rust on their friendship, trying to find the person they once knew under the changed skin and sharp face bones. Should I ask about those years? Ahmad wrote. “It’s a happy day today,” Salman said sitting back, smiling a cheerful smile. “Why waste it on sad things?” Ahmad drank from his cup and nodded. “Let me tell you about the good things.” It was then that Ahmad found out the Air Force Arsenal attack had been carried out with his poem.
“If the movement ever gets anywhere,” Salman said, “you can claim being no small part of it.”
Ahmad pulled his arm away. And if it doesn’t? Ahmad wrote on his notepad. And if they find out it was me?
“You don’t trust me,” Salman said, “and you have all the right. I messed up once. But you saved me from that hell. This time, they won’t get their hands even on my dead body.”
Does anyone else know?
“Two or three comrades, yes, but I’d trust them with my life. And they don’t know who wrote it.”
Ahmad stared at Salman for some time, as if pondering something that could be written in a book with the word sorrow in its title. Then he wrote on his notepad. I’m a terrible person. I put you in prison. “That’s water under the bridge, Ahmad.” Salman tried to console him. He put his hand on Ahmad’s thigh, but Ahmad was now crying. I put you in prison, he wrote again. I took your youth. He lifted his head and stared into Salman’s face as if he was not seeing him. Then he wrote again. I’m despicable. “What happened would have happened without you, too. You were an excuse, you were nothing.” Salman did not know if his words meant anything to Ahmad, who looked at him with his lips pressed together and his head sorrowfully shaking. After long moments filled with music and happy sounds, Ahmad nodded his head and wrote: I think you’re right. Salman was relieved, but Ahmad continued: I’m nothing. His shoulders shook with a new bout of crying. “That’s not what I mean,” Salman drew closer and threw an arm around Ahmad’s neck, but before he could say anything else, Ahmad lifted his head, with a look that showed he had found a great answer to an unsolvable problem. I know, he wrote, you have to slap me. “What?” Salman read with a frown. Ahmad got to his feet and held his face out, leaning forward a little. “Sit down,” Salman said. With his hand mimicking a slap in the air, Ahmad urged Salman to hit him. “I’m not slapping you, Ahmad.” Ahmad took a step toward Salman and leaned forward. His red tie hung from his head as if his head was caught in an upside-down noose. Salman rose from his chair and took a step backward. “I’m not slapping you, Ahmad,” he said a little louder. He was getting nervous. Slap me, Ahmad mouthed as if shouting, taking another step forward and making Salman retreat, then he bowed his head and started crying again. This time Salman did not comfort him. He took another step back and buttoned his suit. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said, his voice calm again. “You can’t have everything you want.” He turned around and walked toward the dance floor. Pulling two wads from his pocket, he showered the couple with crisp ten-toman bills and left.
* * *
—
A HEAVY SADNESS DESCENDED UPON the house after the wedding. For a few days, there was some activity as the workers tore down the arch with sledgehammers and fixed the wall where they had ripped it open. Then they took down the tarps and the scaffolding. Pooran looked at the yard and found it smaller. Soon a fine layer of snow covered the hoez, the yard, and the flower beds. Even without going up to Lalah’s room on the roof, Pooran felt the weight of that emptiness. “Come sit with me?” Pooran asked Khan who was resting in his bed. She helped him to his side and into his wheelchair. She pushed him to the living room and parked him by an armchair. Then she turned the radio on and sat. A light music played.
“What would we do, Khan, if Ahmad left us?”
“He won’t. He’s not that kind of a son. I know him.”
Pooran reached out and placed her hand on Khan’s arm. Khan smiled.
* * *
—
THREE MONTHS AFTER LALAH’S WEDDING, they came for Ahmad. When he opened his