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One day, in July 1973, I played another little trick on Hassan. I was reading to him, and suddenly I strayed from the written story. I pretended I was reading from the book, flipping pages regularly, but I had abandoned the text altogether, taken over the story, and made up my own. Hassan, of course, was oblivious to this. To him, the words on the page were a scramble of codes, indecipherable, mysterious. Words were secret doorways and I held all the keys. After, I started to ask him if he'd liked the story, a giggle rising in my throat, when Hassan began to clap.
"What are you doing?"I said.
"That was the best story you've read me in a long time,"he said, still clapping.
I laughed. "Really?"
"Really."
"That's fascinating,"I muttered. I meant it too. This was... wholly unexpected. "Are you sure, Hassan?"
He was still clapping. "It was great, Amir agha. Will you read me more of it tomorrow?"
"Fascinating,"I repeated, a little breathless, feeling like a man who discovers a buried treasure in his own backyard. Walking down the hill, thoughts were exploding in my head like the fireworks at "Chaman". "Best story you've read me in a long time", he'd said. I had read him a "lot" of stories. Hassan was asking me something.
"What?"I said.
"What does that mean, ‘fascinating'?"
I laughed. Clutched him in a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek.
"What was that for?"he said, startled, blushing.
I gave him a friendly shove. Smiled. "You're a prince, Hassan. You're a prince and I love you."
