“You know all those years I lived in your father’s house after you left?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t alone for all of them. Hassan lived there with me.”
“Hassan,” I said. When was the last time I had spoken his name? Those thorny old barbs of guilt bore into me once more, as if speaking his name had broken a spell, set them free to torment me anew. Suddenly the air in Rahim Khan’s little flat was too thick, too hot, too rich with the smell of the street.
“I thought about writing you and telling you before, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to know. Was I wrong?”
The truth was no. The lie was yes. I settled for something in between. “I don’t know.”He coughed another patch of blood into the handkerchief. When he bent his head to spit, I saw honey-crusted sores on his scalp. “I brought you here because I am going to ask something of you. I’m going to ask you to do something for me. But before I do, I want to tell you about Hassan. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I murmured.
“I want to tell you about him. I want to tell you everything. You will listen?”I nodded.Then Rahim Khan sipped some more tea. Rested his head against the wall and spoke.