way to Ahmad’s school the next day, Khan heard two shopkeepers talking about hat-eaters. He did not understand what it was, but he had it in his mind when he waited for the school day to end. Ahmad stormed out through the gates smiling at something the other boys were laughing at. Bereft not only of words but also of laughter at the prime of his life, it was as if his grandson was shouting out Khan’s failure. Khan had not done enough for his family. He had made mistakes. Ahmad walked away from school and Khan felt he was not ready to face his grandson and daughter-in-law. He was empty-handed and embarrassed. As he was deep in his thoughts, someone dashed past and snatched his Astrakhan hat from his head so nimbly that he barely noticed it.
“You don’t have your hat, sir,” Ara said when Khan sat down.
“It’s my last night here, Ara.”
Vodka trickled into the glass. Ara raised his bushy eyebrows.
“I’m returning to God.”
Ara wiped the counter with a threadbare towel and placed the glass in front of Khan. “Good for you, sir.”
“It’s easy to blame the Russians for the famine. You see them in the streets in their sparkling uniforms and boots. No one even sees the British troops in the south. Do you?”
Ara shrugged.
“But that’s all surface.” Khan knocked back what was left in the glass.
When Khan left that night, Ara One Ear opened the door for him. “You will be all right,” he said, extending his hand. “If you decide to come here again, your next drink is on me, sir.”
* * *
8
N THE LAST DAY OF FALL, Ahmad saw a girl. Waiting for her turn in the women’s line, she was looking anxiously inside the shop. If a bakery managed a few bags of flour, it would open its doors for several hours during which a horde of people huddled out front in two lines to get their hands on fresh bread. Fights had been fought, door hinges had been broken, windows had been smashed, and the stronger had trampled the weaker. All over the city, the bakeries had closed their doors and installed metal bars across their windows. Hands squeezing coins would go in through a small opening and come out with hot flat sangak that was often ripped to pieces before it reached a safe distance from the crowd.
The girl stood close to the front. Struggling to stand her ground and keep the women behind from cutting in, she kept her eyes on the inside of the bakery, oblivious of the fact that her chador had opened, exposing the clothes underneath. He walked past the bakery deaf to the commotion of the people in line, never taking his eyes off the brunette locks of hair encircling that angelic face. He could not go far though. He turned around the corner and waited. The girl left the bakery empty-handed. As she passed him, Ahmad found himself enchanted by the way she walked. He followed her at a safe distance, lest people suspect anything. His heart pounded in his temples and the winter around him suddenly melted and evaporated. He undid his suit buttons.
That night Ahmad and his mother were invited to Maryam’s place for the celebration of Yalda, the longest night of the year. It became obvious that the invitation was a veiled babysitting request when Maryam and her husband left for a party, leaving the boy with Grandmother Pooran and Uncle Ahmad. As if burdened by a guilty conscience, Maryam had set the table with a cornucopia of the best she had at home: a small bowl of shriveled pistachios, stale walnuts and raisins, dull and dry seeded pomegranates, plates of sweets dripping with syrup, all on a pashmina tablecloth with paisley motif. She had even lit two candles. Deep down, Pooran was offended that her daughter had left her on that special night, but she told Ahmad they should thank God she had a husband who could put food on the table and a roof over her head. Soon after Maryam and her husband left, Pooran got to work washing the dishes and dusting the furniture. The memories of the past years’ Yalda nights when all the family gathered together accentuated the loneliness of that night. Norooz the Gardener would wheelbarrow Agha into the large guest room where they would sit around big bowls of nuts and fruit, listening to stories until well after midnight. Those memories were reminders that without