interlude would have e to an end。 Maybe not quite so soon； but it would have。 By the end of the summer； the scraping of spoon and fork against the plate had replaced dinner table chatter and Baba had resumed retreating to his study after supper。 And closing the door。 I d gone back to thumbing through H~afez and Khayy醡； gnawing my nails down to the cuticles； writing stories。 I kept the stories in a stack under my bed； keeping them just in case； though I doubted Baba would ever again ask me to read them to him。
Baba s motto about throwing parties was this： Invite the whole world or it s not a party。 I remember scanning over the invitation list a week before my birthday party and not recognizing at least three…quarters of the four hundred……plus Kakas and Khalas who were going to bring me gifts and congratulate me for having lived to thirteen。 Then I realized they weren t really ing for me。 It was my birthday； but I knew who the real star of the show was。
For days； the house was teeming with Baba s hired help。 There was Salahuddin the butcher； who showed up with a calf and two sheep in tow； refusing payment for any of the three。 He slaughtered the animals himself in the yard by a poplar tree。 Blood is good for the tree； I remember him saying as the grass around the poplar soaked red。 Men I didn t know climbed the oak trees with coils of small electric bulbs and meters of extension cords。 Others set up dozens of tables in the yard； spread a tablecloth on each。 The night before the big party Baba s friend Del…Muhammad； who owned a kabob house in Shar…e…Nau； came to the house with his bags of spices。 Like the butcher； Del…Muhammad……or Dello； as Baba called him……refused payment for his services。 He said Baba had done enough for
his family already。 It was Rahim Khan who whispered to me； as Dello marinated the meat； that Baba had lent Dello the money to open his restaurant。 Baba had refused repayment until Dello had shown up one day in our driveway in a Benz and insisted he wouldn t leave until Baba took his money。
I guess in most ways； or at least in the ways in which parties are judged； my birthday bash was a huge success。 I d never seen the house so packed。 Guests with drinks in hand were chatting in the hallways； smoking on the stairs； leaning against doorways。 They sat where they found space； on kitchen counters； in the foyer； even under the stairwell。 In the backyard； they mingled under the glow of blue； red； and green lights winking in the trees； their faces illuminated by the light of kerosene torches propped everywhere。 Baba had had a stage built on the balcony that overlooked the garden and planted speakers throughout the yard。 Ahmad Zahir was playing an accordion and singing on the stage over masses of dancing bodies。
I had to greet each of the guests personally……Baba made sure of that； no one was going to gossip the next day about how he d raised a son with no manners。 I kissed hundreds of cheeks； hugged total strangers； thanked them for their gifts。 My face ached from the strain of my plastered smile。
I was standing with Baba in the yard near the bar when someone said； Happy birthday； Amir。 It was Assef； with his parents。 Assef s father； Mahmood； was a short； lanky sort with dark skin and a narrow face。 His mother； Tanya； was a small； nervous woman who smiled and blinked a lot。 Assef was standing between the two of them now； grinning； looming over both； his arms resting on their shoulders。 He led them toward us； like he had brought them here。 Like he was the parent； and they his children。 A wave of dizziness rushed through me。 Baba thanked them for ing。