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en 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