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ief。 And a thief of the worst kind； because the things he d stolen had been sacred： from me the right to know I had a brother； from Hassan his identity； and from Ali his honor。 His nang。 His namoos。
The questions kept ing at me： How had Baba brought himself to look Ali in the eye？ How had Ali lived in that house； clay in and day out； knowing he had been dishonored by his master in the single worst way an Afghan man can be dishonored？
And how was I going to reconcile this new image of Baba with the one that had been imprinted on my mind for so long； that of him in his old brown suit； hobbling up the Taheris driveway to ask for Soraya s hand？
Here is another clich椤y creative writing teacher would have scoffed at； like father； like son。 But it was true； wasn t it？ As it turned out； Baba and I were more alike than I d ever known。 We had both betrayed the people who would have given their lives for us。 And with that came this realization： that Rahim Khan had summoned me here to atone not just for my sins but for Baba s too。
Rahim Khan said I d always been too hard on myself。 But I wondered。 True； I hadn t made Ali step on the land mine； and I hadn t brought the Taliban to the house to shoot Hassan。 But I had driven Hassan and Ali out of the house。 Was it too far…fetched to imagine that things might have turned out differently if I hadn t？ Maybe Baba would have brought them along to America。 Maybe Hassan would have had a home of his own now； a job； a family； a life in a country where no one cared that he was a Hazara； where most people didn t even know what a Hazara was。 Maybe not。 But maybe so。
I can t go to Kabul； I had said to Rahim Khan。 I have a wife in America； a home； a career； and a family。 But how could I pack up and go back home when my actions may have cost Hassan a chance at those very same things？
I wished Rahim Khan hadn t called me。 I wished he had let me live on in my oblivion。 But he had called me。 And what Rahim Khan revealed to me changed things。 Made me see how my entire life； long before the winter of 1975； dating back to when that singing Hazara woman was still nursing me； had been a cycle of lies； betrayals； and secrets。
There is a way to be good again； he d said。
A way to end the cycle。
With a little boy。 An orphan。 Hassan s son。 Somewhere in Kabul。
ON THE RICKSHAW RIDE back to Rahim Khan s apartment； I remembered Baba saying that my problem was that someone had always done my fighting for me。 I was thirty…eight flow。 My hair was receding and streaked with gray； and lately I d
traced little crow s…feet etched around the corners of my eyes。 I was older now； but maybe not yet too old to start doing my own fighting。 Baba had lied about a lot of things as it turned out but he hadn t lied about that。
I looked at the round face in the Polaroid again； the way the sun fell on it。 My brother s face。 Hassan had loved me once； loved me in a way that no one ever had or ever would again。 He was gone now； but a little part of him lived on。 It was in Kabul。
Waiting。
I FOUND RAHIM KHAN praying _namaz_ in a corner of the room。 He was just a dark si