The Kite Runner (32 page)

The skirting finally came to an end over dinner when the general put down his fork and said, “So, Amir jan, you’re going to
tell us why you have brought back this boy with you?”

“Iqbal jan! What sort of question is that?” Khala Jamila said.

“While you’re busy knitting sweaters, my dear, I have to deal with the community’s perception of our family. People will ask.
They will want to know why there is a Hazara boy living with our daughter. What do I tell them?”

Soraya dropped her spoon. Turned on her father. “You can tell them—”

“It’s okay, Soraya,” I said, taking her hand. “It’s okay. General Sahib is quite right. People
will
ask.”

“Amir—” she began.

“It’s all right.” I turned to the general. “You see, General Sahib, my father slept with his servant’s wife. She bore him
a son named Hassan. Hassan is dead now. That boy sleeping on the couch is Hassan’s son. He’s my nephew. That’s what you tell
people when they ask.”

They were all staring at me.

“And one more thing, General Sahib,” I said. “You will never again refer to him as ‘Hazara boy’ in my presence. He has a name
and it’s Sohrab.”

No one said anything for the remainder of the meal.

IT WOULD BE ERRONEOUS to say Sohrab was quiet. Quiet is peace. Tranquillity. Quiet is turning down the VOLUME knob on life.

Silence
is pushing the OFF button. Shutting it down. All of it.

Sohrab’s silence wasn’t the self-imposed silence of those with convictions, of protesters who seek to speak their cause by
not speaking at all. It was the silence of one who has taken cover in a dark place, curled up all the edges and tucked them
under.

He didn’t so much live with us as occupy space. And precious little of it. Sometimes, at the market, or in the park, I’d notice
how other people hardly seemed to even see him, like he wasn’t there at all. I’d look up from a book and realize Sohrab had
entered the room, had sat across from me, and I hadn’t noticed. He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footprints. He
moved as if not to stir the air around him. Mostly, he slept.

Sohrab’s silence was hard on Soraya too. Over that long-distance line to Pakistan, Soraya had told me about the things she
was planning for Sohrab. Swimming classes. Soccer. Bowling league. Now she’d walk past Sohrab’s room and catch a glimpse of
books sitting unopened in the wicker basket, the growth chart unmarked, the jigsaw puzzle unassembled, each item a reminder
of a life that could have been. A reminder of a dream that was wilting even as it was budding. But she hadn’t been alone.
I’d had my own dreams for Sohrab.

While Sohrab was silent, the world was not. One Tuesday morning last September, the Twin Towers came crumbling down and, overnight,
the world changed. The American flag suddenly appeared everywhere, on the antennae of yellow cabs weaving around traffic,
on the lapels of pedestrians walking the sidewalks in a steady stream, even on the grimy caps of San Francisco’s panhandlers
sitting beneath the awnings of small art galleries and open-fronted shops. One day I passed Edith, the homeless woman who
plays the accordion every day on the corner of Sutter and Stockton, and spotted an American flag sticker on the accordion
case at her feet.

Soon after the attacks, America bombed Afghanistan, the Northern Alliance moved in, and the Taliban scurried like rats into
the caves. Suddenly, people were standing in grocery store lines and talking about the cities of my childhood, Kandahar, Herat,
Mazar-i-Sharif. When I was very little, Baba took Hassan and me to Kunduz. I don’t remember much about the trip, except sitting
in the shade of an acacia tree with Baba and Hassan, taking turns sipping fresh watermelon juice from a clay pot and seeing
who could spit the seeds farther. Now Dan Rather, Tom Brokaw, and people sipping lattes at Starbucks were talking about the
battle for Kunduz, the Taliban’s last stronghold in the north. That December, Pashtuns, Tajiks, Uzbeks, and Hazaras gathered
in Bonn and, under the watchful eye of the UN, began the process that might someday end over twenty years of unhappiness in
their
watan.
Hamid Karzai’s caracul hat and green
chapan
became famous.

Sohrab sleepwalked through it all.

Soraya and I became involved in Afghan projects, as much out of a sense of civil duty as the need for something—anything—to
fill the silence upstairs, the silence that sucked everything in like a black hole. I had never been the active type before,
but when a man named Kabir, a former Afghan ambassador to Sofia, called and asked if I wanted to help him with a hospital
project, I said yes. The small hospital had stood near the Afghan-Pakistani border and had a small surgical unit that treated
Afghan refugees with land mine injuries. But it had closed down due to a lack of funds. I became the project manager, Soraya
my co-manager. I spent most of my days in the study, e-mailing people around the world, applying for grants, organizing fund-raising
events. And telling myself that bringing Sohrab here had been the right thing to do.

The year ended with Soraya and me on the couch, blanket spread over our legs, watching Dick Clark on TV. People cheered and
kissed when the silver ball dropped, and confetti whitened the screen. In our house, the new year began much the same way
the last one had ended.

In silence.

THEN, FOUR DAYS AGO, on a cool rainy day in March 2002, a small, wondrous thing happened.

I took Soraya, Khala Jamila, and Sohrab to a gathering of Afghans at Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont. The general had finally
been summoned to Afghanistan the month before for a ministry position, and had flown there two weeks earlier—he had left behind
his gray suit and pocket watch. The plan was for Khala Jamila to join him in a few months once he had settled. She missed
him terribly—and worried about his health there—and we had insisted she stay with us for a while.

The previous Thursday, the first day of spring, had been the Afghan New Year’s Day—the
Sawl-e-
Nau
—and Afghans in the Bay Area had planned celebrations throughout the East Bay and the peninsula. Kabir, Soraya, and I had
an additional reason to rejoice: Our little hospital in Rawalpindi had opened the week before, not the surgical unit, just
the pediatric clinic. But it was a good start, we all agreed.

It had been sunny for days, but Sunday morning, as I swung my legs out of bed, I heard raindrops pelting the window.
Afghan luck,
I thought. Snickered. I prayed morning
namaz
while Soraya slept—I didn’t have to consult the prayer pamphlet I had obtained from the mosque anymore; the verses came naturally
now, effortlessly.

We arrived around noon and found a handful of people taking cover under a large rectangular plastic sheet mounted on six poles
spiked to the ground. Someone was already frying
bolani;
steam rose from teacups and a pot of cauliflower
aush.
A scratchy old Ahmad Zahir song was blaring from a cassette player. I smiled a little as the four of us rushed across the
soggy grass field, Soraya and I in the lead, Khala Jamila in the middle, Sohrab behind us, the hood of his yellow raincoat
bouncing on his back.

“What’s so funny?” Soraya said, holding a folded newspaper over her head.

“You can take Afghans out of Paghman, but you can’t take Paghman out of Afghans,” I said.

We stooped under the makeshift tent. Soraya and Khala Jamila drifted toward an overweight woman frying spinach
bolani.
Sohrab stayed under the canopy for a moment, then stepped back out into the rain, hands stuffed in the pockets of his raincoat,
his hair—now brown and straight like Hassan’s—plastered against his scalp. He stopped near a coffee-colored puddle and stared
at it. No one seemed to notice. No one called him back in. With time, the queries about our adopted—and decidedly eccentric—little
boy had mercifully ceased, and, considering how tactless Afghan queries can be sometimes, that was a considerable relief.
People stopped asking why he never spoke. Why he didn’t play with the other kids. And best of all, they stopped suffocating
us with their exaggerated empathy, their slow head shaking, their
tsk-tsk
s, their “
Oh gung
bichara.
” Oh, poor little mute one. The novelty had worn off. Like dull wallpaper, Sohrab had blended into the background.

I shook hands with Kabir, a small, silver-haired man. He introduced me to a dozen men, one of them a retired teacher, another
an engineer, a former architect, a surgeon who was now running a hot dog stand in Hayward. They all said they’d known Baba
in Kabul, and they spoke about him respectfully. In one way or another, he had touched all their lives. The men said I was
lucky to have had such a great man for a father.

We chatted about the difficult and maybe thankless job Karzai had in front of him, about the upcoming
Loya jirga,
and the king’s imminent return to his homeland after twenty-eights years of exile. I remembered the night in 1973, the night
Zahir Shah’s cousin overthrew him; I remembered gunfire and the sky lighting up silver—Ali had taken me and Hassan in his
arms, told us not to be afraid, that they were just shooting ducks.

Then someone told a Mullah Nasruddin joke and we were all laughing. “You know, your father was a funny man too,” Kabir said.

“He was, wasn’t he?” I said, smiling, remembering how, soon after we arrived in the U.S., Baba started grumbling about American
flies. He’d sit at the kitchen table with his flyswatter, watch the flies darting from wall to wall, buzzing here, buzzing
there, harried and rushed. “In this country, even flies are pressed for time,” he’d groan. How I had laughed. I smiled at
the memory now.

By three o’clock, the rain had stopped and the sky was a curdled gray burdened with lumps of clouds. A cool breeze blew through
the park. More families turned up. Afghans greeted each other, hugged, kissed, exchanged food. Someone lighted coal in a barbecue
and soon the smell of garlic and
morgh
kabob flooded my senses. There was music, some new singer I didn’t know, and the giggling of children. I saw Sohrab, still
in his yellow raincoat, leaning against a garbage pail, staring across the park at the empty batting cage.

A little while later, as I was chatting with the former surgeon, who told me he and Baba had been classmates in eighth grade,
Soraya pulled on my sleeve. “Amir, look!”

She was pointing to the sky. A half-dozen kites were flying high, speckles of bright yellow, red, and green against the gray
sky.

“Check it out,” Soraya said, and this time she was pointing to a guy selling kites from a stand nearby.

“Hold this,” I said. I gave my cup of tea to Soraya. I excused myself and walked over to the kite stand, my shoes squishing
on the wet grass. I pointed to a yellow
seh-parcha.
“
Sawl-e-nau
mubabrak,”
the kite seller said, taking the twenty and handing me the kite and a wooden spool of glass
tar.
I thanked him and wished him a Happy New Year too. I tested the string the way Hassan and I used to, by holding it between
my thumb and forefinger and pulling it. It reddened with blood and the kite seller smiled. I smiled back.

I took the kite to where Sohrab was standing, still leaning against the garbage pail, arms crossed on his chest. He was looking
up at the sky.

“Do you like the
seh-
parcha?
” I said, holding up the kite by the ends of the cross bars. His eyes shifted from the sky to me, to the kite, then back.
A few rivulets of rain trickled from his hair, down his face.

“I read once that, in Malaysia, they use kites to catch fish,” I said. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that. They tie a fishing
line to it and fly it beyond the shallow waters, so it doesn’t cast a shadow and scare the fish. And in ancient China, generals
used to fly kites over battlefields to send messages to their men. It’s true. I’m not slipping you a trick.” I showed him
my bloody thumb. “Nothing wrong with the
tar
either.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soraya watching us from the tent. Hands tensely dug in her armpits. Unlike me, she’d gradually
abandoned her attempts at engaging him. The unanswered questions, the blank stares, the silence, it was all too painful. She
had shifted to “Holding Pattern,” waiting for a green light from Sohrab. Waiting.

I wet my index finger and held it up. “I remember the way your father checked the wind was to kick up dust with his sandal,
see which way the wind blew it. He knew a lot of little tricks like that,” I said. Lowered my finger. “West, I think.”

Sohrab wiped a raindrop from his earlobe and shifted on his feet. Said nothing. I thought of Soraya asking me a few months
ago what his voice sounded like. I’d told her I didn’t remember anymore.

“Did I ever tell you your father was the best kite runner in Wazir Akbar Khan? Maybe all of Kabul?” I said, knotting the loose
end of the spool
tar
to the string loop tied to the center spar. “How jealous he made the neighborhood kids. He’d run kites and never look up at
the sky, and people used to say he was chasing the kite’s shadow. But they didn’t know him like I did. Your father wasn’t
chasing any shadows. He just . . . knew.”

Another half-dozen kites had taken flight. People had started to gather in clumps, teacups in hand, eyes glued to the sky.

“Do you want to help me fly this?” I said.

Sohrab’s gaze bounced from the kite to me. Back to the sky.

“Okay.” I shrugged. “Looks like I’ll have to fly it
tanhaii.
” Solo.

I balanced the spool in my left hand and fed about three feet of
tar.
The yellow kite dangled at the end of it, just above the wet grass. “Last chance,” I said. But Sohrab was looking at a pair
of kites tangling high above the trees.

“All right. Here I go.” I took off running, my sneakers splashing rainwater from puddles, the hand clutching the kite end
of the string held high above my head. It had been so long, so many years since I’d done this, and I wondered if I’d make
a spectacle of myself. I let the spool roll in my left hand as I ran, felt the string cut my right hand again as it fed through.
The kite was lifting behind my shoulder now, lifting, wheeling, and I ran harder. The spool spun faster and the glass string
tore another gash in my right palm. I stopped and turned. Looked up. Smiled. High above, my kite was tilting side to side
like a pendulum, making that old paper-bird-flapping-its-wings sound I always associated with winter mornings in Kabul. I
hadn’t flown a kite in a quarter of a century, but suddenly I was twelve again and all the old instincts came rushing back.