And the Mountains Echoed (53 page)

I put an arm around her shoulder as she weeps quietly. I watch the sun-washed trees, the river flowing past us and beneath the bridge—the Pont Saint-Bénezet—the bridge the children's song is about. It's a half bridge, really, as only four of its original arches remain. It ends midway across the river. Like it reached, tried to reunite with, the other side and fell short.

That night at the hotel, I lie awake in bed and watch the clouds nudging against the big swollen moon hanging in our window. Down below, heels click on the cobblestones. Laughter and chatter. Mopeds rattling past. From the restaurant across the street, the clinking of glasses on trays. The tinkling of a piano meanders up through the window and to my ears.

I turn over and watch Pari sleeping soundlessly beside me. Her face is pale in the light. I see Baba in her face—youthful, hopeful Baba, happy, how he used to be—and I know I will always find him whenever I look at Pari. She is my flesh and blood. And soon I will meet her children, and her children's children, and my blood courses through them too. I am not alone. A sudden happiness catches me unawares. I feel it trickling into me, and my eyes go liquid with gratitude and hope.

As I watch Pari sleep, I think of the bedtime game Baba and I used to play. The purging of bad dreams, the gift of happy ones. I remember the dream I used to give him. Careful not to wake Pari, I reach across now and gently rest my palm on her brow. I close my own eyes.

It is a sunlit afternoon. They are children once more, brother and sister, young and clear-eyed and sturdy. They are lying in a patch of tall grass in the shade of an apple tree ablaze with flowers. The grass is warm against their backs and the sun on their faces, flickering through the riot of blossoms above. They rest sleepily, contentedly, side by side, his head resting on the ridge of a thick root, hers cushioned by the coat he has folded for her. Through half-lidded eyes, she watches a blackbird perched on a branch. Streams of cool air blow through the leaves and downward.

She turns her face to look at him, her big brother, her ally in all things, but his face is too close and she can't see the whole of it. Only the dip of his brow, the rise of his nose, the curve of his eyelashes. But she doesn't mind. She is happy enough to be near him, with him—her brother—and as a nap slowly steals her away, she feels herself engulfed in a wave of absolute calm. She shuts her eyes. Drifts off, untroubled, everything clear, and radiant, and all at once.

A couple of logistical matters before I give thanks. The village of Shadbagh is fictional, though it is possible that one by that name exists somewhere in Afghanistan. If so, I have never been to it. Abdullah and Pari's nursery rhyme, specifically the reference to a “sad little fairy,” was inspired by a poem by the late, great Persian poet Forough Farrokhzad. Finally, the title of this book was inspired in part by William Blake's lovely poem, “Nurse's Song.”

I would like to extend my thanks to Bob Barnett and Deneen Howell for being such wonderful guides and advocates for this book. Thank you Helen Heller, David Grossman, Jody Hotchkiss. Thanks to Chandler Crawford, for her enthusiasm, patience, and advice. Many thanks to a host of friends at Riverhead Books: Jynne Martin, Kate Stark, Sarah Stein, Leslie Schwartz, Craig D. Burke, Helen Yentus, and many more I have left unnamed but to whom I am deeply grateful for helping bring this book to readers.

I thank my wonderful copy editor, Tony Davis, who ventures way beyond the call of duty.

Very special gratitude goes out to my editor, the hugely talented Sarah McGrath, for her insight and vision, her gentle guidance, and for helping me shape this book in more ways than I can recall. I've never enjoyed the editing process more, Sarah.

Lastly, I thank Susan Petersen Kennedy and Geoffrey Kloske, for their trust and unwavering faith in me and my writing.

Thank you and
Tashakor
to all my friends and all the people in my family for always being in my corner, and for patiently, gamely, and kindly putting up with me. As ever, I thank my beautiful wife, Roya, not only for reading and editing many incarnations of this book but also for running our day-to-day life, without a whisper of protest, so I could write. Without you, Roya, this book would have died somewhere in the first paragraph of page one. I love you.

The Kite Runner

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‘Unforgettable … extraordinary … powerful' Isabel Allende

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A Thousand Splendid Suns

Mariam is only fifteen when she is sent to Kabul to marry Rasheed. Nearly two decades later, a friendship grows between Mariam and a local teenager, Laila, as strong as the ties between mother and daughter. When the Taliban take over, life becomes a desperate struggle against starvation, brutality and fear. Yet love can move a person to act in unexpected ways, and lead them to overcome the most daunting obstacles with a startling heroism.

‘In case you're wondering whether
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If you loved
The Kite Runner
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The Kite Runner Graphic Novel

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Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney

Copyright © 2013 by Khaled Hosseini and Roya Hosseini, as Trustees
of The Khaled and Roya Hosseini Family Charitable Remainder
Unitrust No. 2 dated February 29, 2012. All rights reserved.

Epigraph copyright Coleman Barks

First published in Great Britain 2013

This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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WC1B 3DP

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

eISBN 978-1-4088-4244-7

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