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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？ he said。 Then nothing more。 He just looked at me through the cloud of smoke。
I probably stood there for under a minute； but； to this day； it was one of the longest minutes of my life。 Seconds plodded by； each separated from the next by an eternity。 Air grew heavy damp； almost solid。 I was breathing bricks。 Baba went on staring me down； and didn t offer to read。
As always； it was Rahim Khan who rescued me。 He held out his hand and favored me with a smile that had nothing feigned about it。 May I have it； Amir jan？ I would very much like to read it。 Baba hardly ever used the term of endearment _jan_ when he addressed me。
Baba shrugged and stood up。 He looked relieved； as if he too had been rescued by Rahim Khan。 Yes； give it to Kaka Rahim。 I m going upstairs to get ready。 And with that； he left the room。 Most days I worshiped Baba with an intensity approaching the religious。 But right then； I wished I could open my veins and drain his cursed blood from my body。
An hour later； as the evening sky dimmed； the two of them drove off in my father s car to attend a party。 On his way out； Rahim Khan hunkered before me and handed me my story and another folded piece of paper。 He flashed a smile and winked。 For you。 Read it later。 Then he paused and added a single word that did more to encourage me to pursue writing than any pliment any editor has ever paid me。 That word was _Bravo_。
When they left； I sat on my bed and wished Rahim Khan had been my father。 Then I thought of Baba and his great big chest and how good it felt when he held me against it； how he smelled of Brut in the morning； and how his beard tickled my face。 I was overe with such sudden guilt that I bolted to the bathroom and vomited in the sink。
Later that night； curled up in bed； I read Rahim Khan s note over and over。 It read like this：
Amir jan；
I enjoyed your story very much。 _Mashallah_； God has granted you a special talent。 It is now your duty to hone that talent； because a person who wastes his God…given talents is a donkey。 You have written your story with sound grammar and interesting style。 But the most impressive thing about your story is that it
has irony。 You may not even know what that word means。 But you will someday。 It is something that some writers reach for their entire careers and never attain。 You have achieved it with your first story。
My door is and always will be open to you； Amir jan。 I shall hear any story you have to tell。 Bravo。
Your friend；
Rahim
Buoyed by Rahim Khan s note； I grabbed the story and hurried downsta