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But you can t swim。
Hassan laughed。 It s a dream； Amir agha； you can do anything。 Anyway； everyone is screaming； Get out！ Get out！ but we just swim in the cold water。 We make it way out to the middle of the lake and we stop swimming。 We turn toward the shore and wave to the people。 They look small like ants； but we can hear them clapping。 They see now。 There is no monster； just water。 They change the name of the lake after that； and call it the Lake of Amir and Hassan； Sultans of Kabul； and we get to charge people money for swimming in it。
So what does it mean？ I said。
He coated my _naan_ with marmalade； placed it on a plate。 I don t know。 I was hoping you could tell me。
Well； it s a dumb dream。 Nothing happens in it。
Father says dreams always mean something。
I sipped some tea。 Why don t you ask him； then？ He s so smart； I said； more curtly than I had intended。 I hadn t slept all night。 My neck and back were like coiled springs； and my eyes stung。 Still； I had been mean to Hassan。 I almost apologized； then didn t。 Hassan understood I was just nervous。 Hassan always understood about me。
Upstairs； I could hear the water running in Baba s bathroom。
THE STREETS GLISTENED with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue。 Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches of the stunted mulberry trees that lined our street。 Overnight； snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter。 I squinted against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped through the wrought…iron gates。 Ali shut the gates behind us。 I heard him mutter a prayer under his breath……he always said a prayer when his son left the house。
I had never seen so many people on our street。 Kids were flinging snowballs； squabbling； chasing one another； giggling。 Kite fighters were huddling with their spool holders； making lastminute preparations。 From adjacent streets； I could hear laughter and chatter。 Already； rooftops were jammed with spectators reclining in lawn chairs； hot tea steaming from thermoses； and the music of Ahmad Zahir blaring from cassette players。 The immensely popular Ahmad Zahir had revolutionized Afghan music and outraged the purists by adding electric guitars； drums； and horns to the traditional tabla and harmonium； on stage or at parties； he shirked the austere and nearly morose stance of older singers and actually smiled when he sang……sometimes even at women。 I turned my gaze to our rooftop； found Baba and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench； both dressed in wool sweaters； sipping tea。 Baba waved。 I couldn t tell if he was waving at me or Hassan。
We should get started； Hassan said。 He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green chapan over a thick sweater and faded corduroy pants。 Sunlight washed over his face； and； in it； I saw how well the pink scar above his lip had healed。
Suddenly I wanted to withdraw。 Pack it all in； go back home。 What was I thinking？ Why was I putting myself through this； when I already knew the oute？ Baba was on the roof； watching me。 I felt his glare on me like the heat of a blistering sun。 This would be failure on a grand sc