ce； Hassan absently plucked blades of grass from the ground as I read him stories he couldn t read for himself。 That Hassan would grow up illiterate like Ali and most Hazaras had been decided the minute he had been born； perhaps even the moment he had been conceived in Sanaubar s unweling womb……after all； what use did a servant have for the written word？ But despite his illiteracy； or maybe because of it； Hassan was drawn to the mystery of words； seduced by a secret world forbidden to him。 I read him poems and stories； sometimes riddles……though I stopped reading those when I saw he was far better at solving them than I was。 So I read him unchallenging things； like the misadventures of the bumbling Mullah Nasruddin and his donkey。 We sat for hours under that tree； sat there until the sun faded in the west； and still Hassan insisted we had enough daylight for one more story； one more chapter。
My favorite part of reading to Hassan was when we came across a big word that he didn t know。 I d tease him； expose his ignorance。 One time； I was reading him a Mullah Nasruddin story and he stopped me。 What does that word mean？
Which one？
Imbecile。
You don t know what it means？ I said； grinning。
Nay； Amir agha。
But it s such a mon word！
Still； I don t know it。 If he felt the sting of my tease； his smiling face didn t show it。
Well； everyone in my school knows what it means； I said。 Let s see。 Imbecile。 It means smart； intelligent。 I ll use it in a sentence for you。 When it es to words； Hassan is an imbecile。
Aaah； he said； nodding。
I would always feel guilty about it later。 So I d try to make up for it by giving him one of my old shirts or a broken toy。 I would tell myself that was amends enough for a harmless prank。
Hassan s favorite book by far was the _Shahnamah_； the tenth…century epic of ancient Persian heroes。 He liked all of the chapters； the shahs of old； Feridoun； Zal； and Rudabeh。 But his favorite story； and mine； was Rostam and Sohrab； the tale of the great warrior Rostam and his fleet…footed horse； Rakhsh。 Rostam mortally wounds his valiant nemesis； Sohrab； in battle； only to discover that Sohrab is his long…lost son。 Stricken with grief； Rostam hears his son s dying words：
If thou art indeed my father； then hast thou stained thy sword in the life…blood of thy son。 And thou didst it of thine obstinacy。 For I sought to turn thee unto love； and I implored of thee thy name； for I thought to behold in thee the tokens recounted of my mother。 But I appealed unto thy heart in vain； and now is the time gone for meeting。。。
Read it again please； Amir agha； Hassan would say。 Sometimes tears pooled in Hassan s eyes as I read him this passage； and I always wondered whom he wept for； the grief…stricken Rostam who tears his clothes and covers his head with ashes； or the dying Sohrab who only longed for his father s love？ Personally； I couldn t see the tragedy in Rostam s fate。 After all； didn t all fathers in their secret hearts harbor a desire to kill their sons？
One day； in July 1973； I played another little trick on Hassan。 I was reading to him； and suddenly I strayed from the written story。 I pretended I was reading from the book； flipping pages regularly； but I had abandoned the text altogether； taken over the story； and made up my own。 Hassan； of course； was oblivious to this。 To him； the words on the page were a scramble of codes； indecipherable； mysterious。 Words were secret doorways and I held all the keys。 After； I started to ask him if he d liked the story； a giggle rising in my throat； when Hassan began to clap。
What are you doing？ I said。
That was the best story you ve read me in a long time； he said； still clapping。
I laughed。 Really？
Really。
That s fascinating； I muttered。 I meant it too。 This was。。。 wholly unexpected。 Are you sure； Hassan？
He was still clapping。 It was great； Amir agha。 Will you read me more of it tomorrow？
Fascinating； I repeated； a little breathless； feeling like a man who discovers a buried treasure in his own backyard。 Walking down the hill； thoughts were exploding in my head like the fireworks at _Chaman_。 _Best story you ve read me in a long time_； he d said。 I had read him a _lot_ of stories。 Hassan was asking me something。
What？ I said。
What does that mean； fascinating ？
I laughed。 Clutched him in a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek。
What was that for？ he said； startled； blushing。
I gave him a friendly shove。 Smiled。 You re a prince； Hassan。 You re a prince and I love you。
That same night； I wrote my first short story。 It took me thirty minutes。 It was a dark little tale about a man who found a magic cup and learned that if he wept
into the cup； his tears turned into pearls。 But even though he had always been poor； he was a happy man and rarely shed a tear。 So he found ways to make himself sad so that his tears could make him rich。 As the pearls piled up； so did his greed grow。 The story ended with the man sitting on a mountain of pearls； knife in hand； weeping helplessly into the cup with his beloved wife s slain body in his arms。
That evening； I climbed the stairs and walked into Baba s smoking room； in my hands the two sheets of paper on which I had scribbled the story。 Baba and Rahim Khan were smoking pipes and sipping brandy when I came in。
What is it； Amir？ Baba said； reclining on the sofa and lacing his hands behind his head。 Blue smoke swirled around his face。 His glare made my throat feel dry。 I cleared it and told him I d written a story。
Baba nodded and gave a thin smile that conveyed little more than feigned interest。 Well； that s very good； isn t it？