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r hand and asked if we could eat。 I opened the paper bag and gave him his meatball sandwich。 My lunch consisted of yet another cup of blended bananas and oranges……I d rented Mrs。 Fayyaz s blender for the week。 I sucked through the straw and my mouth filled with the sweet； blended fruit。 Some of it dripped from the corner of my lips。 Sohrab handed me a napkin and watched me dab at my lips。 I smiled and he smiled back。
Your father and I were brothers； I said。 It just came out。 I had wanted to tell him the night we had sat by the mosque； but I hadn t。 But he had a right to know； I didn t want to hide anything anymore。 Half brothers； really。 We had the same father。
Sohrab stopped chewing。 Put the sandwich down。 Father never said he had a brother。
That s because he didn t know。
Why didn t he know？
No one told him； I said。 No one told me either。 I just found out recently。
Sohrab blinked。 Like he was looking at me； really looking at me； for the very first time。 But why did people hide it from Father and you？
You know； I asked myself that same question the other day。 And there s an answer； but not a good one。 Let s just say they didn t tell us because your father and I。。。 we weren t supposed to be brothers。
Because he was a Hazara？
I willed my eyes to stay on him。 Yes。
Did your father； he began； eyeing his food； did your father love you and my father equally？
I thought of a long ago day at Ghargha Lake； when Baba had allowed himself to pat Hassan on the back when Hassan s stone had outskipped mine。 I pictured Baba in the hospital room； beaming as they removed the bandages from Hassan s lips。 I think he loved us equally but differently。
Was he ashamed of my father？
No； I said。 I think he was ashamed of himself。
He picked up his sandwich and nibbled at it silently。
WE LEFT LATE THAT AFTERNOON； tired from the heat； but tired in a pleasant way。 All the way back； I felt Sohrab watching me。 I had the driver pull over at a store that sold calling cards。 I gave him the money and a tip for running in and buying me one。
That night； we were lying on our beds； watching a talk show on TV。 Two clerics with pepper gray long beards and white turbans were taking calls from the faithful all over the world。 One caller from Finland； a guy named Ayub； asked if his teenaged son could go to hell for wearing his baggy pants so low the seam of his underwear showed。
I saw a picture of San Francisco once； Sohrab said。
Really？
There was a red bridge and a building with a pointy top。
You should see the streets； I said。
What about them？ He was looking at me now。 On the TV screen； the two mullahs were consulting each other。
They re so steep； when you drive up all you see is the hood of your car and the sky； I said。
It sounds scary； he said。 He rolled to his side； facing me； his back to the TV。
It is the first few times； I said。 But you get used to it。
Does it snow there？
No； but we get a lot of fog。 You know that red bridge you saw？
Yes。
Sometimes the fog is so thick in the morning； all you see is the tip of the two to