunpoint； Parchami flag on their lapels； making their little point about the fall of the bourgeoisie and acting like they were the ones with class。 It was happening all over： Round up the rich； throw them in jail； make an example for the rades。
Anyway； we were crammed in groups of six in these tiny cells each the size of a refrigerator。 Every night the mandant； a haif…Hazara； half…Uzbek thing who smelled like a rotting donkey； would have one of the prisoners dragged out of the cell and he d beat him until sweat poured from his fat face。 Then he d light a cigarette； crack his joints； and leave。 The next night； he d pick someone else。 One night； he picked me。 It couldn t have e at a worse time。 I d been peeing blood for three days。 Kidney stones。 And if you ve never had one； believe me when I say it s the worst imaginable pain。 My mother used to get them too； and I remember she told me once she d rather give birth than pass a kidney stone。 Anyway； what could I do？ They dragged me out and he started kick ing me。 He had knee…high boots with steel toes that he wore every night for his little kicking game； and he used them on me。 I was screaming and screaming and he kept kicking me and then； suddenly； he kicked me on the left kidney and the stone passed。 Just like that！ Oh； the relief！ Assef laughed。 And I yelled Allah…u akbar and he kicked me even harder and I started laughing。 He got mad and hit me harder； and the harder he kicked me； the harder I laughed。 They threw me back in the cell laughing。 I kept laughing and laughing because suddenly I knew that had been a message from God： He was on my side。 He wanted me to live for a reason。
You know； I ran into that mandant on the battlefield a few years later……funny how God works。 I found him in a trench just outside Meymanah； bleeding from a piece of shrapnel in his chest。 He was still wearing those same boots。 I asked him if he remembered me。 He said no。 I told him the same thing I just told you； that I never forget a face。 Then I shot him in the balls。 I ve been on a mission since。
What mission is that？ I heard myself say。 Stoning adulterers？ Raping children？ Flogging women for wearing high heels？ Massacring Hazaras？ All in the name of Islam？ The words spilled suddenly and unexpectedly； came out before I could yank the leash。 I wished I could take them back。 Swallow them。 But they were out。 I had crossed a line； and whatever little hope I had of getting out alive had vanished with those words。
A look of surprise passed across Assef s face； briefly； and disappeared。 I see this may turn out to be enjoyable after all； he said； snickering。 But there are things traitors like you don t understand。
Like what？
Assef s brow twitched。 Like pride in your people； your customs； your language。 Afghanistan is like a beautiful mansion littered with garbage； and someone has to take out the garbage。
That s what you were doing in Mazar； going door…to…door？ Taking out the garbage？
Precisely。
In the west； they have an expression for that； I said。 They call it ethnic cleansing。
Do they？ Assef s face brightened。 Ethnic cleansing。 I like it。 I like the sound of it。
All I want is the boy。
Ethnic cleansing； Assef murmured； tasting the words。
I want the boy； I said again。 Sohrab s eyes flicked to me。 They were slaughter sheep s eyes。 They even had the mascara……I remembered how； on the day of Eid of qorban； the mullah in our backyard used to apply mascara to the eyes of the sheep and feed it a cube of sugar before slicing its throat。 I thought I saw pleading in Sohrab s eyes。
Tell me why； Assef said。 He pinched Sohrab s earlobe between his teeth。 Let go。 Sweat beads rolled down his brow。
That s my business。
What do you want to do with him？ he said。 Then a coy smile。 Or to him。
That s disgusting； I said。
How would you know？ Have you tried it？
I want to take him to a better place。
Tell me why。
That s my business； I said。 I didn t know what had emboldened me to be so curt； maybe the fact that I thought I was going to die anyway。
I wonder； Assef said。 I wonder why you ve e all this way； Amir； e all this way for a Hazara？ Why are you here？ Why are you really here？
I have my reasons； I said。
Very well then； Assef said； sneering。 He shoved Sohrab in the back； pushed him right into the table。 Sohrab s hips struck the table； knocking it upside down and spilling the grapes。 He fell on them； face first； and stained his shirt purple with grape juice。 The
table s legs； crossing through the ring of brass balls； were now pointing to the ceiling。
Take him； then； Assef said。 I helped Sohrab to his feet； swat ted the bits of crushed grape that had stuck to his pants like bar nacles to a pier。
Go； take him； Assef said； pointing to the door。
I took Sohrab s hand。 It was small； the skin dry and calloused。 His fingers moved； laced themselves with mine。 I saw Sohrab in that Polaroid again； the way his arm was wrapped around Hassan s leg； his head resting against his father s hip。 They d both been smiling。 The bells jingled as we crossed the roo