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f　the　dining　room　was　a　tall　marble　fireplace；　always　lit　by　the　orange　glow　of　a　fire　in　the　wintertime。
A　large　sliding　glass　door　opened　into　a　semicircular　terrace　that　overlooked　two　acres　of　backyard　and　rows　of　cherry　trees。　Baba　and　Ali　had　planted　a　small　vegetable　garden　along　the　eastern　wall：　tomatoes；　mint；　peppers；　and　a　row　of　corn　that　never　really　took。　Hassan　and　I　used　to　call　it　　the　Wall　of　Ailing　Corn。　
On　the　south　end　of　the　garden；　in　the　shadows　of　a　loquat　tree；　was　the　servants　　home；　a　modest　little　mud　hut　where　Hassan　lived　with　his　father。
It　was　there；　in　that　little　shack；　that　Hassan　was　born　in　the　winter　of　1964；　just　one　year　after　my　mother　died　giving　birth　to　me。
In　the　eighteen　years　that　I　lived　in　that　house；　I　stepped　into　Hassan　and　Ali　s　quarters　only　a　handful　of　times。　When　the　sun　dropped　low　behind　the　hills　and　we　were　done　playing　for　the　day；　Hassan　and　I　parted　ways。　I　went　past　the　rosebushes　to　Baba　s　mansion；　Hassan　to　the　mud　shack　where　he　had　been　born；　where　he　d　lived　his　entire　life。　I　remember　it　was　spare；　clean；　dimly　lit　by　a　pair　of　kerosene　lamps。　There　were　two　mattresses　on　opposite　sides　of　the　room；　a　worn　Herati　rug　with　frayed　edges　in　between；　a　three…legged　stool；　and　a　wooden　table　in　the　corner　where　Hassan　did　his　drawings。　The　walls　stood　bare；　save　for　a　single　tapestry　with　sewn…in　beads　forming　the　words　_Allah…u…akbar_。　Baba　had　bought　it　for　Ali　on　one　of　his　trips　to　Mashad。
It　was　in　that　small　shack　that　Hassan　s　mother；　Sanaubar；　gave　birth　to　him　one　cold　winter　day　in　1964。　While　my　mother　hemorrhaged　to　death　during　childbirth；　Hassan　lost　his　less　than　a　week　after　he　was　born。　Lost　her　to　a　fate　most　Afghans　considered　far　worse　than　death：　She　ran　off　with　a　clan　of　traveling　singers　and　dancers。
Hassan　never　talked　about　his　mother；　as　if　she　d　never　existed。　I　always　wondered　if　he　dreamed　about　her；　about　what　she　looked　like；　where　she　was。　I　wondered　if　he　longed　to　meet　her。　Did　he　ache　for　her；　the　way　I　ached　for　the　mother　I　had　never　met？　One　day；　we　were　walking　from　my　father　s　house　to　Cinema　Zainab　for　a　new　Iranian　movie；　taking　the　shortcut　through　the　military　barracks　near　Istiqlal　Middle　School……Baba　had　forbidden　us　to　take　that　shortcut；　but　he　was　in　Pakistan　with　Rahim　Khan　at　the　time。　We　hopped　the　fence　that　surrounded　the　barracks；　skipped　over　a　little　creek；　and　broke　into　the　open　dirt　field　where　old；　abandoned　tanks　collected　dust。　A　group　of　soldiers　huddled　in　the　shade　of　one　of　those　tanks；　smoking　cigarettes　and　playing　cards。　One　of　them　saw　us；　elbowed　the　guy　next　to　him；　and　called　Hassan。
　Hey；　you！　　he　said。　　I　know　you。　
We　had　never　seen　him　before。　He　was　a　squatly　man　with　a　shaved　head　and　black　stubble　on　his　face。　The　way　he　grinned　at　us；　leered；　scared　me。　　Just　keep　walking；　　I　muttered　to　Hassan。
　You！　The　Hazara！　Look　at　me　when　I　m　talking　to　you！　　the　soldier　barked。　He　handed　his　cigarette　to　the　guy　next　to　him；　made　a　circle　with　the　thumb　and　index　finger　of　one　hand。　Poked　the　middle　finger　of　his　other　hand　through　the　circle。　Poked　it　in　and　out。　In　and　out。　　I　knew　your　mother；　did　you　know　that？　I　knew　her　real　good。　I　took　her　from　behind　by　that　creek　over　there。　
The　soldiers　laughed。　One　of　them　made　a　squealing　sound。　I　told　Hassan　to　keep　walking；　keep　walking。
　What　a　tight　little　sugary　cunt　she　had！　　the　soldier　was　saying；　shaking　hands　with　the　others；　grinning。　Later；　in　the　dark；　after　the　movie　had　started；　I　heard　Hassan　next　to　me；　croaking。　Tears　were　sliding　down　his　cheeks。　I　reached　across　my　seat；　slung　my　arm　around　him；　pulled　him　close。　He　rested　his　head　on　my　shoulder。　　He　took　you　for　someone　else；　　I　whispered。　　He　took　you　for　someone　else。　
I　m　told　no　one　was　really　surprised　when　Sanaubar　eloped。　People　_had_　raised　their　eyebrows　when　Ali；　a　man　who　had　memorized　the　Koran；　married　Sanaubar；　a　woman　nineteen　years　younger；　a　beautiful　but　notoriously　unscrupulous　woman　who　lived　up　to　her　dishonorable　reputation。　Like　Ali；　she　was　a　Shi　a　Muslim　and　an　ethnic　Hazara