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_Inshallah_； this winter； Hassan said。 I am praying for a boy to carry on my father s name。
Speaking of Ali； where is he？
Hassan dropped his gaze。 He told me that Ali and his cousin……who had owned the house……had been killed by a land mine two years before； just outside of Bamiyan。 A land mine。 Is there a more Afghan way of dying； Amir jan？ And for some crazy reason； I became absolutely certain that it had been Ali s right leg……his twisted polio leg……that had finally betrayed him and stepped on that land mine。 I was deeply saddened to hear Ali had died。 Your father and I grew up together； as you know； and Ali had been with him as long as I could remember。 I remember when we were all little； the year Ali got polio and almost died。 Your father would walk around the house all day crying。
Farzana made us shorwa with beans； turnips； and potatoes。 We washed our hands and dipped fresh _naan_ from the tandoor into the shorwa……it was the best meal I had had in months。 It was then that I asked Hassan to move to Kabul with me。 I told him about the house； how I could not care for it by myself anymore。 I told him I would pay him well； that he and his _khanum_ would be fortable。 They looked to each other and did not say anything。 Later； after we had washed our hands and Farzana had served us grapes； Hassan said the village was his home now； he and Farzana had made a life for themselves there。
And Bamiyan is so close。 We know people there。 Forgive me； Rahim Khan。 I pray you understand。
Of course； I said。 You have nothing to apologize for。 I understand。
It was midway through tea after shorwa that Hassan asked about you。 I told him you were in America； but that I did not know much more。 Hassan had so many questions about you。 Had you married？ Did you have children？ How tall were you？ Did you still fly kites and go to the cinema？ Were you happy？ He said he had befriended an old Farsi teacher in Bamiyan who had taught him to read and write。 If he wrote you a letter； would I pass it on to you？ And did I think you would write back？ I told him what I knew of you from the few phone conversations I had had with your father； but mostly I did not know how to answer him。 Then he asked me about your father。 When I told him； Hassan buried his face in his hands and broke into tears。 He wept like a child for the rest of that night。
They insisted that I spend the night there。 Farzana fixed a cot for me and left me a glass of well water in case I got thirsty。 All night； I heard her whispering to Hassan； and heard him sobbing。
In the morning； Hassan told me he and Farzana had decided to move to Kabul with me。
I should not have e here； I said。 You were right； Hassan jan。 You have a zendagi； a life here。 It was presumptuous of me to just show up and ask you to drop everything。 It is me who needs to be forgiven。
We don t have that much to drop； Rahim Khan； Hassan said。 His eyes were still red and puffy。 We ll go with you。 We ll help you take care of the house。
Are you absolutely sure？
He nodded and dropped his head。 Agha sahib was like my second father。。。 God give him peace。
They piled their things in the center of a few worn rags and tied the corners together。 We loaded the bundle into the Buick。 Hassan stood in the threshold of the house and held the Koran as we all kissed it and passed under it。 Then we left for Kabul。 I remember as I was pulling away； Hassan turned to take a last look at their home。
When we got to Kabul； I discovered that Hassan had no intention of moving into the house。 But all these rooms are empty； Hassan jan。 No one is going to live in them； I said。
But he would not。 He said it was a matter of ihtiram； a matter of respect。 He and Farzana moved their things into the hut in the backyard； where he was born。 I pleaded for them to move into one of the guest bedrooms upstairs； but Hassan would hear nothing of it。 What will Amir agha think？ he said to me。 What will he think when he es back to Kabul after the war and finds that I have assumed his place in the house？ Then； in mourning for your father； Hassan wore black for the next forty days。
I did not want them to； but the two of them did all the cooking； all the cleaning。 Hassan tended to the flowers in the garden； soaked the roots； picked off yellowing leaves； and planted rosebushes。 He painted the walls。 In the house； he swept rooms no one had slept in for years； and cleaned bathrooms no one had bathed in。 Like he was preparing the house for someone s return。 Do you remember the wall behind the row of corn your father had planted； Amir jan？ What did you and Hassan call it； the Wall of Ailing Corn ？ A rocket destroyed a whole section of that wall in the middle of the night early that fall。 Hassan rebuilt the wall with his own hands； brick by brick； until it stood whole again。 I do not know what I would have done if he had not been there。 Then late that fall； Farzana gave birth to a stillborn baby girl。 Hassan kissed the baby s lifeless face； and we buried her in the backyard； near the sweetbrier bushes。 We covered the little mound with leaves from the poplar trees。 I said a prayer for her。 Farzana stayed in the hut all day and wailed……it is a heartbreaking sound； Amir jan； the wailing of a mother。 I pray to Allah you never hear it。
Outside the walls of that house； there was a war raging。 But the three of us； in your father s house； we made our own little haven from it。 My vision started going by the late 1980s； so I had Hassan read me your mother s books。 We would sit in the foyer； by the stove； and Hassan would read me from _Masnawi_ or _Khayy醡_； as Farzana cooked in the kitchen。 And every morning； Hassan placed a flower on the little mound by the sweetbrier bushes。
In early 1990； Farzana became pregnant again。 It was that same year； in the middle of the summer； that a woman covered in a sky blue burqa knocked on the front gates one morning。 When I walked up to the gates； she was swaying on her feet； like she was too weak to even stand。 I asked her what she wanted； but she would not answer。
Who are you？ I said。 But she just collapsed right there in the driveway。 I yelled for Hassan and he helped me carry her into the house； to the living room。 We lay her on the sofa and took off her burqa。 Beneath it； we found a toothless woman with stringy graying hair and sores on her arms。 She looked like she had not eaten for days。 But the worst of it by far was her face。 Someone had taken a knife to it and。。。 Amir jan； the slashes cut this way and that way。 One of the cuts went from cheekbone to hairline and it had not spared her left eye on the way。 It was grotesque。 I patted her brow with a wet cloth an