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ter to get hurt by the truth than forted with a lie。
I ll buy you one someday； I said。
Hassan s face brightened。 A television？ In truth？
Sure。 And not the black…and…white kind either。 We ll probably be grown…ups by then； but I ll get us two。 One for you and one for me。
I ll put it on my table； where I keep my drawings； Hassan said。
His saying that made me kind of sad。 Sad for who Hassan was； where he lived。 For how he d accepted the fact that he d grow old in that mud shack in the yard； the way his father had。 I drew the last card； played him a pair of queens and a ten。
Hassan picked up the queens。 You know； I think you re going to make Agha sahib very proud tomorrow。
You think so？
_Inshallah_； he said。
_Inshallah_； I echoed； though the God willing qualifier didn t sound as sincere ing from my lips。 That was the thing with Hassan。 He was so goddamn pure； you always felt like a phony around him。
I killed his king and played him my final card； the ace of spades。 He had to pick it up。 I d won； but as I shuffled for a new game； I had the distinct suspicion that Hassan had let me win。
Amir agha？
What？
You know。。。 I _like_ where I live。 He was always doing that； reading my mind。 It s my home。
Whatever； I said。 Get ready to lose again。
SEVEN
The next morning； as he brewed black tea for breakfast； Hassan told me he d had a dream。 We were at Ghargha Lake； you； me； Father； Agha sahib； Rahim Khan； and thousands of other people； he said。 It was warm and sunny； and the lake was clear like a mirror。 But no one was swimming because they said a monster had e to the lake。 It was swimming at the bottom； waiting。
He poured me a cup and added sugar； blew on it a few times。 Put it before me。 So everyone is scared to get in the water； and suddenly you kick off your shoes； Amir agha； and take off your shirt。 There s no monster； you say。 I ll show you all。 And before anyone can stop you； you dive into the water； start swimming away。 I follow you in and we re both swimming。
But you can t swim。
Hassan laughed。 It s a dream； Amir agha； you can do anything。 Anyway； everyone is screaming； Get out！ Get out！ but we just swim in the cold water。 We make it way out to the middle of the lake and we stop swimming。 We turn toward the shore and wave to the people。 They look small like ants； but we can hear them clapping。 They see now。 There is no monster； just water。 They change the name of the lake after that； and call it the Lake of Amir and Hassan； Sultans of Kabul； and we get to charge people money for swimming in it。
So what does it mean？ I said。
He coated my _naan_ with marmalade； placed it on a plate。 I don t know。 I was hoping you could tell me。
Well； it s a dumb dream。 Nothing happens in it。
Father says dreams always mean something。
I sipped some tea。 Why don t you ask him； then？ He s so smart； I said； more curtly than I had intended。 I hadn t slept all night。 My neck and back were like coiled springs； and my eyes stung。 Still； I had been mean to Hassan。 I almost apologized； then didn t。 Hassan understood I was just nervous。 Hassan always understood about me。
Upstairs； I could hear the water running in Baba s bathroom。
THE STREETS GLISTENED with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue。 Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches of the stunted mulberry trees that lined our street。 Overnight； snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter。 I squinted against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped through the wrought…iron gates。 Ali shut the gates behind us。 I heard him mutter a prayer under his breath……he always said a prayer when his son left the house。
I had never seen so many people on our street。 Kids were flinging snowballs； squabbling； chasing one another； giggling。 Kite fighters were huddling with their spool holders； making lastminute preparations。 From adjacent streets； I could hear laughter and chatter。 Already； rooftops were jammed with spectators reclining in lawn chairs； hot tea steaming from thermoses； and the music of Ahmad Zahir blaring from cassette players。 The immensely popular Ahmad Zahir had revolutionized Afghan music and outraged the purists by adding electric guitars； drums； and horns to the traditional tabla and harmonium； on stage or at parties； he shirked the austere and nearly morose stance of older singers and actually smiled when he sang……sometimes even at women。 I turned my gaze to our rooftop； found Baba and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench； both dressed in wool sweaters； sipping tea。 Baba waved。 I couldn t tell if he was waving at me or Hassan。
We should get started； Hassan said。 He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green chapan over a thick sweater and faded corduroy pants。 Sunlight washed over his face； and； in it； I saw how well the pink scar above his lip had healed。
Suddenly I wanted to withdraw。 Pack it all in； go back home。 What was I thinking？ Why was I putting myself through this； when I already knew the oute？ Baba was on the roof； watching me。 I felt his glare on me like the heat of a blistering sun。 This would be failure on a grand scale； even for me。
I m not sure I want to fly a kite today； I said。
It s a beautiful day； Hassan said。
I shifted on my feet。 Tried to peel my gaze away from our rooftop。 I don t know。 Maybe we should go home。
Then he stepped toward me and； in a low voice； said something that scared me a little。 Remember； Amir agha。 There s no monster； just a beautiful day。 How could I be such an open book to him when； half the time； I had no idea what was milling around in his head？ I was the one who went to school； the one who could read； write。 I was the smart one。 Hassan couldn t read a firstgrade textbook but he d read me plenty。 That was a little unsettling； but also sort of fortable to have someone who always knew what you needed。
No monster； I said； feeling a little better； to my own surprise。
He smiled。 No monster。
Are you sure？
He closed his eyes。 Nodded。
I looked to the kids scampering down the street； flinging snowballs。 It is a beautiful day； isn t it？
Let s fly； he said。
It occurred to me then that maybe Hassan had made up his dream。 Was that possible？ I decided it wasn t。 Hassan wasn t that smart。 I wasn t that smart。 But made up or not； the silly dream had lifted some of my anxiety。 Maybe I should take off my shirt； take a swim in the lake。 Why not？
Let s do it； I said。
Hassan s face brightened。 Good； he said。 He lifted our kite； red with yellow borders； and； just beneath where the central and cross spars met； marked with Saifo s unmistakable signature。 He licked his finger and held it