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us each a weekly allowance of ten Afghanis and we spent it on warm Coca…Cola and rosewater ice cream topped with crushed pistachios。
During the school year； we had a daily routine。 By the time I dragged myself out of bed and lumbered to the bathroom； Hassan had already washed up； prayed the morning _namaz_ with Ali； and prepared my breakfast： hot black tea with three sugar cubes and a slice of toasted _naan_ topped with my favorite sour cherry marmalade； all neatly placed on the dining table。 While I ate and plained about homework； Hassan made my bed； polished my shoes； ironed my outfit for the day； packed my books and pencils。 I d hear him singing to himself in the foyer as he ironed； singing old Hazara songs in his nasal voice。 Then； Baba and I drove off in his black Ford Mustang……a car that drew envious looks everywhere because it was the same car Steve McQueen had driven in _Bullitt_； a film that played in one theater for six months。 Hassan stayed home and helped Ali with the day s chores： hand…washing dirty clothes and hanging them to dry in the yard； sweeping the floors； buying fresh _naan_ from the bazaar； marinating meat for dinner； watering the lawn。
After school； Hassan and I met up； grabbed a book； and trotted up a bowl…shaped hill just north of my father s property in Wazir Akbar Khan。 There was an old
abandoned cemetery atop the hill with rows of unmarked headstones and tangles of brushwood clogging the aisles。 Seasons of rain and snow had turned the iron gate rusty and left the cemetery s low white stone walls in decay。 There was a pomegranate tree near the entrance to the cemetery。 One summer day； I used one of Ali s kitchen knives to carve our names on it： Amir and Hassan； the sultans of Kabul。 Those words made it formal： the tree was ours。 After school； Hassan and I climbed its branches and snatched its bloodred pomegranates。 After we d eaten the fruit and wiped our hands on the grass； I would read to Hassan。
Sitting cross…legged； sunlight and shadows of pomegranate leaves dancing on his face； Hassan absently plucked blades of grass from the ground as I read him stories he couldn t read for himself。 That Hassan would grow up illiterate like Ali and most Hazaras had been decided the minute he had been born； perhaps even the moment he had been conceived in Sanaubar s unweling womb……after all； what use did a servant have for the written word？ But despite his illiteracy； or maybe because of it； Hassan was drawn to the mystery of words； seduced by a secret world forbidden to him。 I read him poems and stories； sometimes riddles……though I stopped reading those when I saw he was far better at solving them than I was。 So I read him unchallenging things； like the misadventures of the bumbling Mullah Nasruddin and his donkey。 We sat for hours under that tree； sat there until the sun faded in the west； and still Hassan insisted we had enough daylight for one more story； one more chapter。
My favorite part of reading to Hassan was when we came across a big word that he didn t know。 I d tease him； expose his ignorance。 One time； I was reading him a Mullah N