ad taken root between us too。 What had happened in that room with Assef had irrevocably bound us。
I d been looking for the right time; the right moment; to ask the question that had been buzzing around in my head and keep ing me up at night。 I decided the moment was now; right here; right now; with the bright lights of the house of God shining on us。
Would you like to e live in America with me and my wife?
He didn t answer。 He sobbed into my shirt and I let him。
FOR A WEEK; neither one of us mentioned what I had asked him; as if the question hadn t been posed at all。 Then one day; Sohrab and I took a taxicab to the Daman…e…Koh Viewpoint……or the hem of the mountain。 Perched midway up the Margalla Hills; it gives a panoramic view of Islamabad; its rows of clean; tree…lined avenues and white houses。 The driver told us we could see the presidential palace from up there。 If it has rained and the air is clear; you can even see past Rawalpindi; he said。 I saw his eyes in his rearview mirror; skipping from Sohrab to me; back and forth; back and forth。 I saw my own face too。 It wasn t as swollen as before; but it had taken on a yellow tint from my assortment of fading bruises。
We sat on a bench in one of the picnic areas; in the shade of a gum tree。 It was a warm day; the sun perched high in a topaz blue sky。 On benches nearby; families snacked on samosas and pakoras。 Somewhere; a radio played a Hindi song I thought I remembered from an old movie; maybe Pakeeza。 Kids; many of them Sohrab s age; chased soccer balls; giggling; yelling。 I thought about the orphanage in Karteh…Seh; thought about the rat that had scurried between my feet in Zaman s office。 My chest tightened with a surge of unexpected anger at the way my countrymen were destroying their own land。
What? Sohrab asked。 I forced a smile and told him it wasn t important。
We unrolled one of the hotel s bathroom towels on the picnic table and played panjpar on it。 It felt good being there; with my half brother s son; playing
cards; the warmth of the sun patting the back of my neck。 The song ended and another one started; one I didn t recognize。
Look; Sohrab said。 He was pointing to the sky with his cards。 I looked up; saw a hawk circling in the broad seamless sky。 Didn t know there were hawks in Islamabad; I said。
Me neither; he said; his eyes tracing the bird s circular flight。 Do they have them where you live?
San Francisco? I guess so。 I can t say I ve seen too many; though。
Oh; he said。 I was hoping he d ask more; but he dealt another hand and asked if we could eat。 I opened the paper bag and gave him his meatball sandwich。 My lunch consisted of yet another cup of blended bananas and oranges……I d rented Mrs。 Fayyaz s blender for the week。 I sucked through the straw and my mouth filled with the sweet; blended fruit。 Some of it dripped from the corner of my lips。 Sohrab handed me a napkin and watched me dab at my lips。 I smiled and he smiled back。
Your father and I were brothers; I said。 It just came out。 I had wanted to tell him the night we had sat by the mosque; but I hadn t。 But he had a right to know; I didn t want to hide anything anymore。 Half brothers; really。 We had the same father。
Sohrab stopped chewing。 Put the sandwich down。 Father never said he had a brother。
That s because he didn t know。
Why didn t he know?
No one told him; I said。 No one told me either。 I just found out recently。
Sohrab blinked。 Like he was looking at me; really looking at me; for the very first time。 But why did people hide it from Father and you?
You know; I asked myself that same question the other day。 And there s an answer; but not a good one。 Let s just say they didn t tell us because your father and I。。。 we weren t supposed to be brothers。
Because he was a Hazara?
I willed my eyes to stay on him。 Yes。
Did your father; he began; eyeing his food; did your father love you and my father equally?
I thought of a long ago day at Ghargha Lake; when Baba had allowed himself to pat Hassan on the back when Hassan s stone had outskipped mine。 I pictured Baba in the hospital room; beaming as they removed the bandages from Hassan s lips。 I think he loved us equally but differently。
Was he ashamed of my father?
No; I said。 I think he was ashamed of himself。
He picked up his sandwich and nibbled at it silently。
WE LEFT LATE THAT AFTERNOON; tired from the heat; but tired in a pleasant way。 All the way back; I felt Sohrab watching me。 I had the driver pull over at a store that sold calling cards。 I gave him the money and a tip for running in and buying me one。
That night; we were lying on our beds; watching a talk show on TV。 Two clerics with pepper gray long beards and white turbans were taking calls from the faithful all over the world。 One caller from Finland; a guy named Ayub; asked if his teenaged son could go to hell for wearing his baggy pants so low the seam of his underwear showed。
I saw a picture of San Francisco once; Sohrab said。
Really?
There was a red bridge and a building with a pointy top。
You should see the streets; I said。
What about them? He was looking at me now。 On the TV screen; the two mullahs were consulting each other。
They re so steep; when you drive up all you see is the hood of your car and the sky; I said。
It sounds scary; he said。 He rolled to his side; facing me; his back to the TV。
It is the first few times; I said。 But you get used to it。
Does it snow there?
No; but we get a lot of fog。 You know that red bridge you saw?
Yes。
Sometimes the fog is so thick in the morning; all you see is the tip of the two to