The Kite Runner (7 page)

Finally, I had my kite in hand. I wrapped the loose string that had collected at my feet around the spool, shook a few more
hands, and trotted home. When I reached the wrought-iron gates, Ali was waiting on the other side. He stuck his hand through
the bars. “Congratulations,” he said.

I gave him my kite and spool, shook his hand. “
Tashakor,
Ali jan.”

“I was praying for you the whole time.”

“Then keep praying. We’re not done yet.”

I hurried back to the street. I didn’t ask Ali about Baba. I didn’t want to see him yet. In my head, I had it all planned:
I’d make a grand entrance, a hero, prized trophy in my bloodied hands. Heads would turn and eyes would lock. Rostam and Sohrab
sizing each other up. A dramatic moment of silence. Then the old warrior would walk to the young one, embrace him, acknowledge
his worthiness. Vindication. Salvation. Redemption. And then? Well . . . happily ever after, of course. What else?

The streets of Wazir Akbar Khan were numbered and set at right angles to each other like a grid. It was a new neighborhood
then, still developing, with empty lots of land and half-constructed homes on every street between compounds surrounded by
eight-foot walls. I ran up and down every street, looking for Hassan. Everywhere, people were busy folding chairs, packing
food and utensils after a long day of partying. Some, still sitting on their rooftops, shouted their congratulations to me.

Four streets south of ours, I saw Omar, the son of an engineer who was a friend of Baba’s. He was dribbling a soccer ball
with his brother on the front lawn of their house. Omar was a pretty good guy. We’d been classmates in fourth grade, and one
time he’d given me a fountain pen, the kind you had to load with a cartridge.

“I heard you won, Amir,” he said. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Have you seen Hassan?”

“Your Hazara?”

I nodded.

Omar headed the ball to his brother. “I hear he’s a great kite runner.” His brother headed the ball back to him. Omar caught
it, tossed it up and down. “Although I’ve always wondered how he manages. I mean, with those tight little eyes, how does he
see
anything?”

His brother laughed, a short burst, and asked for the ball. Omar ignored him.

“Have you seen him?”

Omar flicked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing southwest. “I saw him running toward the bazaar awhile ago.”

“Thanks.” I scuttled away.

By the time I reached the marketplace, the sun had almost sunk behind the hills and dusk had painted the sky pink and purple.
A few blocks away, from the Haji Yaghoub Mosque, the mullah bellowed
azan,
calling for the faithful to unroll their rugs and bow their heads west in prayer. Hassan never missed any of the five daily
prayers. Even when we were out playing, he’d excuse himself, draw water from the well in the yard, wash up, and disappear
into the hut. He’d come out a few minutes later, smiling, find me sitting against the wall or perched on a tree. He was going
to miss prayer tonight, though, because of me.

The bazaar was emptying quickly, the merchants finishing up their haggling for the day. I trotted in the mud between rows
of closely packed cubicles where you could buy a freshly slaughtered pheasant in one stand and a calculator from the adjacent
one. I picked my way through the dwindling crowd, the lame beggars dressed in layers of tattered rags, the vendors with rugs
on their shoulders, the cloth merchants and butchers closing shop for the day. I found no sign of Hassan.

I stopped by a dried fruit stand, described Hassan to an old merchant loading his mule with crates of pine seeds and raisins.
He wore a powder blue turban.

He paused to look at me for a long time before answering. “I might have seen him.”

“Which way did he go?”

He eyed me up and down. “What is a boy like you doing here at this time of the day looking for a Hazara?” His glance lingered
admiringly on my leather coat and my jeans—
cowboy pants,
we used to call them. In Afghanistan, owning anything American, especially if it wasn’t secondhand, was a sign of wealth.

“I need to find him, Agha.”

“What is he to you?” he said. I didn’t see the point of his question, but I reminded myself that impatience wasn’t going to
make him tell me any faster.

“He’s our servant’s son,” I said.

The old man raised a pepper gray eyebrow. “He is? Lucky Hazara, having such a concerned master. His father should get on his
knees, sweep the dust at your feet with his eyelashes.”

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

He rested an arm on the mule’s back, pointed south. “I think I saw the boy you described running that way. He had a kite in
his hand. A blue one.”

“He did?” I said.
For you a thousand times over,
he’d promised. Good old Hassan. Good old reliable Hassan. He’d kept his promise and run the last kite for me.

“Of course, they’ve probably caught him by now,” the old merchant said, grunting and loading another box on the mule’s back.

“Who?”

“The other boys,” he said. “The ones chasing him. They were dressed like you.” He glanced to the sky and sighed. “Now, run
along, you’re making me late for
namaz.
”

But I was already scrambling down the lane.

For the next few minutes, I scoured the bazaar in vain. Maybe the old merchant’s eyes had betrayed him. Except he’d seen the
blue kite. The thought of getting my hands on that kite . . . I poked my head behind every lane, every shop. No sign of Hassan.

I had begun to worry that darkness would fall before I found Hassan when I heard voices from up ahead. I’d reached a secluded,
muddy road. It ran perpendicular to the end of the main thoroughfare bisecting the bazaar. I turned onto the rutted track
and followed the voices. My boot squished in mud with every step and my breath puffed out in white clouds before me. The narrow
path ran parallel on one side to a snow-filled ravine through which a stream may have tumbled in the spring. To my other side
stood rows of snow-burdened cypress trees peppered among flat-topped clay houses—no more than mud shacks in most cases—separated
by narrow alleys.

I heard the voices again, louder this time, coming from one of the alleys. I crept close to the mouth of the alley. Held my
breath. Peeked around the corner.

Hassan was standing at the blind end of the alley in a defiant stance: fists curled, legs slightly apart. Behind him, sitting
on piles of scrap and rubble, was the blue kite. My key to Baba’s heart.

Blocking Hassan’s way out of the alley were three boys, the same three from that day on the hill, the day after Daoud Khan’s
coup, when Hassan had saved us with his slingshot. Wali was standing on one side, Kamal on the other, and in the middle, Assef.
I felt my body clench up, and something cold rippled up my spine. Assef seemed relaxed, confident. He was twirling his brass
knuckles. The other two guys shifted nervously on their feet, looking from Assef to Hassan, like they’d cornered some kind
of wild animal that only Assef could tame.

“Where is your slingshot, Hazara?” Assef said, turning the brass knuckles in his hand. “What was it you said? ‘They’ll have
to call you One-Eyed Assef.’ That’s right. One-Eyed Assef. That was clever. Really clever. Then again, it’s easy to be clever
when you’re holding a loaded weapon.”

I realized I still hadn’t breathed out. I exhaled, slowly, quietly. I felt paralyzed. I watched them close in on the boy I’d
grown up with, the boy whose harelipped face had been my first memory.

“But today is your lucky day, Hazara,” Assef said. He had his back to me, but I would have bet he was grinning. “I’m in a
mood to forgive. What do you say to that, boys?”

“That’s generous,” Kamal blurted, “Especially after the rude manners he showed us last time.” He was trying to sound like
Assef, except there was a tremor in his voice. Then I understood: He wasn’t afraid of Hassan, not really. He was afraid because
he had no idea what Assef had in mind.

Assef waved a dismissive hand. “
Bakhshida.
Forgiven. It’s done.” His voice dropped a little. “Of course, nothing is free in this world, and my pardon comes with a small
price.”

“That’s fair,” Kamal said.

“Nothing is free,” Wali added.

“You’re a lucky Hazara,” Assef said, taking a step toward Hassan.

“Because today, it’s only going to cost you that blue kite. A fair deal, boys, isn’t it?”

“More than fair,” Kamal said.

Even from where I was standing, I could see the fear creeping into Hassan’s eyes, but he shook his head. “Amir agha won the
tournament and I ran this kite for him. I ran it fairly. This is his kite.”

“A loyal Hazara. Loyal as a dog,” Assef said.

Kamal’s laugh was a shrill, nervous sound.

“But before you sacrifice yourself for him, think about this: Would he do the same for you? Have you ever wondered why he
never includes you in games when he has guests? Why he only plays with you when no one else is around? I’ll tell you why,
Hazara. Because to him, you’re nothing but an ugly pet. Something he can play with when he’s bored, something he can kick
when he’s angry. Don’t ever fool yourself and think you’re something more.”

“Amir agha and I are friends,” Hassan said. He looked flushed.

“Friends?” Assef said, laughing. “You pathetic fool! Someday you’ll wake up from your little fantasy and learn just how good
of a friend he is. Now,
bas!
Enough of this. Give us that kite.”

Hassan stooped and picked up a rock.

Assef flinched. He began to take a step back, stopped. “Last chance, Hazara.”

Hassan’s answer was to cock the arm that held the rock.

“Whatever you wish.” Assef unbuttoned his winter coat, took it off, folded it slowly and deliberately. He placed it against
the wall.

I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But I didn’t.
I just watched. Paralyzed.

Assef motioned with his hand, and the other two boys separated, forming a half circle, trapping Hassan in the alley.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Assef said. “I’m letting you keep the kite, Hazara. I’ll let you keep it so it will always remind
you of what I’m about to do.”

Then he charged. Hassan hurled the rock. It struck Assef in the forehead. Assef yelped as he flung himself at Hassan, knocking
him to the ground. Wali and Kamal followed.

I bit on my fist. Shut my eyes.

A MEMORY:

Did you know Hassan and you fed from the same breast? Did you
know that, Amir agha? Sakina, her name was. She was a fair, blue-eyed
Hazara woman from Bamiyan and she sang you old wedding songs. They
say there is a brotherhood between people
who’ve
fed from the same
breast. Did you know that?

A memory:

“A
rupia
each, children. Just one
rupia
each and I will part the curtain of truth.”
The old man sits against a mud wall. His sightless eyes are
like molten silver embedded in deep, twin craters. Hunched over his
cane, the fortune-teller runs a gnarled hand across the surface of his deflated
cheeks. Cups it before us.
“Not much to ask for the truth, is it, a
rupia
each?”
Hassan drops a coin in the leathery palm. I drop mine too.
“In the name of Allah most beneficent, most merciful,”
the old fortuneteller
whispers. He takes
Hassan’s
hand first, strokes the palm with one
hornlike fingernail, round and round, round and round. The finger then
floats to
Hassan’s
face and makes a dry, scratchy sound as it slowly traces
the curve of his cheeks, the outline of his ears. The calloused pads of his
fingers brush against
Hassan’s
eyes. The hand stops there. Lingers. A shadow
passes across the old
man’s
face. Hassan and I exchange a glance. The
old man takes
Hassan’s
hand and puts the
rupia
back in
Hassan’s
palm.
He turns to me.
“How about you, young friend?”
he says. On the other
side of the wall, a rooster crows. The old man reaches for my hand and I
withdraw it.

A dream:

I am lost in a snowstorm. The wind shrieks, blows stinging sheets of
snow into my eyes. I stagger through layers of shifting white. I call for help
but the wind drowns my cries. I fall and lie panting on the snow, lost in
the white, the wind wailing in my ears. I watch the snow erase my fresh
footprints.
I’m a ghost now,
I think,
a ghost with no footprints.
I cry out
again, hope fading like my footprints. But this time, a muffled reply. I
shield my eyes and manage to sit up. Out of the swaying curtains of snow,
I catch a glimpse of movement, a flurry of color. A familiar shape materializes.
A hand reaches out for me. I see deep, parallel gashes across the
palm, blood dripping, staining the snow. I take the hand and suddenly the
snow is gone.
We’re
standing in a field of apple green grass with soft wisps
of clouds drifting above. I look up and see the clear sky is filled with kites,
green, yellow, red, orange. They shimmer in the afternoon light.

A HAVOC OF SCRAP AND RUBBLE littered the alley. Worn bicycle tires, bottles with peeled labels, ripped up magazines, yellowed
newspapers, all scattered amid a pile of bricks and slabs of cement. A rusted cast-iron stove with a gaping hole on its side
tilted against a wall. But there were two things amid the garbage that I couldn’t stop looking at: One was the blue kite resting
against the wall, close to the cast-iron stove; the other was Hassan’s brown corduroy pants thrown on a heap of eroded bricks.

“I don’t know,” Wali was saying. “My father says it’s sinful.” He sounded unsure, excited, scared, all at the same time. Hassan
lay with his chest pinned to the ground. Kamal and Wali each gripped an arm, twisted and bent at the elbow so that Hassan’s
hands were pressed to his back. Assef was standing over them, the heel of his snow boots crushing the back of Hassan’s neck.