ld live to see the end of the day。 Our ears became accustomed to the whistle of falling shells； to the rumble of gunfire； our eyes familiar with the sight of men digging bodies out of piles of rubble。 Kabul in those days； Amir jan； was as close as you could get to that proverbial hell on earth。 Allah was kind to us； though。 The Wazir Akbar Khan area was not attacked as much； so we did not have it as bad as some of the other neighborhoods。
On those days when the rocket fire eased up a bit and the gunfighting was light； Hassan would take Sohrab to the zoo to see Marjan the lion； or to the cinema。 Hassan taught him how to shoot the slingshot； and； later； by the time he was eight； Sohrab had bee deadly with that thing： He could stand on the terrace and hit a pinecone propped on a pail halfway across the yard。 Hassan taught him to read and write……his son was not going to grow up illiterate like he had。 I grew very attached to that little boy……I had seen him take his first step； heard him utter his first word。 I bought children s books for Sohrab from the bookstore by Cinema Park……they have destroyed that too now……and Sohrab read them as quickly as I could get them to him。 He reminded me of you； how you loved to read when you were little； Amir jan。 Sometimes； I read to him at night； played riddles with him； taught him card tricks。 I miss him terribly。
In the wintertime； Hassan took his son kite running。 There were not nearly as many kite tournaments as in the old days……no one felt safe outside for too long……but there were still a few scattered tournaments。 Hassan would prop Sohrab on his shoulders and they would go trotting through the streets； running kites； climbing trees where kites had dropped。 You remember； Amir Jan； what a good kite runner Hassan was？ He was still just as good。 At the end of winter； Hassan and Sohrab would hang the kites they had run all winter on the walls of the main hallway。 They would put them up like paintings。
I told you how we all celebrated in 1996 when the Taliban rolled in and put an end to the daily fighting。 I remember ing home that night and finding Hassan in the kitchen； listening to the radio。 He had a sober look in his eyes。 I asked
him what was wrong； and he just shook his head。 God help the Hazaras now； Rahim Khan sahib； he said。
The war is over； Hassan； I said。 There s going to be peace； _Inshallah_； and happiness and calm。 No more rockets； no more killing； no more funerals！ But he just turned off the radio and asked if he could get me anything before he went to bed。
A few weeks later； the Taliban banned kite fighting。 And two years later； in 1998； they massacred the Hazaras in Mazar…i…Sharif。
SEVENTEEN
Rahim Khan slowly uncrossed his legs and leaned against the bare wall in the wary； deliberate way of a man whose every movement triggers spikes of pain。 Outside； a donkey was braying and some one was shouting something in Urdu。 The sun was beginning to set； glittering red through the cracks between the ramshackle buildings。
It hit me again； the enormity of what I had done that winter and that following summer。 The names rang in my head： Hassan； Sohrab； Ali； Farzana； and Sanaubar。 Hearing Rahim Khan speak Ali s name was like finding an old dusty music box that hadn t been opened in years； the melody began to play immediately： Who did you eat today； Babalu？ Who did you eat； you slant…eyed Babalu？ I tried to conjure Ali s frozen face； to really see his tranquil eyes； but time can be a greedy thing……sometimes it steals all the details for itself。
Is Hassan still in that house now？ I asked。
Rahim Khan raised the teacup