Page 61 of What Remains

“Because here, in Afghanistan, everything good has to be secret. Like this.” Poya stirred the air with a hand. “Like going to Herat. Like Mami when she teaches.” All Mami’s botany classes were held in secret and, literally, below ground in a bomb shelter next to the beehive in their backyard. “In Afghanistan, you never know when someone will say, oh, you can’t read that, that’s forbidden.”

“Interesting. Did you know that451has been banned in the United States at times and for different reasons? Still is banned today in some states.”

“Really?” He blinked in shock. Didn’t Americans know how lucky they were to have the freedom to read what they chose? “Why?”

“Various reasons. Some people don’t like the cursing or want kids to read that scene in451where the Christian Bible’s burned. I would say,” Mr. White added, dryly, “the people promoting the bans fail to see the irony.”

“Well, if someone burns a Qur’an in Afghanistan, they’re lucky if they only go to prison.”

“Do you think that’s a good thing?”

He had to be careful here. Just because Baba knew this man didn’t mean Mr. White knew that Poya’s parents were unbelievers. “A book’s only words on paper. It’s people who decide how to act or what they believe.”

“Well put.” Mr. White slid Poya a side-eye. “How old are you again? Thirteen?”

“Twelve.” He folded his arms over his chest, realizing only a second or two later how automatically defensive he’d become. Suspicious-looking to an observer, too. Just like451, the Thought Police were everywhere. He settled for clasping his hands between his thighs. “Why?”

“Because you think like an older person. I suppose that’s because of all the reading you’ve done.”

Poya didn’t know what to say to that.Best to be quiet.Another of Baba’s mantras:When you are quiet, the other person rushes to fill the gap. People do not tolerate silence well.

The silence stretched, and Mr. White finally said, “What about Anne Frank?”

“She lived through what sometimes happens in Afghanistan. She had to hide, the way women here do. I know it’s not thesame. Women aren’t loaded into trains and taken away to be killed. But women are imprisoned in Afghanistan all the time. That is what aburqais. They say it is to prevent men from becoming excited, but it is really to keep women hidden away so men can think they’re in charge and no one hears what wuh…they,”he said, recovering quickly, “have to say. Like my mother’s students. Like my mother.”

“But?”

“But Anne is brave. She has hope. That is what my parents say we have to hold onto.”

Mr. White was nodding. “And Harry Potter?”

This was easy. “Because Harry Potter only looks ordinary. It’s why I also likeWrinkle.”

“You mean, because Harry and Meg are special under the skin.” Mr. White’s mouth quirked in a half-grin. “I detect a theme there.”

“Except they’re still different stories. Meg knows she can’t fit in, but she has her family. Harry has to always pretend when he’s around regular people.”

“I see,” Mr. White said. “Why do you think he has to hide in plain sight like that?”

“People are afraid when you’re not like them. You can be alittlebit different, but not too much.”

“You have an idea why not?”

To this day, he didn’t know why he thought Mr. White was an adult one could trust. True,Babatrusted Mr. White, but that wasn’t the reason. This man talked to Poya as if he had a brain and things to say.

“Because if you’retoodifferent, people squash you. If you do not obey the rules everyone thinks you should follow, they will kill you,” Poya said, “one way or another.”

Onlymuch later would Poya realize something very strange.

He hadn’t noticed at the time because he was so used to Baba’s games. The way his father would switch a movie from one language to another, for example, or insist he learn how to read subtitles in various languages. This was, his father said, to speed up his brain so he would never have to truly think abouthowto say something. The words would just be there—the way they had been once he and Mr. White got talking about books. The shift had been automatic and, like a child in a multilingual household, he’d automatically switched languages without noticing.

For the last ten or fifteen minutes of their conversation, they’d spoken…in Russian.

8

Now.

The book inside the bag was thin. He’d managed to smuggle out seventeen in all, thanks to special pockets Mami had sewn into his trousers, kameez tunic, and thick sheepskinchapancoat before they fled. As with the game he’d played with Mr. White, all the books were short. Too many pages was a deal-breaker.

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